“I’m a texture girl.”
If you follow me on Twitter, than you probably know that I hate bananas.
Actually, I have a love /hate relationship with bananas.
I love the flavor of a banana, but I hate the texture.
I love frozen bananas covered in chocolate and nuts.
I love banana bread and banana flavored things. I love dried banana chips.
But plain ol’ bananas?
My mouth hates those.
People are always telling me that I need to buy green-ish bananas, because they are firm! Not mushy at all! Tell that to my mouth, you guys.
The other day I bought a nice greenish bunch of bananas, like the internet told me to do. I opened one up to have a quick snack before leaving for the gym.
The first bite was okay. The second bite? Not so much.
I almost puked.
There were tears running down my face from gagging so hard.
My husband walked into the room just after the gagging episode and was all “Are you okay? What happened?” And I was all “I am trying to eat a banana and I gagged.” And he was all “you’re not supposed to shove the whole thing down your throat.” And I was all “I know that, smart ass. I didn’t. I just took a bite and the texture made me gag.”
And he laughed so hard.
Now, anytime I eat a banana, he watches, shakes his head and says things like “I don’t understand you, woman. Bananas are delicious.”
Then he laughs.
You’re probably thinking to yourself “if she hates bananas, why does she eat them?”
I know, right? I eat them when I need a quick, filling, healthy snack. Usually before or just after working out. They’re so easy. No dicing, cutting or preparing. Just peel that bitch and eat it. Bonus: they’re full of potassium! So, that’s why.
Better a banana than a bag of chips, yes?
The hope I have is that one day I will suddenly, magically love bananas. That the texture will not bother me and I can enjoy one without gagging or making faces of disgust. That hasn’t happened yet.
My hatred of bananas is a constant source of amusement to my husband, who shot this footage of me trying to eat a banana after my workout yesterday.
Basically, that’s what it looks like every time I eat a banana. Sometimes there is more gagging involved than other times.
So, yeah.
Eating bananas is hard, you guys.
We Have Not Yet Determined What The Prize For The Winner Will Be, But I’m Pretty Sure His Will Rhyme With “Slow Bob.”
This morning me and my (still unemployed, hold me) husband were watching yesterday’s Oprah show. It was about diabetes.
Having been diagnosed with “insulin resistance” (pre-diabetes) I thought I had educated myself on the disease sufficiently.
Turns out, I didn’t know as much as I thought I did. There was so much valuable information on that show. And the information scared both me and my husband straight.
Did you know that having 1 12 oz can of soda a day increases your risk of type2 diabetes by 83%?
Crazy, right?
One of the biggest risk factors for diabetes is belly fat.
Before I had thyroid disease and all of the health problems that have followed, I never had a problem with belly fat. When I’d gain weight, it would mostly be in my thighs and ass. I was always small waisted. That all changed with the thyroid disease. Suddenly, weight started piling on my mid section. I had no idea how dangerous all of that weight piling up in my belly was.
I am not sure how big my waist was at it’s largest as I was always too afraid to take my measurements. What I do know is that last January, my waist was a whopping 43 inches.
According to Dr.Oz, if your waist size (measured at your belly button) is more than half of your height, you have too much belly and you are at risk for diabetes.
This fact caught my husband’s attention. You see, my husband is by all accounts “thin.” Not an ounce of fat on his arms or his legs. But– he has a belly. This bit of information made him pause and think.
“I wonder how big my waist is.” He said. “I should know that.”
I ran to get the measuring tape, more than happy to measure his beer gut. I was relieved to find out that his belly is MORE INCHES THAN MY BELLY. It’s been a while since I could say that.
I threw down a challenge to my husband. .
“let’s see who can lose the most belly inches in one month.”
He accepted the challenge.
We both used Dr.Oz’s formula to set our goals.
I am 5’4″ = 64 inches. Half of 64 is 32.
My waist size is now 36 inches. I need to lose at least 4 inches.
My husband is 5’9″= 69. Half of 69 is 34.5
His waist is 38 inches. He needs to lose at least 3.5 inches.
What makes this challenge so great to me is that my husband has never once had to watch what he eats. He’s been blessed with a kick ass metabolism. It’ll be fun to watch him TRY to say no to a muffin or a piece of pie. It will also be fun watching him do sit-ups. I can’t say that I ever have seen him do any in our 19 years of marriage.
I am confident I will win this challenge. I am also confident that this is going to be so great for both of us.
We’ll take measurements on March 5 and I will record it live and post the results here.
I Guess What I’m Trying to Say is That I Am So Good.
Last week I had a follow up appointment with my new female endocrinologist.
My first visit with her was not fun. I had not had a period in almost 6 months. I could not lose weight no matter how much I worked out or watched what I ate. I felt tired all of the time, even though my thyroid numbers were finally in the normal range. I was an emotional and physical wreck.
I told her about my symptoms. I told her how my doctor told me to “just enjoy” not having a period. I told her about my frustration with my weight. I told her how I felt like no one was truly listening to me.
I cried.
And I cried.
And I cried some more.
It was embarrassing.
She listened. But more importantly, she heard what I was saying and she properly diagnosed me.
“I believe you’re insulin resistant.” She said. “I want to put you on a medication that will help your body be more sensitive to insulin.”
Out of desperation, I trusted her.
Turns out, I was right to trust her. She saved my life.
I’m sure that sounds dramatic, but if you had experienced the hell I was going through physically, you’d understand.
I’m thinner. I’m happier. I am NOT TIRED ALL OF THE TIME. I have periods every!single!month! without fail. I can think clearly again.
I feel joy again.
I feel so many things that I haven’t felt in years.
Good things. Beautiful things. HORNY THINGS.
*******
Before I left her office, she told me she was going to order a new round of test, just to make sure all was truly well.
“If all your tests come back fine, I’ll want to see you again in 6 months.” She said.
“Sounds good to me.” I replied.
As we walked out of the room, she turned to me, put her hand on my shoulder and said “I’m really proud of you, Y.”
I tried to fight it, but I am an Emotional Asshole who can not control The Tears.
I started to cry.
“I am so grateful for what you did for me.” I said. “You actually listened to me and you NAILED IT. You gave me the answers I needed to finally get healthy again.”
“No.” she said. “You did it all. You did all of the work and you should be so proud of yourself.”
You know what?
I am proud of myself.
Proud that I stood up for myself, even though it was uncomfortable, even though it made OTHER people uncomfortable. I’m proud that I didn’t allow myself to be intimidated. That I said “You’re not doing a good job for me.” and sought out someone who could help me.
I have my readers to thank for giving me the courage I needed to do it. You told me I deserved someone who would listen. You told me to get a new doctor already. It was your comments I thought of as I typed the email to my doctor, basically saying “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
HOLY MEDICAL CHEESE.
I can’t help it. This is the first time in years that I feel so full of life, energy and most of all, hope.
I am happy to say, my tests have all come back normal. Thyroid is great (.71, y’all!) B-12 levels are great! Kidneys and liver? FINE! Weight? Coming off. (Very. Slowly. BUT! It’s okay.)
Down 26 inches and 42 pounds. (Only 6 pounds away from the 180’s!)
For those of you who are brave enough to look, I am posting my current weight photos after the jump. Beware: there will be “sagging belly” and also CHEESY SMILES.
Gym Ra(n)t.
I’m starting to hate the gym.
I should rephrase that.
I’m starting to hate MY gym because my gym is kind of an asshole.
It’s small. There is no child care. They have awesome machines that we are not allowed to use unless we pay for (semi) private sessions with one of their “trainers.”. They added a sauna, but you have to pay extra for it. The aerobics room is tiny and I almost always am tempted to “throw an elbow” because woman don’t respect (aerobic dancing) personal space. The mats are all ripped to shreds and are in desperate need of being replaced.
You know what else? The instructors at my gym are kind of awful. (with the exception of Aerobic Dance Queen, Anna.) The last time when I took Zumba (which, by the way, I need to write about) the instructor constantly talked about food. She would be all “woo! Think of all of the PIES! AND COOKIES! AND ICE CREAM! you can eat after burning all of these calories!” Not EVEN lying.
Here’s the thing.
I have no right to judge my gym. I am a gym Hot Mess.
I fit in perfectly! This gym was made SPECIFICALLY FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME!
Let me give you just a few examples of what I mean.
- I lost the rubber strap for my Generic mp3 player, so I use my cleavage to hold it when I’m working out or sometimes, I use the string of my sweats and tie that bitch all up in my waist area.
- I only have 2 pairs of workout pants. And both pair have holes in the crotch. And I can’t find my sewing kit.
- I can’t control my grunting. Nor can I control my occasional crying on the treadmill (not “sad” crying. But “fuck, yeah, My Body. YOU ARE DOING THIS.” crying.”)
- My ankle crack. Severely. Like, every single time I take a step, run, squat. If you think I’m exaggerating, here is some actual proof. (Yes. I youtubed that shit. FOR YOU!)
- Every towel I use at the gym is pretty much COVERED in bleach stains. I can’t bring myself to use my “good towels” to wipe other peoples ass sweat off the bike seat. I just can’t.
- I am gassy. And gas + any machine involving squeezing the lower half of my body= *pffrtattaaaataa*
- I have unusually tiny ears. So none of my headphones fit properly in my ears. They’re always falling out, so I’m constantly pushing them back in. And then, sometimes (and when I say “sometimes” I mean “pretty much every time I’m running), while I’m struggling to push one back in, the other one falls out and I lose control of my generic MP3 player and it falls out of my hands, hits the treadmill, goes flying across the gym.
You see? What right do I have to call my gym an asshole for having ripped up floor mats when I am walking around, squatting WITH HOLES IN THE CROTCH OF MY PANTS?
And yet?
I do.
Maybe if my gym tried a little harder, I’d buy some new pants. Maybe if my gym got some new floor mats, I’d go buy a new arm strap for my mp3 player.
Step it up, My Gym. I need some motivation to be a Better Gym Person. I’m not getting it by looking at your broken machines with notes on them since JANUARY 14TH.
I’m Pretty Sure She Meant “Twitter.”
Scene: My daughter is sitting at the kitchen table. I’m standing over here, answering a question.
She farts. LOUDLY.
“What do you say?” I ask.
“Excuse me.” She says, while giggling a little.
A few seconds later, a horrific smell fills the atmosphere.
“Goodness, little girl.” I say, while plugging my nose.
I walk away to clear the nasal passage.
“Mom!” she says, all excitedly.
“You have GOT to put that on YouTube.”
I start laughing because I’m pretty sure my daughter just told me that I should upload her fart to YouTube.
“I’m SERIOUS, Mom. put it on YouTube.”
After I stop laughing, I ask her “what do you want me to put on YouTube?” And she goes “about my fart. And send it to your friends. They will think it’s hilarious.”
No doubt, she is a child of a “digital mom.”
This Week, In Pictures. (Basically. It Rained. A Lot.)
Thanks For the Memories, Conando.
For the past 7 months, our mornings have been filled with laughter. Sometimes hysterical laughter. Because for the past 7 months, Conan O’Brien has been a part of our morning routine.
Every morning, before they eat breakfast, my boys turn the television on to watch The Tonight Show from the night before. They love Conan. I’ve always been proud of the fact that they “get” his sense of humor. They watch it without fail. I learned the hard way just how deep my boys love of The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien runs.
I accidentally deleted the his Very First Show from the DVR.
The anger! HOW COULD I HAVE? WHAT WAS I THINKING? I RUIN EVERYTHING!
When news first broke that Conan might be leaving the Tonight Show, my boys were in disbelief. “Why would they want to get rid of Conan? They wouldn’t really do that, would they Mom?”
And every day, when they’d come home from school, they would ask if I had read any updates.
When Conan made the decision that he would not do the show if it was moved to 12:05 (a decision I totally agree with, by the way.) we all knew it was over for Conan. But my boys? They held out hope. Especially The Middle Child. He didn’t want to believe that it would really happen. He couldn’t imagine a morning without Conan and Andy.
Through all of the Drama surrounding The Tonight Show, I discovered the I’m With CoCo group on Facebook. Of course I joined it, because we’re ALL TEAM CONAN up in this house. Shortly after I joined they announced there would be a rally in support of Conan at Universal on Monday.
I told my boys about it, asked if they wanted to go.
HECK YES, they did.
The morning of the event, it was raining. Not just raining, it was pouring.
The teenager had changed his mind He didn’t want to go after all. It wasn’t so much because of the rain as it was the lure of his warm bed and texting messages to Not His Girlfriend.
“There’s a chance Conan will show up, you know.” I said.
That was all I had to say.
At 10am, the entire family loaded into The Van and headed to Target to get umbrellas, then it was off to Universal Studios to show our support for our Wonderfully Hilarious and Nerdy Conan.
When we arrived, there were two groups of people standing in the pouring rain on Lankershim. They were holding signs as passing cars honked their horns in solidarity.
Before we could join the excited, loyal Conan fans, we had to find a restroom so I didn’t pee myself. NOT THAT ANYONE WOULD HAVE NOTICED. Can you say Torrential Downpour? We found a Carls Jr near by, I ran out, jumped over Parking Lot Rivers and peed as quickly as I could because MUST JOIN FELLOW LOVERS OF CONAN. NOW!
By the time we returned from my pee break, the size of the crowd had grown substantially.
I can’t express to you how awful the rain was. It was pouring. To make matters worse, the wind was blowing hard, threatening to destroy our newly purchased umbrellas. That didn’t stop us. We crossed the street [little voice]While chanting “Conan! Conan!”[/little voice] and joined the others.
It was kind of magical.
I know some of you are thinking “Magical? REALLY?”
Or maybe you’re saying “THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN THE WORLD TO SUPPORT!”
Obviously, yes.
Obviously, there is heartache and REAL suffering in the world.
Standing in the rain to support a millionaire receiving millions of dollars in exchange for leaving a television show is a waste of time!
But here’s the thing. Distractions like these are good for the soul. By attending this rally, no one was saying “THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WORLD!” In fact, we all recognized there were bigger, real problems in the world. The organizers of the event asked that we bring cash to donate to the Red Cross for Haiti relief.
So, while I understand why some are disgusted that people stood in the rain for A MILLIONAIRE, I don’t regret attending. It felt right to come together publicly and declare our love and support for someone who has entertained us, who has made us laugh, who gave to us THE MASTURBATING BEAR, Y’all.
The only thing that I regret is leaving too soon. (Bringing a 5 year old was a bad mistake. But she wanted to go! She loves her some “Coded” O’Brien!) After we left, there was an appearance by Conan himself and I heard it was pretty amazing. (I also heard he bought everyone pizza. He really is the best.)
We had to leave after only being there for an hour. I wasn’t ready to go, but you can only keep children in the pouring rain for so long before you start to feel like a bad parent. As we crossed the street and headed back to the car in the pouring rain, I held my fist up in the air and shouted “We love Conan!” one last time.
It was awesome.
By the time we got to the car, we were soaked from head to toe.
Let me tell you, there is NOTHING fun about wet jeans. Nothing at all. But being a part of that event was worth it. It was one of the best memories I’ve ever made with my husband and children, something we will never forget and I actually feel proud to have been a part of.
I don’t feel sorry for Conan. I know he’ll be fine and that whatever he does next will be wildly successful, but come Monday morning, there will be a little less joy in this house and that is why I’m feeling so very Sad Face about this.
I hope you’re going to watch his show tonight. I imagine it’s going to be incredible.
#imwithcoco
Their Biggest Fan
When I was a little girl, I was passionate about singing. It was something that I loved to do. And I was good at it.
My parents supported my love of music in the only way they knew how– by encouraging me to sing at church. But that was the only capacity in which I was allowed to explore my love of singing. I was only allowed to sing To and For The Lord. Any other type of musical expression was STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. I quit music after my freshman year– it wasn’t any fun because of the restrictions my parents placed on me. I wasn’t allowed to participate in field trips in which we would sing at other schools. (they didn’t want me to end up alone, with boys, doing The Jesus-Illegal Sex.) I wasn’t allowed to audition for musicals (“they’re not glorifying to The Lord!”) What the hell was the use?
(I also quit guitar lessons at an early age, but that had nothing to do with my parents and everything to do with the disgusting pig of a man who I refer to as “Hairy Larry”)
I see that same passion for singing in my daughter. She is always twirling around the house in dramatic fashion, while singing a song. She reminds me so much of my Young Self.
I never want my children to say “I could have been *insert childhood dream here* if only my parents had allowed me to and supported my dream.” This is why I drive my boys to guitar/drum lessons every week. This is why I go to all of their band performances, their talent shows.
And this is why I drop whatever I’m doing to sit on the floor and watch my daughter’s Never Ending “Singing Shows.”
NOT a Piece
The last post that I wrote (Just a Mom) wiped me out emotionally.
It needed to be written. I needed to write it.
I thought I’d never speak of it again. But the comments. The emails. Wow. Each one that I read gave me something to think about. And I’ve been thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
I’ve come to realize that the shame I feel really isn’t about not having gone to college– it’s bigger, deeper than that.
I will write about it again.
And I will call that post My Piece.
But that Piece (ha) will have to wait for another day. Because today? Is National Delurking Day. Do you know what that means? That means today, you have to stop being “Just a Lurker” (see what I did there? That was kind of awesome.) and leave me a comment. Introduce yourself. Tell me a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Do you watch The Bachelor? Cash Cab? Do you have a raging crush on Ben Bailey like I do? ARE YOU WITH COCO?
I look forward to hearing from you!