Stock Phrases

When one is introverted and shy (as I am) it is often helpful to have a supply of "stock phrases" to use in certain potentially awkward conversations.  I don't have a terribly good sense of boundaries, so without the stock phrase in hand, I might just blurt out too much information, which would be uncomfortable for all of us (though, I have to say, if you don't want to know, don't ask).

Certain of these stock phrases are designed to shut down a line of questioning:

"How kind of you to take an interest."

"What an interesting observation."

"I'll certainly think about that."

"Well, bless your heart."

That being said, there are still questions that shock me into direct answers.  When people see me now, I typically get this question:

"Have you lost weight?"

Though I am tempted to respond, "Duh!" I do not.  Partly because I'm saving my "Duh's" for those rare occasions in which I can follow them with "Winning!" because I think people really want to hear more jokes about Charlie Sheen right now.  (But seriously, you guys, I'm starting to think there might be something going on with him.)  So, the conversation goes like this:

Person: "Have you lost weight?"

Deb: "Um... yes, I have."

Person:  "I knew it, you look great!  How much have you lost?"

Deb: "Oh, I've lost a lot, thank you."

Person:  "No, really, how much?"

Deb: "About a hundred pounds."  (I've been saying this for a while, since around the time I hit the 80 pound mark.  It's just easier.)

Person: "Wow.  Wow.  That's amazing.  What are you doing?"

Here's where it gets tricky.  Some people ask directly, "Did you have surgery?" and then want to know what kind, when, if I've experienced complications, etc.  If they don't ask, I'm reluctant to bring it up, because then they want to know all of those things, or they start talking about how "easy" it must be to lose weight after surgery.

But all of that I can handle.

Here's what I can't handle:

Person: "So, I bet things are pretty hot in the bedroom again, huh?"

Deb: (implodes)

I actually don't mind a question like that from someone to whom I feel close; a friend at church asked me something like that (though not in those exact words) and it was fine, though a bit surreal to talk about it in the church library.  But people I don't know very well ask me, too.  In professional settings.  Really.  I just can't come up with a stock phrase for this one.

I will take suggestions.

Okay, here it is.

I finally had Princess take some pictures of me when I got home from work.  Bear in mind I still have at least 20 pounds to lose (more like 30-40, really) and I just got home from a 12-hour day.

To remind you, here is before:

Here is now:

Yup.  That's me.

Before

It is all Sven's fault.  I spent all weekend trying to get him to take a picture of me for my blog, but he hasn't done it yet.  So I will take my camera to work today and try to get a picture to post for all of you.  Today the "before" picture will have to suffice:

This is me last year a few pounds below my top weight (which I won't tell you exactly, but it was awfully close to the dreaded 300 mark).  I'm pretty sure that wasn't my normal facial expression.  I look at this picture and mostly remember how tired I was all the time.  And I wonder where my neck is.

"Now" picture coming soon.

So Apparently, I Look Amazing (Or: These Skinny Jeans are Grossly Unprofessional)

Today I went to one of our local high schools to rehearse with some budding instrumentalists in preparation for an upcoming solo competition.  I was supposed to get there at 3:30, but left late, and when I got there all of the outside doors were locked.  It was 3:45 by the time I got into the building, and I puffed into the orchestra room with an apology on my lips that was never uttered.

When I walked in, the teacher and three students who were there looked at me, then went back to what they were doing.  I stood there for a while, waiting for them to take a break in their lesson so I could figure out what was going on, but no such opportunity arose.

For 12 minutes.

I stood there for 12 minutes and waited for someone to acknowledge me.  I was furious.  I was very close to just picking up my stuff and leaving when the teacher said, "I don't know, she was supposed to be here at 3:30."

"Did you mean your accompanist?" I said (a bit loudly, but I'm sure I was not rude.  Mostly.).  "That's me."  What followed was a flurry of apologies and their explanation:

THEY THOUGHT I WAS A STUDENT.


Seriously.  They thought I was a high school student.  We practiced and, after many more apologies, I left.  I thought it was odd but, well, whatever.

Then I went to Wal-Mart where I purchased some health food items that apparently can no longer be sold to minors.  The cash register prompted the cashier to ask for ID.  I smiled at her.  She smiled back at me.  I smiled more.  She looked at me expectantly.

"Do you want to see my ID?" I finally asked incredulously.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"I'm 36," I said.  I was dumbfounded.  "That's 18 x 2."

"Still, I need to see it," she said.  It was with a great sense of ironic pleasure that I showed her my license and accepted the disbelief on her face as a compliment.

I either need to stop wearing these jeans or wear them CONSTANTLY.

-Fin.

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.