When The Insides and the Outsides Don't Match

I've said some really horrible shit in my life. Sometimes on accident (the incident where I was yelling "Gays Bad! Hitler Good!" outside the IU student union during a conversation to my friends comes to mind. The context makes it all right, but it's not nearly as interesting to write about.), and sometimes on purpose, most of which I am not proud of no matter how right it seemed in the moment. But you can't take it back.

That's also true for social media. And a lesson that Dani Mathers is learning a little late in life. 

She's 25. Absolutely beautiful. And did something stupid. . . .and illegal. 

For some backstory, Dani Mathers was the 2015 Playmate of the Year for Playboy. She lives in LA and does LA things. One of those things includes working out at LA Fitness, which unlike Palm Beach Tan is actually in the geography where it's named. She worked out, took a picture of another gym patron getting into the shower naked, posted it to Snapchat and wrote "If  can't unsee this, then you can't either" on the photo. 

There's a lot that's wrong with this scenario. Mathers claims that she thought the Snap was private because she's new to Snapchat, She also said in a video statement on social media: "I have chosen to do what I do for a living because I love the female body and I know that body shaming is wrong and that's not what I'm about, that's not the type of person that I am."

I'm gonna start first with the big issue of this: While Mathers is certainly welcome to pose for all the naked pics that she wants to and get paid handsomely or moderately or not at all to do so, she has chosen to do that. The woman in the photo has not. You can't take photos of someone naked without their consent, especially on private property. It's not legal, and frankly I think Mathers should face the consequences of that. It she were a man taking photos of a woman in a steam room or something similar, the outrage would and should be the same. And so should the consequences. 

I'm not going to delve into the backlash about a pretty person making fun of what she deems to be a not pretty person because that's too easy. It's too easy to tap into the fervor of that and frankly everyone else is doing a good enough job at their righteous indignation on that front.

However, here's the lesson: Social media (and inherently the Internet) allows people to be who they are. It provides a window to be real or to perfectly stage your life for others. You can share for the world your struggle with anxiety and depression or your smoothie recipe that includes moondust. What you put out there is the YOU that others see. It's not the YOU that you might actually be. ("Perception is reality"--which is both true and bullshit at the same time because my perception is my reality but not necessarily reality as a whole, but that's a debate for another day.) 

It's frankly your choice. Even when you "accidentally post" something, you are revealing who you are. To claim that you're not the type of person to body shame as an explanation for your body shaming social media post is a lie. As hard as it is to admit sometimes when you think people have you all wrong, it's also a wake up call. It has been for me at times. And it's confusing and it sucks, but it's also necessary. 

Sometimes the insides and the outsides don't match. 

Creative Frustration

You know what happens when you know there are things you need to do everyday and you don't do them? Yeah, things become hairy.

I'm not talking about things that need to be done to live (breathing, eating, sleeping, etc.) or to feel better about things (cleaning, cooking, taking care of pets). I mean things that you need to do to feed the soul. Or my soul in particular.

After years of trial and error, I've nailed down my needs to a few simple things that I need to do daily to feel productive and be happy:

• Give or get a hug (husbands and pets are wonderful for this not turning into something very creepy)
• Do something physically active (Early morning workouts help my soul and sanity)
• Eat well (not just ENOUGH food, but good food. Food that I don't feel the shame sweats about eating).
• Write. 

It's the last one that has once again been alluding me. And for the first time in my adult life, I actually felt the need to create. I yearned to put pen to paper and make something bigger than myself. I felt a need to be a writer. 

I always WANT to write. Don't get me wrong. And I always find reasons why I don't really have time to do it. I get up early already to work out. I don't have a lot of time at home with the husband anyway. I have work stuff to go to. I have to friend stuff to go do. 

Here's the truth I know: If I don't write, I get unhappy. If I get unhappy, everything else suffers anyway. 

So, it's time to get my shit together YET AGAIN (this is a cycle that I realized never stops) and to put thought to keyboard. I sifted through my notebooks of writing and realized that I've actually got the plot and chapters of three novels already drawn out. 

Now to write them. 

Things I've inherited. . . (An Update)

• some jewelry
• a weird sweater that I can't bear to let go
• a good head of hair of varying colors
• a healthy curiosity
• a duck-like walk where my toes point out
• a good deal of patience. . .
• that can evaporate quickly into a mean temper
• fairly decent amount of intelligence
• probably a little too much empathy

and many more things. . . but one thing that I did NOT inherit are cancer genes. 

Found the news out today that I do not have any mutations on genes that affect breast, ovarian, gastric, colorectal, pancreatic, melanoma, and endometrial cancers.  HOORAY!

What does this mean?

As mentioned yesterday, 10 percent of cancers are genetic so it appears I'm in the clear for that. But I'm not out of the woods. I'm still a high risk for breast cancer but I just have to check my breasts a little more than the average bear. 

That being said. . . HOLY COW!!

I never realized how many people had had similar experiences or cancer or other health problems that are scary as fuck. And at really young ages. We're too young for this, people! 

I'm also humbled by the outpouring of support. I honestly just wanted to  get this off my chest so to speak because I had been nervously carrying it around. I hope that by sharing my mom's symptoms that women might realize that breast cancer isn't just a lump. It can be a weird dimpling or a red rash. 

But lastly, I cannot believe the understanding and kind words and support from everyone. I am a fucking lucky person to have such great people in my life and don't think I don't know it. THANK YOU!

I Found A Lump.

These words are always scary. There are very few instances where finding a lump on your body is a good thing, unless that lump is the size of a watermelon and you're pregnant.

But finding a lump in my boob was very scary.

A few weeks ago, I was getting out of the shower and noticed an area that was warm to the touch and red about the size of a silver dollar. It was when I went to feel it that I noticed the lump. In one moment, I felt every fear I've ever had and every sense of mortality hit me in the face and then the stomach.

And then I vomited.

Literally, had to shove Genghis out of the way on the counter to hit the sink in time. I had such a visceral reaction not only because my mom died of breast cancer, but because of how eerily similar this felt. She had noticed a red spot on her boob. It itched a lot. The doctors thought it was a spider bite. Then she got a lump the size of a softball. It happened in just a week or so.

My mom had inflammatory breast cancer, which is really rare. The lump wasn't actually the cancer but her body's reaction to the cancer. Most people with inflammatory breast cancer don't get a lump. They get a red, warm spot on their breast that itches. Which was what I suddenly had.

I had to be at a client's that morning so I rushed out the door. I called OB-GYN offices because I was sick of my hobbit Larry David gyno and wanted someone new. Someone who would understand why I had vomited that morning and fit me. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. New patients don't get priority.

But I remembered a clinic specializing in breast health that my rheumatologist had told me about so I called them and was able to get an appointment for the next day. I didn't sleep great. I told Chef and my friends Meredith and Amanda, and my boss only because I had to reschedule a meeting with him to make the appointment work.

I went in and was happy to find a whole room full of women in the clinic who took my lump, my worry and my breasts as seriously as I did. They heard my family history and had me classified as high risk so that I could get additional screenings covered by insurance. They did a biopsy that very moment and a sonagram of my breast to look even further. They discussed my case as a group treating me and worked to get genetic testing taken care of. They made me feel like they would be there to hold my hair back if I vomited again.

The biopsy came back less than 48 hours later as benign.

But tomorrow is a different day. Tomorrow I go back because the results of my genetic testing are in. I get counseling as to whether I am a carrier of cancer genes. (Did you know that only 10 percent of all cancers are genetic? Another 30 percent are familial but not genetic. Weird, right? Fun fact to amaze people at parties. You're welcome). I've literally been thinking things like "What percentage of probability is the tipping point for me to pull a full Angelina on my boobs?".

It's stressful. It's been something I haven't wanted to think or talk about, but here it is. I wonder tomorrow if I'll be in the "Knowledge is power" or the "ignorance is bliss" camp. I guess I'll find out soon enough.

Things that Hold Up Well

I was told that I have held up well. I took offense to that on many levels. The base one being that I rarely hear this said about guys and found the whole observance fairly sexist. The second selfish one was that I was offended that I was an age where that seemed like an appropriate way to compliment me.

Technically, I guess I'm over the hill by show biz standards, but despite my proximity, I don't live by "showbiz standards." It's not the business I'm in. In my business, there's a mix of young and old and I am firmly planted in the middle. It's also a good reason why they probably call it "middle management." Because we're so very middle in so many ways.

All that aside, I thought about holding up well and while I am proud that I'm not looking like a meth addict or like the next cheeseburger might be the one that does me in, I didn't really love being told that I was "holding up well." Next time, just say "You look good." Don't add any qualifiers ("for your age," "despite the bags under your eyes," "for your weight.") God knows I add my own qualifiers in my head and am trying to get away from them.

When I think of holding up well, I think of the things below. What would you add?

Bridges

Bras
(admittedly some are better than others)

Viagra

Check it out again on Netflix
and see what I mean. 

This bitch is holding up very well,
but I hear she's had some work done.
Shit, did I just become anti-feminist
towards a painting?

The collective works of
The Beatles. 

I Put Chub Rub on My Face (And Maybe So Should You)

If you read the title and wondered what "Chub Rub" was. . . CONGRATULATIONS! You're probably in possession of either:1) a penis, and/or 2) thighs that don't rub together. In which case you might not know what "Chub Rub" is.

It's chafing cream. In my case, it's Monistat Chafing Gel. You would normally put it on your thighs before particularly long, hot or vigorous day wearing a dress or skirt. It prevents your thighs from catching on fire due to friction. If you've ever had a campfire break out between your legs while trekking through a city, you should become familiar with chafing gel. It's awesome.

However, it came up as an alternative to the wonderful but expensive Smashbox Photo Finish. At first I thought it was a joke. But then it made sense. So I tried it. And I LIKED IT. I haven't had a breakout since I started using chub rub on my face. It prevents my makeup from agitating my otherwise troublesome skin. And it's $6 vs. the $36 per tube for Photo Finish.

There you go. My internet-born secret from six years ago is shared with you. And for those of you who read this based on the title and were expecting chub rub to be something completely different, well, that's probably why we're friends.

I Stand With Planned Parenthood Because They Stood by Me

I've talked about my support of Planned Parenthood before because they've helped me when I needed them. I don't think I've ever shared the story that was the genesis for my appreciation for them, but I thought I'd do so now. Whatever your political inclinations, I am speaking from my own experience and need and I know that I was and am one of millions of women who have needed medical services and Planned Parenthood was there.

Here's the story: It was about 6 months after I moved to Nashville and a year after my mother passed away. I needed to a gynecological screening and all that entailed and didn't have a local recommendation or  a doctor that could fit me into the schedule in a timely manner. I passed the Planned Parenthood office nearly every day on my way to work (nonprofits tend to be grouped together in every city--it's a combination of cheap real estate and being near those you serve), so I made an appointment.

The doctor and nurse practitioner who saw me were great. They were sensitive. They took their time. They listened to me and even consoled me a little when giving my family history I cried a little recounting mom's recent death from breast cancer. I had my exam. They said they'd follow up and I left all taken care and feeling thankful for the service.

Every woman I know has had an irregular Pap smear at one time or another. It happens and most of the time it's not a big deal. However, to have an irregular Pap smear that could be a sign of cancer when you just lost your mom to cancer and you're in a big(ger) city alone is scary as shit. The nurse there must have remembered me and realized this because she called me back into the office to talk through it, took another Pap, didn't let me get hysterical and rushed the results. All because, she said "I knew you probably didn't have anything worry about and I didn't think your mom would want you to worry either."

I don't remember her name. I don't remember exactly what she looked like. I remember she smelled like "Beautiful" from Estee Lauder (which my mom used to wear) and that she was kind to me.

I have had other experiences at Planned Parenthood since that have been just as effective (but not as emotional, thankfully). And I find it utterly ridiculous that when nearly 75 percent of women do not have a primary care physician but do make it a point to see a gynecologist, that we would take away one of the most effective services for them. Or that we'd let men talk down to other women who are qualified to be speaking about women's healthcare simply because those men were elected.

I may not always agree with everything Planned Parenthood does (there has yet to be an organization that I've completely agreed with), but I support them.And I just wanted to share why.

Eight Years And Eight Pounds

Left: Me in September 2007; Middle: Christmas 2009;
Right: July 2015. 

There are days in my life when I feel like magic is possible. Or that some coincidence or divine hand guided me in a direction I never knew was possible. Stretched my abilities or limits. There are times that I like to think it has been the guiding hand of my mom putting me back on a path towards my true goals. I'm not entirely sure that has been the case, but I can't prove it wrong, either.

I always remember the first few days of August much better than the last few days of August. A weird month that has been so meaningful in my life for different reasons. Today is a day to celebrate the happy part of the month.

Eight years ago, for some reason that I'll never really understand, I decided that I was ready to try to be healthy. I was going to fight my obesity with small steps. Quite literally small steps. I took a walk every morning before work. I tried to eat better. And slowly the small steps were making a difference.

I started my journey eight years ago at 239 lbs. About a year later, I was 90 lbs lighter and a lot healthier. With the help and encouragement of my co-workers and Patrick, I ended up losing another eight pounds.  And gaining a lot of self-confidence. I ended up hitting my low only two pounds short of the official 100 lbs lost mark. It kinda pissed me off, but primarily I was pissed because I had reached a plateau.

Since then, I've gone up and down like a yo-yo. A slow-moving yo-yo but a yo-yo nonetheless. I've never come close to hitting 200 lbs again, a vow that I made myself, but I have fluctuated back and forth by 35-40 pounds.

Here I am again. I'm eight pounds away from my lowest weight as an adult. Ten pounds away from saying that I've lost 100 lbs from my heaviest. I work out six days a week and do better on my diet than when I was in my 20s.

And I am thankful. I am thankful for whatever lead me to change my life eight years ago and thankful for whatever has pushed me back toward those changes time and again. I am thankful for my friends and family who have encouraged me and supported me whatever the fluctuation has been.

And I am thankful for Patrick, who loved me at all of these weights, and who has shown me again and again that he always will. Which is freeing.

Eight years. Eight pounds. And the knowledge that this challenge will always be here. Frustrating, but thankful.

Remember Whensday: Remember When I Thought I was Black? (Not at all like Rachel Dolezal)

I actually never thought I was black. And I definitely never pulled a Rachel Dolezal. I'm fairly certain my paleness was obvious from birth. But lately I can't help but think about race.

I was born in a small town in Southern Indiana where we had one black family in my elementary school. The daughter of the family was in my grade. The son in my brother's. We weren't in the same class which pretty much dictates the sphere of friendship you have in elementary school, so I never met them.

Then I moved. Evansville was more diverse. Or at least slightly more diverse. My best friend in my neighborhood, which was the slightly older kids' sphere of friendship, was black. (She's actually still black, but she's no longer in my neighborhood. Hence the "was.") To say I didn't notice we were different wouldn't be 100 percent accurate, but to say that it was all that noticed wouldn't be accurate either.

I was just fairly oblivious.

I think oblivion is not a bad place to live in as a kid, at least for as long as you can. But there comes a day in every person's life, no matter what their race, when they suddenly become aware of race in a very real way. Mine was in sixth grade.

Still living in an age of ignorance, my friend asked me if I wanted to join her in being a part of the Academic Olympics she was doing. DID I?? Uh, yes. I am nerd. Always have been. Always will be. The chance to learn the answer to various trivia questions, be a part of a team and spend a Saturday at a commuter college testing my knowledge versus other teams sounded like a dream weekend for me. (Less so for my parents who had to tote my ass around, but that was none of my concern because that's what they were there for, right?)

I went to the meeting and there were so many kids that wanted to do this that they split us into two teams (to be fair, there were about a dozen kids up for this). I was assigned to the team that didn't include the friends who had invited me, but it was cool. I liked meeting new people. I went to the practices, studied my area of expertise (science and history--full on nerd-dom) and had my dad quiz me in the car on the way to the morning meet.

Dad cheered me on and when we advanced, he watched us all the way through the finals. We got second place. He was proud. Even more proud than I really expected him to be, but I basked in the glory. My friends' team didn't place and I got a medal. They were jealous. Here was my team:

A few years later I was going through the pictures and realized something. . . I was the only white person at this event. I asked my dad about it. The conversation went something like this:

Me: I found this picture of my old Academic Olympic team. I don't remember being the only white person there.

Dad: Yeah, it took me a while to realize that you were competing in the African-American Academic Olympics.

Me: There was a separate Academic Olympics? That seems very wrong to me.

Dad: It was in February. For Black History Month. And you were oblivious. I didn't know whether to be proud that you'd won or proud that you didn't seem to notice anything different.

And I didn't. I didn't notice it at all. I didn't notice my team mate's "Black by Popular Demand" t-shirt or notice the ribbing I got from them because "all your answers are George Washington Carver." (Which was not the truth, btw).

Clearly this wasn't the moment that made me come face to face with race.

It was a few months after this picture. I was in Mrs. Woodruff's homeroom in seventh grade. We were placed into homeroom by the very scientific selection of alphabetical order. Luckily my neighborhood friend, Tiffany, was in there with me. I was describing a cute boy I had seen at the Dairy Queen the night before (because it was seventh grade and it was homeroom. Aside from finishing up leftover homework, there was nothing else to do.)  I described the boy as black and the conversation (as I remember it) went as follows:

Her: What did you say?

Me: I said he was black.

Her: What color is my skin?

Me (nervous and feeling like this is a trick question): Brown?

Her: It's African-American. And don't you forget it.

That was the moment when our friendship changed. I don't think I'm unique in this. I can assume, especially in Indiana when you're around a bunch of white people all the time, that finding other people that can relate is comforting in a way that other friendships aren't. I still very much remember that exchange (from memory and journal). I remember it being the first time that I was made very aware that I was different. Which was pretty lucky because I'm sure kids of another race in Evansville or anywhere else like it felt different a long time before seventh grade. That's because I was like most other people where I was from, I wouldn't be made to feel different all that often. But other people that I cared about would.

I could no longer be oblivious to race. And that was both enlightening and sad in ways my seventh grade mind couldn't handle. My adult mind still has a hard time wrapping around it.

When was the first time you were made aware of your race?

Woman without Purpose or Project

I have to admit that I'm feeling a little lost lately. Not physically. I know where I am (most of the time), although my time zones have been all messed up and wreaked havoc on my body lately.

Mentally, though, is a different story. I feel like I don't really have a purpose. Before you start to get all worried about my mental state, just stop. This isn't a cry for help or anything like that. It's simply this: ever since I've been about 8 years old, I've always had a project going. Something creative and fulfilling or creative and ridiculous that kept me looking forward to spending time with my thoughts.

Frankly, those things have been missing from my life lately: creativity and free time.

Everyone is busy and to pretend that I'm special because I've been busy is frankly, just sad. Yes, I've been traveling a lot. Yes, I'm juggling a lot of demanding people all at once. But if I made things a priority, I would get it done. I just have a hard time not being a people pleaser. I don't think this unusual. It's why so many women will push their husbands to the hospital for a sniffle but nearly die of walking pneumonia before they see a doctor themselves.

Instead of prioritizing creativity and art and just a release, I have used my free time to be with my husband and rest. There's nothing wrong with that. I can't think of anyone that would fault me for those choices. But I miss having a purpose.

Do moms feel this way? Like really?

I feel like so many times I read mom blogs or talk to my mom friends and the idea that their kids aren't their purpose in life is something none of them will admit or talk about. I'm not saying kids aren't a worthy endeavor, but I rarely heard dads talk about their kids in the same way. I wonder if moms would have their mom cards revoked for admitting such things.

By contrast, adults without kids are often asked to nail down their life's ambitions and to always have them at the ready to serve the dual-purpose of being a reason for their happiness and existence AND the reason they chose not to have kids. But I'm majorly digressing here on a subject that really is a post for another day.

I need to find a project. A reason to write (a deadline or conference or something to shoot for). A reason to tell stories again. To create stories. To make myself and my creativity a priority.

And to sound less obnoxious when doing it than I have here.

Any advice?

Tell Me Why

I recently watched the Backstreet Boys documentary, "Show 'Em What Your Made Of," and it took me back. For a few years, I was obsessed with the Backstreet Boys. My friends who knew me then instantly cringe at the memory of me regaling them with the latest single or tales of Nick, AJ, Brian, Kevin and Howie.

To be honest, it was a very tough time in my life when I started listening to BSB. The summer of 1999 was a mixed blessing of working an internship at the Evansville Courier where I met lots of great people, some of which I still keep in touch with today, and working with my mom. But I was not super excited about being home for another summer while my roommates held down the fort in Bloomington.

I got the ear worm that is "I Want It That Way" stuck in my head and decided to capitulate to its charm by blaring it nonstop. It soon turned me into a full-on, non-ironic fan. I bought all albums and bootlegs that I could get my hands on. I watched MTV specials and music videos. My dad even bought me tickets to their concert in Indy for my 21st birthday. Anne and I got tipsy at a Hooters before the concert and figured we were the only non-parents there who were imbibing.

Things really escalated when mom's cancer came back.

That seems weird to say, but looking back, it is actually a habit I have. I throw myself at things, become moderately obsessed. I did it with BSB, and before that Matt Damon, and before that Indiana basketball. I was the only girl I knew that could name the lineup of the 1976 Indiana Hoosier National Championship team. I spent my sophomore year of high school reading every book that had to do with basketball in Indiana. It's why when my friend told me she was teaching at Crispus Attucks in Indy that I immediately said "That's where Oscar Robertson went."

I used to tape every Hoosier basketball game if I wasn't able to watch it live and then stay up late at night, after some sports practice or another, homework and a job to see how the game turned out. Back then basketball was something to think about other than my parents' divorce. It was something I could study that wasn't going to make me deal with my looming future or the weight of the immediate past.

And that's actually what BSB was for me, as well.

I could download songs on the Internet and listen to them for hours on end. They weren't particularly challenging songs. They were pop songs, which was a genre I had sworn off most of high school. I almost felt like I was regressing by liking BSB. I had never dove into the New Kids on The Block fad as a kid, but in my early 20s, I was following a boy band. It didn't make sense to me, and yet it made complete sense to me.

I watched the documentary the other night and it hurt a little. That time of my life hurt and the songs were both smile-inducing and soul-crushing memories. The morning of my mother's funeral, I was in the shower when "I Want It That Way" came on the radio. It wasn't played all that much by that time, but just hearing the chorus that morning made me burst into tears for the first time since the night she'd died.

I will always love the Backstreet Boys. I will never completely understand why. But I like to think they provided me with a respite from my life and thoughts at a time when I really needed it.

And for that, I will always be a fan.

Because. . .Awesome Sauce!

Gotta love this. . a mix of Chris Pratt roles. And a hint of Hoosier.

Guess who's back?

Remember me? I'm the person who used to blog. Previously known as Ashley.Currently known as the person who does nothing but work. But I'm changing that. Because 2014 wasn't a ton of fun. It had all the elements of fun, but none of the actual fun. Essentially I was a fun facilitator. I made fun possible for other people. Which was great for them but not so great for me.

That's what my goal is for 2015. Have fun. Be intentional. Make my own decisions and not let decisions make me. Know that I am not that important. There are other that can do things faster, better or just as well as I do. It is not life or death that I mark everything off my to do list every day. It is okay to say no. Limits are my friend. Setting them is my gift to myself. It will make me happy. It will give me sanity. Sanity and happiness will make me more productive. But in the end, no company, client or account will ever love me like my friends and family.

As I take a deep breath and languish in the last few hours before returning to work (yes, I was there on Friday, but when you're at work and you're not getting 20 emails an hour, you're not really feeling like it's work), I will remember to be happy. Have fun. Be intentional (does this sound like a mantra? It might end up being a mantra. Or it might end up being something that I chant to myself in the corner as I'm rocking myself in the fetal position after I get 100 emails within the first 3 hours of work).

Be happy. Have fun. Be intentional.

And I Was Full

The last few weeks have been a struggle. For months I would start each week with that high ambition of making it "the week" that I get back on the wagon of watching what I ate religiously. And by about 3 p.m. Monday afternoon, there would be a bag of gummi bears on my desk.

For some reason, I just couldn't feel satisfied. I don't want to blame it on stress or being busy because I can't think of a person on Earth, who doesn't have those two words and all the feelings around them to justify any poor behavior. Something felt off and different. I didn't seem to be eating all that much more, but weight kept creeping on and for about three weeks I lost the feeling of fullness. It seemed like I could push myself to eat steadily without that feeling that prompts me to stop.

But the real motivation came when I was in the bathroom and closed a drawer on my stomach while leaned over the counter to do my makeup. It's pretty embarrassing to admit. I mean, I have typed a novel with my boobs without even knowing it (busty women out there can feel me on that one), but I've never closed a drawer on my stomach. Here's the scary part: I didn't feel it or realize it until I leaned back. I probably shouldn't admit that but let's just put you all in the frame of mind that I was dealing with when I decided enough was enough.

I knew I had to get a handle on things quickly. I didn't want to end up where I was at about seven years ago when I started my first weight loss adventure. I couldn't wait until I was well over 200 lbs before I righted the ship.

Plus I had enough encouragement from Chef telling me that he thought I had a slow metabolism because I wasn't eating that much. Maybe I wanted some validation, so I decided to go to a doctor and see what I could find out. I had a bunch of tests and it turns out the news was reassuring but also kinda crappy: turns out my metabolism burns about 450 calories less per day than it should.

The doctor asked if I had tried Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig or anything else. In fact, WW was the last thing that I had tried about 2 years ago and it wasn't really effective--because even at the lower calorie intake, it wasn't low enough to overcome the 450 calorie deficit that my metabolism was bringing to the table.

I'm now working to "reset" my metabolism and am on a protein and plant-based plan to help drop some lbs again. I know and always know that battling the bulge will be a lifelong struggle for me, but knowing that doesn't make it suck any less.

Wish me luck. . .again.

Making time for Me

If you've been checking back here lately and not found a post, well honestly, you must be a relative. But anyway, you may have surmised that I've been busy. You would be right.  

In the last few months, I've had a stretch of working 38 of 40 days. Then working a ton during the week. Then a few more weekends.  Don't get me wrong. I love my job and I'm thankful for it, but in the near compulsive need to please people (clients, bosses, coworkers, husbands), I've forgotten to please someone pretty important: myself. 

I'm not unhappy, but I'm not as happy as I could be and frankly the fault is my own. I know myself fairly well. I know that I am most satisfied when I take time for myself to do the things that feed my soul. My soul is hungry. And no amount of gummi bears or cheeseburgers or lazy afternoons on the couch will make me feel better. 

So I'm going back to what makes me happy. Unless I'm in danger of missing a client deadline, I am going to leave the office before 7 each night. I am going to workout every weekday. And by workout, I mean work up a sweat. I will do something to move my dreams each day. This will probably involve having fun with my novel in Scrivener, which is awesome. 

And so this post is like so many more where I have to remind myself that I'm important. Taking time for myself is not selfish. 

And all this to say thank God I don't have kids. I don't think I could stand the guilt. 

What Can You Get From a Toilet Seat Anyway?

I get all judgey in bathrooms. People that look like normal citizens in any other setting suddenly become carriers of every exotic disease known to man when they enter the bathroom. It's made a little paranoid and I'm not sure the reasons are all that valid. (Although MERS is a real thing, people).

For example, I'm not a big fan of the paper toilet seat cover. I don't think it really does anything. But there are times when I see someone washing their hands, and notice that the stall I went in to has water that's clearly just been flushed, and I'll grab one. I told you. I'm judgey in bathrooms.

And that's if the person is actually washing their hands. If they are just making the motions or messing with their hair and it's obvious that they haven't even attempted cleanliness, I'll just move on out of the stall and hit the next one.

But honestly, despite this paranoia, what actual diseases can you get from a toilet seat? The first rumor about any new disease is that you can't get it from a toilet seat. HIV/AIDS? Not the toilet seat. The Clap? Not from the crapper. Cancer? Yet again, not transmitted through porcelain.

Seriously, I'm probably still going to be judgmental in the bathroom (and don't act like you aren't. You know you are), but do I have anything to be afraid of (Except MERS, of course)?

Shaken and Stirred

An earthquake isn't the best form of alarm clock that I know of. I would much prefer something a little more soothing and that doesn't freak the crap out of my cats.

I actually was drifting back to sleep as I had decided after my alarm went off at the normal 5:45 that my aching feet from an event I worked yesterday didn't need to hit the treadmill quite yet. The shaking started and it rattling the windows pretty hard. A little before the shaking started, I heard the cats scurry from their shelf-perches. Then they all ended up in bed with me. Chef, on the other hand, didn't wake up at all. That man can sleep through just about anything.

But the earthquake was just the start of a jarring day. It wasn't particularly bad or remarkable or even unusual in the sense that nothing happened that was out of the ordinary. But for some reason I was a little shaken in more than the physical sense today.

I thought of a question on my way out to my car. Pondering life and art and all those things that only seem to pop into my head when I'm trying to think about other things, less important daily duties, I thought to myself: Do you have to sacrifice something for your dreams?  Is that a prerequisite?

I honestly don't know the answer or am not sure there really is an answer. Do you have to sacrifice family to be a true artist? Or a career to have a true passion (assuming it's not in that career field, of course)? Clearly, there's no secret formula to making dreams come true. Other than luck. I'm a firm believer that luck (or timing or coincidence or faith or whatever you believe in) plays a bit role in making things happen. And yes, the harder you work the "luckier" you seem to get. I've heard that.

But I guess I found it appropriate on St. Patrick's Day to wonder: Is it luck or sacrifice that plays a bigger role in making dreams a reality?

Indecisiveness Strikes at the AutoMall

It's time to get a new car. The Sentra is up and running like a champ, but it would better serve Chef than me at this point. Knowing this, I ventured out to my local Carmax last weekend wanting to look at about six different car models.

After careful consideration, I am no closer to choosing one than I was before.

I like one because it's fuel efficient and newer and from a  reliable brand, but it doesn't have as many luxuries for the price. One is slightly older has more luxuries and is also reliable, but is rumored to require the sale of a kidney for upkeep in its later days. Some are new but basic, others are older (less than 3 years old) but pimped out. And frankly, I just can't decide.

So I've decided to put off the decision, because that's what all reasonable people do.

What kind of car do you drive? Would you recommend it?

I Got Called A "Bitch" By A Total Stranger. . .again

I was unloading my groceries as my car was parked on the street outside my apartment building when I was approached by a wiry, shirtless man who had been pacing the sidewalk while carrying what looked to be t-shirt that was wrapped around something and held tight by duct tape.

"You going into that apartment complex?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Will you let me in? My son lives there," he said.

"I don't know you, dude. I don't let people in that I don't know," I replied.

At this point he was still pacing around me on the sidewalk.

"My son lives here. He lives with his grandma who is like 85 and can't hear the phone to let me in. I can go by the leasing office with you if it makes you feel better"

Me: "How about you just call the leasing office from the main gate and have them escort you to the apartment?"

He didn't wait for me to finish, but bounded down the sidewalk away from me towards the front gate. Thinking this was settled, I grabbed my bags and headed to the side entrance that's locked and for residents only. I was unlocking it when I noticed the guy was right behind me.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked again.

"Yes. I absolutely do mind. But I guess you're not going to care about that at all and just do what you want to do."

At this point he followed me into the complex and started raising his voice that FINE. I could follow him down to the leasing office and he'll prove that he's been there before if it makes me feel better. Fine. I told him that it would be great if could go down there and at least have them escort him to the apartment he was to visit. He started to head down there and then he stopped when he thought I wasn't looking and muttered "Fucking bitch."

Me with groceries still in my arms: "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?"

"I said you're a fucking bitch. All uppity and shit. I told you we could go to the leasing office together but you still didn't want to let me in and then you gave me attitude."

Me: "I didn't give you attitude. I told you twice that I wouldn't let you and yet you still followed me in."

At this point he came back towards me and went from being about 20 feet away to about three feet away.

"You had to say that 'I was gonna do what I wanted to do anyway," after I said I'd go to the leasing office and everything."

Me: "I would say that I had a pretty accurate accessment since you did what you wanted to do and we're sitting here with your finger in my face instead of actually going down to the leasing office. But come on. Let's go."

We proceeded to go to the leasing office where Alex, our leasing agent, verified that the man had a son who lived there (and wasn't a resident himself) and the guy acted like he was vindicated.

"Should he be let into the premises against a resident's wishes?" I asked.

"Well, no,"  Alex said.

At this point, the guy bounded out and towards the apartment he was visiting. The leasing agent told me he'd call the apartment and make sure everything was okay. To make things doubly creepy, the kid he was visiting was the family that lives in the apartment across from us. And when I say across from us, I mean that our doors are about 4 feet apart. 

Next time, I'm calling Chef out to help. Although I have a feeling if Chef had been there, there might have been some hand to hand combat.

Unintended Consequence of Traveling Alone: Selfie Abundance

Amsterdam was awesome. The city was beautiful, the people friendly and the food (for the most part) delicious. It was a great work trip and I was really lucky to be able to go. The only thing that would have made it even better was if Chef was able to go. Maybe if I'm lucky enough to go back to this conference I'll plan far enough ahead to bring him along too.

Anyway, one of the things I learned after looking through my pictures was that I apparently took a lot of selfies. I think this was mostly because I was alone, vain, and have been taking them before they went digital and had a name. I literally have hundreds of pics from holding the camera out in front of me all my life. So it really is no surprise that I have selfies galore from the trip.

Since I had them, I thought I'd tell the story through myself. Or my selfies.

This was right outside of the Anne Frank House. It was touching and amazing. And no photos allowed inside. 

Me and a piece of art at the Rijks Museum. I wanted a Rembrandt selfie or a selfie with Van Gogh's self portrait,
but they were always busy with crowds.

Selfie with a Kendra, my DC co-worker on our last night

Last Dinner selfie. I have to say that the tablescape was prettier than any wedding I've been too (sorry, friends)

"I'm on a boat" selfie. We getting ready to glide through the canals with champagne.

Selfie with my NYC colleague, Ed, while we made some pastries and chocolates.

Not technically a selfie because my hands were full. Here I am filling chocolates with a ganache.
Chef would've been so proud. 

Again, not a selfie, but me and another DC colleague Amaris making Dutch Apple Pie (of course)

So, I went to McDonald's. So what. After 4 days of meals with 10 ingredients per dish, you'd probably want a cheeseburger too. Plus they're a client, so that's technically just doing my job, right?

This used to be the Capitol building in Amsterdam
but the prince decided at one point it was too nice to be government and took it over. It was pretty sweet. 

Some large statue that someone told me was important.
There were always people gathered around it, so I bought in.