iVillage - This Fish tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2007-11-30:/love//27 2009-11-20T18:12:12Z Movable Type Enterprise 4.21-en ode to davy jones tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.91964 2009-11-20T15:22:53Z 2009-11-20T18:12:12Z Long before we discovered Weird Al Yankovic, my brother, sister and I spent a ridiculous number of hours wearing out my parents' Monkees LP.  It was silly and accessible (listen to Gonna Buy Me a Dog and try not to sing along. Go on, TRY IT), and it had accompanying TV show reruns. But most of all, it had Davy Jones. Sigh. With his stylin' 60s apparel and his tooth sparkle, Davy Jones was IT. I mean, the be all end all of romantic figures. Grown up me would be much more of a Mickey Dolenz or Mike Nesmith kind of gal, but I was nine and for my age, I had an appropriately underdeveloped man palate.

Anyway.

Yesterday, my brother left two lines of a Monkees song (This Just Doesn't Seem to Be My Day) on my sister's Facebook wall. Reading the lines, I cocked my head to the side and thought for a few seconds. Yes, it was vaguely familiar. And then, it wasn't. It was TOTAL RECALL. It has probably been 20 years since I heard that song but wouldn't you know it, it's like it was encoded in my DNA. I've been singing the damn thing ever since. And yeah, maybe pining a little bit for Davy Jones and his tooth sparkle. Ping!

Care for a spider bite update? It's shrinking, like a good little spider bite should. I will not be sorry when the medications run out, though. Hoo boy, they make me dopey. This week has been really pretty crappy anyway - sometimes work is demanding in a way that does not produce one single ounce of satisfaction even when you meet the demand - and dopey on top of that can make a girl feel stabby. I'm sorta glad I don't keep scissors at my desk during weeks like this. So are my coworkers. 
]]> the bees knees tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.91304 2009-11-17T14:48:39Z 2009-11-17T21:11:10Z I got stung by a bee at the wedding. Because of course I did. In all other ways, the wedding - and the weekend - was just really lovely. The ceremony took place outside, under a tree overlooking Lake Travis... I got stung by a bee at the wedding. Because of course I did. In all other ways, the wedding - and the weekend - was just really lovely. The ceremony took place outside, under a tree overlooking Lake Travis and the reception was wonderfully laid back and simultaneously elegant. I'm always amazed when people pull off that combo. I'll admit I got a little choked up during the ceremony. The groom is on my List of People I Like Best and it made me a little verklempt to see him so happy. But then I got stung by a bee and stopped being verklempt and started being, well, puffy.

Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn't much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I've been obsessively checking that line ever since. It's a new hobby.

Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths - like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn't make it to boot camp yesterday. I'm still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess 'perfect' is sort of a relative thing.

*Warning: you should only click the above link if you are not one of those who are weary of all the gaggy happiness crap. Because that picture, it's pretty damn happy.
]]> off! tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.90814 2009-11-13T13:38:55Z 2009-11-13T14:22:02Z This morning, we're packing up the car and driving to Austin for a much-needed weekend away. The primary purpose of our trip is the wedding (the very one I was sure I needed a cool weather outfit for and here... This morning, we're packing up the car and driving to Austin for a much-needed weekend away. The primary purpose of our trip is the wedding (the very one I was sure I needed a cool weather outfit for and here it is, middle of November, and eighty-three degrees. Oh, Texas. You varmint) but spending some time being silly with Stephanie and Phil by no means comes in second on the list of highlights for the next two days. I just hope we don't play Upwords this time. Because, it's not Scrabble, dammit, and Stephanie makes me look like an illiterate, drooling half-wit.

The Dork Lord hasn't met any of my New York friends before. Not that they're so very different from my Dallas friends, but I'm pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and "lovey!" and "remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment" stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.

And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren't a family friendly site, I'd tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I'll just say, I'm sorry you're so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.

Who knew crock pots were so offensive?
]]> the short of love tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.90714 2009-11-12T16:37:58Z 2009-11-12T17:56:47Z For our anniversary, the Boy bought tickets to South Pacific at the new Winspear opera house. If I ever find myself doubting his affection for me, I will simply look back at that moment last night, when I opened the... For our anniversary, the Boy bought tickets to South Pacific at the new Winspear opera house. If I ever find myself doubting his affection for me, I will simply look back at that moment last night, when I opened the card, the blue and white tickets slipped out onto the counter and I realized, the man I love just dropped some serious cash to do something he will hate every moment of. Because he loves me. ]]> in a crock pot built for two tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.90184 2009-11-09T19:28:29Z 2009-11-09T20:28:17Z I am so smitten with my crock pot. Last year, the Boy and I bought one of those big, fancy ones with the meat thermometer, a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time. Okay, okay, not the... I am so smitten with my crock pot. Last year, the Boy and I bought one of those big, fancy ones with the meat thermometer, a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time. Okay, okay, not the compass - it was made by Hamilton Beach or something, not Red Ryder. Anyway, we made stew in it once and it fell apart. And so did my dreams. But then a couple weeks ago, we decided it was time - we'd gotten over our bitter disappointment and were ready to try again. This time, though, we went basic. Very basic. 2 quarts. 2 setting. Just exactly what two people need. And life has never been heartier.

Like right now, it's at home making pot roast, my wee little crock pot built for two. After boot camp, I chopped up some veggies, tossed in some beef, and when I came home at lunch to walk Sir Crapsalot, I opened the door to the most glorious smell this side of Quaker Instant Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal. Don't pretend you don't know. My coworker eats it. I get a little drooly because it smells like Sunday morning when I was 12, uninformed about such things as carbohydrates and diabetes, and maple syrup was my bitch.

One of the greatest gifts the crock pot has brought is the gift of vegetable variety. The Dork Lord, he is strictly a green bean and broccoli guy. No squash, no asparagus. Spinach? The horror! But since the crock pot lends itself so well to soup-making, I've started throwing all sorts of vegetables in and letting the crock pot do its thing. You know, as in making things soft and mushy and disguising specific flavors under one heavenly broth. In the last week we have added cabbage, zucchini and Brussels sprouts to the rotation with unprecedented success. There's a weird kind of personal satisfaction that comes from sponsoring improved colon health.

That, or the excitement level in my life needs some serious attention.
]]> let's get physical (and maybe a little irritable) tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.89574 2009-11-04T16:44:25Z 2009-11-05T14:34:42Z After weeks of shoulder pain, I had to break it to the boot camp trainers this morning that I would not being doing anything that involved jerky upper body movements. Jumping jacks? Sure. Push ups? Urgh, I guess so. I... After weeks of shoulder pain, I had to break it to the boot camp trainers this morning that I would not being doing anything that involved jerky upper body movements. Jumping jacks? Sure. Push ups? Urgh, I guess so. I mean, I hate them but I'll play along. But these crazy hopping, squat thrust things they call burpies? Um, no. I like having feeling in my pinky fingers. At one point, we were supposed to be "popping out" of a push up position to do shuttle drills (formerly known as 'suicide' drills - though I feel like we should use the old name; call a spade a spade). And having learned that all that popping was what kept me glued to my heating pad like a broken, geriatric spinster, I simply refrained.

Holy cow, after the number of times one trainer yelled, "You're supposed to be in push up position! PUSH UP! POSITION!" while I remained vertical, well, I'd be worried that it made me look a little bit obstinate - if I truly gave a damn. But I've been off muscle relaxers for two weeks now and I'd like to keep it that way. Plus, all that yoga-ing has made me feel very zen about my workout. I do what I can and accept my body and what it has to offer today. Which is so totally un-boot camp.

DEAL WITH IT.

Speaking of yoga-ing. I've been debating about whether to make this an official gripe, but I think I will, in case you're thinking of getting into yoga and need an honest assessment of the studio. If you're not and you don't, feel free to tune out now.

A couple weeks ago, I signed up for the 10 days for $10 introductory offer at Sunstone Yoga. I've been a fan of hot yoga since I first tried it in Boston almost... ten years ago. Yes, I gasped when I typed that. Anyway, after your third introductory class at Sunstone, they make it a point to call you up to the desk to go over your "options." You know, for non-introductory price yoga. Which I don't have to tell you is pricey. Now, I'd already read about all of my options online. I knew I didn't want one of their one year, unlimited, auto-deduct packages. I had every intention of continuing my practice there - the room is properly heated, most of the instructors are good - but with boot camp, I would only be up for one or two times a week. I had it all figured out.

After my fourth class (guess I squeaked by the day before), I got called up to the front desk where the yoga instructor/mad dog sales lady proceeded to give me the hard sell - the hardest hard sell I've had to put up with in a long ass time.

I don't know how many times I said, "No thank you. I already know my options, and I will be buying my classes individually," but it was apparently not acceptable. I could feel my shoulders getting tense as I tried to explain time after time that I was simply NOT INTERESTED. When I finally escaped, I went home and shot them a quick email letting them know I appreciate that they have a business to run, but I did not appreciate their very un-yoga approach. I got a call later that morning. Trying to sell me a package. And then an email. And then another call - this one letting me know that it's the responsibility of the instructors to make me aware of my "options." Again with the options.

I've since received two more calls and another email.

Basically, I could not feel any less zen about my experience with them. And this morning at camp, my workout partner mentioned the same thing. They want your cash, and they don't care about much else (except for yesterday's instructor - who was very concerned with sending energy to my lady parts. Which I fully appreciated).

And... non-yoagers, tune back in. One month from today, I'm going to Disney World with the Boy's family. That is all. Eeee!
]]> sundial. safe. tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.89154 2009-11-02T16:17:06Z 2009-11-02T19:53:34Z I own one of those alarm clocks that just knows what time it is. Something to do with magical signals from space or some such. And because of those magical space signals, at 2AM on Sunday, bloop! the time fell... I own one of those alarm clocks that just knows what time it is. Something to do with magical signals from space or some such. And because of those magical space signals, at 2AM on Sunday, bloop! the time fell back automatically, without a bit of assistance from me. So low maintenance, my little alarm clock! Only, apparently, it decided that once wasn't enough and bloop! the time fell back AGAIN lat night while I was sleeping. I struggled from sleep at 5AM to head out to boot camp, only to learn from the microwave that it was 6AM and camp was going on without me.

Are you sure, Microwave?

The microwave referred me to the DVR box for back up and then to the cell phone, who has a long and storied history of truth-telling. It was indeed 6AM.

Oh, technology, you rogue. Between the Dork Lord and me, it took a good twenty minutes of jabbing at that thing to figure out how to manually reset it and even now, I'm not so sure it won't get crazy ideas about how to pass the time when it's bored again at 2AM. God, I'm glad I didn't end up purchasing a Clocky. By now, that thing would have figured out how to roll right off the night stand, yank my car keys and go joyriding. And something tells me it would not have any respect for speed bumps.]]> yesterday, illustrated tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.88924 2009-10-30T14:26:57Z 2009-10-30T14:47:31Z I found a hair in my salad. At lunch with a potentially very important client. I very quietly removed the offending gag-worthy hair and ate the damn salad. Now I'm waiting for the communicable, debilitating disease to kick in. In...
We celebrated the one year anniversary of our meeting, in the same pub, in the same booth. Then we bought a mullet wig at Walmart. Because that is what love is about. The best part of it was, when I suggested dinner Thursday night at The Restaurant Where We Met, his response:

"Sure. What's Thursday?"

"Um, the day we met?"

FAIL. Though, I suppose the Universe is going on just as it should. I'm still not sure he knows my birthday.

My nephew Owen tuned one. If you don't have a reason for not stepping in front of a bus at the end of a long, assy day, you may borrow this one. I nearly died of The Cute.

And then I died

Penny Jayne had her first sponge bath. And she hated it. My brother sent a bunch of pictures of her tiny, pink pissed off face. But I prefer this one. Where she's clearly telling her mother all about the pony she should receive for having gone through such an ordeal.

Penny's First Bath

"Oooh, or maybe a WHITE pony with PINK ribbons..."]]> find a penny... tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.88494 2009-10-27T14:31:29Z 2009-10-27T18:23:30Z When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was... When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was a shout out to the Universe to tread lightly with this one, please and thank you. My second was a shout out to my brother.

"Penny looks like an X-wing pilot."

"That's my girl."

His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she wasn't named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife's firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.

She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents' permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.

Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I've been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I'm still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.

TA DA!

Penny Jayne!
]]> feelin' groovy (from the waist up) tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.88164 2009-10-23T15:27:19Z 2009-10-23T16:13:19Z I feel really good today - mentally, that is. Boot camp this morning was all about sprinting (it's cold; they wanted to keep our muscles warm. Mmm hmmm) so physically, I'm all wobbly legged and still haven't lost that heaving... I feel really good today - mentally, that is. Boot camp this morning was all about sprinting (it's cold; they wanted to keep our muscles warm. Mmm hmmm) so physically, I'm all wobbly legged and still haven't lost that heaving feeling, whoa, that heaving feeeeeeling. But! Since today was the last day of the four-week camp, I ventured onto the scale and was greeted with a number eight and a half pounds lower than when I began. This makes me very happy. True, due to some very stubborn saddlebags, I'm still approximately eighty THOUSAND squat jacks away from fitting into jeans I don't hate because of how closely they come to falling into Category: Mom Jeans, but this is the kind of progress I can get behind.

Tomorrow, I aim to ride a bike, a feat I have not attempted in seventeen years. Ooh, and on Sunday, I start hot yoga (ten days for ten dollars! Suckers). If you do not hear from me on Monday, come looking. I will be the one in a dehydrated heap of a pretzel on the classroom floor. Just add water.

In case you're wondering why I'm being such a nut so dedicated about this exercise crap (more than one person has insinuated it's because of my boyfriend), I'm telling you straight: it's not at all about the Boy (who just plain loves me, inclusive of very stubborn saddle bags). It's about clothes. Fall time brings cooler weather and an outdoor wedding in the middle of November brings about a need for an outfit to withstand - and fashionably, at that - the aforementioned weather. And seeing as how I can't afford to buy clothes in Size Fluffy and also make my car payment, I'm trying to whittle down to fit in my pre-existing fall wardrobe. Right now, my full length coat doesn't close around my bum. And I'd sure like it to.

In a final bit o' news, we're expecting the arrival of my niece, Penny, ANY DAY NOW. To hasten delivery, my brother has tried loading his wife up with spicy foods and driving her up into the canyon for some experiments in elevation - all to no avail. I've even tried to coax her out with a cheery game of Red Rover (send Penny right over!) but obviously, good clean fun means nothin' to kids these days because she's still in there. Taunting us. 
]]> status: thank you note tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.87934 2009-10-22T14:56:22Z 2009-10-22T14:59:29Z Just so you don't think I'm being an ingrate or that I've forgotten, if you haven't already gotten a thank you note, you will soon. I ran out cards. And then out of postage. And some of you are in... Just so you don't think I'm being an ingrate or that I've forgotten, if you haven't already gotten a thank you note, you will soon. I ran out cards. And then out of postage. And some of you are in like, Norway! All of which requires a trip to the dreaded Post Office of Doom. Also, maybe I got a little bit of a hand cramp because you're all so wonderful.

Thank you. Really a whole lot.
]]> rattling the stalls tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.87814 2009-10-21T18:15:04Z 2009-10-22T19:55:06Z My first order of business yesterday morning was to kick the waste basket. Hard. It hit the wall with a hollow thud, a sound satisfying enough that I thought about kicking it again, just because. I went for coffee instead.... My first order of business yesterday morning was to kick the waste basket. Hard. It hit the wall with a hollow thud, a sound satisfying enough that I thought about kicking it again, just because. I went for coffee instead. Ordinarily, I'm not much of a tantrum person, preferring to deal with my frustrations in the classic bottle-it-up method that does such wonderful things for my digestive system. But yesterday things had reached a boiling point, and I found myself not at all averse to some waste basket kicking and less than careful door closing. Bathroom door. Bam! Pantry door. Bam! Front door, car door, trunk. Bam times three! When I walked into the ladies' room, I swear I saw the stalls quaked with fear.

The funny thing was, I was only beating the hell out of inanimate objects so I wouldn't cry. To quote my favorite movie ding bat, Cher Horowitz, "I felt impotent and out of control, which I really hate." Surely I'm not the only one whose inability to confront anger results in puddles of tears. What's a girl to do? Get a punching bag? Take up a hobby that involves ripping or breaking things (oooh, maybe decoupage!)?

By late afternoon I figured I'd do humanity a favor and go home early. Take a nap. Take a bath. Eat some dinner and then let my fella take me to a movie. Oh, and watch Glee, which has this freakish way of making anything and everything better. The dancing! The My Fair Lady nod! God, it's just so...me. It's like Sarah says, the calls? They're coming from inside the house.

Incidentally, Where the Wild Things Are was a misstep, if you're doing any movie-going and need some guidance. It's not about your favorite picture book. It's not even really about childhood. It is about divorced parents. The allusion was very strong and made the movie sad - only, not in a good, cathartic way - in an unresolved, upsetting way.  
]]> 147 ftw! tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.87374 2009-10-19T15:44:32Z 2009-10-19T16:32:25Z Who's got two thumbs and lowered her cholesterol by ONE HUNDRED points? This girl right here! Don't you know, I love getting awesome grades on tests (which, funnily enough, I just spelled as 'testes,' giggled and imagined what must be... know what I went through.

The above is evidence that I would not have done so well at one of those progressive, don't give grades kind of schools. So I crave recognition. It's not like it's meth or anything.

Not all of the news from my doctor was good news, and so on Friday I had to get myself a specialist to administer some uncomfortable and terrifying procedures on my downtheres. Apparently, I chose wisely because not only was Dr. Specialist able to see me first thing this morning, it turns out he's the dude who invented the terrifying and uncomfortable downthere procedures and if you're gonna have just any ole person fiddling with your sensitive bits, it might as well be that guy. And while he delivered very good news within minutes and asked me out for a second date in three months, his expertise and my peace of mind cost me a whopping hundred and eighty bucks (thank you, stupid deductible).

I won't lie, I was pretty nervous about this. I've dodged the bullet once before - precancer that just up! and vanished after a few tests. And as much faith and hope as I wanted to have, I doubted very much that you get more than one Get Out of Jail Free card when it comes to baby making health. But I've landed on Free Parking yet again and now I can go home and really eat up those gorgeous yellow roses the Boy brought home, without a second thought... and maybe with a glass of wine and a big ole hunk of cheese. 

Do not tell my cholesterol.
]]> you're all zombies until i get my kashi bar tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.86224 2009-10-12T17:28:39Z 2009-10-12T17:56:59Z Today was my annual physical. Which meant I got to go see my doctor, get on a scale and have her put it down in writing that I'm significantly more fluffy than I was last year, have the very life... Today was my annual physical. Which meant I got to go see my doctor, get on a scale and have her put it down in writing that I'm significantly more fluffy than I was last year, have the very life blood taken from me and then, well, there were stirrups involved toward the end.

And... all the boys have all closed their browser windows.

I suppose I wouldn't mind any of the above so much if I didn't have to fast. Even the blood drawing is somewhat pleasant because nurses love my veins and always make such a fuss over how easy it is to perform this gruesome task when working with such fantastic subjects. I like to think I had something to do with these big, beautiful veins, so I always say thank you and grow a little bit of an ego. But me on an empty stomach? There's nothing happy about that. It's like... well, remember that time Woody Harrelson was walking through the airport and some paparazzo got in his face and he gave him a knuckle sammich and then in his own defense claimed it was because he thought the paparazzo was a zombie? Yeah, it's like that. I'm willing to bet that Woody was just really hungry. Somebody made him skip breakfast for a cholesterol test and mistakes were made.

During the physical, my very sweet Physician's Assistant got out her stethoscope, prodded around my tummy and then said with smile, "You sound very hungry."

"That was your idea."

No sense in pretending I got up at 5AM and then voluntarily went foodless until 10:30. So long as there are Kardashians starving in LA, I will clean my plate, dammit.

The nicest thing about going to my doctor is the quality listening time. Never once have I felt rushed into getting down to the paper gown part of the event and have always been relieved just to be able to say, "Here are all the things that don't feel right. Can you make them better?" And having a doctor who will write you a prescription for a sleep aid without giving you hassle, well, I guess that's worth a tummy rumble once a year.  


]]> apparently *not* built ford tough tag:thisfish.ivillage.com,2009:/love//27.85854 2009-10-08T18:24:04Z 2009-10-08T22:02:26Z "You just weren't built for that kind of thing."As much as I hated to admit it, the Dork Lord was right. I was not built for this kind of thing. We'd worked out in the cold rain that morning, and... "You just weren't built for that kind of thing."

As much as I hated to admit it, the Dork Lord was right. I was not built for this kind of thing. We'd worked out in the cold rain that morning, and by late afternoon I was in bed with a chill. Knee socks, heating pad, hot soup and clinging to the down comforter for dear life. Boot camp was going to be the ruin of me. It was only Friday that I took a header during the relay races and tore the ever-loving heck out of my hands. Sure, I fell. But did I get back up and finish every single race with scraped up palms, blood running down my arm and a skinned knee? Oh, yes. Yes, I did. And we won, too. Because I may be sickly and accident prone, but I am a friggin' champ. Also, I really didn't want to look like a quitter in front of those people, most of whom are actual athletes - you know, the kind who come without FRAGILE stamped on their hind ends.

Fra-gee-lay. It must be Italian!

Having not lost a single ounce, I'm not sure what I'm getting out of camp, other than out of bed at god forsaken o'clock in the morning and sore. But it is serving as a good motivator and I have every faith that one day -- one sweet, sweet day -- my jeans will fit again. And all the peasants will cheer.

Speaking of cheer, you guys are really effing fantastic. The in-the-mail thank you notes will come as promised, but I'd feel remiss if I posted today and didn't mention how thankful I am. There aren't enough words. There just aren't.
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