Friday, April 30, 2010

Good vs. Evil

I've been trying to count calories lately and, frankly, I suck at it. I mean, I can do it. I just put what I eat into my little app on my phone and it counts them all up for me. But I hate, haaaaaaaaate accounting for every single morsel of food that I put in my mouth. It does nothing but drive me insane.

See, when I go home at night (and actually enter my dinner into the app) and have calories left over, I start thinking of all the things in my apartment that I could possibly eat so that I consume every single one allotted to me for the day. Eventually I get caught up in some show on TV and forget that I have calories left to eat or I just tell myself that it's better to be under than to go over. Those are the good days, when the angel on my shoulder wins or at least talks louder than the devil.

Then there's the devil. She tells me that if I have left over calories on Monday, it's okay to eat them on Tuesday. And if Tuesday's don't all get eaten, then maybe I'm on some sort of roll. And then if I'm good enough to get all the way to Friday with extra uneaten calories from Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday AND Thursday, I can have pretty much whatever I want. I haven't consulted any sort of nutrition expert on this, but I'm afraid it probably doesn't work that way. I like to think it does, but I'm most likely wrong.

There are also the instances where the devil tells me that if I don't record something I've eaten, it didn't really happen. Usually those meals are things like burrito bols from Chipotle, dos tacos from Tijuana Flats, and banana ice cream with chocolate chips from Cold Stone. You know, the worst things for you. Though, surprisingly, the banana ice cream is not as bad calorie-wise you think. It's also quite tasty.

I also abhor working out. I feel great afterward, but actually getting started and getting through any sort of physical activity is like torture for me. I would love for this to be different. In my head, I'd love to run a marathon. Just one, to say that I did it. How in the world can I do that, though, if I can't even talk myself into going to the mailbox more than once a week? (Unless I'm waiting for my Ensign
to arrive. Then I check the mail every day. Where is it anyway? Isn't it usually delivered before the first of the month?) This past week I actually thought that I could, technically, start training now and run the Disney Marathon in January. Then I thought of all the things that would get in the way of that training schedule (traveling for work in June, vacation in July, the possibility of traveling again for work in October, a cruise in November, then the holidays) and that was that.

I am pretty decent at keeping New Year's Resolutions if I write them down. I think I'll write somewhere that I need to get some sort of marathon training plan together by the first of the year. That should be enough time to accomplish that task, right? Then, my New Year's Resolution for 2011 will be to train and run in a marathon... Sometime by the end of the year... At least a half anyway...

P.S. I was under my calories for three of the last four days. That means that I'm allowed to have an extra 530 calories today. Thank goodness because I'm sure my dinner at Chevy's tonight will put me over my daily allowance. One serving of corn tamalito: 190 calories. I might have two.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Under Where?

The title of this post is proof positive that I spend way too much time with Swells and that her cheese-factor is rubbing off on me. She proudly bears the title "Cheesiest Person I Know," but always reminds me that her mom could out cheese her any day.

I'm going to attempt to make this as modest or the least graphic that I can while still getting my point (if there is such a thing) across. If you're at all averse to talk of underwear - more specifically women's - then please exit now. If you choose to proceed, don't pretend that you were caught off guard.

Last night, instead of walking our (almost) three miles, we did some mall walking. She had a coupon for Vickie's for a free panty and $5 or $15 off of the purchase of one or two bras, respectively. She wanted something free, I thought could possibly put the discount to use, so we were on a mission.

I should mention that bras and bathing suits are the bain of my existence. This is probably due to the fact that neither are fun (for me) to acquire. For this reason, and because I'm such a creature of habit (shocker!), I prefer to stick to the things that I know or am comfortable with. So... you can imagine my frustration when I learned that my tried-and-true bra has been modified and no longer functions the same way that it used to and I have to set about trying things on.

I only found out about said change because the signage wasn't reading the same way I always remembered it. I didn't want to get stuck with something that I ended up not really liking, so I decided to head to the dressing room. (As a side note, I don't really like trying on clothes in the store unless I'm mentally prepared to do so. Getting un- and re-dressed gets old to me. Fast.) When I went in, I was greeted by an employee that asked me my name (odd), how many items I had with me (reasonable), and if I'd like a "complimentary fitting" (people pay for such things?). I gave her my name, said I had two items, and politely declined figuring that this wasn't my first rodeo.

While in the fitting room, I heard a male voice loudly asking a girl what her number was over and over again. It sounded as if they knew each other, not like a "Hey girl, lemme get them digits" type of conversation, but I couldn't see exactly what was going on. I did hear the sales person tell him that they couldn't allow males (or did she say men? either way...) in the fitting room and that he needed to beat it. I thought to myself, interesting concept. Though, if they really wanted to, they could just stand right outside the doorway and look in. However, it would probably become obvious what they were doing rather quickly.

After both pieces, exactly the same style and size, fit completely different from one another (neither working), I started to wave the white flag and deal with this another day, but as I was exitiing the fitting room, the girl Complimentary Fitter caught me and asked how things worked. I told her honestly that neither worked; one was too small, one was weird to me, though they should've been the exact same thing. She asked again if wanted that complimentary fitting. This time, I caved.

I was hoping with all that I had that this would be done inside an actual fitting room, though that didn't happen. I was then turned over to another of Victoria's proteges. She wasted no time whipping out her magic tape measure and wrapping it around me. After the second or third adjustment (and some other chit-chat), she finally said, laughing, "By the way, my name is Monica." That's when I understood the need for the first girl to ask me my name. It seems like less obtrusive if you know the person's name prior to getting that close.

When she had taken all of her measurements into consideration, she announced my size (with Swells right beside me. If we weren't that close before, we are now.) and I almost sent her back to training. There was no way that, over my clothes, she was getting a reading smaller than what the tag I currently had on unless it was "really holding me in." The only thing to do from there is to... re-measure, of course! Ah, yes. I knew what I was talking about. I even told her that there was little to no chance that I would purchase something that was a larger size than what I came in wearing. I think I saw her trying to do the math on that in her head, but she quickly gave up.

Over the next 45 minutes, I changed and modeled five or six different cuts, sizes, and styles for Swells, under my shirt, of course. The funniest part was how big her eyes got when I came out in the next-size-up specimen. She practically yelled "People pay good money for what you've got!" My only thought was "I'd like a refund. Or at least a do-over." but I didn't say it out loud. I'm trying to be more thankful for the things I do have.

At last, I make a decision. I went a completely different route than I was expecting to and today, I'm wishing that I'd come away with two colors instead of just one. I'm pretty sure that I'll end up back in the old Victoria's Secret again. I'm just waiting for that next coupon delivery from the mailman.

P.S. Before I could drive, a friend of mine and I went Christmas shopping with her parents and ended up in V.S. so that he could get her mom some pajamas. As we were walking out, he asked "Do you know what Victoria's secret really is? ... She's a slut!" :-)

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

All Over

I had a bunch of thoughts that I wanted to get out of my head. I couldn't organize them, so this post is what it is.

This is the first season that I've really watching Dancing With The Stars. I'm mostly watching because I want to see what happens with Kate Gosselin and Jake from the Bachelor. It's painful, though. They both make me cringe when I see them on my TV screen. I did realize tonight that I would probably appear like Kate if I were ever put in a situation like that. I feel her pain. I would be a horrible dancer and I wouldn't be able to pretend that I'm having a good time or like I know what I'm doing. It'd be written all over my face like it is hers. And I just don't understand Jake. It's a bit comical to me to see him trying his best to be Mr. Nice Guy, but I secretly love it when they show clips of him getting frustrated with his partner.

I spent ALL DAY Saturday, and most of the day yesterday, cleaning my apartment. It was in dire need of a good scrubbing and I'm so pleased with the fact that you can once again eat off the floor. I'm not completely done, but what I have left is a lot better than where I was Friday night. I actually wouldn't be embarrassed to have someone drop by unexpectedly. I could answer the door without hesitation. I might think twice about letting them use the bathroom, though. That's on this weekend's agenda. Along with cleaning out my closet. And, by the way, I HATE taking out the garbage. It is just so gross. I might have made a mess, too, by thinking that those big black garbage bags will hold whatever you can fit inside them. Not exactly true. Let's just say I had to do a little cleaning up of the sidewalk and stairs. That's just between us, though.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Parade of Ovens

I'm on my third oven in the 4 1/2 years that I've lived in my apartment.

I had problems with the original and it took the maintenence people at least three trips to my apartment to figure out that it was more than my imagination that was the issue. What it actually was, I wasn't told. All I know is that I burnt up some perfectly good Tombstone pizzas and not because I'm incapable of setting a timer. But they brought a new one. Perfect.

I don't know if you know this about me or not, but I like to bake. And since my parents have a GREAT oven that works ALL the time, I know that I'm not completely crazy when I have to bake the same cake several minutes longer in my oven (#2, mind you) than in their oven that is a couple of years old. My pound cake would bake in 77 minutes in my parents' oven (the recipe says 80... or 120 depending on how clearly I'm thinking.) Last week, I was baking my mom's chocolate cake and it took 28 minutes to bake, perhaps even a little longer had I not been so impatient, and it normally takes 20. The fact that the icing for said cake has to be started five minutes before the cake is done and did NOT endure the extra 8 minutes sent me over the edge.

I called the office to report oven number two a third time. The assistant manager was understanding, even though I'd already had a couple of the standard maintenence and a representative of GE out to take a gander. She told me that the regional maintenence person would be on property on Monday and would take a look, though the regular guys are just as capable. Great.

Monday afternoon, I knew that someone had been in my apartment because things were slightly askew. (Why, yes I am like the little bear from Goldie Locks and the Three Bears. Thanks for noticing.) When there was no note or plan of action, I called to find out the status of things and was told that I "might be" getting a new oven. Fine by me.

Today, I came home to oven number three. It's pretty, has a window, a light inside, and even two large and two small burners on the range. I was so excited about this little surprise that I sent a picture of it to my dad via text this afternoon. So far, it seems to cook the way a new oven should. If I don't die from the chicken I just baked, we will officially be in business. Though, the only real way to tell is to bake a tried and true recipe in that puppy and see what happens. I think I might be seeing some baking on the horizon.

The only down side: the oven is about a an inch too deep for my kitchen. I can't open my utensil drawer unless I open the oven door because the handle sticks out too far. And there is NO pushing it in any further or trying to squeeze the drawer around it. It's not happening. So... do I say something or lean over the oven door every time I need a spoon?

I know, I know. I'm never satisfied.

P.S. I know it's not exactly their job, but why do maintenence men move everything around to where they need it for their own purposes, then leave it where it landed? Why not take the extra two minutes to move the stuff back so it looks like they were never here? What if I couldn't lift the heavier things? Just asking...

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Flashing Lights

I'll admit, I have been grum-py lately. It seems like every day it's something new that pushes my buttons. I've tried to just deal with it as best I can, but I'm not always great at "being a duck."

I never considered myself an emotional eater, either. I'm just an eater. But after a rough day last week, I called a friend of mine and asked if she wanted to meet at Chipotle for dinner. I also mentioned how close Cold Stone was to Chipotle and, with or without her, I'd be making a stop there, too, before going home. It was a hard sell, but she caved and we ate every bite of our burrito bowls and ice cream creations.

As much as I hoped that that day was the worst, or at least the last, in the streak, I was wrong. I'm fairly certain that a good portion of it is my fault. I think too much for my own good, but at the same time, the issues that are really getting to me are valid. I guess I just have to now figure out what, if anything, can be done about it. And if you know me, you how awesome I am at sitting back and waiting on things.

Tonight, after working a little late and treating myself to some Sonny's Drive-Thru deliciousness (even though I wasn't exactly hungry. see what I'm saying about the eating? it's sick.) I was greeted at the entrance of my complex with flashing lights. There were no less than 15 fire rescue vehicles lining the only way in and out of my apartment complex. For a minute, I wasn't sure if I was even able to drive anywhere close to my building, much less if I was allowed! After passing several uniformed men and none of them telling me to take a hike, I proceeded with caution. Now, I pass a place that sells (and decorates?) emergency vehicles on my way to and from work every day. It was as if they were having some sort of super sale in my parking lot!

I wish that I had some really good details about what the actual problem was. There wasn't anything on the news about it when I got home, but maybe they were waiting to see if another old lady fended off a carjacker before going with the apartment fire story. All I was able to figure out is that one of the building caught on fire. I don't know what the cause was or how much damage there is now, but I did see water pouring out of a couple of apartments.

The craziest thing is that when I saw all of these firetrucks and everything, I never once worried that maybe it was my apartment. I don't want to say that I was more concerned with just getting home and eating because I was worried about whoever is now out of a home, but I did want to just kind of get out of the way. I felt lucky that it wasn't me that has to find somewhere else to live and try and salvage my belongings. It definitely made me realize that things could be a lot worse. I try to remind myself of that, but it doesn't always do any good.

So, at least for the time being, I'm couting my blessings. I'm thankful that my home is safe (though I have little water pressure). I'm thankful that my family is always there for me, no matter what. I'm thankful that tomorrow marks the half-way point in my brother's mission and that he's doing great. I'm thankful that I don't have to sleep on the couch anymore just because of my stupid bruised tailbone.

I'm sure that there's a lot more that I have to be and am thankful for, but that's all I've got right now. And I'm sure that this isn't doing anyone but me any good anyway. Perhaps on Friday I'll be thankful to be taking a vacation day. My co-workers will probably be thankful not to have to deal with my cranky self that day, too.

Fingers crossed.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Sensory Overload

I'm kind of at a loss for words right now, yet felt the need all day to blog. Sometimes I don't know why I even bother blogging anymore because I write in my journal every day. But then sometimes I think maybe someone might be interested in some piece of information I post up here. They're not going to get anything from my journal, that's for sure.

This past weekend my church held General Conference. I looked forward to it more this time than I ever have. And I think I enjoyed it more than I ever have before, too. I felt spiritually fed and so uplifted. I was a little sad when it was over, but am looking forward to being able to read the talks again in the Ensign next month. There were so many good talks given that it'd be difficult to recap any of them individually or collectively. Justice wouldn't be done anyway.

I thought a lot about the last year's General Conference in April and also about Easter last year. It was interesting that both fell in the same weekend this year. This year, as we did last year, my parents and I went to my grandparents' house. Coley was with us last year and that was the last General Conference that we got to "attend" together. (I used the quotes because we watched it on TV and it seems like a half-truth to say that we went somewhere for it, when we sat on the couch.) That was also the last time that he saw our maternal grandparents. I tried not to think about how sad it was to leave. It was odd to think that, simply because they're not exactly young, it couild be the last time that he got to see them. I'm not trying to be morbid and I would absolutely hate for that to be the case, but it's a possibility and I think about those things. (I blame my dad and the "Be prepared" motto that he drilled into my head, being the good Boy Scout that he is.) I am happy to say that the grandparents are doing well. They haven't changed much since he left and I hope that we keep it that way.

Easter fell the next weekend, which we spent in Park City. Four days, to be exact, before he entered the MTC. It was cold and just plain weird. At some point during that trip, I realized that I've never been to Utah and not cried or experienced something traumatic. Granted, the other times were far from worth it. I doubt I could forget that trip, though, whether or not I had the detailed memory that I am blessed (or cursed, sometimes) with.

It's crazy to me that we're fast approaching Coley's one year mark. In some ways, I never thought this day would come. And I think I'll feel the same a year from now when we're days away from him being home. As I read his e-mail to my parents tonight, I couldn't hold back the tears. And, for the record, it's been a pretty long time since I've cried at one of his e-mails. Those tears were a result of many emotions. I'm proud of him and the things that he's accomplished, especially over the last year. I miss his jokes and the way he makes me laugh and even the way he makes fun of me.

I guess those aren't really the things that cause tears, though. What got to me, I think, was the news that he's been transferred to a new area and will be getting a brand new missionary, straight from the states, to train on Wednesday. I am certain that he is more than capable of being a great example to his new companion, but I could sense the nervous tone in his e-mail. He's always telling us how he doesn't like change, but knows that this is when he'll learn to deal with it. Even so, it doesn't sound as though it's getting any easier for him to take. And combining a new area and a new companion and the responsibility of training is probably weighing on him. I've always enabled him and it's been a long running joke in our family. I can't do that now. And, more upsetting than the lack of enabling that I'm allowed to do, I can't tell him rightthisminute that he'll be fine and that he can do this. He also mentioned that he got sick this past week, too. For some reason, it really bothers me to hear that he's been sick. Thank goodness he's been very lucky and hasn't been sick that often.

He had some funny stories, too. Ones that made me realize how well he's gotten to know people in his area over the last four months. He mentioned that he was sad to be leaving the area that he was in and that other members were sad to see him go, too. Surprise, surprise. They fell under the Coley Spell! It's the funny or silly things that are somewhat anti-climactic for me. Few people, outside my family, know Coley as well as I do. And I think that in a lot of ways, you have to know him to understand why and how things that he says are funny. I love to share things about him, but telling my parents something that they've already read isn't as exciting and telling those who don't know how he is just isn't as fun.

I have no idea where I'm going with any of this. Or maybe I do and I'm realizing that this isn't the right place for it... It's a good thing I don't get paid to do this. I'd be fired.