Deep Cleansing Breathe

Of all the things I've tried in my efforts to make there be less me without losing what is innately moi, this was by far the worst.

Super far.
Can't get there from here far.

Way worse than the breathe that accompanies the complete lack of carbohydrates. I guess what with a good portion of a cow and 43 eggs doing the hokey pokey in your belly, breathe is bound to get rough.
But wowsa.
The smell of dog shit is the closest I can equate it to. In your mouth.

Jarringly worse than the cabbage soup gas. An overachiever when it comes to flatulence, the cabbage soup diet put me in the Olympics trials. Easy.

Even worse than the "oily anal leakage" situation from 2001 when Lucio was forced to ask the question, "Ah, Dios Mio, Heather, what did you eat?" as he woke in a bed quite literally full of orange oil.

Stupid Dorritos.

A simple cleanse. For three days, no food. Sounds like something Goldie Hahn would do. Admittedly, she'd probably do it to jump start her no doubt marrinated liver, but whatever.

Here were my instructions.

No food.
Just OJ, Pineapple or Carrot juice when I found myself hungry.
Water all the rest of the time.
Work out like normal.
Hungry? Have 5-7 ounces of juice.
Hell, if it's day 2 or three, you can even add Apple Juice to the mix.
Keep drinking water.

Par...tay.

Toxins. OUT!!!
Caffeine addiction. BEAT IT!!
A quick 5 pound loss. COME ON!!

Originally, I thought if I started on Friday, it would some how be easier.
For me, it's too hard to be that disciplined on a Friday.
It was almost impossible for me to not eat on Saturday, what with all that goes on in our world on any given Saturday. Like I don't want to cook, and we have pizza and usually go out for at least one meal on Saturday.

Oh, and I forgot to buy juice.
Whoopsie.


So, I begin my fast in earnest on a Sunday.
The Lord's day.
Sounds meant to be.

I muddle through. Barely.
Lucio takes lead with child, as I am cantankerous by 2 pm without benefit of diet coke.
Actually, I kept dozing off, what with no outside influences of energy in my system.

I find napping helps almost everything.
30 minutes can be magical.
Try it. I dare you to be as whatever you were before you let yourself doze off watching Toddlers & Tiaras. If nothing else, you know you're a better person than those nuts.

Just a little pearl of wisdom from me to you.

I make it through work on Monday and Tuesday basically without too much trouble because, well, it's work, and I am expected to not just think about myself there, and I almost always manage to meet that expectation.

The paycheck is a solid motivator.

Almost always.

Tuesday night arrives. Trip my way through a Junior League meeting.
Avoid snacks, water and invitations to grab a cocktail post meeting.

Head home for the finale.

Oh, did I not mention?

The Finale goes like this.

Stop drinking and eating at 8 pm.
At 9 pm, drink a combination of 2 pints of olive oil and 2 pints of lemon juice.
Lay on right side.
Be still.
And wait.


I know? Right!

I choke down the olive oil/lemon combo. Do them in one NOT CLEAR container.
Trust me, you don't want to see what's in the glass. I don't like remembering what it looked like.

But, on the other hand, if I ever need to induce vomiting, I do have the image now to get things started.

I brush my teeth.
I lay down.
I am still.
I taste like Italy.
I brush my teeth again.

(I bought really expensive olive oil. If I am going to drink it, and pretend it's a drink, it's going to be the best I can find)

Lying there, I begin to congratulate myself.
Such discipline. So strong.
"I'm every woman...it's all in me... anything you want...."

I wonder when I will have to go to the bathroom?

Oh, that's right. I haven't told you about the real finale.

Like, in a scary movie, when the naughty killer is downed by our heroine, and she turns to check her wrongly accused beau, and then she turns around, and poof dead bad guy is GONE.

Oh my! Where did he go?

He's right there!! With one last evil deed in him!
BAM. BOOM. BLAST.

That is what it going on in my tum tum.
Keep staying still, Heather.

"Baby, you're a firework...come on show me what you're worth..."


Wait. What is that?
Uh oh. Urgent and seizing.

Quickly to bathroom.

Door closed.
Fan on.
Time for the final finale.


The final finale is all about the, um, output.
If you've done this correctly, it's entirely possible you're are going to finally part ways with a cheeseburger you ate in '87.

In the form of green pellet like substances.
The size of peas.
At top speed.

Well, I did it right.
Way right.

It sounds like a firing squad had our toilet bowl in its cross hairs.

The noise jostled my usually fairly oblivious husband from his permanent seat in front of the computer doing homework.

Hurrying down the hallway, Lucio calls, "Honey bunny, are you okay?"

"I think I'm alright."

"That didn't sound alright."

"It didn't feel great either, but I think it's okay."

Gripping the side of the tub, I wait for everything to settle down.
Which it totally does.

I go to bed, and basically, pass out.

Nine hours later, I wake and I am horizontally across our bed, with Lucio gripping the side and using his Columbia fleece as a blanket.

I get up, scrape my tongue clean, use the loo.
Stripping down, I step on the scale.

7 pounds down.
S-E-V-E-N P-O-U-N-D-S!!!!

Totally worth it.
It wasn't that bad.

Completely doable.
Highly recommend.

Just make sure you buy good olive oil.
That's the key.

That, and being able to not accidentally chew your own elbow off when you just cannot stomach another ounce of OJ.

Maybe it was be easier to just watch what I eat and exercise.

Damn it.

Miss Davis if you're nasty

I have this idea in my head where I am too cool for school, but then I remember school - both high school and college - and my dreams are dashed.

It goes without saying, I was never cool in high school.
Who knew everyone felt insecure then though? Is that one of the things Facebook is teaching us? One, just when the page starts to look familiar, they will move it around arbitrarily. And Two, the cool kids in high school were just as shitty to each other as they were to everyone else.

I was cool for two months in 1991.
In said two months, I was older than all of my roommates and could buy beer without making some fairly inappropriate comments to men in parking lots with Anita and Eileen on look out for cops?

Soon enough, Chris Vail was 21 and I knew I had had my time in the sun.

But I digress.

Hands down, my coolest friend is Jamie Davis.

When Jamie calls, he starts talking like we saw each other 2 hours earlier in Peter's kitchen. Sometimes he says "Oh, hello, Heather...it's your younger and prettier sister calling."

Sorry, quick tangent -
Jamie was one of Lucio's groomsmen.
He made the toast at the wedding.
After our big choreographed dance (me and Lucio) all guests were invited to join us on the dance floor.
Jamie and Peter slow danced.
Peter is Jamie's partner. Oh, and Peter looks like Richard Gere - whenever my mother sees him, she touchs him randomly and inexplicably.

Shortly after the whole group dancing thing, my 80 year old Aunt went up to my father and whispered to the table at large, "Tommy, there were two men dancing together!"

To which my father said, "Well, they are partners."

Auntie retorted smuggly, "In business?"

My mother, well into her third Jack Daniels, chimed, "Yes, dear, in a sense. Peter takes very good care of Jamie."

Mom then went to dance with all five of the gay men - including Peter and Jamie - who were tearing up the dance floor.

Back to Jamie.
He called today.

"Heather Finneran (I mentioned he was at our wedding, right?) I had a sex dream about you last night. We were at Peter's house, and we were in bed and I asked you if Lucio was here, and you didn't seem at all concerned that he was downstairs. And I had a total chubby. And you were glorious in your curves and I was so into kissing you. It was amazing!"

Normally, when anyone has any dream about me, my elitism shoots through the roof.
But an actual sex dream?
Too much to hope for.
Especially Jamie Davis.

You see, Jamie Davis is the pied piper.
Everyone wants to be near him.
He's like oxygen. And really, what isn't better with air?

He has his fair share of heterosexual women who've wanted nothing more than for him to tumble off the gay train - even a slip fall - and to be there to catch him.

At one point, there was this new woman friend in his life.
I didn't like her then. I don't like her now.
She believed Jamie Davis could be hers.
She was rigorous in her pursuit of our man.

She managed to get him to make out with her once when he was drunk.
And tired. This is my memory of the story. There are other details that don't leave this woman I don't like looking as bad, but hell, it's my blog, right?
Then she got all girlie nuts when he told her he was still gay.
Um, Hello?
Idiot.

When Leslie, Mel and I heard this news, Leslie announced, "Listen, honey, there's a line of women waiting for Jamie Davis to not be gay, so take a fucking number and go to the end of the line."

With all this said, when Jamie told me he'd had this dream about me, I didn't have the reaction I was sure for the past decade I would have.

I was annoyed.

And you know why.

Glorious in my curves.

Indeed.

Uh, yes, I am still exercising and trying to be better. I am down 10 pounds since new years.

10 pounds is not what it used to be.

It's just a number

Eight people read this blog.

Okay, eight people follow this blog.
Maybe only three people read this blog.
I am not really sure.

One reader is my mother. Hi Mom!
One taught me to breastfeed. Hi Becca!
One I've known since I was in 8th grade. Hi Alison!


Hell, Lucio isn't a follower. Uh, hello?

Not one of you eight is under the impression I am small.

And yet I have spent the past couple of days considering making my pants size in the last blog post a size 20 or 22.

Cause that is so much better than size 24.

That was totally what you were thinking...right?

I don't plan for this blog to be weight loss blog.
I just want to create a discipline to write.
I would like to be called a writer.

But then a few friends reached out after my last post about being a cliche, and offered such support that I need to update my beloved 8 on my quest.

Today is Day 2.

I hit the treadmill both days for at least 30 minutes. On an incline. A little one.

I brought lunch both days. Snacks like oatmeal, yogurt. Freeze a Yoplait Whips. The lime is divine!

Tracked my food.

At 7 pm (central time) I stepped on the treadmill. I turned on the televison and the season premiere of Biggest Loser was starting.

I am concerning myself with telling 8 people that I wear a size 24, and these people are getting weighed in front of their towns?

Families, teachers, colleagues, friends and strangers alike.

Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!!!!


I think Bob should have to at least show us his dick.

Jillian flash a nip or something.




I am so happy I tuned in tonight.

And I am still a size 24.

But not for long...

I am so a total cliche

We acquired a treadmill today.

I say "we" because well, I found it online and I made the arrangements to pick it up.

I also say "we" because Lucio drove to Potomac, IL this morning (even more east central Illinois than we are) to procure said treadmill.

He also arranged for the use of John's pick up truck.

I adore John.
I love his wife Mary.
I love their daughter, Emilee. Jack love loves her. When he was a baby he called her "mymee"
I adore their sons.
They are our former neighbors.
They are the best kinds of neighbors.
They became friends.
We will be friends with them long after I stop judging from my current location in the cornfields.
They are another of the reasons I will always love Illinois.

And John is totally handy.

He has every tool imaginable.

Lucio calls his garage "John's Depot".

When Lucio wanted to finish putting in something call quarter round last summer, he asked me to call John to see about borrowing the tool he'd need to complete the task.

Lucio told me the name of the thing.

I forgot what he called it before I found my phone.

John kept the message for a while and played it for random friends whenever we were in a group and felt I needed a good shutting up already.

Here's the gist of the message...

"Hi, John, It's Heather. Lucio is finishing the quarter round today. I think that's what he called it. Anyway,,, He needs your...it's a hammer thing with a hose I think. But no plug. The "ptch ptch ptch" thing. Shut up. I know you know what I mean. Can you call us back? Thanks!"


So, in addition to a lovely wife and a macked out back porch with bed swing John made himself, he has a pick up that he lets Lucio use when needed.

Lucio came home with our new treadmill.

He and my brother got it in the door and he is currently lubing it up and making sure the bolts are doing whatever it is bolts needs to do.

All before my maiden walk tomorrow morning.

Because no one in their right mind would be outside today if they didn't have to be.

I have heard of bone chilling.

I have heard of the tundra.

I have wondered why people would purchase expensive jackets from Columbia for 5 year olds that are only going to outgrow them in a years time.

I have all my answers now.

Because 3 should not be a temperature in industrialized communities.

Because I was plenty cold before that twit with the angled haircut (Really? You thought you could pull off the same style as Posh Spice? Because why again? Oh, yeah, that's right, you can't) told me the wind chill.

Because my nose is bleeding from the lack of moisture in our home. We all look like our fave restaurant friends of years past who had an affinity for booger sugar.

Ever night I put a bowl of water on the floor vents and every single morning it's completely evaporated.

If you looked around our house, you would see a pattern emerging.

The treadmill. The Wii games. Frozen weight watcher meals. And treats.

A fridge full of leafy greens.

Yogurt. Oatmeal. Fruits and Veggies.

I have finished 8 glasses of water already today. Ever since Jack was born, I hate sneezing when I have to pee. Look around. You can tell who has kids.

A plan to blog daily so as not to accidentally cook the tater tots in the freezer that are for Jack and not for Jack's mother.


Yes, dear readers. It's 2010.

And I am planning to lose weight. In case it wasn't clear.

Cancel the intervention.

One of my greatest fears has always been finding myself as one of those headless, nameless fat people on the intro to some 20/20 segment about the rising percentage of obese in America.

There I will be, sitting on the couch, thinking, "Why is that fat woman wearing the same pants and shoes as me and holding hands with Jack?"

My fear is different lately.
I have been smacked with reality.

Young healthy people die.
People who have never smoked.
Never been overweight.

My paternal grandmother died before she was 50.
Paternal grandfather didn't make it to 60.
Maternal grandmother had many heart attacks.

Hell, my father was dead at 68 from essentially life style choices.
Marlboro's and Oreos are a choice.

So exactly how much luck should I be pushing as my 40th looms?

I am working hardest to not get in my own way.

As you can imagine, I have had this plan before.

In 2007, I had been a non-smoker for over a year, so I thought I could get movin.

In 2008, I thought the looming 20th High School Reunion would have served to motivate. Hell, if my recently deceased father didn't do the trick... though he did get me to quit smoking.

Last year, I found Julie at Junior League.
We've done a lot for each other. I have a bonafide sister sledge in Illinois now (taking tremendous pressure, I hope, off my lovely actual sister in law/sister sledge, Stephanie)

Julie and I have not, however, served to help either one of us in the "weighing less" department.

Here it is 2010, and I am scheduled to turn 40 in eight months.

This better be it.