not that you asked...

This doesn't mean we'll stop eating in front of the TV

I haven't gotten around to scheduling my haircut yet. Oh sure, I still want it, with a hot, burning, all-consuming desire, but it turns out that our monthly fundage is kind of... well, low. At the moment. We had a few unexpected costs in the last few weeks that just couldn't be avoided. Things like car repairs. New running shoes. Asher's fall wardrobe. A fabulous new dining room table and four fabulous matching chairs.

Which, yes, I KNOW. A dining room table is not usually considered an unexpected cost unless something sudden and abominable happened to your previous dining room table, like maybe the legs were eaten off by termites or you accidentally set it on fire or one of your black-belt holding dinner guests got a little overexcited and karate chopped it in half. All perfectly acceptable Emergency Dining Room Table Status situations.

But in our case, which also happens to qualify as Emergency Dining Room Table Status, it's just that the Ugliness got to us. As well as the Awkwardness and the Too Biggedness and the Hand-Me-Downedness and on the walk between Petsmart and DSW last Saturday afternoon we passed a store that was going out of business and Dave suggested we just take a moment and step inside.

Ten minutes later we loaded it into our car. Dave thought about bargaining with the guy, but decided he looked a little too sad and pathetic what with his store going out of business the very next day, so we paid asking price. Don't feel too bad for us. Asking price for a gorgeous black pedestal table and four cross back chairs was only $199.

I TRIED ON JEANS YESTERDAY THAT COST MORE THAN THAT. (I did not buy them. Truth be told, I did not even like them, but that is beside the point because the point is that I tried them on and they cost a lot, even if they were rather dissatisfactory.)

Anyway. Back to the gloating. ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE DOLLARS. The very sad and pathetic man told us that the list price had been around $800, but Dave swore he found the exact same chairs for sale on Ebay a few days ago, and they were $229 for a set of two. What I am rubbing in here is that hoooooooooo boy, did we get a deal or DID WE GET A DEAL? And not just any deal. People! I DID NOT SETTLE. I have wanted that black pedestal table for four entire years now and now I own it, and I own it LEGALLY, and therefore can move on with the rest of my life. There are other things I have to cross off my list of lifetime achievements, not the least of which is be that person who cuts the big red ribbon at a grand opening with one of those ridiculously oversized pairs of scissors.

Also I want to run the Olympic Torch relay but I just found out the only city the torch is passing through next year is San Francisco and I don't know about you, but when I think about San Francisco I think about steep hills and how embarrassing would it be if my labored breathing from RUNNING up one of those hills put the torch out altogether? Would they have to start all over at the beginning or would there be some sort of understudy torch to finish out the race? Either way, I doubt I would be anything other than COMPLETELY HUMILIATED. Along with my fellow countrymen. I simply do not want heavy breathing to be responsible for my 15 minutes of fame.

Now please ogle my Before and After photos. Except there aren't any Before photos, so never mind. Just trust me - the Before was NO GOOD.

 

Talk to me

First Word from captainhambone on Vimeo.

There are a lot of questions in this post. Thankfully, most of them are rhetorical.

I can’t remember ever owning a pair of jeans that I absolutely loved. This makes me all kinds of sad. Is it too much for a girl to ask to have a kicky haircut and underarms that maintain their composure in normal, everyday conditions and jeans that look awesome with anything?

Ok, ok, so the armpits—I don’t know how that slipped in there, but we won’t talk about it today. The JEANS though? The jeans we must talk about. You know, since we have already covered the haircut.

I want some new, awesome jeans. I have started feeling rather strongly about this issue, ever since I went through my closet last weekend and realized that every pair of jeans I’ve ever owned has been dissatisfactory on some level or another. Maybe the length was off by a few inches, maybe the crotch hung a little too low, maybe the waist gaped open so you could see my plumber’s crack. Something was always a little off. I have never found the elusive Denim Perfection.

Am I the only one? Is this something everyone wishes for? Are Stacy and Clinton completely serious when they tell me that no one gets things to fit perfectly without going to a tailor first? I cannot actually believe that this is a world where no one wears things off the rack anymore. WHERE IS EVERYONE BUYING THEIR PANTS?

Plus there’s this whole conundrum about the LENGTH of these jeans. Am I the only one who can’t wear the same pair with flats and heels? If I’m wearing boots, I need longer jeans. And if I’m wearing flats, then I need shorter ones so I don’t trip all over all that excess fabric and fall down the stairs/hallway/hillside/various other kinds of dangerous terrain. And honestly, this wouldn’t be such a big deal unless I hadn’t recently bought two really cute pairs of shoes that are begging to be worn.

What, you want to see them? Posed seductively on the top of my dresser? Well… okay. I guess.





(That second pair was $12.99 at Ross. Comparable to this pair I found at Ann Taylor LOFT. I KNOW! Don’t you want to go shopping with me? I’m kind of good at it! Sometimes!)

Now here’s the thing. I have this person who shops with me. His name is Asher, and he’s 11 months old, and he’s… well, he’s not the most patient person in the entire world. He’s working on it, but for the time being, he’s only really able to visit one, two, maybe three stores with me before he is DONE and would like LUNCH and would like it CUT UP FOR HIM in ITTY BITTY PIECES so he doesn’t CHOKE and would I mind BLOWING ON EACH PIECE because it’s too hot? And guess who is the person who routinely gives in to his every whim and demand? Yes. ME.

Do me a huge favor. I have tried on every pair of jeans at Gap. At Ann Taylor LOFT. At Old Navy. At Banana Republic. At Target (of course!). Where can I go to find that perfect pair of jeans, my Jean Nirvana, if you will? Is there a particular brand at a particular store that you love and would recommend? I don’t mind if they’re pricey, I still want to try them on. I’m not looking for anything in the skinny variety, I’m definitely more of a trouser/flare-leg kind of girl. I suppose the right pair of boot-cut jeans could do it for me too, but I have yet to find a boot-cut jean that I am even halfway compatible with.

EXCEPT THAT! I have a lunch date on Tuesday and since Asher won’t be coming with me, I have a few hours to splurge BY MYSELF at the mall afterwards. I’d love to have a game plan. Maybe I’ll take my camera with me and show you what I find?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Mr. Demanding. We’re going to watch some Sesame Street.

Psssssst!

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Reason 4,299 Why I Hate My Kitchen

I can live with the moldy refrigerator. I can live with the cracking, peeling floor tiles. I can live with the dishwasher that clogs every third run and the countertops that were used for cutting boards and the complete lack of storage space and the cabinets that are literally disintegrating before my very eyes. I can even live with the fact that there is carpet under the high chair. CARPET. Under a HIGH CHAIR.

What, you think I use a splat mat? Not if all the resulting stains and blemishes get me even a smidge closer to getting new hardwood floors.

Anyway. So I can live with all those things, although really, not very much longer. Four years is quite long enough. But do you know what I will not tolerate in the meantime?

THIS:


I SOOOO DO NOT THINK SO.

That right there? That is the closest thing to a tarantula that I have ever seen outside the National Zoo. I do not think I need to tell you what I did when I saw it. Or what I threw. Or exactly how much 409 I sprayed in its general direction for, oh, fifteen minutes or so.


Note copious amounts of disinfectant spray and quietly thank whoever invented plastic bread bags.

UGH!!




Please stop freaking out about a whole lot of nothing and get me some GRAPES, WOMAN.

Blabbity blab blab lost weight blab blab blab

I have gotten a fair bit of email over the last few weeks from people wondering exactly what I did to lose weight. And wouldn’t you know? It’s your lucky day! I’ve got a completely arduous and exhaustive answer! Pull up a chair! Oooh! And an ottoman for your feet! And I’ll wait while you get yourself a drink.

Ready?

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I lost 30 pounds once before. It was 2001, and I’d just graduated from college and moved to a brand-new city, without a job, where I had very little money for eating out (or eating PERIOD) and lots of big, hearty chunks of time to devote to exercise.

But I had also just started taking the appropriate dosage of medication to treat hypothyroidism.

The weight came off pretty quickly thanks to the medication. Yes, the restricted diet and the twice-daily exercise didn’t hurt (Why all that exercise? Because you can ONLY WATCH SO MUCH DAYTIME TV), but it was the medication that made the biggest difference. I’d spent the last two years of college hauling 20 to 30 extra pounds around despite trying to eat well and working out at least five times a week at the gym. I even lived in London for six months during those two years of college, and despite the fact that I walked EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME,  I didn’t lose a single solitary pound. (I spent a lot of them though! Get it? Pounds? Like, British currency? Oh shut up.)

But once I started the medication? POOF! I moved to

Atlanta

at the end of May as a generous size 14 and by September I was slipping easily into size 10 Abercrombie jeans (I’d obviously gotten a job by then). And I kept the weight off, for the most part, only gaining about five or seven pounds by the time I got married in 2003 even though I was commuting for three hours every day and had zero time for—or interest in—exercising.

Enter pregnancy. And cake. And then preeclampsia and then postpartum depression and then a hell of a lot of cheese. In April of this year, six months after giving birth, and despite 60 continuous days of regular aerobic exercise, I found myself approximately 19 pounds heavier than I was during that glorious

Atlanta

autumn of 2001. And I was unhappy about it.

So I joined Weight Watchers Online. This alone was a huge step for me: I am a strongly independent person (I despise being called “stubborn,” DAVE and MY MOTHER) and I do not like to admit that I cannot do things by myself. I don’t want any help doing anything—especially not something as personal as losing weight. But I had to admit that if I really knew how to do this, that I would never have gained back any of that weight I’d lost in the first place.

I started following the POINTS plan to the letter. I tracked everything I ate and I was surprised by how little I was supposed to be eating. The first two weeks were hard. Learning how to plan for meals and getting familiar with food values was a lot of work. Some nights I just ate an egg and two pieces of toast because I knew exactly how many POINTS it was worth and it was just too much of a hassle to research something else.

And though I wish I could tell you that I lost all the weight this time around by adopting a healthy, filling diet of lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, I didn’t. I eat toast for breakfast every single morning. I eat a sandwich for lunch most days: whole wheat bread and roasted chicken from the deli counter with a smear of light mayo. And I cook a lot of pasta, steak and ground turkey for dinners (because I SUCK at cooking chicken). But I do exercise every day. Most days I take Asher out in the stroller and we do anywhere from three to four miles of walking on paved trails, with lots of hills. We also take lots of short daily walks to the swings or to the field at the end of the street or just around the parking lot so Asher can ride in his little red car. On the weekends I sometimes take Hambone out for a 30-minute jog. I just make sure I do SOMETHING.

I don’t track every little thing I put into my mouth anymore. I wing it a lot of days. But that’s because I finally learned exactly how much I should be eating, even though it was kind of shocking at first. I don’t deny myself anything within reason. If I eat a handful of chocolate chip cookies on Tuesday, I am probably not going to let myself have a bowl of ice cream on Thursday, and I think that’s a healthy attitude to have.

I am now at the lowest weight I can ever recall having been at since high school. I am a good seven or eight pounds lighter than I was in 2001. I am only a few pounds away from the goal weight I set for myself in April, a goal weight that I set only because the online program wouldn’t let me set it any higher—I honestly didn’t believe I could get there, and I certainly never imagined it would be this easy. For the first time in my life, my BMI is out of the overweight range. But the most important thing is that I feel good about myself and my body feels firm and healthy and I’m proud of that.

On Monday, I have six bags of clothes that are way too big that will be picked up by a charity organization (ok, some of them were also really ugly). And I am routinely sleeping IN JUST MY UNDERWEAR. Now if that isn’t newfound confidence, then I don’t know what is. And it is AWESOME.

Some Things That Are Awesome About Weighing 26 Pounds Less Than I Used To, Except That Some of Them Are Gross

My thighs don’t rub together when I walk, which means the legs of my running shorts no longer creep up into my crotch, nor am I starting any small fires in my special lady area.

I can wear skirts, even when it’s hot, because my aforementioned thighs? No longer rub together, and thus, I can avoid The Chafing. I will now shamefully tell you that I sometimes carried baby powder with me for the express purpose of trying to keep my inner thighs dry and non-sticky. Which, mmmm! Thighs that smell just like fresh infant head. For like, six entire seconds and then all that sweat just turns the powder into paste.

I can put all my clothes into the dryer on a relatively high setting and wear them right when they come out. I don’t have to stretch them back out by doing lunges or odd body contortions or as a last resort, rewashing them and then stretching them by hand when they’re wet and letting them air dry. They just fit, like, IMMEDIATELY. It’s like a mini-miracle every time the cycle buzzer goes off.

I am looking forward to getting on the scale at my yearly gynecologist visit. I don’t necessarily look forward to the REST of the visit, OBVIOUSLY, especially the part that involves latex gloves and digital probing, but I am going to make that scale my bitch.

I can wear Dave’s pants. I mean, not that I WANT to, but if I did want to, I totally could. But thinking about it still makes me want to punch every woman who ever suggested that pregnant women should just borrow oversized clothes from their husband’s closets in the early stages of gestation IN THE FACE. Those women SUCK. Also, wasn’t there also something in here about stirrup pants? That alone kind of discredits the entire book, if you ask me.

I am no longer afraid to sit on anyone’s lap. Granted, now that I’m pushing 30 this isn’t the most useful thing in the entire world, but should I accidentally trip over something (highly likely) and land on top of someone? I am not going to have to worry quite so much about knocking the wind out of them or breaking their bones or even killing them. I am three gallons of milk lighter, after all!

I am going to be able to buy knee-high boots that are not in extended-calf sizes. I have always had bigger calves, and I have made my peace with them, but trying to find a pair of stylish boots that didn’t make my legs look like sausages encased in cheap, stretchy vinyl was next to impossible. This year, no vinyl. No pleather. Nothing synthetic that stretches to accommodate my once-girthier calf. I’m going for LEATHER, baby. Well, if I can afford it. Otherwise, I take that back. I can totally work with pleather! Of course I'll run it by Susan first.

I am feeling bold enough to get an awesome (and probably ridiculously pricey) new haircut. No more of this “growing it out” crap for me. I think it was the fact that I was feeling self-conscious about my weight after having a baby that made me want to grow it out in the first place. Note to self: Long hair does not a giant, body-hiding muu muu make.

I have an appointment with Hair Thursday but I don’t know how long I can wait. Does this happen to you? You decide you want to make a radical change and you must do it RIGHT NOW? Like, can they get me into the salon this afternoon? Tomorrow? WEDNESDAY AT THE LATEST? Because suddenly I loathe my hair.

Unfortunately, my bank account loathes ME and therefore I have to wait for the next paycheck to make any of my hair dreams a reality. Ah, stay-at-home motherhood. Reeling me in yet again. Good thing I’ve still got things like hot, fresh laundry to keep me happy. Happy... and somewhat pathetic.

I will be returning my regretful purchases

I've been reading Susan Wagner's Friday Style blog for a few weeks now and I have mixed reviews.

Basically, I love it. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT. Her taste is very similar to my own and the items she features are usually budget-friendly and this post is responsible for the five (YES! FIVE!) trash bags of clothing I weeded out of our bedroom closet and dressers a few days ago. But. BUT!

Except that also, I HATE HATE HATE IT because all it makes me want to do is squander the grocery money on embellished flats and swingy trapeze jackets and A-line skirts. Someone remind me exactly how I am going to sit cross-legged on a Cheerio-covered living room floor in a crisp A-line skirt? And how nice will my new embellished suede flats look with decorative drool stains on the toes? And how are Asher and I going to play the crawling game if I keep getting my knees caught in my big swingy jacket?

Oh, but how badly I want to. I'LL GET YOU FOR THIS, WAGNER.

So Sunday afternoon, inspired by Susan and her trendy eye and my new, smaller body, I secured childcare for Asher in the form of his father and took off by myself to the mall for a few blissful hours. Wait, yes. You read that right. To the MALL. On Labor Day weekend, also known in Virginia as The Weekend Before School Starts. So it was obviously not nearly as blissful as I had hoped it would be: I was shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow with a horrifying mix of sloppily underdressed teenagers and screaming toddlers and exasperated parents. I stood in line for dressing rooms! I made regretful purchases!

Also? I had a conversation with an Ann Taylor LOFT associate that I never in my entire life could have imagined would happen.

Associate (knocking on dressing room door): "Everything ok in there?"

Me: "Um, yes, except, could you see if you have these pants in a smaller size?"

Associate: "Sure. Be right back with a six."

Me: “…”

She brought them back but I couldn’t bring myself to try them on. I felt like I’d pushed my luck far enough.

Saturday we took Asher and our new family member, BOB, downtown, like Washington, DC-downtown, and may I tell you that it took us only 13 minutes to drive there? And yet I think the last time I was actually in the city was 2005. But it was a beautiful day and we lingered on the Mall and saw the new (to us) World War II Memorial and then we took Asher on the Smithsonian carousel but none of this pleased him half as much as chasing a pigeon did.







He is a child of simple, dirty pleasures. 

Hope you had a wonderful Labor Day weekend. It’s Football Season, baby!