Feb
27
I gingerly stepped on the scale the other morning and learned that I’m down about twenty pounds since Dylan’s birth. I think I gained about 40 overall during this pregnancy — although it’s hard to be completely sure, every time I was weighed at my doctor’s office they recorded my weight in kilograms which allowed me to pretend I was dangerously underweight and therefore required a nightly infusion of Tillamook Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream for the baby’s sake — so according to my mouthbreathing math skills, that leaves, uh, carry the 5 . . . divide the integrators by the number-eighters . . . twenty more pounds to go. In order to be at my pre-Dylan-pregnancy weight, that is — I take some vague solace in the fact that I am actually already at my pre-Riley-pregnancy weight and therefore it’s like I hardly gained anything at all! Or something.
I don’t feel overly obsessed with the number I see on the scale but I am definitely not feeling the love for my current body shape, particularly the way my clothes fit over it. I would say my pants are currently leaving me looking, well, muffin-toppy, except that would really be doing a grave disservice to delicious muffins everywhere, who never asked to be compared to the partially-deflated dirigible that is clinging to my waistline. My post-op midsection has Dunlop Disease, which as you know is where your belly dun lop over your C-section scar, and if that didn’t just make you hot and bothered I don’t know WHAT WILL.
Judging by oh-so-pleasant night sweating that’s still going on (seriously, is there anything about the postpartum period that ISN’T disgusting?) I’m probably continuing to slowly shed water weight, but I know from experience there’s only one way to regain the ability to pull on a pair of non-elastic pants without lying on the floor and crying afterwards, and sadly it’s not through sitting on my couch hooked to a tiramisu IV drip.
Thanks to my devil-food-may-care attitude during pregnancy (which I don’t regret one bit, by the way, as far as I’m concerned the only excuse that’s better than pregnancy for eating whatever the hell you want at all hours of the day is learning of your imminent death) I have a lot of bad eating habits to kick, which I’m trying to address with baby steps. I mean, you don’t just stop eating ice cream overnight, a person could suffer serious medical consequences trying to do such a thing. You have to step down in stages: first, you move to ice cream featuring one flavor, then the low fat variety, and finally, fat-free frozen yogurt with Splenda, until it all tastes so disappointing you may as well just sadly gnaw a carrot during American Idol.
I’m learning that there is a vast difference between dieting without a newborn and dieting with a newborn, and while neither are a festive nontop party in your mouth, the latter sucks out loud. When a person finally manages to get their fussy baby to take a nap, they should be allowed unrestricted access to a feedbag full of Thin Mints, you know? Not some damn salad. Plus, there’s the logistics factor — the truth is, it takes more work to prepare a healthy meal than a crappy one, and if you’re trying to eat with one hand while the other continually crams a binky back in someone’s whine-hole, well, am I going to make myself a nice turkey sandwich with a side salad, or rabidly devour 485721 Saltines dipped in peanut butter? GUESS WHICH.
Also, don’t even get me started on the near-impossibility of finding time to exercise with two children under three feet tall. Jesus. I did about 20 minutes of Turbo Jam last night at 8:30 PM while Riley was in bed and Dylan whizzed back and forth in his swingamajig, and all I could think was, what would I rather be doing at 8:30 PM? OH, I don’t know, ANYTHING AT ALL.
It’s going to be a bitch to get back in shape this time, is what I’m saying. But I’m making the commitment to do so, because I want to feel as good as I did here, and I don’t want to wait as long this time to make those changes.
Today: 153 pounds. Clothing size: a bursting-at-the-seams 10. Tomorrow: ?
Feb
25
My Netflix queue has been in a crap-ass state lately. For instance:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Your husband may think this movie will involve lots of gunfights and horses and Brad Pitt looking all steely-eyed and he would be partially right, but he would also be wrong in a number of critical ways, and after the movie finally draws to an end and the last strains of its eerie, repetitive soundtrack echo in your brain you will realize that you have spent your entire evening watching about a thousand weird, uncomfortable scenes that each lasted approximately five minutes too long and now you are never going to get those three hours back. As JB said to me about halfway through the movie when we realized it wasn’t going to start sucking any less, “This is a hell of a way to spend a Saturday night, darlin’. My bad.”
The Brave One. I was feeling mostly lukewarm about this one until the very end, when the plot served forth a scene that made me issue forth a series of loud mouth-farts at the television in complete and total disgust because GOD I AM SOOOO SHURRRR.
Matchstick Men. I love a good con, you know? I love a story that has someone fucking one person over, only to discover they’ve had someone’s else’s dick in their own ass the whole time, if you’ll pardon that extremely dirty expression which I just now made up. That is why Elmore Leonard books are so awesome, because they are teeming with people fucking each other over in spectacularly cool ways involving the best dialogue ever written. Anyway, there are con stories where it’s all kind of over the top but still believable or at least swallowable, and then there is something like Matchstick Men, where once the Big Huge Con reveals itself you’re left thinking, WHATEVER. Although I guess I’m glad I saw it for the one magical scene where Nicolas Cage is melting down in a drugstore and screams in vintage Cage style at a customer standing in line: “Have you ever been dragged out to the sidewalk and beaten until you PISSED! BLOOD!?”
Have you rented anything good lately? Please share, I need to put an end to our losing streak.
:::
Introducing my son, Gigantor the Sorrowful:
JB was trying to get a picture of Riley playing with his new favorite toy, a plastic farmhouse thing, but apparently things didn’t go well during the photo session. Poor kid. Sometimes life is just a shit sandwich, isn’t it, boy?
Also, I have added to my collection of Children Looking Dorky in Carseats photos:
Dylan, looking googly-eyed and surreptitiously flipping you off. Pretty funny, but I think Ninja Eyes Riley still has him beat in terms of humor had at a child’s expense.
Haaaaaa. NINJA EYES FTW!
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