Edit: It worked, and except for accidentally flooding facebook with a bunch of blog-links, all my old blogs are now moved to this one. I also added the Archives into the sidebar in case you want to waste your time reading stuff I thought years ago ha!.

During my second year an ex-Navy sailor joined our class. He was in his mid forties, skinny, average height, with long, stringy blonde hair. We all found him slightly odd at first, but over the course of the year he seemed to get stranger and stranger. He had chosen a seat near the front of the class so we rarely saw his expressions during lectures, but sometimes he would, well, kind of flip out. For example, one day, during some math exercises, he apparently had some sort of disagreement with the figures his calculator was giving him. Rather than take a break, he got angry, yelled out, and broke his calculator in half, buttons flying all over the classroom. When the instructor asked what the problem was he simply stated “It was giving me wrong answers.”

Other times, during breaks, or idle time in class, he would lean back in his chair, close his eyes, and sing in a normal speaking voice a song called “All My Dead Friends”. None of us knew if it was a real song, and to be honest, none of us really wanted to know. He also often had conversations with the coffee machine, the gist of which depended on how well the machine had made the coffee that day. Having conversations around him was always risky too. If you said something he either liked or disliked, his response was usually the same, he would suddenly whip around, hair flying, stare at you intently, sometimes giving you chills, and then explain his feelings on the subject. Sometimes he would just sit down at our lunch table and start telling stories from his Navy days regardless of the conversation taking place. He especially liked telling us about his times in the Philippines (“I once at a live giant beetle because it landed on my shoulder in a bar. The guy who owned it as a pet was pissed!”).

Eventually he flunked out of the program. For the rest of the year we were sure that, one day, he would back with an arsenal to take his revenge. We also found out, much later, that he had been diagnosed with 4th stage syphilis shortly after leaving the school. So, while we did eventually have a reason behind his apparent madness, he was certainly the most bizarre person I’ve met yet.

It’s times like these that I wish I had the time/money to go back to school to learn how to write. I’m good at coming up with a decent plot, I can move a story forward, but the story is always dry. I’m no good at description. I think part of the problem is, even when I read a book, I tend to just glaze over the details of the setting. I don’t care about the color of the drapes in the room adjacent to the one the character is standing, let’s get on with it!  Then, of course, when the author references some detail that I paid no attention to I’m temporarily lost, and in the end I miss out on some of the richness the story offered. The result, however, is that in my own writing I just want to blow past the adjectives and adverbs and move the plot along at a blinding pace. My style tends to be “this happens, then this happens, then this happens, the end”. I have no richness, no content, no character depth, and I don’t know how to do those things.

In today’s dreamland, nuance and subtlety is the key to the process of the character discovering what happened. It’s a gradual realization that is completely centered on things like the how faded certain fabric covered cubicle walls are. Without the ability to describe the original look of the walls adequately, how can I ever bring the reader along the path of noticing the very subtle change in the look? Then, of course, there is the love interest. The main character makes a decision that has a huge impact on the rest of his life, all over a girl that dies. Without the vocabulary or style, how do I make the reader feel the emotions of his decision, his anguish at her loss (and possible un-loss…*that’s called foreshadowing ha!* and no she’s no a zombie). I can see the place in my mind, I can see the small details, like the dust that hangs in the late afternoon sunlight that is meandering through the 12th floor windows. See that line? That’s the best I can do. Real writers could describe the sunlight as a flavor and make you totally understand. *sigh*

It makes me wish I had a ghost writer..I could be a famous author, if only I didn’t have to write the stories.

This was my experience heading into the summer after 5th grade. I hadn’t the same freedom before, and not again since. 4th grade I suppose I was still “too young” to appreciate the days stretched before me, and by 6th grade I was nervous about starting junior high. 5th grade though, man that was the year. I had my best friend, Jon, and we knew, even if we didn’t realize it, that this was our last chance to be a kid. By the end of this summer our parents would start thinking of us a junior high kids – almost young adults! – and the pressure would be on to start behaving mature. This year though, we were still just kids. It was still cool to have the biggest collection of G.I. Joe figures and vehicles. It was still cool to play with Matchbox cars in the dirt. It was especially cool to have larger boundaries, as they were called in my family, to where we could ride our bikes without having to ask permission. 5th grade meant we had almost 1/2 a square mile of neighborhood that was ours, and we traveled every inch of it.

The best part of that summer was when the guy who used to live next door to my family moved out and accidentally left the door to his now-vacant garage unlocked. That garage became my and Jon’s clubhouse. We started by moving our water supply into the garage. It was just a large thermos with a pump on top that was designed for dispensing tea or something at a picnic. We would fill it from the hose of whatever house we were near and take it to the clubhouse. Next, we set up a Matchbox car chop-shop on the workbench the previous owner had left behind on which we would, using the paint-pens from our model paint sets, give all of our cars a fresh new look (except the Ferrari Testarosa, oh no, nobody touches my Testarosa!). Finally, the garage was a base for the elite squadron of GI Joe commandos that we deployed to protect the world.

We never did tell our parents that Gene had left the garage unlocked, they would probably have told us it was unsafe, or that we were trespassing, and locked the door on us. Instead, we spent the summer feeling like ninjas sneaking into the garage without being seen.It was my first secret hideout. Eventually, as days are wont to do, the days got shorter and cooler, and the next thing we knew somebody had purchased the house, taking away the clubhouse/shop/base. Then school started, and we started down the path to adulthood. Jon’s family eventually moved away and he and I lost contact, then my family moved a year later, but I’ll always remember that summer and my last taste of pure freedom.

Anyone who has spent years trying to lose weight recognizes the above mathematical series (I believe it’s called the Sonofabitch Series, so named by famous mathematician Clark “Triple Cheese” Berger).  For me the latest round started about two weeks ago. We had been good with what we were eating, I was watching my portion size, I had gone to Taco Bell for my wife without getting anything for myself, and I was down 25 pounds. Then we tripped a little. I didn’t fall off the wagon, I didn’t even fall partially off. We decided to eat some Wendy’s Friday night, and then Saturday night went to a Mexican restaurant where I got some of the best pollo fundido I have ever eaten. Neither meal was especially over the top, considering what I can put away on a normal basis, but by Sunday morning I was back up 7 pounds. I didn’t even eat 7 pounds of food, how is it possible?!

I’m trying not to lose momentum, trying to stay focused on the goal, trying to see myself 150 pounds lighter, but when 4 pounds of food makes me gain 7 pounds it’s incredibly hard. I just want to give up, decide that life is cruel, and eat what I want instead of what some doctors say my body needs. But I’m not giving up. Yesterday I ate:

Breakfast: A homemade fruit smoothie (no idea what was in it, Andrea made it, naturally)

Mid morning snack: A handful of almonds

Lunch: two cups of cottage cheese, 2 hard boiled eggs

Mid afternoon snack: a handful of almods

Dinner: Chicken breast and a baked potato

….and then a cupcake….and then another. Damnit!

This morning, I am still lower than I was Sunday. I’m making up the lost ground, but it’s cost almost another week. My body is already losing weight slower than it was a week ago, my metabolism is already adjusting to the new lower portions and healthier food, compensating, and slowing the burn of fat. I know what that means, it’s time to really start exercising. No more “well, I played the Wii Fit twice last week…that’s good enough”. It’s time to start the CaveMan portion of our Healthy Living program. It’s still cold though, in fact it snowed yesterday. It’s not that we can’t walk in the snow, everybody on the planet knows we can, but it’s….ya know….cold!

Anyway, the struggle continues, with me and millions of other fatties. I keep in mind that in the very least I’m getting healthier. The foods we are choosing are better for my entire body’s health, even if my waistline…line? I think from now on I’m calling it my equator…even if my equator isn’t shrinking.

I met my wife (AndreaLand in my blogroll) almost exactly three years ago, and she had problems with my eating habits almost right away. Over the years she’s added more and more pressure to get me to change my habits (she’s lucky she’s so cute, otherwise I never would have stuck around!). I finally started to cave in late last year, and over the last month or so we’ve been really dedicated to eating healthier. By that I mean veggies. I’ve been anti-veggie for most of my adult life, I don’t care much for the texture or flavor, but she convinced me (by blackmailing me with tears) to start eating them.

It’s been hard. I used to look forward to dinner with mouth-watering glee, knowing it was only a few hours before I could eat 3 normal-sized-people’s portions of grease-soaked cow flavored product. But when we first started eating “mostly plants“  I would sit down at the dinner table each night, glare at the plate of veggies, sigh, play with them for while until they were nice and cold, eat a couple, and shove the plate away. Eventually I got sick of feeling like I was starving to death, and started to eat them while they were still warm, just shoveling them into my mouth, chewing as few times as possible, and swallowing, figuring that at the very least I was taking in calories. Over time, and I know this will come as a shock to all of you, I started to find them less repulsive. I eat a little slower now, I try to taste the bell peppers and onions instead of just the rice they’re cooked with, and I no longer feel the hunger pangs after dinner.

The added benefit of eating more healthy is the lack of guilt. I used to hoover way more Taco Bell than a single human should, enjoying every bite…until I was done. I would then sit back, wipe my chin, look at the carnage of empty taco wrappers, and guiltily gather them into the bag so I wouldn’t have to look at them all, trying to ignore the voice in my head screaming “Seriously? You really need to eat 8 tacos and a huge plate of nachos for dinner? I mean…REALLY?!”. These days, though, I eat one, maybe one and a half portions of the dinner Andrea cooks, then push my plate away. I still feel hungry most of the time, but I know that’s just because my body is used to the huge portions I’ve been giving it for the last ten years. I know that I have all the calories and nutrients my body needs.

So we’re getting the diet part down, and we’re still trying to work on the exercise part. We haven’t started the Cave Man part yet, mostly it’s because it’s hard to motivate yourself to get up early and go for walk when it’s only 33 degrees outside, but we’re getting there. We walked a lot over the weekend, and cleaned the garage out, and I even figured out how I could trick the Wii Fit into thinking I weighed less than I did so I could actually use the damn thing (it doesn’t really like fat people, and if you weigh what I weigh, it won’t even let you play). With the weather warming up, I know we’ll be spending more time outside working off the already reduced calories we take in each day. And hey, so far it’s working. I’m down almost 15 pounds (only 11 more to go before the Wii lets me play without putting the thing on a thick blanket!).

Turns our those nutritionist people were on to something. Eat healthy, whole foods, eat veggies instead of grease, get off your ass. Who knew?

When I started dating, I was looking for you

In my lowest of lows, I was wishing for you.

I didn’t know your name,

I didn’t know your face,

But I knew you all the same.

The way you push against me when we hug.

The way you smile at me when I look at you.

The way you love me for who I am.

The way you run your fingers through my hair.

The way you hold my hand, even when we’re on the couch.

The way you make me laugh.

The love in your kisses.

The love in your touch.

The love in your eyes.

All the tiny things you do that show you care.

I didn’t have to fall in love with you when we met

I’ve loved you my entire life.

Ok, the only one that really talks about the food that I eat is my wife, but she talks about so much I feel like it comes from everywhere. I am obsessed with eating, but she is obsessed with thinking about eating. I know it’s exhausting for her, she just can’t turn that part of her brain off. Every bite she takes causes guilt, and every bite I take causes, I dunno, reverse guilt? She feels the guilt I should be feeling. And then gets annoyed at me for causing her the distress. I love and adore her, and she only wants me to be happy and live with her forever (or so I tell myself) so I try to be good, I try to eat my veggies and keep my portions low, but as a junk food junkie, it’s hard to make the right choices. Sometimes I resent her for taking away my pleasure-eating, but usually that’s around dinner time when I’m hungry and cranky.

Back to the topic of the topic of food. Everywhere I go these days, people are talking about food. I have recipes in my Facebook news feed, I listen to my wife talk about food, I read emails from my mom telling my wife about recipes, there are documentaries, my wife’s new found Oprah craze in which she wants to me to watch every episode that deals with being fat, looking fat, feeling fat, sounding fat, talking about fat, then there are books that I want to read, and that my wife wants me to read…all of it centered around food. I’m sick of food!

Of course being sick of food hardly means it’s a topic we can just stop talking about. Tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll be posting again about my struggle to make healthy choices. I’ll also be talking about food with my wife tonight, and tomorrow morning, and so on, ad infinitum. We’re a county obsessed with eating, and for more than just survival or nourishment. We all love nice, juicy, succulent, heart attack on a plate with a side of diabetes. That’s right, I’m living the American Dream. A grocery store packed with food ingredients that were produced in a lab, fruits and veggies that were grown 20,000 miles away, and meats that were fed on our super-over-abundance of corn (whether they evolved to eat corn or not. Did you know we even feed corn to fish now?). I want to eat right, I want to be healthy, but man-oh-man, I’m sick of talking about food!

Oh but before I go I’ve got to tell you about this awesome chicken pot pie recipe my wife made last night…

To offset this, we also stopped by the Wal-Mart and bought two baseball mitts, a bucket of balls, and a football. It was fun, we got home, watched some TV, and oiled our new gloves to start breaking them in. When it gets a bit warmer we should be all set to get outside and get some exercise, but have good time too.

We also decided that on days when we can’t walk before our meal, we could do yard work for a bit instead. Picking up sticks that fall from the trees, etc. We figure this is similar to our predecessors doing some local gathering for flavor It also gets us a clean yard, some outside time, and some exercise as well.

Which brings us to the first day of our Caveman Diet today. We were all set, had our walking route picked out, and then I woke up this morning with a head cold. I’m dizzy and I can barely breathe, hardly the condition I want to go exercise in. Now it could be argued that our paleolithic cousins had to hunt/gather when they were sick, but for that I give you an excuse I imagine you will hear a bunch from me over the next few weeks – Cavemen also only had a life expectancy of 30 years or so! So no, I’m not gonna go make myself sicker or more miserable by exercising while sick, but as soon as I feel better, I’ll be strapping on the cross-trainers to earn my dinner.

For now…where’s my DayQuil? *groan*

I’m a Last Trip fiend. It’s one of my biggest downfalls I think. I go in mourning when I start a diet, so I want to say my final goodbyes to a dear friend. I savor that meal, trying to slow down and really taste the greasy taco meat, the texture of the french fry, the crispyness of the fried coating on the chicken plank. Then the diet starts, and like a person in mourning, I mope around for days, wishing I had just had one more day, one more meal, one more bite, one more taste, of that juicy, succulent, burger. I look down at the vegetables on my plate as if they were a goldfish somebody had  given me to  replace a dog I had owned since I was 10, telling me “but the goldfish is better for you!” I don’t care if the goldfish is better for me, I want my dog back!

Tonight, I have no idea if I’ll be able to resist the Last Trip before our Caveman Diet begins. I’ve already broken a couple huge rules today by not eating breakfast or lunch (only a handful of almonds) and I also haven’t had any water (but before you start posting in comments, I almost always drink a minimum of 64oz a day, usually closer to a full gallon), so sitting here right now, I’m starving. Also, the kitchen is kind of a disaster today, so the though of doing dishes just to get to the point of cooking dinner, in order to do dishes again, just feels overly taxing, and Taco Bell gleams even brighter.

See, that’s what us fat food addicts do…we rationalize. We tell ourselves that tonight it’s ok because of these extenuating circumstances. Tomorrow night we tell ourselves the same thing, we just change the reasons. How do you break free of the cycle? How do you quell the lure of the Last Trip?

*sigh*