Caterwauling

So, after what I like to call a “fail-filling” day because, well, it was so very full of FAIL, I got great news tonight … that I lost 4 pounds during the holidays.

Sure, I skipped last week’s meeting so the loss was for two weeks. But still, I’ve practically had a feed bag (of FAIL) strapped to my face since mid-December. The hell?

I can only suspect that actually eating real food and not living on all things vegetable- and soy-based did great things for my system. I had cookies for dinner last night, since I worked late and everyone who didn’t want to keep sinful foods around their houses ever-so-graciously brought in their crap for the rest of us. Gee, thanks!

Anyway, whee being 0.2 pounds away from my next goal. Of course, I wore paper-thin clothes today — it might be a little harder to show a loss next week, when I resume dressing for sleet and snow.

I was paid a compliment earlier today by, well, let’s say someone who’s never paid me a compliment before. She told me to feel free to keep on wasting away, but to leave some meat on my bones. Just a little — something for someone to hold on to. I was stunned and pleased that she even noticed, let alone said something!

I was going to write about how sucktacular my day was otherwise, because it was, but it feels good to say nice things so I’m going to keep on going. (I’ve got smelling salts for those of you who just fainted. …)

With it being a new year, naturally I figured we’d see some new faces at my de-pudgification meeting. And one in particular stood out — well, her story did, anyway, and I wanted to write it down and remember it because it’s inspiring.

We all know that pudgiliciousness leads to infertility. Which is kind of funny when I think about all the birth control I’ve consumed, probably for nothing. (But since birth control can also be so very full of FAIL, I don’t regret it. Not one bit.)

Anyway, a new girl joined tonight who works for a local fertility clinic. And she said Weight Watchers is probably the biggest boon to the fertility industry she’s witnessed, and she’s living proof. Apparently she had joined WW two years ago and was going to pursue IVF treatments. Well, after she lost her initial 10%, she dropped out of the program because, surprise, she had gotten pregnant!

She says that happens all the time. Imagine the hundreds of thousands of dollars saved in fertility treatments simply because women took steps to get healthy. Wow. Just, wow.

So, now her son is 10 months old and she’s ready to lose weight again. I had to applaud that. I mean, I applaud for everyone, but it’s neat how people make such an impact on those who are listening, even if she will never know that I was sitting directly behind her, in awe of every word.

I actually wore clothes that fit today, which I don’t often do — I was explaining the “Hammer pants” phenomenon, how all my pants crotches hang by my knees and my pants drag on the floor; maybe M.C. Hammer’s sense of style came from a big weight loss? — and my group of friends was double-taking and asking how much I’ve gotten rid of so far. With the 0.2 that I have to lose to get to an even number, it’ll be 47 pounds gone in seven months.

What’s cool is how, with all the new people in the meeting, I’m plain old average, size-wise. Sure, I’m still pudgilicious by all accounts. Ain’t no mistaking me for a supermodel anytime soon, trust me on that. But instead of always looking around at those who’ve been there longer than me and seeing how far I have to go, I could kind of sit back and enjoy how far I’ve come, too.

I was just looking at my final paycheck of the year and feeling grateful to have one, yes, but also rather stunted, that my standard of living is defined by the salary I agreed to at one job. (I should have multiple profit centers — my income should not be capped — my creativity should be paying me off, again and again, if only I’d harness it.)

But the same is true for my life. Because I’ve had this or that wrong with me, or because my ass was the size of a small island, my enjoyment of my time on this earth has been severely curtailed.

I mean, not just the health or the fear aspect of dropping dead at a moment’s notice, but you wonder what kind of relationships or jobs you would have had, or whether the ones you’ve experienced would have been different … and how.

Anyway, I’m just watching the new season of “Biggest Loser” and being genuinely angry that nine people who need help are being sent home tonight, on the very first episode. So I’m going to end this feel-good fuzzy-wuzzy fest now and just be glad that, at my present weight, I would never have qualified for this season.

And while I won’t focus on it, I’ll never forget that, six months ago, I could very well have been “big” enough to be on the biggest season of the show in history.

Am down for the count with a nasty sinus infection. I’m actually mostly OK and don’t have to be self-imprisoned in my freezing-fucking-cold apartment. But since I was informed I have to drag along my little sister if I go out, well, I did what I always do and climbed up on the cross decided not to go out at all.

I never did make it to my de-pudgification meeting this week. I meant to go today but was besieged by girlie aches and pains (in addition to the perennial ass-pain next-door). But to my credit this week, I finally got back into the groove of writing down everything I’ve consumed — I find that when I stop recording, I start ballooning. (See: lying on the bed the past two weeks to zip up jeans.)

And perhaps my biggest problem both during the holidays as well as now is not necessarily that I’m indulging in bad things. Quite the contrary. It’s the portion sizes that I’ve been letting escape me. Sure, the occasional one-point cookie is fine. But a whole box in two days for 12 points … what made me think THAT was a good idea?

Even though I did indulge myself during the past few weeks by eating meats and potatoes and pastas and sauces that I would normally steer clear from, nothing was inherently terrible and, quite honestly, I won’t miss any of it for a long while again now that I’ve had it. It was mostly as good as I remembered. But I tell you, eating a whole bag of apple slices yesterday (see: “portion creep”) was just as tasty and as filling as could be. And refreshing, too, since I wasn’t the slightest bit guilty over eating (also, “overeating”) froot.

What I do miss are two things: extra-cheese-with-pepperoni pizzas from Potomac Pizza and the stromboli from Ledo’s. These weren’t everyday eats, but rather rewards after Friday nights that were spent at work. (Assuming anything was still OPEN when I got out.)

There were a lot of those nights. Which explains a lot.

I have no idea why I’m even confessing this right now, given that my taste buds are pretty much drowning in a river of sinus snot. I guess it’s the habits that I miss — the little traditions of things that would cheer me up and satisfy me after a grueling day in a way a Boca burger on a half-slice of double-fiber bread never will.

Oh, and I also stopped smoking again. Whee. Which I did 4 1/2 years ago but when I started dieting earlier this year, it just made sense to revive one vice to replace the other. I never had more than 2 or 3 smokes in a day, and usually none on weekends unless I had to be social.

Since it was quitting smoking that led me to satisfy my oral fixation at the fridge, I figured reversing it would help. And to some extent, it might have. But what’s going to satisfy my oral fixation now, other than yelling at people who piss me off simply for the fact that they’re breathing?

I have to say it — I had a GREAT day. (My apologies if you’re looking for sarcasm … not a drip or a drop here. Savor it while it lasts.)

One of my boys took me out for lunch today. Say it with me: Out. For Lunch. My third lunch hour of the year, my friends. Forgive me if I do a happy dance that resembles a polka.

And what I found was that I was energized all day. I had to bust a move to get a project (nearly) finished by noon. I was full and happy and worked through the afternoon with no need for complaint.

And I left ON TIME.

Of course, I felt guilty for the “leaving on time” part. But for all the Mondays that didn’t wrap up till past 10 p.m. (that’d be an hour or two past 10), I earned it.

In my amazingly awesome free time, I went to my happy place — Old Navy. Where I bought two pairs of jeans that are two sizes smaller than the ones I wore to work today since everything fits me like Hammer pants. (O HAI crotches at the knee — not the season to get a breeze up there ’cause they don’t make Chapstick for tender bits.)

Anyway, the jeans fit in the dressing room, despite all attempts this week to reverse my entire weight loss. They’re in the dryer right now so I MAY have some muffin-top issues in the morning. (Yeah, guess who’s skipping weigh-in tomorrow. Guess!)

But in trying to look at it positively, tomorrow’s breakfast surprise will hopefully be less of a muffin top than a Vita Top.

Yesterday was, by all standards, routine. Vanilla. Ordinary. Blah.

And, yet, it brought several of those moments of “Whose Life Is it Anyway?”

Started off the day with yelling, as usual. Eased into the new comfort-disappointment cocktail. Slid into the boringly familiar. Flirted with the mildly annoying. Ended with “WTF just happened to me here?”

And I wondered exactly when I am going to be able to leave it all behind and write my trashy novels like I always said I would.

It’s all about perspective (mine) and between a home situation that disintegrates at the rate Brad Pitt gets younger in “Benjamin Button” and external situations that are great if you’re into routine (and that routine spans the spectrum between warm fuzzies and homicidal rage), well, I can see why I shove my head up my ass regularly. La la la, if I can’t see it, it’s not there. La la la.

Of course, a cold splash of reality hit me square in the face over a plastic cup of Oak Grove pinot grigio, as I inadvertently crashed my old department’s Christmas party (*sniffle*) and I realized, where they’ve shoved me now, is into just another cubicle at just another company. And even though I was welcomed as an ex-officio member of the team, I realized again how awesome, caring, nurturing, loving and generous my old team was. And how my move upstairs is a total downgrade.

I wondered, when I worked for the awesome team, if everyone knew how good we had it. We knew. We loved it. Outsiders treated us like three-headed martians most of the time. I don’t know if they were jealous or, more likely, they just figured we were all a bunch of weirdos who spoke “twin language” among a dozen of our own people.

I’ve been either kidding or comforting myself that this reorganization would blow up in everyone’s faces and we’d go back to the way we were.

Then I look around at home, which is just never going to get better, in its present state. I was thinking about last New Year’s Day, how I made reservations at a moderately upscale place. How the roomie declared she wasn’t going, but that I could go by myself. How I canceled and sat around hungry all day.

How did I ring in the new year? By wishing I was dead. How did I spend the year? Dying.

I made reservations for Christmas Day. And I don’t give a fuck if I’m eating by myself, I’m getting dressed up and going out.

I think what I’ve avoided doing in these and one other area of my life, is put my little foot down and provide my list of demands. Sure, I’ve tried. Usually through thinly veiled sarcasm or the grapevine or in a very loud tone of voice. But I’ve gotten next to nowhere with any of it.

And I’ve done the best I could for me, which is to live my life. To lose weight (minus these damn Christmasy temptations!) — down 43 pounds so far that I haven’t sabotaged! (Let’s not talk about what I HAVE sabotaged. …) To give my very best to every work project. To go out with friends at least twice a month. To actually do that “dating” thing again. (And to let people settle for what they’ve, well, settled for and not take it personally.)

But it’s not enough. It’s a running start, yes, but not enough.

I’ve got to wonder about that new Jim Carrey movie, “Yes Man.” I think we all learn to say no to opportunity because so many people and entities are altogether too happy to say that word to us. (”Move out.” “No.” “Can has moar monay?” “No!”)

Anyway, there’s a new year waiting to be rung in. This one was probably one of my personal best, although any of you who’ve been with me through it probably think my standards are waaaay low.

But if I can match my current weight loss and also gain back a bedroom, and maybe find something interesting to do with my life (any part of it. Or all parts of it. Whichev), then THAT will be a victorious year.

So, bring it, 2009. Odd-numbered years are always the kindest to me. Show me what you’re made of, and I’ll do the same.

Last night’s “Biggest Loser” finale is an epic example of what I’ve been ranting about here for days, of horrible, undeserving people getting exactly what they want — and what we want.

America got to vote on the third finalist. And there was Heba — 150 pounds lighter and smug as a bug in a rug that we were going to vote for her miserable ass — who was outvoted 80/20 in favor of having her husband Ed as the finalist.

Oh, was she pissed.

So they weighed in all the ex-contestants for a chance at $100,000. And she won it. Humph.

I mean, based on the work she did to reduce her body weight by nearly 50%, that’s great. Congratulations and respect for that are definitely in order. I’m far from my goal and it ain’t easy. And it only gets harder, the closer you get to where you want to be.

But still, hateful twat, much?

When the finalists were weighed in and she saw Ed’s HUGE weight loss (but admittedly it was several pounds shy of her own), OMG the ugliness on her face.

And I got where she was. My empathy gene is always working overtime since I feel that people, and certain ones in particular, seem to make it at least a part-time job to try to ignore what’s running through my head. Ahem.

I mean, she could have won that quarter-million. No question. When the sweet and beautiful Michelle (yes!) took home the grand prize with a weight loss of more than 100 pounds, sure Heba’s suddenly scrawny ass would have kicked her newly bony ass.

But whatev, bitch — if you weren’t such a self-entitled bitch, we would have voted you through to the finale.

I was thrilled that Michelle won — I was rooting for her all along, mostly because we were about the same age and starting weight (sigh) so even though she was pulling 10-pound weight losses out of her ass each week compared to my paltry half-pound to a whopping 2 pounds, she was “me” up there, you know? The one with the strained relationship with her mother. The family who needed, and got, to start all over again.

Imagine what $100K could do to help us in my cramped little quarters to get a fresh start. Can we say separate apartments in separate cities for starters, boys and girls? I know you can!

Anyway, speaking of impossible people to live with, Heba is like the Dallas Cowboys to me. I won’t intentionally root against either one of them. But I’m not exactly celebrating either’s victories, because all their arms are apparently long enough to pat their own backs.

So the only reason I am not angry about Heba getting the $100K is that it’s also going to Ed, who is too good for her and I’m hoping now that he has his looks and self-esteem back that he will realize that and LEAVE her ass.

Heba has always stated that her goal is to have a healthy pregnancy. Gah. She’s reproducing? Lord help us all. Hopefully her steaming-cunt genes will be heavily diluted by Ed’s sweet and nice ones.

I often joke with myself that I can’t wait to meet my Inner Skinny Bitch. Heba’s is, sadly, still an Outie. She went from pudgy bitch to skinny bitch, but again, she didn’t lose the BITCH!