And now. A Play.

On our diet, we have to drink 3 shakes a day. Which gets a bit boring at times. So to break up the monotony, they've created some options: chocolate and vanilla shakes, chocolate and vanilla pudding, cereal, and a chicken soup. The shakes, pudding, and cereal are quite good. The soup is not.

The HG decided he'd try the soup one more time. This time without hot water.

This is a what happened:

See? I'm going to try it again! Looks good!

You gotta shake it up.

So excited!

Oh, this is going to be so good!

Huh. Smells good.

Real men eat with their hands.

Down the hatch!

Hmmmmmmm.....

not sure.....

Oh. That is not good.

Lesson learned.

Well....wow.

So, I love movies. I mean, I LOVE the movies. I'm not even sure why, they're rarely good and even more rarely have any redeeming content. Anyone remember Road Trip?

I spent the day at the mall, searching for a shirt for the HG to wear to my little sister's wedding in 2 weeks. I found a wicked cute Polo dress shirt on sale. Rock on. I think Ralph has designed the Polo line for my HG exclusively. It fits him perfectly. Every time. And makes him look just ever so cute. Seriously. I love a man in a suit. But I think I love men in Polo even better. Yum.

And you know, it's not fair that he gets a new shirt and I get nothing. He doesn't even care about clothes. Much. He does like it when I dress well. And he likes it when I think he looks good. But for the most part, he doesn't care much. When we met he wore black shirts and jeans. Exclusively. Black polo shirts (not the Ralph kind...the cotton collar kind), black t-shirts, black sweatshirts, black coat. On our first date, he wore his "best" black t-shirt. He was proud of himself for wearing his best shirt for me. He is such a boy. I do have to give him credit for going with black. At least he always matched. I have since fixed his color problem. He even has a pink shirt. Oh yeah baby. And plenty of shirts with actual buttons. He is practically a supermodel.

But unlike him, I actually like clothes. Scratch that. I love clothes. I only wish I could afford the clothes I love. Well, first I wish they made the clothes I love in my size. If they came in my size, I suppose I could afford most of them. I'm not a label whore. I like quality, well tailored clothes. But I'm not about to spend $98 on a Lacoste shirt. Even that tiny little alligator isn't worth almost $100. (I think. These are largely the things I tell myself to talk myself out of buying $100 glorified t-shirts. Karma points baby.) However, I do wish I had the body to dress better. I just feel that at my current weight, well tailored clothes are wasted. Like, why bother? Besides, my waist size fluctuates so much, it's not worth spending a lot of money on clothes. I would be impressed if you could find any item in my closet that cost more than $40 (Stacey, Clinton: call me). Some day I will spend too much money for a polo shirt. But it'll fit for a long, long time.

In the meantime, I'm a bargain shopper. And I didn't think it was fair that the HG got a new shirt and I didn't get anything. So after I chose his wicked cute shirt, I headed upstairs to the fatty section of Macy's. (The escalator was broken. I did the stairs. whoo hooo!) Oh, can someone explain to me why Macy's hides their fatties behind the bras? What's that about? Seriously. Michael Kor's has a plus size line. You can't hide us forever. For one, we're pretty big and therefore hard to hide. But more than that. The average American women is a size 14. What sense does it make to hide the clothes half of us need? That's just silly. The first time I shopped in that particular Macy's, I left angry, thinking they didn't have a plus size section. (No, I didn't make any sales girls cry...that was a completely different Macy's. I think I have a Macy's problem.) I stumbled upon it a year later while looking for the outwear section. Makes sense. Hide the fatties under a coat.

So, upstairs I went. And it was like shopping heaven. Those little white "sale" signs were everywhere. It would have been rude not to at least try things on. I mean, they went through all the trouble of marking everything down. I should be grateful for the work they did. Plus, if I spend money, I'm doing my part to stimulate the economy. And stimulate the economy I did. I found three of the most adorable dresses ever. And they all make me look so thin. Well, thin is a stretch. But they make me look not fat. Oh, and I found a $130 jacket for $25. Oh yeah. Shop with me. Deals find me. I'm a sale magnet.

Anyway, when I got home, I had nothing to do. I did, after all, do two full trips around the mall (3 miles, thank you very much.), as well as, three loads of laundry this morning. So, in keeping with my love of movies, I popped Evan Almighty into the DVD player. Ok, not the best example Hollywood has to offer. And certainly not a shining example for ethics training. But one line stuck with me.

In the movie, Evan's wife prays for their family to become closer. Evan prays for help in changing the world (I know, nutrasweet on film). And just when everything seems to be at the very worst it can possibly be (Evan is suspended from Congress and his wife left him), God has a conversation with Evan's wife. And he says to her, "If you pray for your family to be closer, does God make your family closer or does He give you an opportunity to make you family closer?"

Um. Huh. I've been praying for patience and understanding for years. And I have no more understanding and no more patience then I did two years ago. Some days, I think my patience has worn even more thin. I lie in bed at night and just think about how it would feel to be pregnant (again. This time for keepers). I think obsessively about my friends who are pregnant. How do they feel? What does it feel like? What goes through your mind when you see your baby's (your baby!!) heartbeat on the ultrasound for the first time? The second time? The third time? Does it get progressively more exciting? Less exciting? What does honest to goodness morning sickness feel like? What about the nursery. How will I paint it? How does it feel to shop for your own baby?

So no, I can't say that I've gotten any more patient than I was two years ago when we started. I think I might seem more patient. I have days where I actually have good humor about it all. Where it doesn't bother me for every second of the day. But it's a forced patience. It's not real. I'm patient because I have to be. I don't have a choice. I'm not pregnant and I can't make myself be pregnant. So I have no choice. I have to be patient and take one day at time.

As for understanding. I don't. I don't know if I ever will. Maybe someday I will. But right now, not a single iota.

But you know. I've been praying for it. And perhaps, just perhaps, my prayers are being answered. I want patience. So I'm getting an opportunity to be patient. I've prayed for understanding. So I'm getting an opportunity to understand. Ok. I can do that. I can learn from this. Really, I can.

And in the meantime, I can look at all the good things that have happened to me (and the HG...I'm not exactly alone in my struggle) in the past two years. We both got promotions at work. We moved to an adorable new apartment. We didn't buy two money pits....and we dodged one of the money pits twice (Long story. Let's just say our housing angels must be exhausted.) We were able to spend more money than I'd like to fix one of our cats who was sick (poor babygirl!). We've paid off all of our consumer debt and most of my student loans. We've been able to travel at whim, buy new computers when we need them (um, for me, this is virtually never. The HG has a computer problem similar to my shoe problem.), and sleep till 10 on the weekends if we want. So you know, I might not have a baby, but maybe when we do, we'll be more prepared. Who knows.

Maybe this is what patience looks like.

The Fatty Show

Imagine my weight loss class is a play. I do. For starters, meetings of this nature generally bore me, so it's easier to pretend I'm watching a movie or a play. A bad movie. But even bad movies are better than watching paint dry if you're trying to pass the time.

Well, I suppose not all bad movies are better than watching paint dry. When I was 16, a friend of mine took me to the movies for my birthday. We saw Bonfire of the Vanities. I should have known it would be a disaster. For one, I had never heard of it before. Secondly, I didn't, and still don't, understand the title. Can someone please enlighten me? I really have no idea what it means. And that doesn't bode well for the movie. I am one of the few people I know who ever saw it (and I use the term "saw" loosely) so I can't even ask anyone what it was about. Even the HG, the world's biggest movie trivia buff, can give me a coherent description of the movie. Why? He was smart enough to skip it. Take my word for it. Don't waste your money or space in your netflix queue with this one. It didn't even deserve the Raspberry Awards it won.

But on a snowy, winter day in late December my friend Shane and I got on the bus and headed to the closest movie theater. 20 miles away. Ah, small town living is such fun. The best part of the day was the 30 minute ride we bought $3 each. Oh, and the twizzlers. I love twizzlers. They make the best straws. Bite each end off, insert in soda, and voila! Yummy straw. And the twizzler gets all mushy on the inside so after a while your soda takes on twizzler flavor. This is my second piece of movie advice. Get the twizzlers. (I'm racking up loads of karma points tonight. I'm going to need them in a moment.)

We were, quite literally, the only two people in the theater. We should have returned our tickets, crossed the street to the 24 hour diner and drank our weight in coffee. It was, in later years, one of my favorite pastimes. But, alas, on that day, we elected to stay for the entire movie. Can someone please call Brian De Palma and ask for those 2 hours and 5 minutes of my life back? He doesn't take my calls anymore.

So the moral of the story is that sometimes, watching paint dry isn't so bad. But that's an extreme example. At the fatty show, I simply prefer to sit back and watch the actors play their parts. I am convinced they are simply actors and actresses. Caricatures of this nature cannot simply exist in real life. And if they do, certainly I am not lucky enough to spend roughly an hour a week with 6 of them at the same time. The HG goes and attempts not to speak at all. I, on the other hand, and am sucker for interactive theater and often join in the show.

Perhaps my favorite of the group is a guy I'll call "Denial Boy". When come into the meeting, there is a big board where we write down the number of meal replacements we've had all week, as well as, the number of days we've been on the diet (without cheating) and the amount of physical activity we've gotten during the week. Denial's stats frequently look like like this: 10, 3, 5,000. In other words, 10 meal replacements, 3 days "on plan" and 5,000 calories burned. Week one he lost 9 pounds. Week 2 he lost 9 pounds. I think I hate Denial. But week 3 he lost 2 pounds. And this week he lost 1.5. And yet, despite his dismal results, he consistently insists that his plan works for him. He is, after all, still losing weight. Um, yes, yes you are. But when asked why he's spending hundreds of dollars a month on a diet he's not following, he insists he is following the plan. That's where the denial comes in. There are two rules on this diet: eat the food they give you and nothing else and work out daily. Hitting one of two rules doesn't count. Our leader keeps trying to point out that his habits will not lead to long term success. He disagrees. My 10 year old niece could point out the denial here....9,9, 2, 1.5....would seem his success gets less and less obvious as time goes on. But hey, whatever works for him (insert sarcasm here. Hey, I warned I'd be cashing in some karma points.).

There is also a sweet young girl who I adore. She's just so cute. She's 17 and I swear to you, if my children end up like her, I'm giving them up for adoption. But, hey, she's not mine, so she makes me laugh. Last week, we engaged in a discussion regarding her recent failure to make it all week on plan. She was honest in admitting she didn't follow the plan one night, while out with friends. Our fearless leader asked her what she ate. Sweet young girl said, "I didn't eat anything off plan." Our leader further questioned, "So you were on plan all week?" SYG: "No, I wasn't." Leader, "So what did you eat?" SYG: "I didn't EAT anything..." Leader, "So you were off plan because you didn't get all your food in?" SYG, "No, I got my food in....I just didn't EAT anything off plan." Our poor leader was confused. I, having been SYG at one point, immediately understood that the cheating was in liquid form. Illegal liquid form. She cracks me up. She frequently doesn't eat anything off plan...thank God she's not my kid. Though I suspect my children will also not eat off plan....

Then there is the one we call Boca Burger. Boca Burger earned her name when she confessed that during week one she consumed 1/2 a boca burger at a BBQ and was "so full" she couldn't finish it. Can we discuss this? Boca Burger weighs more than I do. And while I suppose I can't say for sure that she can probably eat more than I do, let's just say, she didn't gain weight by only eating half of her burgers. I'm just sayin.

I could continue to describe the players in my little show. But really, they all have one thing in common: failure to do what they're supposed to do. I know it sucks, I do. Trust me, it sucks for me too. I want nothing more than to not eat anything off plan. Or eat 1/2 a boca burger. Or spend 4 of 7 days deciding I've "earned it". But the fact is that doing those things is what landed me the role in this show as it is. I've certainly earned it. Pizza, chips, cookies, and things with cheese were my main food groups for a long time. I have no excuse. I have reasons. There are reasons I gained weight. I was depressed. I had a shitty job. I was bored. I was angry. I was going to start my diet tomorrow. But none of my excuses make it OK. And it doesn't mean I can keep doing it and hope that somehow the food in the little blue boxes will help me reach my goal if I don't do all the work. Not half the work. And that means always, ever day, doing what I'm supposed to.

I know, not so much fun. But you know what is fun? Losing weight. Looking in mirror in the morning and seeing almost the same girl when I get to work. Mirror girl sticks around a lot more these days.

And shopping is more fun. I like going to stores and dreaming about the things I could wear if I just keep doing the work. That's wicked fun.

And the most fun of all? Knowing that with every day that passes, I'm getting closer to getting my babies back. And that someday, when they're old enough to understand I can tell them just how hard I worked for them.

I suppose it's wrong to talk about the players in my show like this. But come on. As the HG says, it's like smoking. If you quit smoking, and then have a cigarette, you're no longer a former smoker. Either you're following the diet or your not. And if you're eating (or NOT eating) food off the diet, you're not on the diet. See, simple?

And yes, I feel somewhat superior for not cheating. Hey, before this, the only thing I committed to for a long period of time was my love of all things baked. Ok, baked goods and the HG. But other than that, there's not much. Not even jobs. So, yes, I feel superior that I'm doing this now.

See? I told you I'd be cashing in a bajillionty karma points. I wasn't wrong.

Jealousy

I've found something new to be jealous of.


I used to be jealous of girls who had boyfriends. I was Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed. That was me. I could have written that Drew Barrymore movie (Never Been Kissed). I have mentioned before how painfully shy I was growing up. Even after a lot of that wore off in high school, I was still ridiculously shy around boys. I was afraid that merely talking to them would make them think I liked them. And of course, they would then tell all of their friends that I liked them and they'd all get a good laugh out of it. Because of course I wasn't thin enough, cute enough, funny enough, anything enough to want to date. Hi, low self esteem much?


But then I went away to college and instantly racked up two different boyfriends...and a whole bunch of kissing before that. Apparently I was totally worth liking. And apparently a pretty good kisser at that.


And then I realized that boyfriends kinda suck. So was jealous of girls who had husbands. Oh, to be married and never have to looking for a boyfriend again. To be with the one for the rest of my life. **Swoon**


Yeah, after many years of trial and error, I finally nabbed a husband. And not just any husband. He's the honest to goodness one. Swoon.


Then I developed baby envy, house envy, body envy, career envy...the list of my envy is long and usually distinguished. Not always distinguished, though. Lately I've developed food envy. There were two people in my office eating Cape Cod Salt and Vinegar chips for breakfast the other day. And I swear to you, just the thought of those tangy, salty, crunchy disks of goodness hitting my tongue, made my mouth water as though I had actually eaten the sour chips. That slight tingling under my tongue. The increase in saliva to balance out the extra salt. Even just thinking about it now, I'm having the same Pavlovian response. Oh, how I love those chips.


A few weeks ago, the HG and I were at Six Flags with some friends. While we were waiting out a rain delay (ahhh, New England in the summer...don't like the weather? Wait 15 minutes. It'll change.), one of them asked if I'd cut off a toe to get the body of my dreams. Hmmm...just a toe?? I'll give up a leg. They have really good prosthetics these days. But that was a month ago. Before the diet. Now I think I'd give up a leg for those chips. No. Seriously. I'll give you my leg if you hook me up. And, as an added bonus, I'd instantly be at IVF weight...


But the cause of my food envy is also the cause of another of my envies. And probably the worst one of the bunch.


IVF envy.


I so want to be cycling. I long to discuss what drugs I'm using and what side effects I'm having and how my follies look and when the RE thinks I'll be able to trigger. And then I could talk about if the symptoms I'm feeling are real or imagined. Real or the result of progesterone. Real or not. And then there is the anticipation of the beta. What will it say? Will it be over 5 and therefore I'm technically, though likely not successfully, pregnant? Will it be in that magic range of 75-100 and therefore likely successfully pregnant? Should I test out my trigger? Should I POAS before my beta? Oh the discussions and thoughts and options are endless.


But not me. Not now. It's just one more game I can't play. It's just one more place I don't fit in. See, when you're trying to get pregnant and you're not having trouble, you can play the dream game. I wonder if we'll have a boy or a girl. I wonder if he'll have blond hair like his mom or blue eyes like his dad. I wonder if she'll be smart or if she'll be funny (not that you can't be both. I clearly am.). You can dream of little league games and soccer practices. You plan your baby shower, your birth plan, your nursery. You chose names. You chose professions. Before the stick gives you two lines, you've planned a life for a life that doesn't yet exist.


But then the stick never turns. You get one line. And one line. And one line. Month after month after painful month. But you get to join a new club. There is a new place for you. A sadder place. A place you don't really want to be. But you find help there. You find friends who share your pain. And it doesn't hurt as much. Because you all talk about your hormones, your cycles, when you ovulate, what tests your RE ran, what your next step is. And eventually talk comes around to what will happen when. When you're pregnant. When you have children. When you're a mom (or dad). The if fades and becomes when. And with the when comes hope. Hope that all the needle pricks, and all the pills swallowed, and all the nights you cry yourself to sleep, and all the pain will be worth it. Because you have hope.


But I have nothing. I just have this envy. This wish for something different. This anger at myself for gaining the weight that keeps me from my hope. I don't have anything to talk about. I'm not saying I don't have hope. I do. I have hope.


The thing is, I believe this will all end with my, our, happily ever after. But in the meantime I feel lost. I just can't wait until I can get back to the baby making.


Actually, if I'm being completely honest, I just want to know how it's all going to end. The HG thinks it's funny that I always read the last page of a book first. I like to know how things end. And right now, I have no idea how this is going to end. So I have to hurry up and get there. So I can know.


My grandmother always said, "Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can. Find always in a woman and never in man." She got the saying wrong, but she knew it. But I will tell you, if that's the case, I'm SO not virtuous! (And not just for the patience thing....**evil grin**)


Anyone have any suggestions about how to slow down? I could use that.

Wednesday already?

I'm too tired to blog.
I am in desperate need of a life off.

I'm just.
Grrrr.

I want to be happy about the good things in my life. Because being sad about the bad things feels like I'm being disrespectful to the good. Isn't that silly? Like being sad means I'm never happy or grateful. But it feels that way. One emotion at a time, ma'am. Please check your emotional baggage here.

For the record, I have a fabulous husband, great friends, wonderful sisters, an awesome apartment (I'm, like, totally running out of hyperbolic and vaguely juvenile ways to say "good".). But.

I want. A house. A dog. A new car. More friends. Less fat. A baby.
And every day that passes makes me feel just that much more inferior. Yeah, that's right. Inferior.

I don't like feeling not good enough. It reminds me of 7th all over again. Those days where I'd cry on the swings because the cool kids didn't like me enough. I thought they hated me. At the time I was downright convinced of it. In hindsight, perhaps I was overreacting just a tad. I was young, and I didn't understand that just because someone didn't want to be your friend, didn't mean they didn't like you. I simply means they don't like you enough. I've learned that as I've gotten older. I know, sad and depressing, huh? But lately I've just felt that way. Like I'm not enough. Damn those karma points. I can see them getting sucked into the tumbleweeds of my life. Perhaps I should trade the Xanax for some Prozac. Think that would mix well with my coffee (which I cannot have).

For the record, I'm not depressed. Even though I sound a tad like Sylvia Plath on lithium right now. I just want more. And I don't know how to get more. So when you want a new job, you interview for, and get a new job. Done. When you want a new car, you go to the lot and pick out a new car. I want a new cell phone, so tomorrow, I will take my tiny little butt (hey, something on me has to be tiny. I have the whitest-white girl ass around. Flat as a pancake.) to the AT&T store and get a new phone. Complete with a brand new 2-year contract.

Can you believe I actually ran my previous contract to the end? Craziness, right? For realsies. I've never been that committed to anything. Well, besides the HG. But he doesn't count. I couldn't be married to anyone but him, so it's not commitment so much as karmic requirement. That was my second contract in a row. I think the only thing I've dated longer is the HG. I'm not sure who I love more. I mean, I love the HG. But I need my phone like I need oxygen. What would my poor thumbs do with their time if I couldn't text?

I once read a post on a message board I frequent on occasion asking people how much they texted. The responses varied greatly, but one theme was constant. The people who didn't text much, if any, always qualified their responses with "But I'm 30x year's old....". Um. Ok. So either you lost brain cells at 30, or you're implying that texting is a juvenile activity. Yeah. Bitches. But my point is more that people my age don't seem to be so much with the texting. Except my friends. Who admittedly don't text me as much as I text them. Hmmm...perhaps it is me.

Is it wrong that I hate talking on the phone? It always feels like a first date. And, oh dear Lord, how do I not miss those. I do sometimes miss the giddiness of a new relationship and as twisted as it might be, I think I might miss the whole "he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not" game. And I can play that game with anything. "Ok, if that stop light turns green before this song is over, he totally loves me." "If I can hold my breath for 45 seconds without gasping for air, he loves me." "If I see a cop on the way home, he loves me." Hey, I never said it was an effective game. But tell me you've never played it. But as far as first dates go, I can leave those, thank you very much. All that "what should I wear? And what if he somehow totally forgot what I look like and is expecting a super model to show up? OMG, what if I totally misinterpreted his invitation and he'll be there with his girlfriend? And is that ironic or not?" Yeah, I'm good. And phone calls can be like that for me.

Well, more specifically, getting off the phone is like the end of the first date. Are we going to kiss? Hug? Say we should do it again sometime? What's the protocol? And what if I accidentally say "I love you" to someone I don't love? Like the AT&T sales person I spoke to earlier tonight. She was super friendly and gave me fantastic service (Coming from me, this is the highest form of praise. I hate customer service phone reps. I'm sorry, no offense if you are one. I'm sure you're lovely. Just don't take my calls. I'm pure venom. I regularly lose karma points for this. I'm ok with that.) but despite having told her I love her, I'm pretty sure I don't. How can I love someone I've never even seen a picture of? Don't be ridiculous. So that's why I text.

So I want a new phone. And I will go get a new phone. As an anniversary gift. Yeah, we're the romantic types here in the Bitter household. Last year I got a Dyson and the HG got a PSP and Nintendo DS. We may not be romantic, but we certainly are big dorks. Good thing we're already married...finding mates for us would not be easy.

But I can only fix certain things. Easy things. What about the hard things? How do I fix those? I don't like how I feel about not being able to fix these things. I know, I know. Everybody has things in life they want to fix, change, improve. I know I'm not alone in that. I get that my feelings of inadequacy are not exclusive to me. But, like focusing on the good, that does not make me feel any better.

And so the quest for perfection continues. I swear, I am the worst perfectionist on the face of the earth. I want to be perfect. I'm just too lazy for it. That's what it all comes down to. I feel like my failures (or perceived failures) are my own fault. That I didn't do something right or if I did it right, I didn't do it right enough for long enough. I never feel as though I've done enough.

I feel like infertility is my fault. Actually, I know it's my fault. My particular form of infertility is caused by scar tissue that develops from an infection. Guess how you get those infections? I'll give you hint: you won't find it in a G rated movie. So Ok, I should have taken better care of myself when I was 19. But I didn't. So I put myself in this situation. Do you have any idea how much that freaking sucks? Especially since I was in, what I thought at least, was a monogamous relationship. I really thought he was "the one". Unfortunately, we broke up over a communication failure. He thought it was Ok to sleep with other women. I thought it wasn't OK. We just couldn't come to an agreement on that.

It's the same story with weight loss. Last I checked, I wasn't strapped to a chair and force-fed by a sadistic killer (Seven was a good flick. Creepy. But good. I learned at least one lesson from that movie: never open a box delivered to you in the middle of the desert. I promise you won't want what's in it.). No, I didn't get a secret starring role in any movies. I ate every ding dong, pizza slice, and french fry all by myself, thank you very much. I am quite the accomplished eater. I could give lessons.

No, my downfalls and the things that make me sad are all my own fault. So I guess if I did them to myself, I can figure out a way to undo them, too.

Hmmmm....
See? I totally don't need prozac. Pollyanna strikes again!

What I do need is some sleep. I'm way too tired to be blogging tonight.
Clearly.

Frozen flames and pigs with wings

Can someone look outside and tell me what the weather looks like?
I think hell has frozen over and pigs are flying.

The HG is at the gym. He went all on his own. At 10:00 at night.
I'm ridiculously proud of him.

That's all.

Personal Growth

I am 33 years old and I have never once been to the movies alone before.
Until this weekend.

I have no problem going out to eat alone. A lot of people do; they seem to think that's some how sadder than sitting in a dark theater watching the latest Hollywood drivel alone. They, apparently, are not big fatties. We fatties prefer to eat alone. Nobody to judge the fried chicken sandwich with extra cheese and fries you're about to consume. Of course, when I order, I pass it off like I haven't all day. "Oh, hmmm. I haven't eaten all day. I wonder if a salad will be filling enough. Hmm. Probably not. I guess I'll just have, um, the chicken sandwich?" Right. Cuz the waitress is buying that I haven't eaten all day. I'm pretty sure she's thinking "Haven't eaten in the last hour is more like it." But still, this does not stop me from going out to eat alone. I bring a book or a nice magazine (that slight obsession with the glossy pages I have pays off) and settle in for a nice night alone. I'm the refill queen. I linger till I'm ready to leave. Wait staff hates me. But the occasional night out with just myself is worth the risk of spittle in my mud pie.

And since I'm fairly certain the restaurants in my area do not serve the blue box food I'm required to eat for the next 10 weeks (2 down!!!! whoo hoo!), options for alone time are limited. I can only walk the 2.5 miles to mall and back so many times. A mani/pedi is nice, but now that we're contemplating another house purchase, it does seem a bit extravagant to do it weekly (daily....). So what is a girl with too much time on her hands to do? I started with a nice trip to the bookstore. But if you're not having a triple venti skinny vanilla latte (decaf, extra hot. Add cinnamon and splenda) and a cookie the size of a small planet, the bookstore is really nothing more than a library. With louder people. It certainly does smell better, though.

So with both the bookstore and restaurants having been ruled out, I was running low on options. And I simply had to get out of the house. I was having one of those The-world-hates-me-and-I-suck kind of days. I sometimes get to thinking that I'd like to do something special with my life. I want to be best at something. One of the reasons I want to have kids is because than I can push all of my hopes and dreams on them. Me and Lynn Spears. I'm kidding. I would just like to be the best at something, anything, in my life. But sadly, I am reminded on a fairly regular basis that I'm nothing special. I'm easily ignorable. That's not to say I don't have friends. I have damn good friends. I love my friends and I'm sure that at least one or two of them love me back. In a platonic way. I hope only platonic. Unrequited love sucks. I'd hate to be the recipient of love I don't return (at least 3 karma points for that). But still, I'm not very...good...at much. I don't have any hobbies. I sometimes fancy that I'll write the Great American Novel, or at least a Decent American Novel, or failing that, at least one that is publishable, some day. But then I read other books and realize two things: they're all better than anything I could ever come up with and they've all stolen my ideas. So not only am I on a marginal writer at best, I'm also not very original. And don't even get me started on the inferiority complex the Food Network gives me. Those cook-offs? Just hour long audio-visual reminders that there are scores of people out there who are infinitely more talented than I. And writing and cooking are the two activities I like best in this world.

So rather than stay home and indulge my silly pitty party, I decided it was time to get out of the house. But where to go? The movies seemed like a good option. Once I've passed the concession stand, I won't go back. So no real risk of eating my weight in two week old popcorn. Before this diet, I'd happily consume a bucket of popcorn the size of a kindergartner. But that's the old Kate. The new Kate scoffs at the idea of letting some over-salted, fake butter flavored kernels of packing peanuts (also known as heaven in a bucket) pass her lips. And since I've been known to drag the HG to the movies exclusively for the popcorn (and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I saw North Country), it's a big accomplishment for me to skip the corn. However, I'm too proud to skulk back to the concession stand once I'm seated.

Once I narrowed down my options (I use the term "options" loosely) to seeing a movie, I realized that since the HG is knee deep in thesis writing, this would have to be a solo endeavor. I headed up stairs to let him know where I was headed. He said: "Are you sure? Don't you want to call Jess and see what she's doing? What about Anne? Maybe one of them will go with you." Um, thanks HG. I was feeling self conscious enough about it. You're not helping. The thing is, I don't want to go to the movies alone because I'm paranoid someone will think, "Oh, how sad. She got stood up" or worse "Awww...she can't get a date". So yeah, HG, your comment? Not helpful. But I was bound and determined to go. An exercise in personal growth.

All the way to the theater I gave myself a pep-talk. How pathetic am I? It's just a movie. And hi, I'm married. Who cares if people think I can't get a date? They're right. I can't. Because I'm married. Nobody wants the old married hag. And there's the little issue of being off the market. Even so, I pep-talked myself all the way to the theater. I even tried to change my mind and head to the Barnes and Noble. But I just drove to the theater. Parked the car. And went in and stood in line. Ok. Almost there.

Oh, while I was waiting in line, there were two somewhat more than middle aged women in front of me. One was wearing a snappy outfit consisting of loud flowered capris, a bright pink tank top, and a gold and silver leather purse. Her friend was wearing khakis, a light blue cable knit sweater, and brown loafers. I realized two things: 1, her friend and I were wearing strikingly similar outfits (sigh) and 2, when I'm that age, I want to be rocking the silver and gold leather purse. Hey, it's tacky as hell. And she's earned it. I want to earn it too. And I think going to the movies alone is a good way to start. But you can bet I was flashing my wedding rings all over the place as I purchased my tickets, handed them to the ticket taker, and ordered my large diet Pepsi. Hey, I'm not old yet...

And I saw and enjoyed the movie. I'm so proud of me. The one thing I will say is that it is no fun to discuss the previews with yourself. Next time I go to the movies, I should bring someone with me.

As a final thought. More a note to parents. If the movie is rated PG-13, why would your bring your 6 year old? I realize the ratings are only a guide. But if Hollywood--the city that gave us Paris Hilton, Tara Reid, Lindsay Lohan, Drew Barrymore, Britney Spears, and a thousand other drugged up alcoholic party girls--thinks your child should be 13 to see the movie, don't you think you ought to at least consider their suggestion? Just a thought.

Bad Advice and Other Reasons to go to the Mall

I recently discovered that a trip through the interior of the mall is 1.5 miles. Rock on. I love to shop. Exercise and shopping together? Am I the only one who hears angels singing?

Since part of the diet mandate is that you get 2000 calories worth of physical activity in a week, I can no longer have just a "pretend obsession" with working out. Because this diet.will.work. Am I making myself clear? So because I refuse to fail at this, I hit the mall for some mall walking. I did two full laps (three miles!). And along the way, I learned a lot.

A group of teenage boys was (were? Where are Mr. Christs' 8th Grade grammar lessons when I need them?) walking together. They were very respectful and dressed as well as can be expected from roughly fifteen year old boys. And by this I mean only one of them was sporting skinny jeans. Most women cannot pull this look off. Men should never, ever, under any circumstance whatsoever even make the effort to wear skinny jeans. Skinny legs on a man are simply, unequivocally, unattractive. I cannot be the only person who thinks this.

So these boys seemed sweet enough. And I thought, to myself "Oh, those are the kinds of boys my daughters might bring home some day." (Um, those better be the kinds of boys my daughters bring home some day. I'm not having anyone named "Snake" take my daughters anywhere on the back of a Harley.) And even though they didn't know me, I instantly felt like I knew them. Cuz I'm a freak show like that. But that's not the point. I started eavesdropping on their conversation. I was just curious what three 15 year old boys would talk about together. I didn't get much of the conversation, but it was clear that one of the three had a girlfriend and was dispensing love advice to his compadres. Nothing, I mean nothing, is more adorable than listening to a young boy, in love for the first time, giving terrible advice to his buddies about how to get a girl to date you. It was simply priceless. At one point in the conversation, he dealt out this gem: "If a girl buys a new pair of shoes, you have to go buy a new pair, too. To show her that you can keep up with her." It's terrible, terrible advice. But so cute. And I do have to give the kid major props for even noticing when a girl gets a new pair of shoes. Perhaps he's not so far off the mark after all.

As I took a pass around the upscale section of the mall (interesting how all malls seem to have this section now. The part with Lacoste, Free People, Coach, Gucci...recession? My ass.), I saw two young girls headed out of the Rheul store. I overheard the older of the two say to who I assume was her younger sister, "I couldn't find anything because I'm fat." Oh, how simply awful. I wanted to scoop the little girl (this shows my age, by the way. She was probably 16...) in my arms and tell her to never, ever talk about herself like that again.

Yes, yes...I know. I call myself a fatty all the time. But that's totally different. I'm not 16. My self esteem is not on the line here. Hi, I like totally love me. Not in an arrogant way. I have faults up the ying yang. I recognize them. Work on some of them. Some I just keep around because they amuse me. Like belching loudly on my back porch. The neighbors across the courtyard think I'm a pig. Eh. They're 80 and no fun. It's just a belch. And it's MY porch. Thank you very much. Which brings me to another one of my many faults--stubborn to the point of irritation. But that's OK. Stubbornness has it's perks, too. How else would I navigate this infertility nightmare if I wasn't too stubborn to give up?

But I digress. I wanted to scoop up that little girl, who, by the way, was only ever so slightly pudgy, and tell her to only talk about herself the way she wants others to talk about her. Never say anything about yourself you wouldn't want someone else to say about you. Because you have to be your own biggest fan is this world. This is a lesson I wish I had learned in 8th grade when the "Mean Girls" in my school told me they didn't want to be my friend anymore.

Let me back track. Growing up I was so painfully shy that I would pee my pants before raising my hand to ask to use the bathroom. I'm not sure how peeing my pants in class was less shameful that admitting I had to pee, but in my mind it really was. You can imagine that making friends was not easy for me. So when my parents moved us, for the 15th time in my short life, to a new school at the beginning of 8th grade, I was beyond thrilled when the "cool girls" befriended me about half way through the year. I'm not sure if it was the snazzy new hair cut (short, spiky crew cut) or the peach converse (It was the EIGHTIES, cut me some slack. I was freaking h-o-t), but something made them wan to be my friend. Could have been the fact that my algebra teacher got caught checking out my bra one day (I was blissfully unaware. I just wanted help balancing an equation). Whatever it was, I didn't care. I was ecstatic at being included. But like any good teenage angst movie, I wasn't going to be that girl who forgot the little people. Oh no. I was movin on up George and Weezy style, but I was not going to be "that girl". So I kept my old friends, too. I had some misguided notion that we could all be friends.

Turns out, we could not, in fact, all be friends. After a few weeks of dropping subtle hints that it was time for me to lose the losers, the 4 future reality TV stars who ruled the 8th grade lunchroom, started making plans without me. I took it in stride. After all, these were girls who had been friends for years before they met me. Of course it'll take time for them to include me in everything. I even offered up my family's VCR for a sleepover they were planning. Without me. (I'm not so bright, am I?) Turns out, I'm not very good at taking hints. I still hung around. Went to lunch with them. Picked them to be on my volleyball team in gym. Walked with them back from our high school classes (turns out being smart is actually cool. Who knew?). Until one day, as we walked to the buses, they told me "We're just not that into you. It's not you, it's us. We can still be friends, just not the kind who hang out. Or talk to each other. If we were looking for a committed friendship, you would totally be our type. But we just kind of want to play the field right now, and we don't really have room in our lives for another friend." It was my first break up and I was devastated. All this because I was nice?

You'd think after all of that, I'd be a raving bitch. But no. I just didn't have it in me. Oh, how times have changed. Because another thing I noticed at the mall were all the baby divas carrying expensive bags. I saw a girl, not old enough to be a the mall without her parents rocking a Pucci. Another one had a Coach. A third had a Target special in one hand...and a Lacoste bag bursting with $80 polo shirts in the other. Huh. I wonder where this recession is people have been talking about. Certainly not at the mall. So what does this have to do with me being a bitch? I wanted to walk up to each one of the offending children, remove the expensive items from their arms and hand them back to their parents with a suggestion that in the future, their money would be better spend in a college fund for little baby Paris. But I didn't do it. Doesn't that garner me some Karma points??

And perhaps the best thing about mall walking? Besides the food for my inner monologue? Cookie Monster.

Oh yeah, baby. Nothing says mall walking like a big blue Muppet. Man I love that.

Things I'd Like to Eat

Toast with butter
Bagel
Iced Coffee
Chicken wings. Not just any chicken wings. Cavallos' chicken wings. Extra crispy.
Pizza. Good, NY pizza. Domino's can keep their "pizza".
Potato chips
Cookie Dough Ice cream
Cheese and crackers
Cheese
Crackers
PEANUT BUTTER
Pancakes
A sandwich. Any sandwich.
Mayo (on bread with a slice of fresh tomato and pepper)
Warm, fresh baguette with creamy brie
A salad with my home made dressing, spinach, almonds, blue cheese, and dried cranberries or apple
Spaghetti with extra parmesan cheese
Eggplant Parmesan
Bertucci's rolls with olive oil
French Fries
Mac and cheese--homestyle. Not out of a box.

Pretty much anything that has extra fat, tons of texture, and doesn't come out of a blue box that doesn't require refigeration. And isn't a shake.

It's worth it. It IS worth it.
It is WORTH it.

Sigh. I just want something toasted.

I flipped

I flipped my calendar today. I have one of those page a day calendars. Mine is shoes. The Donster gave it to me for Christmas. Best.gift.ever. Well, best stocking stuffer ever. Every day features a picture of a new and fabulous shoe. In full color.

Exhibit A:Ok, aren't those shoes cute? I'd buy them. Anyway, so my calendar is filled with big color pictures of shoes. Every day I get a new shoe to contemplate.


And contemplate I do. I wonder if I'd buy the shoe or not. And if I would, what I'd wear it with. Because I love shoes. Imelda may have had a legendary number of shoes, but I'm telling you, regardless of how many orphans went hungry to feed her obsession, she did not love shoes as much as I do. It's a problem. I freely admit it's a problem. But you know, they don't make Shoe Lovers Anonymous. So it's totally not my fault. I'd happily stand up in front a roomful of strangers and admit my love. "Hi, I'm Kate and I'm addicted to shoes." "Hi Kate!". Thing is, though, as I stood up there, I'd be silently critiquing the selection of shoes worn by the meeting attendees. And no doubt I'll determine that most of the so-called shoe lovers are, in fact, posers.

It is entirely possible I have too much time on my hands. But the thing about shoes is that you can love them and find a fabulous pair that make you feel glamorous and beautiful and sexy regardless of your dress size. What's not to love?

But today I flipped my calendar. Each "page" on the calendar is two-sided. When you change the date on the calendar, you pull the old page out and put it in the very back of the holder. And halfway through the year, you take the whole lot of them out and flip them around. Thereby giving you half a year's worth of new pictures. Ok, so now we're clear on that.

The point of this? We are HALFWAY through the year. And I just can't wrap my mind around it. When I was getting married, I wished away the year before our wedding. I counted down the days obsessively. I went to bed at night just imagining myself walking down the aisle in my wedding gown. I'm pretty sure the HG was there in my fantasies. Maybe not. Everyone knows the wedding is all about the bride anyway. He was nothing more than a required element. Hi, I couldn't very well marry myself. Oh, call off Dr. Phil. I'm kidding. I would have married him in a potato sack in the middle of field in the rain (if you get THAT reference, you watch way too many movies. But props to you.). Of course I'd have had fabulous shoes if I did that.

As it is, I got married barefoot. I know, weird, right? The shoe obsessed girl got married barefoot. I thought it was romantic. My grandmother had a heart attack. She was quite certain the minister would take her side and deem me a heathen for even suggesting such a horrifying idea. He did not. He thought it was romantic. It was. I did have fabulous blue stain flats for the walk out of the church, though. You know, something blue. My mother was appalled at that. This from the former hippie who got married without a bra. Oh, how times have changed.

But I did wish away that year. And then we started TTC. And I started to live my life in two week increments. Two weeks from my **whisper** period to ovulation. Two weeks from ovulation till I could POAS. Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum. Two weeks is not very long, in general. But it can feel like an eternity when you're the one living it. When this two weeks could be the two weeks that makes a difference in your life. When this two weeks could mean the end of the trying. But it never is. So you start again. Afresh with new hope. And so it goes. Over and over and over. And the next thing you know a full year has passed (or in this case 2 years). Yes, two weeks is a long time when you're waiting for something. But it's a flash in the pan when you compare the rest of your life to it.

And now another half year is gone. I wished away the first half of the year by counting down till surgery. Then till the diet started. Now I'm counting down, week by week. Waiting for the day i can stand on the scale and see just how close I am to getting my babies back. When does the wishing stop? Is there ever going to be a time where I'm not just hoping for the next day to hurry up and come? I must be the only person in the world who hopes for Mondays. I'm not Cyndi Lauper. I don't wish it was Sunday. I'm all for my Manic Mondays. Mondays are my weigh in day. And after Monday comes Tuesday. Which is one day closer to Wednesday. Which is hump day. Half way through the week! Thursdays mean it's almost Friday and Friday brings me into the weekend and then I'm right on the cusp of another Monday. It's sad. And sort of pathetic. Please feel sorry for me. You may express condolences by sending gifts of shoes.

I wonder how I will wish away the second half of the year. The HG and I are contemplating a house purchase. I'm sure I'll spend a lot of time wishing time would pass so I could know what will happen with that. I'm hoping to start IVF again in August. I will spend every day wishing for it to be morning so I can go get my ultrasound to check my progress. And of course there's the never ending two week wait (2WW). Two weeks to ovulation. Two weeks till testing.

Remember that lesson I supposedly learned? That one about relaxing? Clearly I haven't quite learned it yet...

I bet some shoe shopping would cure this. It's certainly better for me than Xanax. And way cuter. If I mention Xanax much more, Courtney Love is going to start looking sober.