A Prince in My Future....

I love the song "Some Day My Prince Will Come" from Cinderella. I believe in fairy tales and believe the words to that song. Even though I'm on the "old" side of my 40's, I'm sure there's a prince out there for me. He might be old and kinda frog-looking, but he's out there.

And today, I received an e-mail from my prince. Prince Bala Momoh from Liberia, to be exact.

He sounds like a very lovely person, despite his bad grammar and not quite perfect grasp of the English language. He's been through a lot - his father was executed and he and his mother (my future mother-in-law!) have been exiled from Liberia and his $40 million family fortune has been tied up in an account here in the US and he can't get to any of it.

And that's why he's written me. He's willing to share 20% of his $40 million with me if give him my full name, date of birth, address and my mother's maiden name. I guess maybe he wants to ask my mother's permission for my hand in marriage or something. Oh, he even gave me a phone number to call to give him all this information personally because, after all, sending that through e-mail is unsecure and anybody could steal my identity. Wow. He really cares!

I'm so thrilled that he picked me out of the millions of other eligible women with e-mail accounts in the world! What should I do? Should I call him and introduce myself? Should I e-mail him back with my picture and ask him for his? Maybe I should start registering and looking for wedding dresses.

I may be looking for a 'prince' but I'm not THAT stupid....

Until Next Time,

Kel

Will I Have Good Fortune?

Whenever I get Chinese food, Aero flips out when it comes time to eat the fortune cookies. He LOVES fortune cookies, probably more than he loves regular dog treats. You should see his reaction when I open the little plastic wrapper - one day he's going to have a heart attack waiting for his sweet treat.

I usually read the fortunes that are enclosed in the cookies and think "huh" for a second, then in the trash those little pieces of paper go. But, a while back, one caught my eye and I kept it. It said: Remeber three months from this date. Good things are in store for you. I don't know why that one grabbed me, but I wrote the date on it and brought it to the office and placed it on my computer. The date? 1/24.

So, today is 4/24 - three months from the date I found that fortune. It's still early in the day, but do you think I'll have good fortune today?

We'll see.

Until Next Time,

Kel

Time for a Soapbox...

If my knee didn't still hurt, I'd definitely jump up on a soapbox and just start shouting. Then again, if I did jump up on a soapbox, said soapbox would be squished. (insert appropriate sly grin here)

Okay, enough small talk. On to the giant rant of the week.

I've admitted this in several posts, and have admitted it out loud for several years now: I'm a big girl. I'm a fattie. I've got thunder thighs and a big ass. But you know what? I'm okay with it -- for the most part. It's my body and my life and just because you have a problem with it, why should I be the victim of your ridicule and judgment?

I saw Jeff Somebody-or-other yesterday at the ortho's office. After being rushed into the exam room because they like to keep on schedule (I was there at 1:15 for my 1:30 appointment - the receptionist didn't show up until 1:25!), Mr. "I think I'm so wonderful" walked in the room and before he even said a word, gave me the stink eye and a sneer that would have sent silver spikes through a vampire's heart. We exchanged the required pleasantries and I explained the fall and subsequent trip over the bag and how after a week, my knee was still incredibly painful and that's why I'm here to see you. With a continued look of disdain on his face, he promptly stated that 'this office doesn't do workman's comp claims.' Okay, I never said it was workman's comp - I tripped out of clumsiness and it could have happened to me anywhere. My employer has nothing to do with this.

Well, he did agree to take a quick look at my knee and asked me if I could lift my pants legs up above both knees so that he could see what they looked like. Well, because I had on my favorite stretchy pants, that wasn't a problem, until I saw the disgusted look on his face. I mean, come on, my knees are fat - but they don't look like trolls! He made me walk around the exam room, then get up on the table so he could squeeze, twist, bend and push on my knees. Then the "fun" started.

He did explain (after re-stating that they don't do workman's comp) that he didn't think that there was anything major wrong with my knee, but without an x-ray and/or an mri, he couldn't be certain if there was any tearing or something broken in there. Okay, fine by me - let's get started. Oh, no, you see, we don't do workman's comp and even if we did find some damage in there, we wouldn't know if it's new damage from this fall or old damage.

Old damage? Old damage? From what? I'm not a football player or other professional athlete who got pummeled over the years and I've never had knee problems in my life.

"Well, because of your weight..."

Oh, here we go. If I could have, I would have jumped off that damn table and used my kickboxing skills to smack him with a good roundhouse kick to the cajones. Sonofabitch is all I could think of as I half listened to his speech about how if I'd only lose 5-10 pounds it would ease the pain in my knee.

It was all he could do so see me out the door after his little self-righteous sermon. This whole episode took less than 20 minutes. Oh, and he was so nice - he told the receptionist to not charge me or my insurance for the visit since he really couldn't help me.

Couldn't or DIDN'T WANT to help me? I think it was more that he didn't want to.

Now, don't get me wrong. I know that my weight has caused issues with my health and my life in general. I'm the first one to admit it and the first one to stand up and take responsibility for it. I don't blame anyone or anything for the shape I'm in, and those of you who know me, know that I'm not your stereotypical large person. I don't sit around eating fast food for every meal and stuffing myself with cakes, cookies and junk food while laying on the couch watching reruns of Jerry Springer all day long. I maintain a relatively healthy eating style (yeah, I'm human and enjoy some not-so-good-for-you stuff, too), stay active and keep on top of my health issues so that I can be as 'healthy' as possible.

But just who the hell did this guy think he was judging me by just looking at me and assuming that the pain in my knee was because of my weight? And that he needed to tell me the benefits of losing weight? DON'T YOU THINK I ALREADY KNOW ALL OF THAT YOU DING DONG?

This encounter really got my knickers in a knot because it's the second time in a few weeks that I've met a medical "professional" for the first time and they didn't really address the reason I was there, but felt it necessary to 'scold' me and lecture me about my size. I let the first one go (kinda), but this one has been bugging me for 24 hours now and I feel like I want to go back there and slap the hell out of that guy.

And today, my knee still hurts, but I don't have the courage to find another doctor to see about it. I just can't deal with another round of "you should lose weight because..." from a total stranger.

Yeah, today, it sucks to be me.

Until next time,

Kel

Can I Just See a Doctor PLEASE??????????

It has been a week since 'the floor show' and my knee has been a very painful reminder of what an uncoordinated ding-dong I really am.

Each morning, I think it's getting better, but by the time I get to work, I know that it's not. This morning I finally convinced myself to find an orthopedic doctor nearby and make an appointment because I'm afraid I'm doing more damage to the knee than healing. And I want to get back to the gym!!!

So, I went online to the insurance company's website and found a listing of over 100 orthos to choose from. Egad. I narrowed it down to those within 15 miles of the office. I thought that would be a good place to start, since I spend most of my day at work. I also wanted a doctor who was affiliated with the hospital near my house and not Stanford Medical Center, even though Stanford is a world-class facility. I'm trying to think practically in case this turns out more seriously than I'd like to believe it is.

Found it. A clinic in the next city over from the office and multiple ortho docs who are affiliated with my hospital. Goodie. Called and was put through to the appointment desk. Went through all of the 172 questions to get me 'registered' with this particular clinic. After I explained what had happened for the second time to the woman on the phone, she offered me an appointment tomorrow at 1:30 with Jeff Somebody-or-other, Dr. So-and-So's "Physican Assistant." Huh? Can't I see the doctor? Well, no, you see his PA for the first time and he'll determine what needs to be done and whether or not you need to see the doctor. HUH?

This is not the only time I've been given an appointment with the physician's assistant or even a nurse practitioner instead of a doctor. What's up with that? Is this some new medical protocol that I'm not aware of? I'm not saying that these talented folks are not worth seeing, but hey, I'd like to see an MD every once in a while, especially on a first visit!

Maybe I'm just old-fashioned and think that a doctor's appointment should be with a doctor. Hey, if my dentist can do my routine teeth cleaning ever six months instead of having a hygenist do it, then dang it, why can't a doctor see me and take a look at my knee?

Yeah, yeah, I know. I could call another office and see if I get better results. But that would mean another round of anxiety and fear. You see, down deep, I really despise going to the doctor's office and I will avoid it until I'm either on death's door or a friend is dragging my sorry butt in there on a gurney. It's that whole judgmental assessment of 'you have this problem because you're a fat cow and if you'd lose some weight you wouldn't be here' from medical professionals that sends waves of horror through my body. But that's a post for another day.

For now, I'll just be seeing Jeff Somebody-or-other, the Physician's Assistant, tomorrow about my very painful knee.

Until Next Time,

Kel

Is It a Sin....

Well, Sunday is Easter, so that means Lent is almost over.

I've eaten my last Friday tuna sandwich of the year (I HATE tuna so this has been a real pennance for me!) and only have about a day and a half left to stay away from Diet Coke, refined sugar and fast food.

This year it seems that I wasn't as crazy as I have been in the past by giving up these things. Occasionally, I'd have a craving for a Diet Coke (especially when eating those danged tuna sandwiches), but it would pass. And the fast food? Well, today it would have been nice to go through a drive-through since my knee is out of whack (see yesterday's post on being the floor show) and walking is painful, but for the most part, I've been able to ignore it. I think that now that I've gotten the refined sugar out of my system I'm not craving it, so I'm a little afraid to jump back into sweets too quickly even though those mini-Snickers bars on my desk are YELLING my name today...

Last night, when I was talking to my Dad, we somehow got on the subject of Popeye's Fried Chicken and he mentioned that in New Orleans, they have a great fried shrimp deal right now. Something about 9 fried shrimp, fries or red beans and rice and a drink for like $7.99. Well, since I haven't done fast food in a while and the nearest Popeye's is about 10 miles from my house, I wouldn't know about that deal.

But, it got me to thinking: would it be a sin if today, Good Friday, I went to my local Popeye's and bought the fried shrimp deal and had it for dinner so that I wouldn't eat meat tonight? Does not eating meat cancel out the fact that I'm buying fried shrimp from a fast food place?

Being Catholic can be complicated.

Until Next Time,

Kel

The Floor Show

As if yesterday's little trip to the mall wasn't exciting enough, I had even more excitement at the end of the day in the office. I did my version of "The Floor Show."

Late in the afternoon, I went up to my storage area to put some stuff away. I walked into the training room (I can't remember why) and caught my toe on the carpet -- and down I went. I remember twisting to avoid hitting my head on the table that was nearby, and of course, I twisted my right knee on the way to the floor. When I hit the ground, I just laid there for a minute trying to decide if I was dead or injured. I also wondered if when I fell, was I like a tree in the forest: did people downstairs in the office hear me fall? All I could do was lay there and laugh at myself for a couple of minutes while assessing the damage to this aging body of mine. The one thing I kept thinking was "if I can't get up, they'll probably never find my body up here." That part of the office is a ghost town and I'm usually the only one that goes up in that area.

I started worrying about getting up - what if I can't? The phone is on the other end of the room.... But then, I kept hearing Denise in my head: you're building your upper body strength so that if you ever fall down, you can drag yourself across the room to get the phone and call 9-1-1. Yeah, I think I could have done that, but man, there would have been some nasty carpet burns.

So, I dusted myself off, got to my feet and continued laughing at myself. It was at that point that I knew I did something to my knee.

Of course, I'm too stubborn and HAD to go to Zumba. Well, that was a mistake. My knee was killing me. I kept getting cramps just below the back of my knee (which the trainer said was likely from the twist) and my back was hurting. But, I think keeping moving helped me to not be sore and in pain this morning. I stood under the hot shower for a while and then iced my knee last night; this morning, I took a longer than normal hot shower, too.

Do you think I was done with my uncoordinated moments? Of course not! This morning I went to help an attorney with her computer and when I stepped back away from it, I managed to trip over her brief case and yep, you guessed it - I twisted that right knee AGAIN. At least I didn't have an encore performance of my Floor Show routine....

What an uncoordinated ding-dong.

Until Next Time,

Kel

The Lunchtime Shopping Spree

I am missing the "shopping gene" that most women have. I HATE going to the mall. I would rather be beaten with a bat than to go to a mall. And on those times when it is necessary to make a trip there, it takes many hours of mental preparation on my part to survive it. Today was one of those necessary days.

Since Mervyn's closed its doors at the end of last year, I've been very careful about how I wear and care for my bras. They carried the exact size and brand I like and I could usually get them on sale whenever I needed a new one. And even though Mervyn's was in the mall closest to my house, it was an end-anchor store, so I could park right outside the door, jump out of the car, run into the door and up the escalator to the wall o' bras to get what I needed. Round trip, I could get the goods and be home within 20 minutes and never step foot inside the mall. It was a good system.

On Sunday, as I was moving things around in my workshop, I heard a very distinct snap, followed by a sharp pinch on the underside of my right, ahem, boob. Fear and panic set in as I knew it was the dreaded underwire snap, and this was my second-to-last Mervyn's purchased bra. Egad! Would I have to head into another store IN A MALL to try to find a new supply? Like Scarlett O'Hara, I put the thought away because I still had 1 more bra and tomorrow was another day....

I started hearing commercials for Macy's one day sale on Wednesday, and as luck would have it, bras were on sale: buy 2, get 2 free. Yippee - the price was right, but it meant a trip to the mall. The cold sweats started. Last night, there was a commercial on tv for the sale, and my interest was piqued by the $99 2-carat total weight diamond and sterling silver bracelet that you could only get until 1:00. Hmmm, I could go to the Macy's at the Stanford Shopping Center (an open-air mall filled with yuppie stay-at-home moms and rich, retired ladies) during lunch, purchase 4 bras and reward myself for surviving the trip with a diamond bracelet. Yeah, that worked for me. I woke up this morning with a new feeling of confidence. It's amazing what the thought of diamonds will do for a girl.

I set out around 12:30 today, wanting to make sure I could get a bracelet before 1:00. It took all of 10 minutes to get to the shopping center and park. I thought I should buy the bracelet first. I opened the door to Macy's and it hit me: the sickeningly sweet blend of perfumes from the corners of the world. My head started spinning as I tried to adjust to the smell and clear my eyes of the onslaught of tears from the irritation. That's one of the reasons I hate going to the mall.

I made my way through the cosmetics section, weaving and dodging the sales women standing outside their counters ready to pounce on anyone who looked like they needed a makeover. I must have looked pretty good (or had my 'don't talk to me face' on) because not a single one stopped me. I can't decided if I'm glad or insulted.

I found the diamond bracelet and tried it on. It wasn't quite what I was expecting and after some deliberation, I put it back in it's lovely velvet box and decided that I'd rather spend that money on more scrapping supplies. It was off to the third floor and the lingere department!

So, being a big girl, I can tell you that I don't spend a lot of time in the department store. And the lingere department? I can't tell you when was the last time I even stepped foot in one because at Mervyn's, I could make a bee-line to the product I needed and never even look at anything else that resembled lingere. So, here I was with my utilitarian over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and granny panties at the edge of the "intimate apparel" department at Macy's. Oh.my.gosh!!!! I never knew bras and "seat covers" could come in so many styles, colors, shapes and sizes... My head was once again spinning.

I gathered up my courage, stepped into the colorful department and tried to find the name brands that I like; once at that rack, it was a task to find a band size over 40 to hold my rack. Department stores just don't cater to women who are larger than a pencil and finding what you need becomes a treasure hunt. Well, I managed to find one white and one beige in the style I like in my size; I settled for another white and beige in another style by the same manufacturer. I figured what the heck - they were free, right?

Mission accomplished, and now to stand in line to pay for these 4 treasures. That's when I got an eyeful of today's lingere fashions. The line for the checkout counter was snaked through the itsy-bitsy pieces of fluff that some people can get away with wearing. Yikes. A band-aid is much cheaper and probably covers more real estate than some of those getups. The most fascinating piece was the bra and 'thong' set on the mannequin that was staring me in the face while I waited my turn. It was a cotton number with cherries on it and lots of lace. Lots of lace is an exaggeration - it would have been lots of lace if it were in my size. I can say the the bra was cute and for a moment, I thought it was something that if I could find it in my size, I'd wear it. But it was the sight was of the thongy-thingy that fascinated me. The elastic for the waistline (or hip line - it was a low-rider) was covered in the cherry-motif material, and it held up a piece of lace that surrounded the hip. Strategically placed at the bottom of the lace was a triangle of said cherry-motif cotton that couldn't have been more than 3 inches at its widest point. And the bottom of the triangle was attached to the back this contraption by what looked like a shoelace with cherries on it. I.KID.YOU.NOT. A shoelace!!!!!!!

What da.... I just stood there trying to figure this little number out: you'd have to have a really good Brazilian 'cause that triangle ain't covering anything up.... what's the point of the shoelace.... isn't the shoelace uncomfortable.... if you're wearing a skirt with that underneath, how do you sit down and not get germs in strategic locations? The one thought that kept popping into my mind: if I wore that with my butt, that shoelace would never be seen again.

Thank goodness I didn't have to wait too long because I'm sure my brain would have imploded trying to figure out the whys and whats about that outfit. As I left the department with my four industrial strength bras, I was kinda glad I'm a big girl and don't have to deal with fashion dilemmas like shoelace thongs.

I wandered over to the housewares department where things looked very familiar and I felt comfortable and bought a set of frying pans to calm my nerves.

I might have cherry-motifed nightmares tonight.

Until Next Time,

Kel

The Weekend is Over....

Here it is, Monday morning and I'm back at work again. Seems like the weekends get shorter and shorter, even when I'm not super busy.

I am kinda excited for a Monday. You see, I finally had a scale victory this morning. It's been a long time coming, but I got there. I feel like I'll jinx myself if I actually say the number out loud, so let me put it to you this way: Aero weighs all of 3 pounds. According to my scale, I've lost 7 Aeros!

Now don't you say the number out loud either! That will jinx me for sure and some of those pounds will find their way back to my hips. Just think of 7 little Yorkies jumping off my hips and running away...

I got back to my personal training sessions with Denise on Friday night and while she was torturing me with some new exercises, I told her that the scale was finally moving in the right direction and what my progress had been to date. I admitted to her that I had finally taken her advice and stopped focusing (and obsessing!) on the scale and just focused on my workouts and watching what I'm eating. Too bad I didn't listen to her sooner (as she reminded me!)!!

That little scale victory makes me WANT to go to the gym tonight.

Until Next Time,

Kel