I have a big sad today, so right now, even as we speak, I'm baking brownies. (Recipe to follow.)
Davy Jones of the Monkees has passed away of an apparent heart attack at the age of 66.
He was my first crush, way back in the day. I watched their show religiously. If you want to put it in today's perspective, he was my Backstreet Boy, my Justin Bieber (and a fuck of a lot cuter and more talented, if you want my honest opinion).
When they sang this song, they made me a believer, too.
My childhood was...difficult (and that's all I'm saying) so these magic moments of the Monkees' hi-jinks were treasured.
His death has affected me more than say...Whitney Houston, mostly because he wasn't a cracked-out diva and actually worked for a living. Last month he was performing on a cruise ship (and doing a mighty fine job) and as recently as last night performing on a solo tour.
The Monkees worked with some of the biggest talent in music, like Neil Diamond (who wrote "A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You), Boyce and Hart, and Carole King. They played their own instruments on tour, although not always in the studio, and by many accounts were respected musicians even if they were a "casted" group. Among their friends and supporters were the Beatles, The Who, and the Spencer Davis Group. They took a lot of heat from the media for using studio musicians in their recordings, but this was unfair as a lot of the groups of the time (and even now, actually) employ studio musicians.
He was cute, funny, talented, and a gift. He will be missed.
And now, I'm going to eat my brownies, play all the YouTube videos I can find, and sing at the top of my lungs. For you, Davy. <3
Black Bean Brownies
1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
2 ripe bananas
1/3 c agave
1/4 c unsweetened cocoa
1 tbsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 c sugar (optional, I left it out)
1/4 c oats
Preheat oven to 350 degrees; line an 8x8 pan with aluminum foil and spray with non-stick cooking spray.
Throw everything else into the food processor and let it rip.
Bake for 30 minutes. These brownies will have a fudge-like consistency. Gluten free, too. Can't taste the beans at all.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Seventh Level Of Hell
So, I had my fourth session with the Evil Trainer, included in the deal when I signed up. This time, it only took me ten minutes to exit the car, which is a five minute improvement over the last time. Sure, might not seem like much to you -- you know, a normal person -- but to me, that is almost as huge as the inches or weight I've lost so far. I still can't go in to the gym on my own (as in no trainer and no BFF) but I'm working on it.
He's always so perky, this guy. It's irritating, but not really. He seems invested in my success, which I'm sure is related to the pricing sheet he showed me after the workout for additional sessions. But I'll get to that in a minute.
He almost killed me. I mean, he made me RUN! I didn't even know I could run. Of course, the sight of a fat lady who doesn't run unless someone big and ugly is chasing her (and then it depends on how ugly and if they're toting some kind of weapon, like ninja stars or a spiked club) was probably quite comical. My back was really sore after Thursday's workout, and I knew it was going to scream. And it did. Loudly. The Evil Trainer was fantastic about modifying certain exercises he had planned (probably staying up well into the night, rubbing his hands gleefully and drooling on his exercise sheet) to minimize the strain. We worked arms and legs, and after the first fifteen minutes I was wishing I'd been born without limbs of any kind. Except maybe tentacles. Tentacles would be cool.
"You're tough," he said. "You got this. We got this." No, motherheifer, what YOU'RE going to get is a painful, messy, gory, PAINFUL death in my next novel. This I swear to the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster. At the workout bar, where he proceeded to torture me with modified chin-ups and pushups, I almost cried. And then I said to myself, "Self? YOU ARE NOT CRYING IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING GYM, OKAY? NO." And I did not. But it was close. This whole process is such an emotional one for me, which is most likely another reason I have avoided it as long as I have. But anyway...
After the workout, we proceeded to the most painful part of the session. The financial part.
Holy shit, this guy is expensive. Like, take-my-breath-away or your-ass-must-be-made-of-gold expensive. Like, there's-no-way-in-hell-I-can-afford-this expensive. I totally understand. He's a professional and he has knowledge I do not. He has managed the impossible so far -- getting me to work out, encouraging me to the point where I think I can do this, enduring many exclamations of how much I hate him and putting up with smart-assery on a nuclear scale and even the nickname of Evil Little Fucker. (He said that would make him an ELF and he'd love that on a t-shirt.) It's not the ordinary man who can handle me, but he does it with humor and grace I did not expect.
I know I can't do this on my own. Not yet. So I looked over his pricing sheet and despaired.
I explained my situation -- being freelance, some months I'm okay and others I'm dodging disconnect notices. It's the nature of the beast, and I accept that about my chosen career. I keep my expenses low and my workload high (which landed me in this physical position in the first place, I suppose). The thought of taking on an expense equivalent to a car payment was enough to make me want to vomit and it's just not going to happen.
He made a counter-offer. I said I would think it over. He said no matter what, every two weeks, even if I went on to do this on my own, he would work out with me. (The cynical side of me says sure you will, and try to talk me into more sessions, but honestly, he seems sincere and I do possess a pretty good Bullshit Meter.) I know I won't do as well as I could without his services, although he was throwing out tips and advice on how to do it on my own, and that he knew I had this. Which I do not. Not yet.
Now, I am no stranger to retail, and this is a retail business. On my way out, I caught up with the Big Guy who manages the place. I really like him -- except for the fact he exposed me to this torture in the first place -- and even gave him an autographed copy of my book, which he is currently reading and enjoying immensely. :) We talked a bit about how it was going, and the fact continuing with a trainer was a little bit out of my reach (like those dishes on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, which will probably never be used and will stay there forever unless I get a ladder). He said he sure understood, and was this close >< to going into the sales spiel when I painfully raised my hand (amazed I could raise it at all) and said, "Nuh-uh. Don't bother. I already know what you're going to say, and dude, I'm a hard sell."
"No you aren't," he says.
I chuckled. "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. I spent years in retail. I know how it works. I make salespeople cry."
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because I can. Because I only buy what I WANT to buy, not what someone WANTS me to buy. People see my baby face and think I'm stupid and underestimate me which not only pisses me off but kills the sale every time."
He shook his head. "It's not the face. It's the voice. You have the sweetest voice I've ever heard."
Heh. Nice try.
I hobbled out to my car, convinced I am in the Seventh Level of Hell. I'm in so much pain if I fall onto the asphalt right now, they'd have to call 9-1-1 and the crane. Because I'm fairly certain if I fall I will be unable to rise on my own, struggling like a beetle on its back. The best thing about my 1997 Buick? HEATED SEATS. I think that's the only thing that saved me. Once I arrived home, upon the advice of one of my Facebook friends (oh thank you!! May the blessings of the GFSM rain down upon you!) I drank a glass of apple juice and about a quart of water (pushing the vision of what fish do in it firmly A-WAY).
Another Facebook friend informed me the Ninth Level of Hell awaits tomorrow. And probably the next day. Thank you, Facebook friend. I was afraid of that. No blessings from the GFSM for you, sorry. *sigh*
At any rate, I'm going to crunch numbers and see what I can come up with. If I can possibly work this out, I will, because I don't want to lose forward momentum after a lifetime of failing at this. I meet with the Evil Trainer for a half-hour assessment on Thursday, and I'm taking my BFF with me. If he thinks I'm a handful, he ain't seen nothing yet.
She's from Chicago too, you Evil Little Fucker, and it's ON. Oh, it's so ON.
I'm bringing the big guns.
I'm cracking up already. Hee!
He's always so perky, this guy. It's irritating, but not really. He seems invested in my success, which I'm sure is related to the pricing sheet he showed me after the workout for additional sessions. But I'll get to that in a minute.
He almost killed me. I mean, he made me RUN! I didn't even know I could run. Of course, the sight of a fat lady who doesn't run unless someone big and ugly is chasing her (and then it depends on how ugly and if they're toting some kind of weapon, like ninja stars or a spiked club) was probably quite comical. My back was really sore after Thursday's workout, and I knew it was going to scream. And it did. Loudly. The Evil Trainer was fantastic about modifying certain exercises he had planned (probably staying up well into the night, rubbing his hands gleefully and drooling on his exercise sheet) to minimize the strain. We worked arms and legs, and after the first fifteen minutes I was wishing I'd been born without limbs of any kind. Except maybe tentacles. Tentacles would be cool.
"You're tough," he said. "You got this. We got this." No, motherheifer, what YOU'RE going to get is a painful, messy, gory, PAINFUL death in my next novel. This I swear to the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster. At the workout bar, where he proceeded to torture me with modified chin-ups and pushups, I almost cried. And then I said to myself, "Self? YOU ARE NOT CRYING IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING GYM, OKAY? NO." And I did not. But it was close. This whole process is such an emotional one for me, which is most likely another reason I have avoided it as long as I have. But anyway...
After the workout, we proceeded to the most painful part of the session. The financial part.
Holy shit, this guy is expensive. Like, take-my-breath-away or your-ass-must-be-made-of-gold expensive. Like, there's-no-way-in-hell-I-can-afford-this expensive. I totally understand. He's a professional and he has knowledge I do not. He has managed the impossible so far -- getting me to work out, encouraging me to the point where I think I can do this, enduring many exclamations of how much I hate him and putting up with smart-assery on a nuclear scale and even the nickname of Evil Little Fucker. (He said that would make him an ELF and he'd love that on a t-shirt.) It's not the ordinary man who can handle me, but he does it with humor and grace I did not expect.
I know I can't do this on my own. Not yet. So I looked over his pricing sheet and despaired.
I explained my situation -- being freelance, some months I'm okay and others I'm dodging disconnect notices. It's the nature of the beast, and I accept that about my chosen career. I keep my expenses low and my workload high (which landed me in this physical position in the first place, I suppose). The thought of taking on an expense equivalent to a car payment was enough to make me want to vomit and it's just not going to happen.
He made a counter-offer. I said I would think it over. He said no matter what, every two weeks, even if I went on to do this on my own, he would work out with me. (The cynical side of me says sure you will, and try to talk me into more sessions, but honestly, he seems sincere and I do possess a pretty good Bullshit Meter.) I know I won't do as well as I could without his services, although he was throwing out tips and advice on how to do it on my own, and that he knew I had this. Which I do not. Not yet.
Now, I am no stranger to retail, and this is a retail business. On my way out, I caught up with the Big Guy who manages the place. I really like him -- except for the fact he exposed me to this torture in the first place -- and even gave him an autographed copy of my book, which he is currently reading and enjoying immensely. :) We talked a bit about how it was going, and the fact continuing with a trainer was a little bit out of my reach (like those dishes on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, which will probably never be used and will stay there forever unless I get a ladder). He said he sure understood, and was this close >< to going into the sales spiel when I painfully raised my hand (amazed I could raise it at all) and said, "Nuh-uh. Don't bother. I already know what you're going to say, and dude, I'm a hard sell."
"No you aren't," he says.
I chuckled. "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. I spent years in retail. I know how it works. I make salespeople cry."
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because I can. Because I only buy what I WANT to buy, not what someone WANTS me to buy. People see my baby face and think I'm stupid and underestimate me which not only pisses me off but kills the sale every time."
He shook his head. "It's not the face. It's the voice. You have the sweetest voice I've ever heard."
Heh. Nice try.
I hobbled out to my car, convinced I am in the Seventh Level of Hell. I'm in so much pain if I fall onto the asphalt right now, they'd have to call 9-1-1 and the crane. Because I'm fairly certain if I fall I will be unable to rise on my own, struggling like a beetle on its back. The best thing about my 1997 Buick? HEATED SEATS. I think that's the only thing that saved me. Once I arrived home, upon the advice of one of my Facebook friends (oh thank you!! May the blessings of the GFSM rain down upon you!) I drank a glass of apple juice and about a quart of water (pushing the vision of what fish do in it firmly A-WAY).
Another Facebook friend informed me the Ninth Level of Hell awaits tomorrow. And probably the next day. Thank you, Facebook friend. I was afraid of that. No blessings from the GFSM for you, sorry. *sigh*
At any rate, I'm going to crunch numbers and see what I can come up with. If I can possibly work this out, I will, because I don't want to lose forward momentum after a lifetime of failing at this. I meet with the Evil Trainer for a half-hour assessment on Thursday, and I'm taking my BFF with me. If he thinks I'm a handful, he ain't seen nothing yet.
She's from Chicago too, you Evil Little Fucker, and it's ON. Oh, it's so ON.
I'm bringing the big guns.
I'm cracking up already. Hee!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Name Is The Same, The Purpose Has Changed
I already have a website (www.wordwebbing.com) for my writing endeavors, which is why this little blog has never really quite taken off. I used to blog every single day for a period of about six years; a short while after my momma died, I stopped any kind of personal blogging for many reasons.
Recently, I have felt the urge to once again blog more personally and more frequently. This seems to be a good a place as any. I know at several points in the six years I was blogging I felt if I hadn't had that outlet, I very possibly would have ended up in a padded room somewhere with people in white jackets poking my psyche. Not that it still couldn't happen, but I'd rather take my chances here, tyvm.
There are two important journeys going on right now I feel the urge to blog about. Both are very personal; I've been making some changes to become a healthier person in mind and body -- and blogging is a lot cheaper than therapy -- and I have also learned some information about my family's past which has been fascinating, at least to me. I'd like to document both of them.
***
The Fat Lady Sings
I am a freelance writer and editor. I spend a lot of time at the keyboard; as a matter of fact, I'm somewhat of a workaholic. This has lead to a fat ass, muscles like stretched out rubber bands, and an overall feeling of un-wellness. I knew I had to make some kind of change lest I become a news item of a fat lady who had to call 9-1-1 to be helped out of the bathtub or off the toilet. While I wouldn't mind a group of fine, handsome stud muffins in my home, that particular scenario did not at all appeal to me. So, I joined a local gym with some sessions with a professional trainer. I did this despite budgetary concerns because it was evident I couldn't do it on my own.
Unfortunately, what I failed to take into consideration was the fact I suffer from an anxiety disorder. Normally it's not a huge issue, because I'm an introvert and typically shy away from situations in which the anxiety is triggered. I went to the first training session thinking no big deal, no worries, I got this. The trainer is a very nice young man (although my opinion changes depending on how hard he pushes me, and sometimes I really hate the little fucker) and the first session went well. Until later on that night when I had a panic attack so bad I had to call my BFF and visit the emergency room. I hadn't had an attack that awful in years. I don't have insurance, so you can imagine how bad I felt in order to do this. And stupid. The bad thing about anxiety (well, there's more than one, but work with me here) is the feeling you should be able to control this. That there's nothing so bad you should feel this bad, you know? But anxiety doesn't work that way. And unless you've suffered a panic attack, you really can't understand. I wouldn't wish one on my ex, that's how bad they are. (And that's saying something, trust me.)
At any rate, the staff at the hospital were very kind, efficient, and expensive. What I wanted to figure out was the trigger, knowing it had to do with going to a strange gym, interacting with a strange person, over a very sensitive subject -- my weight.
During the first session, where all the questions are asked and measurements taken, the trainer informed me my problem was I wasn't getting enough exercise, and to my astonishment, that I wasn't eating enough. Or the right things. I couldn't argue with any of that, because it was all true. After the panic attack, I put off any further sessions for the time being, and asked my BFF (she is the BEST BFF in the history of BFFs) if she would come with me to at least walk on the treadmill a couple of times a week. (Again with the stupid thing. I just didn't feel like I could walk into the gym alone.) Then, I took the trainer's advice and changed the way I was (or wasn't) eating, changed the types of food, and started drinking more water. I kept track of the calories etc. on Livestrong.com, and set a timer to remind me to stop working and eat something.
(For the record, I HATE drinking water. Fish fuck in it. I'm not sure I will ever get over that notion. I'm a writer. I have a vivid imagination. Sometimes, that's not always a good thing.)
After about three weeks, the trainer texted me and said we needed to see each other again. At this point I felt like, what the hell. I might as well, since I paid for it. Plus, I was feeling a bit better.
When I first met my trainer, like I said, he's a nice guy. But I have trust issues, and I think deep down I didn't really trust him. Not his fault -- all mine. But the second session went really well. He listened to my concerns about exercise (my back is really weak and painful) and assured me he would never push me past my limit. Plus, he's a smart-assed Chicago guy, and took my innate sarcasm and own smart-assery in stride. He put me through my paces, I didn't die or fall over, although I did sweat a LOT. No one pointed at the fat lady and giggled, and best of all, no anxiety attack, thank the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster.
I scheduled the third session -- and it took me fifteen minutes to get out of the car to go in. But I did it. The trainer told me it was time to re-assess, since it had been a month to see what kind of progress I'd made. I didn't expect much, and I don't think he did, either. But I lost eight pounds and eight inches total, and decreased my BMI by four points. He was so thrilled he measured me again, because he couldn't believe all the inches I'd lost. THEN, he put me through a workout which inspired me to re-name him the Evil Trainer, and swear to make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in it. I may have also told him I hate him. Several times.
Fitness Tip Number One: Never, EVER, tell your trainer his workout did not make you sore. Trust me on this.
We talked a little more, and I said, you know, losing weight is not just about the physical stuff. There are mental blocks which come into play and there's a reason I'm fat. Several reasons, in fact. I know I have to deal with those as well as all the changes I'm making. He seemed to understand exactly what I was saying without further personal revelations, and that was a huge relief.
Bottom line: I think I can do this. I also think blogging through it will help. I don't give a rat's ass what I look like, but I want to feel healthier, and stronger. Because I have a lot of books to write and edit; a grandbaby and daughters and friends to love and cherish for as long as I can. That's my goal.
Roll it up, shake it down, and run it over, bitches. I got this.
Recently, I have felt the urge to once again blog more personally and more frequently. This seems to be a good a place as any. I know at several points in the six years I was blogging I felt if I hadn't had that outlet, I very possibly would have ended up in a padded room somewhere with people in white jackets poking my psyche. Not that it still couldn't happen, but I'd rather take my chances here, tyvm.
There are two important journeys going on right now I feel the urge to blog about. Both are very personal; I've been making some changes to become a healthier person in mind and body -- and blogging is a lot cheaper than therapy -- and I have also learned some information about my family's past which has been fascinating, at least to me. I'd like to document both of them.
***
The Fat Lady Sings
I am a freelance writer and editor. I spend a lot of time at the keyboard; as a matter of fact, I'm somewhat of a workaholic. This has lead to a fat ass, muscles like stretched out rubber bands, and an overall feeling of un-wellness. I knew I had to make some kind of change lest I become a news item of a fat lady who had to call 9-1-1 to be helped out of the bathtub or off the toilet. While I wouldn't mind a group of fine, handsome stud muffins in my home, that particular scenario did not at all appeal to me. So, I joined a local gym with some sessions with a professional trainer. I did this despite budgetary concerns because it was evident I couldn't do it on my own.
Unfortunately, what I failed to take into consideration was the fact I suffer from an anxiety disorder. Normally it's not a huge issue, because I'm an introvert and typically shy away from situations in which the anxiety is triggered. I went to the first training session thinking no big deal, no worries, I got this. The trainer is a very nice young man (although my opinion changes depending on how hard he pushes me, and sometimes I really hate the little fucker) and the first session went well. Until later on that night when I had a panic attack so bad I had to call my BFF and visit the emergency room. I hadn't had an attack that awful in years. I don't have insurance, so you can imagine how bad I felt in order to do this. And stupid. The bad thing about anxiety (well, there's more than one, but work with me here) is the feeling you should be able to control this. That there's nothing so bad you should feel this bad, you know? But anxiety doesn't work that way. And unless you've suffered a panic attack, you really can't understand. I wouldn't wish one on my ex, that's how bad they are. (And that's saying something, trust me.)
At any rate, the staff at the hospital were very kind, efficient, and expensive. What I wanted to figure out was the trigger, knowing it had to do with going to a strange gym, interacting with a strange person, over a very sensitive subject -- my weight.
During the first session, where all the questions are asked and measurements taken, the trainer informed me my problem was I wasn't getting enough exercise, and to my astonishment, that I wasn't eating enough. Or the right things. I couldn't argue with any of that, because it was all true. After the panic attack, I put off any further sessions for the time being, and asked my BFF (she is the BEST BFF in the history of BFFs) if she would come with me to at least walk on the treadmill a couple of times a week. (Again with the stupid thing. I just didn't feel like I could walk into the gym alone.) Then, I took the trainer's advice and changed the way I was (or wasn't) eating, changed the types of food, and started drinking more water. I kept track of the calories etc. on Livestrong.com, and set a timer to remind me to stop working and eat something.
(For the record, I HATE drinking water. Fish fuck in it. I'm not sure I will ever get over that notion. I'm a writer. I have a vivid imagination. Sometimes, that's not always a good thing.)
After about three weeks, the trainer texted me and said we needed to see each other again. At this point I felt like, what the hell. I might as well, since I paid for it. Plus, I was feeling a bit better.
When I first met my trainer, like I said, he's a nice guy. But I have trust issues, and I think deep down I didn't really trust him. Not his fault -- all mine. But the second session went really well. He listened to my concerns about exercise (my back is really weak and painful) and assured me he would never push me past my limit. Plus, he's a smart-assed Chicago guy, and took my innate sarcasm and own smart-assery in stride. He put me through my paces, I didn't die or fall over, although I did sweat a LOT. No one pointed at the fat lady and giggled, and best of all, no anxiety attack, thank the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster.
I scheduled the third session -- and it took me fifteen minutes to get out of the car to go in. But I did it. The trainer told me it was time to re-assess, since it had been a month to see what kind of progress I'd made. I didn't expect much, and I don't think he did, either. But I lost eight pounds and eight inches total, and decreased my BMI by four points. He was so thrilled he measured me again, because he couldn't believe all the inches I'd lost. THEN, he put me through a workout which inspired me to re-name him the Evil Trainer, and swear to make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in it. I may have also told him I hate him. Several times.
Fitness Tip Number One: Never, EVER, tell your trainer his workout did not make you sore. Trust me on this.
We talked a little more, and I said, you know, losing weight is not just about the physical stuff. There are mental blocks which come into play and there's a reason I'm fat. Several reasons, in fact. I know I have to deal with those as well as all the changes I'm making. He seemed to understand exactly what I was saying without further personal revelations, and that was a huge relief.
Bottom line: I think I can do this. I also think blogging through it will help. I don't give a rat's ass what I look like, but I want to feel healthier, and stronger. Because I have a lot of books to write and edit; a grandbaby and daughters and friends to love and cherish for as long as I can. That's my goal.
Roll it up, shake it down, and run it over, bitches. I got this.
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