Why weight?

Today I joined Weight Watchers. This is actually the third time in my life I have joined Weight Watchers. You'd think by now I'd have learned how to watch my weight, but alas, my Taurean hardheadedness still wins. Well, that and my addiction to potato chips.

Today I weigh 152.4 pounds. This is actually not a bad weight for me, considering my senior year in high school I weighed 148 pounds, and the first time I joined Weight Watchers I weighed 166. I went that first time because I had to hold my breath while I bent over to tie my shoes, and after I visited my friend Heather who was on Weight Watchers, I got the pictures developed and whoa, was my face round. Well, even though I don't weigh 166 pounds, my face is round again in pictures. And I have to hold my breath when I tie my shoes, which I barely noticed since I mostly wear flip flops. And yesterday, when I tried to chase Mack to the end of the alley, roughly 25 yards, I was breathing like a gold medal swimmer after an Olympic race.

I've been trying for about three weeks to get myself under control, but I'm weak. I'm a bad boss of me. I let myself get away with buffalo wings and calzones and beer and candy and Cheez-Its. And potato chips. And then when I'm embarrassed to wear clothes without a comfortable top layer, I pout and succumb to Sweatsuit Syndrome, except that instead of Hanes I at least maintain a Victoria's Secret Flannel Jammies standard.

I know no one is interested in my weight woes. But by putting it here, in print, I'll have to start paying attention to it before I get to 166 pounds. For humoring me, here's an evolution of a fat face. At least I can maintain a ponytail!

I Do, Again

(As I sit down to write this I am experiencing one of the true joys of having a full-blown husband: "Did you bring in the suitcases?" I am also getting an insightful lesson on the joys of parenting: "Kitty looked like she had to poop, but she was just sitting there like her butthole was about to explode!")

It's officially legal. Mack and I spent Thanksgiving weekend in Las Vegas saying, "I do," "I will," "Absolutely," and "Yes." We, along with 57 other couples at the courthouse between 6 and 6:30 p.m., secured a Nevada-based marriage license and headed to the Garden of Love Chapel to make promises to one another. It was a dream come true, at least for all the white trash blood cells running through my body.
To prepare for the ceremony, I bought a bottle of champagne I know to be $3.99 at a liquor store for $14 at the hotel gift shop and put on some mascara. Then I subjected Mack to some Before shots so I could give my mom a visual reproduction.
Mack and I with our Nervous Faces on.A stretch Hummer limo snaked its way into the valet/taxi drop off at the Frontier hotel, an old Vegas lodge whose atmosphere left me with a sore throat and what I'm sure will develop into black lung. We hopped aboard, rode downtown and climbed the steps to the Las Vegas marriage license branch. We received congratulations from everyone from the beggars on the corner to the officers by the door as we made our way inside and through the necessary paperwork. I felt a distinct sense of pride wash over me for being able to complete the one-page form after listening to the guy at the window next to mine try to explain that he has no idea what his father's name is even though a Jr. is affixed to the end of his own name.

We paid our $55 and joked about where the divorce branch is with the clerk, although Mack's mom has already informed me that divorce is not a tradition in her family when I joked about it over dinner one night. Then we carried our white enveloped documents back to our limo and headed off to the Chapel in the Middle of a Construction Site.

The Chapel was quaint but still boasted five altars. We picked the one that was the most readily available, the second most ugly one, and were herded to the bouquet wall to pick from a rainbow of silk flower bouquets. I chose a red, blue and yellow number roughly the size of my torso and assigned Mack a purple boutonniere that he delicately stabbed through his sweater. Then we were hypnotized by the voice of the Baptist minister into thinking we were doing a rehearsal when we were actually doing the real ceremony. I caught on just before I took off down the three-foot long aisle.Our ceremony, which cost $149 plus tips, which totaled about $200 when it was all said and done (limo drivers, photographer, videographer, minister, the guy at the window we asked to take a picture of us with our license), lasted about four minutes from start to finish, including time at the end for the photographer to take some blurry shots of our rings. It was very sweet, very short, very direct and very complete.
Afterward, we headed to the New York, New York Casino to ride the rollercaoster. I didn't think of the perfect metaphor that is for a marriage until afterward, when I jokingly said to my mom, "We went ahead and got our ups and downs out of the way." I have a feeling that marriage, like any long term relationship, will be one of those things that makes you grin from ear to ear at certain times, that makes you lose your stomach at others, that makes you want to scream, that makes you laugh, that makes your head hurt, that goes by way too quickly and that, when it's all said and done, really is thrilling.

What I Am Thankful For

Every year at Thanksgiving, my perfect family with its perfectly cliche yet beautiful traditions goes around the table and each person says what they are thankful for. It does feel like a chore to come up with something clever yet sincere, something that honors the tradition without making it feel overdone, but it also feels good just to actually say to the people you love the most in the world, no matter how cliche it sounds, "I am thankful for all of you." This year I didn't get to go around the table because the table was 2000 miles away. Don't worry, we'll be making up for it at Christmas, mark my words.

So, instead of going around the table, I'm going through the last 24 hours.

Dear Cuisinart,
I am thankful for you. You make dicing the onion so quick that I can actually get it chopped, transfered to a bowl and moved to the bedroom before tears start running down my face. As if that isn't enough, you follow suit by chopping celery, grating cheese, grounding chickpeas and making things that would normally be too difficult worth getting into. Thanks Cuise, you are my most honored kitchen appliance.

Dear Diet 7-Up,
I am thankful for you. Normally I don't drink pop because it's loaded with high fructose corn syrup and if it's diet, it boasts aspertame, aka Sweet N Low. Well, aspartame gives me a headache no liquid is worthy of. But you, Diet 7-Up, you are sweetened with Splenda and you are caffeine-free. I can drink you without regard to the hour of the day or concern for my noggin.

Dear Honda Metropolitan Scooter,
I am so thankful for you. Because of you I have not had to fret over a parking spot or worry about gas prices or actually walk those distances that aren't worth driving to but aren't really worth walking to either. You are the happy medium, happy to get me to work five minutes early or get me to work on time, depending on how obnoxious my hair is being. You make the life I want possible, and your just tiny enough to keep my out of harm's way, even if harm is the size of a Hummer.

Dear Chi Flat Iron, the pink one that benefits breast cancer,
I am thankful for you. With your ceramic heat and instant power, I am able to manage a hairdo I should never have been privy to. I should have been stuck with frizzy waves that won't be tamed, but with you I get sleek hair that elegantly arrives at tattered split ends (I am not thankful for my endless depleted checking account). And it's soft, no matter how tattered it is.

Dear Television,
I am thankful for you, in a love/hate kind of way. You entertain me better than most humans. You make hangovers feel like vacation days. You bring complete losers onto my radar and make me feel like my life is progressing beautifully. Because of you I need to lose 15 pounds, but because of you I've been able to spend weeks with those Amazon tribes that put bones through their chins and those African tribes that put plates in their lips. You always put a smile on my face, sometimes without my knowledge.

Dear Microwave,
I am thankful for you. Without you, what would I eat? I know I've been neglecting you the last couple days in preparation for Thanksgiving, but who makes those leftovers worth eating? Gas stove? No. Dishwasher? No. You do, Microwave. You, the greatest invention of my life.

Dear Shoes,
I am thankful for you. I love each and every one of you. I wish more of your friends lived in my closet, but I am still glad to have you making my feet feel exquisite. Even though most of the time I just pull you out to look at you, since wearing you for more than four hours should be a form of torture adopted at Guantanamo, I appreciate how the possibility of you makes me feel. And I am grateful for the way you make me look 5'9" when I am really only 5'6". I am much sexier at 5'9" and that degree of sexiness would not be possible without you.

Dear Living Things Around Me,
I am thankful for you. You know who you are, you know how you make my life special, whether by giving me pride when I walk up to the front door with your orange flowers or by giving me a laugh when I rub your tits and you pretend you don't like it, you are part of my everyday, and you inspire a spectrum of emotions to prove that I am human and this is what it's about.

Dear Canned Pumpkin,
I am thankful for you. Is there no end to your ability? Pie, muffins, soup, bread. You are becoming as versatile as the potato, which not only deserves appreciation but also respect.

Dear Las Vegas,
I am thankful for you. Nowhere else on Earth can you book a $150 wedding and not feel like you're getting nothing for nothing. Nowhere else can you buy your marriage license 15 minutes before making a lifetime commitment. Nowhere else in the United States do I want to make the impossible promise to love, honor and cherish that leaves out the promise to ignore, agitate and argue with the highest hopes I've ever had.

That's about it. I'd much rather be beating my family over the head with how much I adore them, but in their absence, it's still important to be thankful. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and if you've got any room, there's some homemade macaroni and cheese and a layered pumpkin pie waiting for you in my fridge.

A Wild Mushroom Cigarette Kind of Evening

I discovered the finer things in life one evening in the bar of Jonathan at Gratz Park when Chef Jonathan sent a brownie pot pie to my table.

Oh. My. Heavenly. Father.

I wish I could melt back into that memory the way the warm chocolate housed in the brownie shell melted in my mouth. I remember I ordered Rocksalt Roasted Chicken that night, because chicken was familiar and I knew I liked salt. Mack ordered Beef Wellington, which I'm not sure if it is supposed to be capitalized, but judging from the taste of it, it should be. The flavors exploding off of his dish put my pathetic little chicken to shame, even though it was delicious. That's when I realized my flavor fear had seriously left me in the dark about the magic that is food.

Since then, I've been a committed food adventurer. Sometimes I end up at the equivalent of a Wal-Mart parking lot, but sometimes my tastebuds get to explore every nook and cranny of the "Goddamn Grand Canyon," as Louise so eloquently refers to it. Because I exist in a state of perpetual broke, my dinners out rarely get to be extravagant, but this weekend was an exception. My friend Charlie came to El Ley, bringing with him his taste for the finer things and standards that can't be shaken. He likes a tittle of wine poolside before dinner, an education on the menu before ordering, and food that makes you feel like royalty -- or at least like a critic. Charlie generously invited me and Mack to have dinner with him at a place du jour called Grace.

It was heavenly. I perused the menu and mingled flavors in my mind that I'd never associated before. Prosciutto wrapped figs. Pumpkin, sea urchin, sweet Maine shrimp risotto. Wild burgundy snails. Hemp seed, pink peppercorn tofu. What in the world?

Since Mack is a fish-eating vegetarian, we all heartily agreed on Sashimi of Japanese Hamachi. The description underneath all these imi, achi words said "wild mushroom cigarette, yuzu gelée." What in the world?

Who cares. They brought out an eight-inch joint of crispy mushrooms wrapped in the most delicate pink fish I've ever seen. After my first bite I wanted to throw it back up and eat it again. Even the vomit of that bite would have been good. The fish practically melted in my mouth. The mushrooms crunched in a way I didn't think mushrooms could. The pineapple enhancements wrapped up the palate with respect to the dish. It was food in harmony, the way chef's intend food to be.

For dinner I ordered a less exotic grilled tenderloin of wild boar with roasted Brussels sprouts, herbed Yukon Gold potato spaetzle and violet mustard sauce. Violet mustard sauce sounds a little freaky, and Brussels sprouts haven't even made the bottom of my list of Foods I Crave, but after Saturday, I'm willing to eat anything starring violets, mustard or sauce and plan to enroll in Brussels Sprouts Roasting 101.

If anyone has any outrageous must-try foods, let me know. My appetite is definitely whet.

I Bleed Blue! (and White and Red, in that order)

As I'm now on the coast that brings up the electoral rear despite all of its forward-thinking, I'd like to send Kentucky a gigantic and heartfelt THANK YOU for outting Ms. Anne Northrup and inning Mr. John Yarmuth. Also thanks for keeping Chandler in, although it would have been a pity and an embarassment if he'd lave lost since he didn't have a challenger.

It's strange, but being surrounded by educated, aware, understanding, diverse people actually dulls the fight in you, for better and worse. It also makes you appreciate the little shifts happening in places like Kentucky, since anymore, they really can make the difference.

Thanks to everyone who voted (to change the world for the better) and shame on you to those who didn't (it takes like seven minutes).

Where have all the bloggers goooooone?

(Title to be sang like the song that says Where have all the cowboys gooooone? Sorry, it's been stuck in my head and I'm trying to get it out.)

I started stalking blogs last year about this time. I came to El Ley on Nov. 2, 2005, and after about a week of being a five-year-old's accomplice, I took to the web for adult interaction. That's when I would check in on people through their blogs. Liz and Phil were the blogging mother and father, but last fall for some reason blogging became infectious. Lisa started the Schandingalings blog in October, and while her posts weren't frequent, they were regular. I started mine in January. When I came home in February, Amber M. introduced Amber Alert!, Jana started up Jana Land and Leiah gave birth to Ahh--Life. In the spring, Evil Doug from Marikka's even offered up some of his cynicism, and while I didn't read it much because I didn't know who was who or whose team was whose, I was still glad to have another link to try when the days got really boring. When Brett started trivia on his blog in April, I started getting up in the middle of the night looking for updates. When he went crazy in May, just days after he'd hooked me with trivia, it was like watching a car accident unfold in manic text. I was a blog-reading junkie, and I had scored some of the best suppliers on blogspot. But then, after the summer, blogs and their authors dropped off the face of the earth.

I get it. Kids were being adopted and being born, promotions were earned, relocations were necessary. But what about me? What about me?

Since it takes 48 seconds to read a blog entry and/or check its comments and since my old standbys have apparently moved on (despite my pleading with them on myspace!), I've found myself with a little extra surf time on my hands. I'd like to offer up these blogs I've fallen for, in case I ever leave you hanging or in case you need to fill the same voids I do. Or in case you find yourself at home on a Saturday night perfectly content drinking cider and eating popcorn and not feeling at all desperate until you go to check some of your favorite blogs and apparently the rest of the world has a life.

Dooce: I thought I was hot shit for finding this blog. Turns out she is basically famous, and rightfully so. Heather Armstrong is a recovering Mormon and stay-at-home-mom whose newsletters to her 33-month-old wide-eyed wonder are heart-wrenching and hilarious. She also has a very comical dog with a nose for spaghetti and a head for remotes. Add her to your favorites. She is so worth it, especially if you are married, are a parent, have parents, live with depression or need to laugh.

Very Zen: This one is sometimes hit or miss, so I don't check it all the time. She takes awesome photos and sometimes sings in the bathroom, and those are an extra treat. I found Amanda, the author, through Dooce. I like when she does political things. It's definitely worth checking out.

PostSecret: A suicide hotline place put this one up, but it's way cooler than that might make it seem. Basically every Sunday a new blog comes up with postcards that people have mailed in telling secrets. It's a little seedy, a little inspiring, a little funny, a little tragic all rolled into one. Something about confessing is so attractive. This is favorite-worthy.

Found: There's a little thing called Found Magazine, which is actually a book in my mind, that is freaking awesome. Found is a compilation of found letters, photos, fliers, whatever is found, and they are so fun to look at. On the website, there's a new one every day, and once you get turned on to this site, you start justifying looking at your feet while you walk with the assertion that you are looking for the next great found item. Liz found one while she was visiting that actually called someone a "Dirty Chicken." That is reason enough to add this to your favorites.

Quickmuse: This one's for all the writers and readers out there. It's basically mind-stalking. Quickmuse organizes writing sessions with authors, gives them a topic, and has them write about it. The cool thing is not only can you read the final piece, but you can watch how the piece evolves... like watch what the author deletes, see what gets replaced, get a glimpse into how their minds work. The writing sessions are pretty occasional, so adding Quickmuse to your bookmarks is sufficient. I signed up for the newsletter so I could just get the emails and not have to check the website, although I still do.

If you haven't checked out Tread's Photo Blog (see my links), that one is worth it too. I'll keep checking my old stand-bys, but I gotta say, I'm losing hope. Or maybe this is just an intervention... in which case, I'm fine, I promise.

The Power of the Push Up

This is my 100th post.

It just so happens that today I want to write about my boobs. Fitting, isn't it?

I've hated my boobs most of my life. They're big, which in real woman world equals droopy. They're not saggy because they are still full (of hope that they'll fulfill their purpose as feeding machines), but they are big so they can't defy gravity. I finally found a way to deceive gravity thanks to an episode of Tyra Banks' talk show where she had women try different bras and showed how a bra really can change the way your body looks, an overly delightful attendant at Victoria's Secret and an afternoon with Leigh. But still, my boobs are not pretty. Big, sure, but pretty, no. See, I'm prone to stretch marks. Seriously, I got my first ones across my lower back when I was 10, long before I expected anything to stretch, so I actually had to go in my parents' room and ask them what these red marks on my back were. When I was 14 and one boob started to grow (yes, they grew independently), it stretched its way into a B-cup while the other one waited until I was 16 to start blooming. It wasn't much of a problem unless I had to get in a bathing suit, in which case there was no way to hide the obvious rift in growth patterns. I guess it's better than getting a boner at the chalkboard, but it still sucks.

I kept the ninnies under wraps and pretty much tried to pretend they didn't exist through high school, even though they grew to full size. I'd wear two bras to play sports and dodged low cut dresses for dances. Then, one day at an awards ceremony, a friend of mine I called Jon Tuba caught a glimpse down my top. He then said he knew a secret about me, as if I didn't know it already. When he whispered that he knew I had stretch marks, I should have smacked him and said, "I know you're fat." But I didn't have the sense then.

A couple years later I consulted a doctor about getting a breast reduction. I've always been a little stout, mostly because I have a problem with potato chips, so when I went to the doctor I was afraid of having surgery because if I lost weight I knew my boobs would shrink. I've never been a fan of surgery, let alone surgery I can avoid by, you know, exercising, so I just sort of let it go. Plus, having a polaroid taken of your droopy boobs is enough to send any rational woman running from a doctor's office vowing NEVER to return. It's humiliating enough trying on jeans.

I think when I found out my great-grandma had had breast cancer I decided I'd better forgive my boobs for being the way they are. No, they're not perfect, they're not even nice, but they are healthy. And turns out they're comfy to lay on, too. But today I discovered that, as flawed as they are, they are powerful tools.

I've never risked letting them heave with my breaths in public, but I wore a new boatneck sweater to work today and got to conduct an accidental experiment. Turns out the sweater dipped a little more after a couple hours of wearing it than it did when I put it on. Then I noticed men who normally ignored me or were dismissive of me were a lot friendlier. Not flirty or sexual, just jovial, more at ease. They listened when I talked, laughed when I made jokes, explained things to me with patience. It wasn't flustered or horny, it was more like they were having fond flashbacks from a time only their deepest subconscious could remember, all sparked by a touch of bosom.

Of course when I came home it was a different story. Instead of my tatas luring respect out of or giving comfort to Mack, they inspired him to stick a Fudge Brownie Square in my cleavage.

I will never understand the fascination, but at least it's interesting to watch the reaction.