weight loss, weight smoss

What's smoss, you might ask?

I don't know.

Just like I don't know why the hell I'm gaining weight right now.

I'm exercising.

I'm eating fresh.

It's a (frustrating) quandry.

Every time I go grocery shopping, I have a complex. And the complex is that while I'm unloading my cart stocked to the nines of fresh fruit and weird healthy shit, that the person behind me, the people next to me, my cashier, the loss prevention dude in the cat walk above me are all thinking: "Hmm..so the fat lady is going on a diet. Interesting."

And then I want to yell: "This isn't a diet! This is actually how I eat, and how I shop every two weeks. I prommmmmmissee!"

Here's photo proof of the groceries I brought home yesterday, minus the veggies I'll buy today at the farmer's market (these will last me about 12-14 days):

Bad groceries: chips, cookies, candy

Good groceries: watermelon, tuna, oatmeal, diced tomatoes, pineapple, cantaloupe, oranges, pita pockets, salmon, apples, strawberries, sparkling water, bananas, avacados, skim milk, parmesan cheese, pepperjack cheese, half-n-half, kiwi and chereries.

Maybe I'm eating too many carbs. Maybe I'm eating too many starches. Maybe if I slept more and walked harder...

But who really gives a rat's ass?

I mean, I'm power-walking twice a day. I eat whole oats with cinnamon and a banana every morning. I drink coffee. I eat fish and veggies. I splurge on chips with my tuna. I don't down alchohol or diet drinks. My M&M intake is nearly non-existant. I'm eating organic and fresh when I can.

What else is there? A liquid diet?

Hell-to-the-no.

At the end of the day, I love food. Yes, sometimes obsessively, but a lot less of that these (healthy) days, and a lot more of whatever thoughts one uses to convince oneself a cheeseburger will not cure all mental and emotional ails.

Sometimes the best you can do is all you can do.

I told a friend of mine: "I will never be a stick."
And he said, "Good. Sticks are brittle."

Brittle is something I could never be accused of being.

bruised

I'm a bit beat up, or as my doctor said today, "damaged." I have bruises on every limb, two nasty scrapes on one leg, a cut and bruised foot-arch and scrapes on my toes from rocks and Tuck's claws. It's a gallery of adventure and the results of living with two large beasts. I even have a bruise on a boob.

I refueled on my tetanus today and stocked up on band-aids and triple antibiotic ointment since apparently I've reverted to my tomboy adolescence. The only difference is that mom's not around to assure me that I'm not bleeding too badly and that I will be OK. That was always my panicked line, "Am I going to be OK? Am I going to be OK?" As long as she said yes, I was good. The moment she hesitated, I was inconsolable. I'm sure she faked it plenty of times.

I called her today after I fired my dentist. They were trying to double-bill me for a bill my insurance had paid, and my dentist's office had sent it to collections.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," I blubbered. "I'm just so mad." She got mad for me and then said it would be OK. And she was right - they resolved the issue and it was OK.

Other things are going to take time.

My heart's pretty bruised right now, parts of it battered. I've done a lot of crying today. I've said things like, "I just never saw life going this way," and it's true. I never did. I've spent a lot of time making sure it wouldn't - mediating, tending, negotiating, running interference, reasoning, counseling - and now, it seems for nothing. For this. For this ache, for this sadness, for this loss. It's a deep sadness, this one, and sometimes, like today, I have to let my soul sit down and admit: this really hurts.

This really fucking hurts.

the falls

I like to be adventerous.

Well, I like to think I am.

Two trips down this series of three waterfalls yesterday and I was seriously questioning my capacity for bravery.

You might know I like plans. I like to know where I'm going and what's waiting for me at the bottom, say, of three waterfalls. So when I asked, I was informed that there were steps off the side leading back up to shore. I can handle steps.

Ha!

Nobody mentioned the fact that the current would be so effing strong that after baling out of my tube, I would be struggling to just stand upright on a sharp rocky ledge in the middle of the river, much less get my ass to unseen steps by the shore. A spry-looking woman just in front of me was struggling too. And when I say struggling, folks, I mean that had we stopped fighting to just stay standing, the current would have swept us down the river so fast we'd be gone for hours. She had a husband. And husband managed to get their kid to shore and then she begged him to come back for her.

We were reaching near crisis mode, and this thought flashed through my mind:

"I would never last on Survivor." Eff that shit. I wanted my feet on shore, not on the sharp rocks that had now deeply cut the bottom of one foot. I knew it had to be bleeding profusely. Sharks would be there any minute.

My peeps were on the shore telling me to come on, and I was yelling that I couldn't. My little brother came to get me, and told me I'd have to swim just a little ways to the rock ledge.

But I can't swim across this current!! Pretty sure I whined that out.

I mustered whatever swimming capability I had and prepared for the long haul. Two strokes later, I could touch again.

"Wow, really. Two strokes? Why didn't you tell me?" And then I felt like the person who was drowning in two feet of water (Stand up, just stand up!) I turned back to my water-friend who was still waiting for hubby (taking forever!) and I encouraged her that once you swam like two strokes, you could touch again.

So, I survived that round.

Let's go again.

First waterfall flipped me out of my tube, which sent me headfirst into the water and through a maze of death, I swear. Primarily, I could not breath, which is always concerning for me. Secondly, the water through the falls is shallow and there are big-ass rocks waiting, taunting. I imagined my face (the one still underwater.....God, if you love me, bring me to the surface!) being smashed into an underwater rock. Maybe I would pass out and drown. Maybe I would need plastic surgery. But since breathing was still a top priority at this point, I didn't dwell on it.

God loves me. I could breath again. And just in time to hear my brother yell that the next waterfall was coming and to plug my nose.

Eff my life.

What nose? I didn't even have time to touch it before I was plunged and pinned underwater again.

How is this fun?! I think I made a lot of promises I knew I wouldn't be able to keep while I was swirling around in the crevices of water-darkness. Now I know what toilet paper feels like when it's flushed. So not pleasant.

I found the surface again and just before the third waterfall. I did not fall off a watermelon truck yesterday. There was no way in hell I was tumbling over a third one.

The ravage woman-survivor in me reared up and clawed my way out of the path of the most heavy current and to big rocks, cutting in front of a fellow tuber who did not appreciate me interrupting his ride. Dude, I'm sorry. I've escaped death three times today. I'm no fool.

And then, while I'm on my hands and knees, completely not caring if the people in front of me were getting a full view of the girls, crawling my way out of the water and muttering, "That was not fun, that was not fun," I realized: You are not brave. You are a little bit of a pussy.

I did not go down the waterfalls again. Instead, I nursed my wounds (seen here):

and threatened to go find one of the little paramedics on four-wheelers for a first aid kit. I was advised not to do that, for the sake of honor.

I stared death in its watery eye, folks.

I lived. Limping, but surviving.



you'll have a song stuck in your head after this

I’ve been struggling.

Some days it’s like a thumb-wrestle. Carbs, no carbs?

Other days it’s like sumo-wrestling. I will prevail and ethics will win.

Struggling. Wrestling.

It’s a brutal fact of life and there’s this notion that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, it should, if you’re a life-ninja and can thwart off the jaded cynicism that what’s-trying-to-kill-you wants to impart on you.

In the words of Dora, just keep wrestling, just keep wrestling.

It will pay off, because while you’re (I’m) running the gauntlet of crap, we’re getting faster, more muscle-toney, and yeah, a bit breathless. What doesn’t kill you might make you stronger, but you’ll be a worn out son of a bitch after you survive.

That’s where I’m at right now. I’m tired, out of breath, sore, want to sleep every day at precisely 4 p.m. I’m disappointed in the (little bit of) weight I’ve gained, the (little bit of) sleep I’m getting, and the decisions made about me, for me, that I don’t particularly like, but will control my reaction to.

But. (there’s always a but).

Across a bridge and under a wrought-iron sign there’s a little gravel driveway, and the little gravel driveway leads to a little Cottage surfaced with multi-colored stones and tomato plants lined up neatly in buckets near the front door. There’s a bike leaning against one of its sides and colorful scarves keep peering eyes from looking in the double plate-glass window.

Inside the little Cottage there are two big dogs and every morning and every night they’re walked by their woman, and sometimes down to the little lazy river. There’s music playing and farm fresh veggies on the counter, the grill might be fired up, or apple crisp baking in the Crock pot. There’s a handmade dining room table and homegrown green beans. There are books to be read and shelves of ones already devoured. There’s always writing and talking and silence and musing. There’s yelling at dogs and cuddling. There’s herbal tea with honey chilled in an antique pitcher in the fridge.

So, to all of the What Doesn’t Kill You bullshit…yeah, I might be tired and you’re making me feel old, and you might be temporarily kicking my ass, but you’re messing with the wrong chick. See, you’re not making me stronger, because I am already strong and I have an arsenal of life-ninja skills to toss right back atcha. And I’m gonna.

After my nap.       

snapshots from my camera phone

No, he's not chewing my shoe. He's resting his nose on it and looking at me.

Police sirens get him howling. Pardon the bra in the background.

Nothing like hanging out in the back of the car with a ratchet strap.

We're the road trip queens. It's unusual for her to be in the backseat, but she was still horny so had to keep her separate from Tuck.

Skye kisses!

This is really her bed, just like every other piece of sittable furniture in the house.

Me in a dress.

Me and Tuck. Yeah, we're chillin' in the back of my car.

Me in the newsroom on Breaking News Sunday.

the life of a breaking news story

The exhilirating part of my job is that it's so dang unpredictable, and nothing makes breaking news faster than a dumbass and weather.

But how does a breaking news story get from the scene to your computer screen? Or smart phone or tablet? The answer is simple: a team of people dedicated to their jobs, whether it's on a Sunday morning or not.

I thought I'd give you a behind-the-scenes look on the real time life of a breaking news story, and what could be more perfect an example then the news of today.

My phone rings at 9:30 and I'll admit: it woke me up. Seeing it was one of our photographers, I cleared my voice a million times, tested it (can you tell you've been sleeping? Nah, you're good), answered the phone.

"I'm sorry I woke you." Dang it. I have yet to nail the "you just woke me up but you'd never know" voice.

Something big's going on at O'Reilly Auto Parts - cops, SWAT, dogs, highways blocked. OK. Now I'm more than awake. I have details, all the information she can give me, all the information I need to abruptly hang up with her and make other calls.

{Here's the thing about breaking news. It's breaking. You don't have time to lollygag and speculate. You've got to move. In these situations, I've been known to hang up on reporters/photographers - you give me the necessary info and pleasantries are discarded for the sake of the news.}

I call the reporter on duty - she's about an hour away. I don't have an hour to wait. End that call. Take about 20 seconds to analyze my staff, mentally running off names and reasons why they're not available. I land on the one reporter who I'm counting on being available on his day off and more than capable of handling the story with me. I was right on both counts.

Everything's in place. The photographer's already on the scene; the reporter's on the way and I will be too. And then I wonder momentarily if I can do the work I need to from home. Nope. But that means your whole day's thrown off. Yeah, so? And it means you're not going to finish the projects you had planned. And? And it means you're not getting the full weekend off you'd been waiting for. Shhhh.

I put the dogs away, throw on some clothes, pack a lunch, which thankfully I'd cooked the night before, just hadn't planned on eating it at work, and received a text message from the photographer on the scene that police said we were dealing with a possible hostage situation.

After I contemplated for a second what to do with the information - I put it on our Facebook page. That was the first our readers were hearing about it, approximately 25 minutes after we arrived on the scene. But we had information and we had it from the source we needed it from: the police spokesperson.

{Sometimes that's the most frustrating thing about breaking news. We may know what's going on, but we have to wait to confirm it.}

I stopped and got a cup of coffee. At the exit I take to get to the paper, traffic was backed up for miles. My second Facebook status was warning readers about the obvious traffic problem.

I get to the newsroom about 45 minutes after the intitial phone call from our photographer. At 10:31, I got a phone call from the reporter on the scene who fed me the information he had from police. By 10:38, I've typed the information and put it on our website and linked to it from our Facebook page.

At 10:57, the reporter calls again with our first description of the suspect. I update the information on our website and Facebook page. At 11:05, I hear from the reporter again who says the suspect is no longer in the building; it's over. I again update our website and Facebook page.

The reporter and photographer return to the newsroom. Our adrenaline's still pumping and this is when they tell me everything they saw at the scene, how it all happened in incremental details and how we were first on the scene, first to break the story. And yeah, we're a little proud.

The photographer edits the photos; the reporter makes some follow up phone calls and writes the story. He leaves, I edit it. I talk to the page designer about where the story should go and four hours after I was woken up on my Sunday morning, I'm leaving the newsroom.

date day

Could I organize a date for us?

And then you would say, of course. I’m sticking to you like glue. 

Good, because I want you to be. First let’s wake up at 6:30 because one of my dogs dictates it. While I’m groggily yelling, you can laugh, but only for a little bit.

I’d get out of bed and start the coffee, but only after I let the dogs outside. We’d sit down over oatmeal, fruit and coffee and a highlighted piece of newspaper. It’s our garage sale list, of course. I’d be planning our route.

And then we’d leave the dishes dirty in the sink and the dogs would go where they always do when I leave them, and we’d strike out. Just the two of us in search for cheap shit that I can either refurbish or use to build other stuff.

We’d conquer the maze of garage sales before it gets too hot and I have a meltdown in the car. We might meet a friend for lunch.

We would spend the afternoon refinishing two steel vintage tabletops that have been sitting in my kitchen for a month. We’d blare music and I’d furtively read the directions I printed off of Google. You could laugh at me again. The dogs would mill around, panting and trying to stay under my feet. I’d probably step on one of them when I back away from the kitchen sink. While I’m fixing our afternoon snack, I’d start defrosting the freezer and preparing excess veggies to freeze. Or I might take my book and sit outside in the sun.

I’d want to move the bookshelf from the nook into the bedroom where I want my new flat screen TV to sit on top of it. I’d recruit you to help me move it.

In the evening, we would cook and take the dogs to the river. We’d watch a TV show on my laptop and engage in silence.

How does that sound, me?

It sounds just fine. Remember, I’m sticking to you like glue.