It’s been busy since the piano arrived. Not necessarily with piano related business, although it’s been used consistently. And not all unpleasant either. In fact, since most of the “unpleasant” relates directly to another person who hasn’t given me permission to discuss, I won’t say much about it here.
The holidays were busy and not entirely easy, this being the first set of holidays since the death of our nephew. It resulted in my medication being increased and while part of me feels like a failure for not being “all better” another part of me has started to get used to being mostly calm instead of always afraid and is perfectly happy to increase the Zoloft in order to keep that going.
A new friend has come to live with me, courtesy of Bond.
This is Fuzzy. Aside from the fact that he points up my serious deficiency in coming up with good names, he is a marimo, a ball of algae of the species Aegagropila linnaei. He doesn’t do much but I like him. He is remarkably easy to care for. If I don’t kill him first he will likely outlive me and is the only plant I have in the house because he is the only plant that Kumba can’t get to and eat. Fuzzy’s turnons are low light, pretty rocks, clean water every week or so and the occasional night at the spa (read: refrigerator). Turnoffs are goldfish, summer heat and cats who think you look like a fuzzy cat toy. It’s hard being the fuzzy lord of your domain alone though, so a pair of attendants has been hired. I haven’t been introduced yet but it seems they’re ramshorn snails who will work for the occasional algae wafer and wilted carrot and in return will keep Fuzzy clean of unhealthy bits and tell him stories of the outside world.
Aside from Fuzzy, I’ve been to an art market, am in the processes of making an application for a juried show, have sold several fairly large pieces already this year and am generally optimistic about my prospects. Don’t tell me any horror stories. I don’t want to know.
67 weeks to go, 67 pounds to go.
This might actually be a doable goal.
2.2 pounds down, a whole bunch of pounds to go, but hey. Less is less, right? I am resolved to not be frustrated by small improvements and give up. This is an easy resolution to keep when I’ve just started and losing weight is easy.
Being aware of every calorie I eat. It’s not easy. It’s not fun. It is, my brain tells me, one more thing we have to panic about and while we’re at it, go and get us a cookie.
I hate saying I can do this. I don’t really believe it’s true. But I’m trying. That’s a good way to say it. I’m trying.
I’ve been trying to decide whether to post my actual weight on this or not. The number depresses me. It is high. Higher than people probably think, because while I am very very heavy and there’s no hiding that, the fact is that I carry my weight well and I don’t look as heavy as I am. When people guess, they consistently guess low.
After much thought, I’ve decided that I’m not going to. I’ll post the change, if there is any change, on each weigh-in, but I don’t want to look at the actual weight and I don’t want to share it. There are few things that honestly embarrass me, but my weight is one of them.
Lost 0.4 pounds from last weigh-in, which was something like a month ago, I dont’ know. It’s down, if not much, so that’s the right direction.
Tomorrow ought to be a weigh-in day, by the way. I haven’t really kept track for a while. I probably will start to now. It may be shallow of me, but I have a year and four months to not be the largest whale on the Dominican beach.
Accountability! Or something like that. Actually, this will either fall under the heading of “watch me rabidly update this because it’s embarrassing if I don’t” or “I never update this thing anyway.”
Kiiinda hoping for the first one, there. ANYWAY.
One endomondo “last workout” plugin. Heere we go.
I dislike shopping.
I’m a big girl. It is extremely difficult to look nice when you’re a big girl and more so when you’re a big girl without much money. Shopping for clothes at the Wal mart tends to ensure that you look dreadful. Even shopping at nicer stores can be a hassle to find things that aren’t just variations on a mumu (maxi dress, anyone?) with the added joy of being expensive. Oh please, let me buy a blouse that looks dreadful on me and pay fifty dollars for the privilege.
The effort it takes to look good as a fat chick is ridiculous so most of the time I don’t bother. Today I have to bother and so I’m sitting outside the Cato and grumbling at myself over the fact that I’m waiting for a clothing store to open and defy me. I’m not sure it’s worth it.