Perspective (Or "From Bosoms to Bowels")

Recently I came very close to posting a status update on Facebook about the state of my bowels.

After some consideration (and a second draft of this post) I decided that the exact information about my digestion is probably something the majority of my readers, a group of fine, hard-working, intelligent, good-looking, sophisticated citizens of the world, would not appreciate.  Going along with me on a journey through life is one thing.  A journey through my colon is, I think we would all agree, quite another.

However, much thought on this topic led me to the two following conclusions:

1. "Important" is very much in the eye of the beholder, and

2. Boundaries are much harder to set nowadays.

Regarding point 1: Everyone has different things that are important to them.  It doesn't automatically mean they are important to me, and vice-versa.  For instance, it is completely normal for you to care about your job.  It doesn't mean I care about your job; though, as a friend, I will be happy to listen to you talk about it.  I just won't be thinking about it before I go to sleep.  I'll be thinking about my bowels.

It's like what Dr. Phil said about a certain element in marriage: if it's good, it's almost completely unimportant.  If it's not good, it becomes very, very important.  I will now begin using the euphemism "bowling."  If you and your bowling partner are consistently racking up the strikes (or picking up spares when necessary) you aren't too concerned about improving the game.  But if one partner is consistently rolling gutter balls (beginning to regret this choice of euphemism) suddenly each partner becomes very concerned about improving the game.

That's what digestion is like.  When your digestion is normal you don't think about it.  You go about your day without a thought to the millions of organs solely dedicated to breaking down your food for nutrition and tidily removing the waste.  (Your organs don't mind.  They wish you'd call more often, but they understand you have a life of your own.)  When it isn't normal it is ALL YOU THINK ABOUT.  Whatever you might be doing on the outside, whether it's writing a blog post, washing dishes, or leading a group of five-year-olds in the "Beanbag Boogie," inside you are thinking, "Maybe today.  Please.  Today."

But, since the entire point of this post was how I am not throwing my digestive woes in the faces of my readers (figuratively), I will move on.  (Ha!)

Regarding point 2: There is nothing wrong with my being concerned about digestion.  (Debatable, but it's my blog.)  Had I lived in the olden days, when people had nicknames like "Smokey" and "Half-Pint" and "Illiterate Stain" (who was actually named "Stan" but they liked to have their fun then, too) my concern over digestion would have been totally normal, as seen from an actual made-up excerpt from an ancestor's farm diary:

Monday: Sunrise, 6:41 a.m.  Breakfast of buckwheat cakes, rashers of bacon, sausage, coffee grounds, 17 cigarettes, whole wheat toast, and Activia Yogurt.  All members of household and farm animals regular, except for Illiterate Stain (hee!) who continues to regret the experiment in cheese-making.  Sunset at 7:02 p.m.  Skies fair.  Illiterate Stain in the barn until further notice.


Writing about your digestion in your journal?  Fine.  Discussing it with your doctor?  Wonderful.  Answering your grandmother's questions about it?  Weird, but all right.  Posting it as your status so that your 350+ friends see it in their newsfeeds?  Not so much.  From now on, my rule of thumb about posting on Facebook will be as follows:

IF I WOULDN'T SAY IT OUT LOUD AT A SOCIAL FUNCTION, I WON'T POST IT AS MY STATUS.

Good status:  What a great day!  One of those days where everything went right!


Not so good:  It finally burst.  What a relief!


You're welcome.

No Two Are Alike (Or Adventures in Boobs)

I recently went to be fitted for a new bra.  Perhaps my gentlemen readers (if, indeed, any made it past the first sentence) are not familiar with the bra fitting process, so I will explain.  The bra size is made up of a number (the band size) and a letter or letters (the cup size).

To find the band size, one measures at the top of the rib cage, just below the base of operations, so to speak.  To find the cup size, one measures across the landscape at its most extreme terrain.  Subtract the difference to determine cup size.

It might surprise some to learn that cup sizes work as follows: A, B, C, D, DD, DDD, E, F, G, etc.  At least that's how it worked where I went.  1 inch of difference is an A cup, two inches a B, etc.  I was measured.

A 38G.  Yes, my friends.  The woman looked me in the eye and had the audacity to tell me, "You need a 38G."  I had to pause as the wind blew back my hair and everything went to black and white for a moment.

Once my Russ Meyer moment had passed, I went to a dressing room, there to be met with a truly magnificent feat of structural engineering.  This thing was padded and wired like a Miss America contestant with braces.  I finally got it on and faced the reality:

I don't want my bra to fit if that's what it feels like.   A tight, constricting band around my ribs while vast tracts of land brush my chin?  No thank you.  I tried on a few more, just to make us all feel better, then selected the same style of bra I have worn for years, but with a larger band and smaller cup.  It fits fine.

I do admit, though, that I am tempted to buy the 38G as a prank.  It would also make a fine dual crash helmet for when we take the children to the race track.

Ch- ch- ch- ch- changes...

So I'm a vegetarian now.

(Some new statistics for the curious: I'm down 112 pounds from my top weight and 100 pounds from my weight on the day of surgery.  Once I lose two more pounds I will no longer be obese.  I bought a pair of skinny jeans from Old Navy this afternoon, and they weren't the biggest size in the store.  Or the second biggest.  My shirt size no longer contains any X's.  Back to the topic at hand.)

So I'm a vegetarian now.  When I went into this deal they told me I would need to eat meat.  A lot of meat.  Fish and chicken especially.  The timeline was supposed to go like this:

Day after surgery: clear liquids
Two days after-a week after: full liquids
A week after-two weeks after: soft foods
Two weeks after: start introducing real foods and go from there.

This did not work for me.  I am, essentially, still on clear liquids (thanks, Isopure!).  I eat no food during the day.  At night I try to eat something, but so far the only things that really go in and feel good are:

Edamame
Edamame with peanut sauce
Horrible fattening terrible things that they promised me would make me sick.

I can eat raw vegetables.  I can eat mushrooms.  I can eat certain beans.  I can eat certain nuts (soy, cashew, and almond).  I can eat a little egg, a little cheese.

I can't eat chicken.  I can't eat beef.  I can't eat pork.  I can't eat fish.  Me, who used to be able to joyfully consume literal pounds of steak at one sitting!  I can't eat meat.

It's not so bad.  I can keep drinking this Isopure stuff.  It's kind of like Gatorade, if Gatorade had a slightly milky aftertaste.  I mix it with ice and water and, by the end of the day, consume 55 grams of pure protein that way (along with about a gallon of water).  I don't need to eat meat.  The edamame is fine.

If I squint, it looks like a pile of little green steaks.

Snowpocalypse 2011!

I realize that many people, including some who read this blog, are actually in places that have received a great deal of snow this year.  I, however, live in Houston, where the only "ice" we usually see is either at the ice skating rink at the Galleria or the cubes that gently clink in our glasses as we complain languorously about the heat.  I once went to a Christmas Carnival which boasted "real snow."  Watching children play in artificially created snow that melted almost as soon as it touched the sidewalk (it was in the 80's that weekend in December) was an indescribable delight.

Some years, however, the ice and snow does come our way naturally.  When that happens, we shut down. Completely.  Roads close.  Schools close.  Events are canceled.  While our friends to the north may tease us about our wimpiness, the truth is we are very ill-equipped to deal with ice and snow on the roads.  We have no salt trucks, no plows, no equipment to make things safe.  That's okay, though, because in a day or two everything will melt and we'll be back to normal.  When I was growing up, if it started to snow they would send us home.  If it was still snowing the next day we might get to stay home, but we would have to wake up early and watch the news to see if we got a coveted "snow day."

Those days are gone.  They left with Hurricane Katrina in 2005.  I know that seems like a bizarre non sequitur, but that's my theory: the devastation and death toll caused by the lack of evacuation and preparedness in New Orleans changed the way we here in Houston view weather.  It started with Hurricane Rita (which didn't hit Houston, and many of the people who were hit couldn't get out of town because the entire East Texas roadway system was clogged with people fleeing Houston) and continues to today.  The forecast says it's going to snow?  There will be ice?  We're going to cancel everything now, just to be safe.  Everybody go home!  Enjoy your one-to-three inches of snow!

We have not gotten even a flake.  Yes, there was ice on the car yesterday, and some patches on the roads, but Snowpocalypse 2011 was a massive dud.  Fortunately we have a built-in "bad weather day" in our calendar so we will not have to stay extra days in June or go in on a Saturday, but I still wonder at the foolishness of it all.  Twenty-five years ago, this wouldn't have happened because they would have waited to make the call on Friday morning.  And I would have been up at a local high school right now playing for young instrumentalists struggling through their solos instead of lying in bed with my husband, enjoying the bright sunshine, and being completely lazy.

Perhaps change is good.

Good News, Bad News

My beloved Aunt Astounding (I can't remember what I've called her before, but she rocks, love you!!) sends out a newsletter at the end of the year called "Good News, Bad News."  I love receiving it each December.  Today I'm publishing my own version of Good News, Bad News.

Deb's Good News, Bad News: the 100 Pound Edition

Good News: Deb has lost 100 pounds since her last birthday.

Bad News: She didn't know she would be doing this on her birthday in 2010, so she cannot remember what her last birthday cake tasted like.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb can now feel her collarbones without pressing too hard.

Bad News: When Deb asks someone else to feel her collarbones, he or she scuttles away like a nervous crab and makes references to finding a mental health professional.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  

Good News: Deb's ring size has gone from a snug 9 to a loose 7.

Bad News: Much of Deb's ring collection is still size 9.  Apparently they didn't get the memo.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb is much more active and has energy to accomplish much more in the day.

Bad News: Deb now does housework.  (I realize this might seem like good news, but I'm not there yet.)

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb sweats much less than she used to.

Bad News: For the first time in a decade, Deb is uncomfortably cold.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb has gone down about 7 dress sizes.

Bad News: Deb can no longer even pretend that any of her old clothes fit.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb now gets enough protein and water every day.

Bad News: Deb does this by putting liquid protein and water in a 1-gallon mug and carrying it with her all day, earning her the appellation of "Cup Lady" from students and some co-workers.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Good News: Deb can now fly on a plane with confidence that she will not have any issues with seat size.

Bad News: Deb can't afford to fly anywhere.

Yet.

Dexy's Wisdom

Time: Monday, around 6:30 p.m.

Place: The Folksy Bathroom

Players: Dexy and Mom.

Dexy: Mommy, you know what?

Mom: What?

Dexy: Everybody's got a butt.

Mom: (after slight pause) Yes, that's true.

Dexy: And everybody's got bidness.  (Note: "Bidness" is Folksy-speak for gender-specific anatomy.)

Mom: (cautiously) Yes, they do.

Dexy: But boys and girls have different bidness.

Mom: Yes.

Dexy: And we all have two eyes.

Mom: Yes.

Dexy: And a nose.

Mom: That's right, honey.

Dexy: I want some cheese.

Fin.

Resolutions 2011

I am in a legitimate quandary.  For the past sixteen years, every year's list of resolutions began with, "Lose (varying amounts) of weight."  Sometimes I disguised it as "Live healthier," "Eat more vegetables," "Exercise," or "Stop scouring the floor for forgotten M&M's," but it always meant the same.

This resolution no longer really exists for me.  I still have a substantial amount of weight to lose (52 pounds), but I have already lost 89 pounds (from my top weight in May; I've lost 77 pounds since August 25).  I am currently losing anywhere from 2-5 pounds per week, so even by a conservative estimate, I should be at my (doctor's) goal weight by early July, but I think I'll be there before then.  It won't stop there, of course, but weight loss is no longer an idealistic, far-reaching, nigh unattainable goal that will require substantial change in my behavior to accomplish, therefore it does not require a resolution.

Here, then, are my resolutions, in no particular order:

1. I'm going to keep a cleaner house.  I have much more energy now than I used to, which should mean I have more time, but it doesn't seem to be working that way.  I promise to devote more of my time and energy to my home this year.

2. I'm not going to brood about things that irritate or offend me.  I'm not sure I'll ever be able to completely avoid it, but I refuse to waste my mental energy on things and people who do nothing but bring me down.

3. This year, I WILL SING AGAIN.  I promise, I will take at least one voice lesson from my teacher this summer and I will sing FOR REAL again.

4. I will stop buying myself jewelry except on special occasions, such as a trip to a jewelry store.

5. This year, I will allow myself to be photographed, and I will not delete the pictures from the camera before anyone else sees them.

Ah, a life with purpose.  It feels good.

Quiz: Which Folksy Family Member Are You?

Yes, readers, now you can finally answer the question: "Am I a Sven?  Or more of a Princess?"  Take the following quiz and find out!  (Instructions for scoring follow.)

1. You see someone walking in a strange manner.  This person is gyrating, popping out the pelvis, twisting one foot, and visibly flexing muscles of the derriere.  Additionally, you notice this person is wearing a thoughtful, serious expression, similar to the one usually seen on the faces of monkeys who are scratching themselves on personal regions.  You:

A. Laugh uproariously and point fingers at the person.
B. Exclaim, "You peed your pants!" while laughing uproariously and pointing fingers at this person.
C. Look confused and say, "What's going on?"
D. Realize you are looking in a mirror and immediately stop once the hurtful laughter of your "family" permeates your preoccupation with trying to "pop" your hip.

2. It's been a very long day, and it's time for dinner.  You have nothing on hand to prepare.  You:

A. Say, "What do you want for dinner?  I'll go get it."
B. Whine loudly, "I'm hungry!"
C. Suck your thumb and pull your mommy's hair
D. Sneak a sugar-free peanut butter cup when no one else is looking.

3. You have a three-day weekend.  You:

A. Decide on the spur of the moment to take the family on a mini-vacation.
B. Get up at the crack of dawn because it's going to be an extra fun day, and you can't waste a single minute.
C. Get up at the crack of dawn because you lost Woody's hat and Buzz Lightyear's wings are broken again.
D. Dream of the day you can sleep past 5 a.m. while washing enough clothes to get you through your "fun" vacation.

4. You feel hungry.  Time for a snack.  You choose:

A. Whatever's handy, you're not picky.
B. Whatever you just ran out of, nothing else will do!
C. Cheese, in any form.
D. Potato chips and shame.

5. You want to do something special to show those around you that you care.  You:

A. Refrain from passing gas in a noisy, visible cloud until your beloved has given a reliable indication that she is asleep, then feign unconsciousness when she turns her lovely, accusing eyes in your direction.
B. Bring armfuls of stuffed dogs to watch over your loved ones while they sleep, write, cook, or bathe.
C. Bestow moist, semi-open-mouthed kisses upon them and proclaim, "I love you."
D. Write a blog post about their least endearing habits with enough wry humor to let everyone know that you really love them a whole lot.

If your answers are:

Mostly A's: You are a Sven.

Mostly B's: You are a Princess.

Mostly C's: You are a Dexy.

Mostly D's: You are perfect.