Terror, Explained.

Absolutely worth a read, from Shoshana Hebshi at Stories from the Heartland blog. I also had to repost what commenter Ian said, because I couldn't agree more.

See, the purpose of terrorism is to cause exactly this. “Terrorism” isn’t about killing people — it’s about terrorizing. That’s why it’s called “terrorism” and not “killing-people-ism.”

Killing people is a means to an end. The end is to destroy a society, by breaking down the rule of law and social contract. And we do this better than any other nation on Earth. We’ve gone from a light unto the nations, a place which may not have always done the right thing, but was always on the right path, to a place that is an example of a police state, a cautionary tale to other nations. And why? Because we have reacted in exactly the way that al Qaeda was hoping.

In doing so, we’ve proven that we are a PERFECT target for terrorism. A terrorist who attacks the United States gets EXACTLY the goal they want: a repressive, over-zealous, fascist security force which destroys the freedom and liberty that this country once had.

Once upon a time, people thought that “freedom” was a thing that you were willing to risk your life to fight for. This country was founded on the notion that you had to risk your security to guarantee your freedom — and that that is a bargain well worth making.

Now? We trade in all our freedom for a tiny bit of security, the act of a craven coward. And we harm other people in the process.

I am ashamed to be a citizen of a country where three people could be detained like that, because someone was afraid. Terrorism requires people to be terrified.

And the people who are terrified are craven. And willing to harm their fellow citizens because of their own terror.

It was never more visceral for me than a train ride to DC shortly after the attacks. An Arab-looking gentleman was clutching a paper bag tightly in the row across from me. He went to the bathroom once, then again. The second time, he brought his carry-on bag, and was gone for far too long. I sat paralyzed - utterly terrified - because I was sure that he was going to emerge with a bomb strapped to his chest. I was sure it was the end.

I did nothing. I just waited there: unmoving, heart pounding.

He came out wearing more casual clothes. Then he pulled a slice of pizza from the brown paper bag.

So yes, indeed, Ian. In that respect, the terrorists have won.

Ten Years

Today, I fell in the shower.

Let me explain. I got a pedicure yesterday, and because they are now somewhat few and far between, I decided that I would work tirelessly to sustain soft, lady-like heels. I slathered on Bliss Tough Love callous remover before bed, and again this morning. Hours later, I walked into the shower.

I completely lost my footing. My soles were practically oiled, causing me to slip backwards on the cultured marble floor. I landed on my left shoulder, and my head then made contact with the edge of the shower door. My arm tingling, head ringing, I yelled for J.

As he came into the bathroom, I lay hunched over the door frame. "I fell," I explained. "My arm tingles."

"Are you okay?" He asked, and as he reached me he did a sharp intake of breath.

"What?" I yelped. "Am I bleeding?"

"No, you just have a huge bump," he explained, gingerly touching my left temple.

I began to panic as my hand flew to my head. The bump was large, had appeared instaneously. "Let's get you to lie down," J said, wrapping me in a towel and guiding me to the bedroom. He quickly fetched an ice pack and put it to my temple.

"I'm going to die," I say with absolute certainty. "The date, J! I am going to die on the tenth anniversary of September 11th. I was supposed to die then, but I'll die today; just like Natasha Richardson did. The IRONY!" (Proof that nothing good comes from watching Final Destination. And also? Post-traumatic stress victim, party of one?)

I believed it too. I assumed that it was my fate: to die from a desire for soft heels and callous-free toes.

Fuck, you know? Just when you thought you were healed? You ain't healed. The wound becomes less pronounced, it ebbs and dulls. It becomes a scar; it fades, but it reserves the right to be ripped open at a moment's notice.

It also takes many forms, an insidious foe that you often don't recognize initially. Lately? It is a visceral fear of leaving my son. Not getting to see him grow; missing it all. It is a nervous, gnawing, vague anxiety, until I slip and land on my skull and see my life flash before my eyes.

Can I confess something? I've let myself delve more into 9/11 nostalgia this year than ever before. I read Lisa Beamer's memoir; I watched TLC's Heroes of the 88th Floor. I even picked up United 93 at my local library. Before I did, I searched You Tube for clips from the film. I came across a 911 call made from the 105th floor of the North Tower.

I listened to it.

This man had no idea what had just happened. He couldn't see through the thick black smoke. He begged the 911 dispatcher to send help. He was there with another man. They couldn't see. It was becoming difficult to breathe. A fireman came on the line and tried to calm him. "We're working our way up," he assured him. The dispatcher came on the line again. "I'm going to stay with you," she assured him. He replied weakly, seemingly realizing his fate: "You can say that: you're in an air-conditioned building."

I think perhaps this is the most devastating thing I have ever heard.

I don't have any words of wisdom on the tenth anniversary of the "day the world changed forever", or whatever sweeping, heart-string-tugging platitude the news channels can deliver. (On our way home this evening, a local radion station played this spot: "Where were you on 9/11? The day the world changed! 9.33 FM!")

I just ache for those who lost their lives; who missed out. I mourn with those who lost the people dear to them. And I pray that the survivors - all of us, really - find a lasting peace.

Perhaps someday, a bump on the head can be just that - a blip, an accident - and not a fatality; an epic catastrophe waiting to unfold.

I hope.

Stenosis Schmenosis

Totally zen about this whole thing. Calm down Mama OMG.

We're currently keeping my little nugget upright, at a 45-degree angle, post-feeding. Child has got some issues. He's been spitting up quite a bit, almost to the point of projectile vomiting Exorcist-style. Yesterday, I called the pediatrician and I brought him in for a weight check and a once-over, figuring he was dealing with Saturday's choco-chip cookie overdose.

After a few hours of Internet research, I was ill-prepared for the potential diagnosis. Have you dudes ever heard of "pyloric stenosis?"




Within a few minutes of examining him, the ped gave me the 411 on PS. She then said though she didn't feel the "olive" in his belly, she'd like him to get an ultrasound. At the children's hospital. Immediately.




Oh, and if he does have this condition? He'll need surgery. Immediately.




Um, to reiterate, I took my kid in for spit-up. I was told he might need surgery within hours?




Imagine how composed I was, sitting in the office there, feeding my screaming, starving baby. We were both sobbing. The ped gave me a hug, and told me that H could have no liquids after 12 PM. I finished up his feeding in the exam room, composed myself, and hurried to the car to call J.



At which point I lost my shit again.



J came home and we cuddled a pleasant, satiated Snoozer. We then packed about 17 bags for the trip to the hospital, just in case. (Clothes, breast pump, toiletries, magazines, etc.)



I prayed all the way there, whilst examining my child for signs of this mysterious condition.



"Does he look yellow to you? He looks a little yellow to me."



"Stop," J said.



Hendrik was a champion during his ultrasound. He whined a bit at first, but then seemed to think Meh and went back to sleep. Within a few moments, we were told that the results were negative. I could have wept with joy. We were elated.



And so we still have a spit-up issue, though it is lessening. The doc thinks it was possibly a little bit of a stomach bug, perhaps combined with reflux, so if you are coming within 20 feet of my child? PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. I mean, please wash your hands within 20 feet of any small infant and toddler. If I am ever around your baby, I will make a big show of washing my hands and slathering on the organic hand sanitizer, because dude. Nobody needs projectile-vomiting infants getting ultrasounds of their tiny bellies up in here.

FRENZY

Oh HOLY FUCK exterminator came and identified entry point for RACCOON on neighbor's side and neighbor not home so cannot do any work until neighbor signs off and by the way in the back they have squirrels and INSULATION and ELECTRICAL and FIRE HAZARD and some birds' nests for good measure and looked up to see entry point and bird SHIT IN MY EYE.

Fin.

Water, Water Everywhere... And I'm Retaining it All.

37 week check-up yesterday... no signs that The Ninja will reveal its true identity any time in the foreseeable future. I am coming to terms with an early June baby, listening to a lot of Glee and Jesse Malin to pass the time, and calling it a day.

You know what I am having more trouble coming to terms with? The fact that, if I am pregnant for another 4 weeks?

I will be even fatter. And honestly, I can't take anymore weight gain. I can't control it, and maybe this is a big FAT lesson in humility, but for the love of Lionel... ENOUGH.

I am not going to tell you how much weight I've gained overall. I refused to tell J, even, as my weight is threatening to eclipse his own.

I will tell you that I gained another 6 pounds. THIS week.

So after stepping off of the scale, peeing in a cup (sidebar - that is FUCKING impossible now. Pee = everywhere), I sat in the exam room yesterday, waiting for the doc, and I cried.

Then I got annoyed with myself for wallowing, so I tried meditating... But when I repeated a yoga mantra - I am beautiful, I am bountiful, I am blissful - my internal monologue insisted: OH HELL YES YOU ARE BOUNTIFUL. FATTY.

So I just breathed instead. And examined my swollen feet and ankles.

When the kindest OB in all the lands finally entered, he asked how I was feeling.

"Defeated," I said.

"Why - the weight gain? I wasn't even going to mention it."

(You see? He is the most fantastic man.)

He told me that it happens... I've been healthy my entire life, and this is just my body on pregnancy. He said - though admitted it was anecdotal - that he finds fit women who gain excessive weight during pregnancy will return to their pre-pregnancy form relatively easily.

And he told me not to be so hard on myself.

Sniffle.

And so I'll calm down, until I see a new doc next week, who may or not be as kind.

Scratchy, Plodding, Whimpering Vermin. Happy Monday!

There is some creature living in my fucking wall.

Conveniently, the creature lives in the wall of my office.

So that's not annoying at all.

I have taken to throwing things at this creature when it starts its plodding. And also yelling, "SHUT UP!" when it moves, which often coincides to the times I am taking business calls. Classy.

It plods and scratches and sometimes - I swear to Lionel - it whimpers.

What the FUCK are you, creature?

If I were not 36 weeks pregnant, I would be on the roof with a machete prepared to annihilate you.

Obvs, I am all sunshine and light over here.

StressNATION.

Da Koos - one of my bestest friends in the universe, a woman who keeps me sane on a daily/hourly basis - is moving to Maryland in a few short weeks.

And I can't seem to carve out a moment to see her and her husband and her adorable babies before she goes.

Internet: HALP.

I have noticed this week - ironically, since I began my makeshift Happiness Project - that I am increasingly miserable. Irritable. Overwhelmed. My anxiety has seeped into my REM cycles as well: for the past three nights, I have been solely responsible for killing my brothers and all of their friends in a horrific plane crash; inadvertently killed Ninja (a ten-pound boy named "River," inexplicably); or worked tirelessly to survive the plague in France.

It's work, dudes. I am charged with being "on the road" for at least three days per week, which can entail a myriad of different circumstances. At 7 months pregnant with a baby who's gestational age is likely 8.5 months, I am exhausted. It's not really the travel that's taking it's toll: it's all the time AWAY from my home. Time I should be spending with my husband. Time I should spend doing more prenatal yoga. Time I should spend reading baby books. Time I should spend decorating my baby's nursery. Time I should spend exercising. Time I should spend nesting.

Fuck, even a trip to the dry cleaner's involves extreme precision and planning. When will I go? Logistically, when can I pick up?

And when do I squeeze in a doctor's appointment? Shouldn't my health and the baby's health take top priority?

I have a wonderfully supportive husband who, thanks to my enervating schedule, does more than any man in the history of the universe has ever done. FOR REAL. He makes sure the house is spotless upon my return from a grueling trip. He's coordinating the new carpet installation, the new windows. He does the laundry. He's working full-time as well, and finishing up an MBA. And yet he is managing, better than me.

And what's really frightening me, if I can tell you all honestly?

The kid is not even here yet. CRIPES - how do you DO THIS, moms?? Please do advise.

So I need to reign it in. I need to cut back at work. I am going to speak to my supervisor. Tell him my concerns (in a calm, pretending I am not a hormonal basketcase type of manner). I am going to focus on my happiness project. I am going to keep up with yoga, because all other plans and commitments be damned, yoga is saving my life right now. I feel resplendent when I come out of my Sunday morning class. Whole again.

I am busy making lists, and crossing tasks off. And I am trying to go easy on myself, lest my baby inherit this stress and neuroses.

In the meantime, I am frantically trying to create more hours in a day. Like, maybe 30? 30 would be good.

Any and all suggestions welcome, as well as inspirational "buck up, little camper" speeches.

30. Eff.

So I thought I was handling my 30th rather gracefully. But as we all know, you can't have just a little grace.

I woke up this morning at 5:20, J's alarm blaring, and plodded to the bathroom.

Then I got back in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and cried.

Because I am 30. Thirty! I just... Thirty. Fuck, that sounds old, y'all. And it's not like I sobbed. I just shed a few tears for my youth. I'm all adult now. And that's interesting. And frightening. And exciting. And mundane. Ya dig?

Then I took a deep breath, and promptly got over it. Thirty year-old adults have little time to be self-indulgent and introspective! Nay, we must toil. We must work at our jobs. And prepare for babies. And get six-month pregnant driver's license photos. And shop at Whole Foods and feel guilty about not buying local (I am coming, CSA!). And get bikini waxes. And Swiffer, yo. When you get older, you must Swiffer, almost daily.

As most of you know, Mr. HomeValley - J - is amazing, and threw me a fantabulous birthday party on Saturday night at Mango Moon in Manayunk. I have photos! And yes, I will post them. Because I am thirty. And fucking responsible.

Oh! And I shall provide you a resolution update. And also add some things I will not be doing this decade. Like, listening to assvice. From now on, HomeValley knows best, bitches.

See? 30 is fun. It's liberating and I have no stretch marks and very few wrinkles and a Ninja super-fetus and amazing friends and family and a Kindle.

Suck it, 20s.

15 Weeks and Mah Back is Achin'

Ah, fifteen weeks. At the beginning of my pregnancy, when Ninja was just a gleam in my freaked out, neurotic eye, I wasn't sure I'd get here.

At five weeks, at Yankee Stadium (oh, like I needed another reason to hate that stupid fake team), I started spotting. It was innocent at first, then gradually became more insidious. I blew up the nurse phone line, insisting that I needed some help. Like, oh, how about you test my hCG levels, dudes? How about you do something - anything - to alleviate my nerves, instead of telling me for the floppity-jillionith time that it's those damn pregnancy tests. In the olden days, women didn't know they were miscarrying. Ah, ignorant bliss.

I somehow managed to weasel my way into the office for a simple blood test. (Something my practice does not offer initially. Basically, when you learn you are prego, you call and schedule an appointment for 8 weeks, which is four week in the future, a one-month period I like to call "Developing Horrible Neuroses and Waiting to Miscarry." It is SUPER FUN.)

Where were we? The spotting. It didn't stop. It increased. And so I had a blood test, and the next day received a call from the nurse: "Your hCG levels are extremely high. Are you sure you are only 5 weeks?"

Ninj. You little overachiever! But yes, I informed the nurse, I am sure I am only five weeks. I have it all charted, like some sort of extremely rigid, uptight conception nazi.

Because my levels were so high, I was brought in for an ultrasound. I secretly hoped that we were having twins. (Because in case you are new here: I am crazy.)

Lo, only one baby. Well, one yolk sac, if you wanna get technical. But what an adorable little egg. Go, Ninja. Get on with your embryonic self.

I was told that the ultrasound was promising; but that I needed to come back in a week to ensure that all was still well. I was elated leaving the office; by the time I got to my car, the doubts returned.

I assure you, I was really easy to live with that week. You know, spotting? And mentally preparing for the worst? And sobbing a lot?

By the time J and I found ourselves in the doc's office late Friday afternoon, I was shaking. This was it. I was having a baby, or a miscarriage. Moment of truth.

(Have I mentioned how awesome transvaginal ultrasounds are? They're awesome.)

But there, on the screen, was our Ninja. OK, there actually was a "fetal pole" but man, what an adorable pole. And a heart! A tiny flicker of light that was our baby's beating heart.

We were having a baby. And I never doubted it for another second.

OK, that's a lie. I longed to be a zen-earth-mother-goddess, but I was crushed under the weight of my fears. I still didn't trust it. I was still spotting.

But in a week, the spotting stopped.

A week after that, we had our first official prenatal visit. We got another ultrasound.

And there again: a baby. Well, actually an embryo that resembled Tweety Bird, but still. A beautiful developing embryo with a strong heart.

And four weeks after that, Ninja's heart, the audio track.

And now? At 15 weeks? I have a belly. It is small, but it's real. And my back aches. All the time. And I can't sleep well, because I'm too hot, then too cold. I miss sleeping on my stomach. My nose is stuffed. My gums are bleeding. My skin is a mess.

But we never thought we'd get this far. So good on you, Ninj. Keep the symptoms coming, and I swear I will convince your pops that a brand new car at age 16 is a wise choice.

J, KC, The Nard Dog, and Me.

There are three sure-fire ways to get me out of a funk:

1. J, Husband Extraordinaire.

2.

3.

When I explained to J last night that I was feeling blue, he immediately sprang into action.

"What can we do to make you feel better?"

I thought about it for a moment, and then told him that we needed to clean the bedroom.

(Oh, super fun!)

But lo, the bedroom needed to be cleaned. And I needed to get organized. Cuz in the midst of my blues? Leaving the country next week (!). We're going to Buenos Aires and Montevideo (!!). Poor little depressed girl, must dutifully travel to South America. Don't you feel sorry for me?

This trip really sneaked up on us, though. So J, bless his heart, helped me sort the laundry and then, that man went and put it in the machine. I unpacked our bags from the NY trip. I straightened the bureau, and J dusted. Then we sat on the bed and made the Argentina list. As well as a list of cards and gifts that are PAST DUE. (Sorry, Koos. I really do love your baby. I'm just an asshat.)

Once we were organized, I felt I could breathe again. I ate some cherries on the couch and passed out during House Hunters International.

I slept more soundly last night than I have in weeks. It was glorious.

This morning I woke at 6, prepared a no-carb breakfast of eggs and turkey bacon, made some coffee, and then sent an email to Koos: how GOOD is coffee? Also, I watched Chelsea Handler. What of it? She is an irreverent beacon of delicious sarcasm and snark. LOVE.

At 7 I retreated to the office, and I filed and organized my desk while listening to Kelly Clarkson. Internet? Listen to Kelly Clarkson. KC = sublime happiness and productivity. You can imagine I was already feeling good and energetic, when my amazing husband sent me this email:

Subject: Start the day off right!

“They say you should never mix business with pleasure. Really? Well then explain to me how a putt-putt golf company operates.”

- Andy Bernard

And that is why, friends, I don't need anti-anxiety meds. I have J, KC, and the Nard Dog.

And happy hour! With dear friends Grace and JM (JM - don't you already have a pesudonym on this blog? Please advise.) Did I ever tell y'all about the first day of high school? Koos and I arrived and I believe we only had one or two classes together. (Koos? Please advise.) So I spent the first day observing the other chicas to determine whom I would deign to be friends with. (Er, or whom I thought might like my skinny, be-braced, nerd self.) And Grace and JM were the big winners!

I'm pleased as punch that 15 years later, we still can get together to drink cheap beer carb-conscious club soda and recall the old times.

It is going to be a good day.

%&$*#@@(!)

Arrrrgggghhhhh.

I'm having one of my days today, which is particularly trying, as I had one of these days yesterday. Hungover and sore from sleeping on The Real JC's air mattress, J and I sat on the couch all day, only removing ourselves from the gripping life of John Adams long enough to take a delirious trip to Wawa for chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (The need!)

And so I pulled out my planner last night, resolutely, and wrote down all of the things I needed to accomplish today.

And then I woke early, ready to start the day. But instead, I groggily plopped down on the couch at 6:30 to watch DVRed episodes of Chelsea Lately.

And then... nothing.

I walked the mile to the track, but found myself stifled by the heat and humidity. The run did not go well. So I walked home. I decided I needed to get out of the house today, so I showered and dressed and headed to my favorite coffee shop on Main.

But I couldn't pay attention to my conference calls; and after I composed and sent a few rambling emails, I packed up my laptop and planner and headed home by way of Machismo Burritos. (Damn you and your addictive power!)

I'm in my office now. I am trying to work, but I'm not present. I'm not sure where my mind is. This isn't working, I said to myself a few moments ago. This isn't what you're supposed to do with your life. The thought honestly occurred to me out of nowhere, as most days, I like my job a lot.

But I wonder if maybe there isn't a little kernel of truth to that last part. If this is my passion, wouldn't I be more, er, passionate? I wake everyday with the best intentions, but suddenly at 7 AM I feel... drained.

I blame E! True Hollywood Story.

When you watch that fucking show, you get the feeling that though everything doesn't come easily per se, these celebs know what they want and they work tirelessly - ruthlessly - to get it.

And then I'm suddenly inspired and embarrassed, because I have all of this potential, that I waste on the frivolity... Like E! True Hollywood Story!

It's a damn shame.

I don't know what's next. J and I talk about it all the time. We'll move, we say, once J is finished with grad school. Then I'll quit my job, and I'll go to grad school. While I'm at it, I'll write and have babies and be perfect and healthy and rich. The end.

I'm not sure where I am, or what I want, but I know I am at a crossroads.

To be continued.

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

D'oh!

Believe it or not, I started this amazingly well-written and structured post to give a little fitness update. So here you go:

Meh.

That is my update, y'all. I have been running, but not so well the last two weeks. I am okay with that, as my half-marathon training needs to start twelve weeks before the event; so after J and I return from vacation (August 15th) I'll begin the program in earnest.

P90X is on hold, as I have a lot of difficulty keeping to a routine with my constant travel. But I am determined to complete P90X at some point this year. I'll just have to develop a tighter schedule, as I am just now beginning to take back the reigns on time-management.

And the diet? Well, my Far-Mor told my sister Cat that I was "too skinny" after the Colorado trip. So, good on me! Alas, I'm not too skinny. I'm slim. I wa able to sustain the no-carb diet for 2 weeks, and I felt great, though completely bored. Then J and I went to a family party in which I ate a cheeseburger sans bun, and the paparazzi got wind of it and asked me what kind of crazy diet I was on, and when I said South Beach my cousin Lauren told me I was going to desTROY my kidneys, and then my mom called me the next day to say of course everyone was talking about this CRAZY diet you are on, and I'm all, hello, if any of you MFers read my blog you would already know about this diet! And also: South Beach! NOT crazy.

I guess the moral of the story is my family doesn't support me, and also thinks I'm crazy.

I lost three - four pounds on Phase 1 of South Beach, then I let my amazing weight loss skillz get to my head and started eating everything under the sun. This weekend I drank 85004 Hoegaardens at the Beer Garden in Queens, and so today? Fare thee well, carbs. I'm not sure how we are ever truly going to make this work, but right now, I just need some time by myself. I really need to focus on my career - obvs! - and what I want out of this life. And what I want involves passion, and most certainly does not involve a giant ass. (Sorry, babe.)

Love, HV

And defeat him I will. Defeat. Him. I. Will.

As yesterday was my first official day sans carbs, I expected to feel awfully sluggish (even The Real JC said I will want to go to sleep at 6); instead, I felt incredible! I didn't sleep well on Sunday night (maybe 5 hours total), and as I am an 8 - 11 hour type of gal (what?), I thought I'd be miserable. Lo, I stayed up and busy until around 11. I exercised (no run, only elliptical), and even gently asked the woman that brought my room service last night to kindly, "Take this bread. Please. I can't risk it." They had actually given me FIVEor SIX pieces of bread, which is like, everything that is wrong with America, right there in a basket with creamy white butter and oil-soaked roasted peppers. (*drools*)

I usually order breakfast from the handy card that Marriott places on my bed, and last night I had some pretty high maintenance instructions: scrambled eggs; grilled ham; no juice, but water; tea, but decaf; and HOLY GOD DO NOT BRING ME THOSE HASH BROWNS THEY ARE THE MINIONS OF LUCIFER.

But the devil (shut up, Heidi Montag) is fierce:

I narrowly defeated the potatoes, y'all. But the ketchup, in all of its high fructose glory, most certainly won this morning. Damn you, HFCS! Damn yoooouuuuu! (*shakes fist in air, vows to defeat this most nefarious foe*)

Dietgirl!

This is Melissa P. HomeValley, reporting live from Border’s book shop in South Portland, Maine. Our author is determined to do this and do this right, and by "right" she means pick a fad diet and go to town. Kidding! Sort of.

So I am here this eve doing “research”, jotting down notes and desperately trying not to purchase anymore books (HV: NO MORE BOOKS). I already have 747 books in my office/library that must be read this year, lest I die. And as J lamented last night in bed, “Read read read. All you do is read.” So I must read read read just to catch up, more so when I am away from my dear, dear husband.

I also must write write write, if I am ever going to be an actual author. Amidst the madness now, I will settle for updating this here blog, my baby, who is almost three years old (so big!). Sunrise, sunset, yadda yadda yadda, and here we go.

I took notes as I lounged in the coffee shop, which I appropriately labeled "diet crap". Here is what I found out so far:

The South Beach Diet: Dr. Agatston advocates 3 meals per day, 2 snacks, a "dessert" (quotes dripping with sarcasm), and lots of water. What he does not advocate during "phase 1": bread, rice, potatoes, pasta, baked goods, fruit, alcohol, candy, cookies, ice cream, sugar.

Hmm.

Doc swears I will lose 8 - 13 pounds over the first 2 weeks. Then, I should move into "phase 2", in which I slowly reintro carbs until I reach my goal weight (which I likely already reached during phase 1). That means into Phase 3, which, as I indicated in my notes, is: "rest of yo life, girl!" (Ever since I bought Vanessa a "Mahogany" birthday card - Girl, It's Your Birthday - I can't stop using "Girl". Bear with me.)

I jotted down some sample recipes from the book... And really, right now this sounds pretty good to me.

Next, I picked up Quantum Wellness by Kathy Freston. I skimmed through. VEGAN? Next.

I also took a look at Doctors Oz and Roizen's (never any Roizen love, O) YOU! On a Diet and it really was an assault on the senses. It was laden with cartoon drawings and was shouting at me with LARGE proclamations in bold. I skimmed the meal plans; they're very similar to the SB diet, so I quickly put the book aside. One new caveat here: no eating after 8:30 PM.

Lastly, I perused Jillian Michaels' Making the Cut. Jillian offers 7 rules one must follow to get jacked:

1. Stick to your magic number, or BMR (Basal Metabolic Rate). I'll spare you the calculations, but apparently I need to imbibe 1429 calories a day. Strike one, Jill.
2. Eat for your metabolic type. I'm a balanced oxidizer (based on a quiz) which means I need equal parts carbs, proteins, and fat. Sorry carbs - I think, for now, you are out.
3. Eat every 4 hours. Yes please!
4. No processed or junk food. This shall be the most challenging, but I love the idea of it. I am sick of feeling heavy, bloated, and full. I've long suspected that my body is not processing food effectively; I am sure cutting out anything processed will help. But is it possible? Are Sweettarts processed? Fuck.
5. Beat the bloat. Less sodium, more water. Easy enough.
6. NO BOOZE. Errr... Um. Okay. I think I can do this, especially because Jill (bless her heart) gave me a small window to cheat (only clear alcohol with no calorie mixer). This, to tell you the truth, may be the most challenging. Booze is part of my social and professional life. Oh, and remember this? Here's hoping my will power has improved since then.
7. Write it down. Sorry about this, Internet. Just following orders.

So, I have decided to follow Jill's rules, with a hint of South Beach thrown in. This week I am eschewing breads, rices, pastas, etc., but I have allowed myself some fruit. I love me some fruit. Next week, I'll ween.

Oh - and high fructose corn syrup? Still the devil. As well as white flour and white sugar. Boo.

The Biggest Loser. For real.

Man, I really need to figure out how to become an actual member of the blogosphere. Today I tried to download a "widget" (wha?), and failed because apparently my "layout" was "disabled". My thousands of daily readers Grace has been bugging me for an "RSS Feed" (huh?) for a year, and I still can't seem to figure that one out. Um, help? Blogosphere? I did actually get a question about "technorati" right on Cash Cab the other night, but I still don't know what that means. After 3 years? I am a blogging misfit. But I am resolved to get this down. There has got to be some Complete Idiot's Guide out there for bloggers, eh? And maybe, just maybe, once I have figured this all out, the cool blog kids will welcome me with open arms, and my readership will quadruple! (4 readers some day! Imagine!) Lo, I have been slacking. But I will get better for you, Internet. Blog, or perish.

So, first things first: this. I have been reluctant to share this link with you all, as I have spent an exorbitant amount of time there over the last two months, and have shed many tears. I was trying to shield you all from the pain, I s'pose. I don't really have words. Just sending good thoughts to LA on a daily basis, and occasionally leaving a comment or two. Go there and read, and then send all of your good thoughts that way too.

Secondly, this social blog outcast ordered P90X today! I am frightened, yet enthused. I had seen the infomercial twice and seriously considered purchasing it then, but I always stopped myself, for I cannot be sold! (Shut up, Proactiv.) I told J about it a few months ago. Then, everywhere we went, people were chatting about this patented system of "muscle confusion". Word on the street is it works as it kicks your ass something fierce. J and I are interested in getting into tip-top shape this year, possibly before I go and get knocked up and promptly ruin my new ripped physique. But hey! This can only be good for you, Future HomeValleyians. I am doing this for the kids, y'all. This has nothing to do with bikinis. Nothing at all.

I was chatting with Allie about my purchase this morning, at which time she urged me (twice) to blog my progress, which seems like a noble idea, and possibly will help me through the rumored four weeks without carbs. (Hopefully, this will cause minimal marital strife. We love each other, but man, we love our carbs.) (Sweet, sweet carbs.)

So if we are going to do this, Internet, we are going to do this with full disclosure. I hate to mention numbers, as every frame is unique (and beautiful, super foxes!), but I feel (and a Self Magazine quiz backs me up) that my ideal, "happy" weight is around 130 pounds. This was me my junior year of college, maybe 130 - 132 pounds?

(If I was any kind of a real blogger, I would know how to write text on a picture and circle things, like have a little white arrow pointing at my belly, that says something cute like: "Hello, Belly!" But I live life on the outskirts, an edgier, freak of a blogger, who must write cute things in the paragraph below.) I use this picture - which really doesn't show much of my physique - as this was The Time of My Best Figure, as I recall fondly. I had zero qualms about hopping into a bikini and talking to boys (Those flowers were from a boy!) I had just turned 21 and I ran shit, like Oprah. This was taken in my first William Street apartment. What was my secret? I lived solely on pasta with tomato sauce, chicken with pasta with tomato sauce, baked veggies (a specialty of one of my roommates), and vegetarian sushi from the restaurant downstairs. Really, I credit the walking. Not only did I have to walk everywhere I went, I also took an almost daily stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge to my third favorite borough in which I used to reside. I had a CD Walkmen and I listened to "I'm a Slave 4 U" more than any human ever should. But I was happy and healthy and loving life, which is also good for the physique and the soul.

My actually thinnest was about 9 months after 9/11. I really had no appetite after the attacks and was down to about 125 or so. I don't have a picture of me then readily available, but it was Post-Traumatic Stress thin, which is decidedly not hot. Anyway, when I moved back to PA after graduation in May 2002, and bought my trusty little Hyundai, Emma, I packed on the LBs. I would sit in my cat-piss smelling, Section 8 apartment (over a karate studio, no less), and eat whole pizzas watching Kelly Clarkson kick ass on American Idol. Depressed much?

When I moved back to NYC in 2004, I started dropping weight again. Here is a very serious shot of Vanessa and me in Old San Juan, a bit drunk and having watched far too much Top Model (maybe 134?):

Ay, is there anything like settling into true love to help you gain some of that weight back? I wish I could upload the shot of me on Deal or No Deal in February 2008. We had friends Lauren and Eric over a few months after the LA trip, and when they saw my bloated frame on the screen they were a bit taken aback (and yes, the camera does indeed add 10 pounds. Gah!). "Looks like you've lost weight since then," was the consensus. Indeed. Here is a shot from LA, likely around 140 - 142 pounds:

Sister could bench-press Howie! (Cute bag, though.)

But a beach wedding (and a Maxim model coming to your nuptials) will kick even the most carb-loving lady into action, so here is a shot from DR:

(Um, and as an aside, I loved our wedding. This picture perfectly wrapped up the whole affair: sweat-soaked, dancin', singin', glorious celebratin'. I really think we should frame this one, J.)

I was probably about 132 - 134 at the time of the wedding, and I felt pretty good (legs could have been a bit more toned, but I shan't complain. Did you see how fun my reception was?! Also, quite the calorie-burner.)

I went to the gym earlier today. I ran 4 miles. I think I actually had a slight heart attack. During the last mile, my chest constricted and I nearly passed out. Good on me! After the perilous jog, I did weights and tried to do a pull-up. Just one. I couldn't even begin to lift myself, (My limbs were completely unresponsive: You want us to do what? Lift? Sister, you crazy.) so I just hung there like a dead fish. You've got your work cut out for you, P90X.

Finally I headed over to the scale, which used to be in the ladies locker room but now is right next to the weights, where all the meatheads convene. Lovely! I took off my sneakers and hopped on: 137 pounds today. So ideally, I'd like to lose at least 7 pounds in 3 months (P90 should be here in 5 - 7 days). And of course, I've still got to fit in runs for the November 22nd Half-Marathon. Looks like HomeValley is going to be quite busy, folks! I will do a weekly update on this blog, so help me God.

I will also figure out what a "widget" is. Lord have mercy.

I've got PMS.

There is one large pimple on each side of my face, the frightening pair adorning my cheeks like freakish goiters.

I am inexplicably angry and dangerously immobilized. I can go from contented to egregiously annoyed in mere seconds.

That's right, folks! I've got PMS!


Today I growled at J like David after Dentist.


"Oh no!" He cowered. "A week of this?"


It's true. The familiar tidal wave of hate has arrived!


Circumstances are making my case slightly more dire today. I was scheduled to be in DC this morning, though I had nothing pressing (er, nothing) on my calendar. I foolishly decided to make the trek on I-95 South (brave little martyr) and was ceremoniously defeated by nefarious rain and traffic. About 70 miles into my journey, I actually, you know, called the DC office to double-check that I had nothing pressing. Once confirmed, I immediately turned around and white-knuckled it home through the downpour. Nothing like a completely pointless four-hour drive in the rain first thing on a Monday morning!

I also initially titled this post "I've Got PMS and a Handgun" (an homage to the tee-shirt that was once ubiquitous on the Wildwood boardwalk); then I realized dude, you're an asshole! It's only the 10th anniversary of the Columbine massacre. I am crabby and insensitive.

Then, as if I needed another reason to be absolutely miserable, I watched a documentary of the Columbine killers on You Tube. Man, those fuckers were out of their minds. My heart aches for all those affected by the tragedy.

In a vain attempt at a pick-me-up, I headed to the gym. En route, I turned the dial to a radio station that insists upon saying the name and artist of every song played in the most hideously irritating voice. I had a thought, smiled, and believed I had stumbled upon blog brilliance. I promptly pulled out a pen and wrote this on a scrap of paper:

radio stations saying name of every song! haha fuckers! pop eyeballs out and throw at them. Hard.

Wow. I am an amazing writer.

And so I (and my long-suffering husband) soldier on through a week of hormonal high and lows. I will attempt to quell the wrath for your benefit, kind readers, but I make no guarantees.

The Extent of the Crazy

Have just decided that I will no longer speak of this wedding to anyone, save J. So if you see me, and you dare inquire, "So, how are the wedding plans coming? Have you picked a place yet?"

I will grin maniacally and say only: "I'm right on top of that, Rose!"

Then I will back away from you slowly, still grinning.

Carry on.