VLCD - Day 1

VLCD Day 1: 152.2

Today was hard. I won’t lie. This is not for the faint of heart.  I have consumed nearly ½ my body weight in water, which means I am peeing every 12 minutes. That is going to get old, fast.   On the plus side I did not have a headache today. I feared the dreaded withdrawal headache from carbs and sugar, but it’s been ok. I felt a little cloudy today but nothing terrible.   And I drank black coffee and didn’t die. So I’m taking the small win. 

Am I hungry? Hell yes I am hungry. I figure the first 3 days are the worst so I’m going with that.  I probably won’t weigh myself for a few days – give things time to kick in a bit. 

Again – this is not for the faint of heart.

Today I consumed, shrimp, chicken, lettuce salad, asparagus, blueberries and an apple. Oh, and a melba toast.  I did whip up a little dressing concoction of apple cidar vinegar, dijon mustard, salt, pepper and a splash of water. It wasn’t bad. Tangy – but it’s going to work for me.  I am not really craving sugar so I am also taking that as a small win.

HCG Phase 1 - Loading Days

LD1 - 150.8 lbs.  I have no idea what my weight was today (LD2) as I was out of town with no scale in sight.  

Out of town is not a bad place to be for loading days.  Happily, fattening food can easily be acquired on vacation.

I thought long and hard about what food to eat for loading.I did a mix of good fats and terrible fats.  I ate until I was full but not to the point of feeling sick.   I loaded with the following (in no particular order)...

Coffee with 1/2 and 1/2 + sugar,  chocolate covered cashews, scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash brown potatoes, a hot fudge sundae,  almond butter, peanut butter, a croissant with jam, blueberry muffin with butter, two 4 ounce tenderloins -- one with Bearnaise sauce (oh my god) and the other with a horseradish crust, stuffed mushrooms (stuffed with crab, spinach and cheese), au gratin potatos (I saw god and god is thinly sliced potatoes with cream and caramelized onions and cheese!),  a cheeseburger (no bun) with guacamole, french fries, a chocolate malted, barbeque ribs.

Overall I feel ok-ish albeit a bit meh -- part of this struggle is going to be halting my workout routine. I already feel soft.   I am nervous about day 1 of VLCD. Very nervous.  Hopefully I don't gnaw off my arm or someone elses. I have planned ahead and have all my food for the next few days measured, bought and packaged.  I suspect the morning will be the worse. I love coffee with cream and sugar. Going without will be torture.  I don't really do black coffee. It tastes like an ashtray.  I tried some of the stevia and HATE IT.  So bitter with a nasty aftertaste . No thanks. I might try 1 TB of milk and ice it down a bit to cut the bitterness.

My goal is 20 pounds and to keep it off and kick the sugar/carbs.    This is supposed to be a 21 day protocol but I have hcg troches for 28 days so I might as well gut it out 7 more days.  I started the Hcg on LD1 - they taste like tangerine and take about 5 minutes to dissolve under my tongue.

The HCG Diet Decision – a bit of backstory

I have decided to take the HCG diet plunge.  A bit of backstory about my situation.  I’ve decided to blog about my experience. I did a lot of reading about the diet prior to making the decision to do it and maybe my experience will be helpful one way or the other to someone else. Or maybe it illustrates what an utter disaster this diet is. I’m not sure which way it’s going to go. I’m guardedly optimistic.

  

I am 49, 5’4 and weight 150.2 lbs.  For the longest time I hovered at 137 lbs and then I turned 47. My weight shot up to 154 pounds – the most I have ever weighed including pregnancy.   I am active. And I define active as working out for 45 minutes or more 4-5 days a week.  I lift weights and do cardio.  2 years ago I started taking Personal training group classes (kinda like cross fit but not labeled as cross fit).  I lost 1 pound but was more toned. Still my pants didn’t fit.  After 9 months I started logging everything I ate.  1240 calories a day. I started running and completed my first 5K.   In three months I lost 1.8 pounds.  I tried various combinations of high protein, low fat and low carb.  Nothing moved the needle up or down.  If I ate really really well nothing happened. If I slipped (like during the holidays) nothing happened.  Yeah… super frustrated. All my weight is in my middle – as if someone inflated an inner tube around my gut.

I went to my doctor and was told and I quote” Yeah, it just gets harder when you get older. Just wait until you hit menopause, it’s gets worse.” Really? This is what I can expect from my health care professional – a heart to heart that this is as good as it’s going to get?  So sorry – you are doing all the right things but there is no physical benefit.  I don’t accept that.

I am healthy but have health stuff including hypothyroid and auto immune issues.

I sought out a boutique NP Practice in my hometown that specializes in women’s health, paid $300 out of pocket for a consultation.  She ran some blood tests. My thyroid was a hot mess. We spent 3 months adjusting my meds both the T4 and T3.  I felt great.  She also corrected my adrenal function with some supplements.  I still felt great but couldn’t drop a pound.  I tried B12/lipotropics (again – felt fabulous) but no real weight loss.  After A LOT of discussion and reading I’ve decided to take the plunge and try a 21 day protocol of hcg sub lingual troche pellets.  My goal is 15 pounds. 

The hardest thing will be no coffee (I like mine with milk and 2 sugars) and the obvious elimination of all fats and carbs. I don’t do a lot of carb loading but I do like some carbs.  I have some GI issues so lots of raw veg can be a challenge for my guts.  This will be an interesting experiment.

I am going to start my loading days on May 30 and 31 and get right down to it on June 1.

Stay tuned.

Hot Yoga - An Update

Yeah. I still haven’t done it yet. I can’t mentally get past the fact that I’ll have to be in hot room with a bunch of lithe young yoga moms while sweating.

The certificate expires in June. I’m contemplating how attached I am to the $30.

Right now I’m not feeling so attached.

I know.

I’m pathetic.

Saying Thank You

Recently, my son was diagnosed with Little League Shoulder which you can read about by clicking on the link.

My son made an appointment to chat with his baseball coach about his arm, his ability to try out or not try out and potential involvement in the 2012 JV Baseball Team. I give the kid major snaps for being proactive to have this discussion. At 15, I preferred to deal with difficult situations by mostly feeling sorry for myself, crying a lot and avoiding all manner of adult interaction.

It was a good conversation. He was reassured that even if he can’t play, he can still be involved on the team. Keep book. Do stats. Lead in other ways. I could see the relief wash over his face when he shared the news of his meeting. I’m also sure the relief washed over mine. I’m pretty sure I’m taking this whole shoulder setback harder than he is.

In addition to feeling huge quantities of mama duck pride, I was just so very grateful to his coach/teacher for taking the time to meet with him. I totally get that this is a part of his job and that he should be meeting with kids; but we all know that some teachers just don’t get it. And this one does. And I am appreciative. That should be acknowledged.

I really wrangled with sending his coach an email. (I fully admit I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth here since I just blogged about the value of hand-written notes, but I think we can all agree, email probably was appropriate in this situation).

I don’t want to be one of “those mothers” who inserts herself their kid’s athletic scenarios. I’ve witnessed those mothers. There are unpleasant people and I have no desire to model myself after the athletic version of the stage mother demanding more playing time for their kid. But as a tax-paying parent of the MMSD, I wanted his coach to know that a.) I am aware of the discussion and b.) thankful of his time to meet with my kid on this issue and reassure him of his value to the baseball program.

And so I did just that. And I’m glad I did. He was appreciative of my appreciation. Clearly we could have formed a mutual admiration society. But I do think it’s important to acknowledge the things that people do for us day in and day out, even if they are part of the job expectation. I don’t think we do that enough. I know I am guilty of taking these types of gestures for granted, albeit unwillingly.

The human animal needs a pat on the head for a job well done. And I was happy to give it.

Rejected

I received my first art show rejection today for the Spring Green art show.

Bastards.

I shouldn’t be too upset. Of all the shows I’ve applied to over the years, I’ve only been rejected by two. My odds are actually pretty good. Unfortunately I was really hoping to get into this one. Better luck next year I guess.

After the great Kohler debacle of 2011, I’ve decided to take a slightly different approach to the whole art fair thing. Mostly I’m focusing on outdoor shows and fattening up my consignment opportunities. If I can give someone my stuff to sell… they haul it, set it up, sell it and pay the sales tax for modest commission, seems like a win-win to me.

But who are we kidding. Art Show Rejection is the equivalent of “your baby is ugly”. And my baby isn’t ugly. My baby is darn cute actually.

Art show snobs.

Sigh.

"Can I call you Stef?"

No. No you can’t, with few exceptions which I will comment on shortly.

Stef is informal. It implies a certain level of familiarity. In the professional world, you may not call me Stef. I will correct you. And if you do it again, I will deliver a succinct, yet terse, reminder. It doesn’t matter that I’ve worked for the same company for 20+ years. It doesn’t matter how many projects we’ve been on together. It doesn’t matter if you’re my favorite barista at Starbucks. If our relationship is strictly professional, meaning we’ve never traded hat sizes over a martini, you’re not “Stef” worthy. Sorry. Don’t take it personal. I simply prefer Stefanie.

Exceptions to the Stef rule.

1. You are a blood relative. Blood. Not marriage. An in-law can acquire Stef privileges but only if you can prove you know the correct spelling of my name. Hint. There is no “ph”.
2. You are my legalized spouse.
3. I’ve known you for a ridiculous number of years, which means we’re besties or pretty good friends. (Kel, Carlson, Carol, Janet, Tam, Jacquie, Cindy, Lisa, Graz, Scott, Kev). It probably also means we have traded hat sizes, sipped a few drinks (maybe a few too many), shopped, cried, laughed until we almost peed our pants (maybe we did, I won’t say), gave honest feedback about each other’s bad fashion choices, shopped for shoes, swimsuits, lingerie, watched movies, cooked, baked, helped each other out of tough spot and know each other’s secrets.

You get the idea. If you don’t fall into one of the three categories, “Stef” is like nails on a chalkboard. I start to twitch and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. If you do you fall in the aforementioned categories and you call me Stef, I don’t even notice. It’s all good.

Air Travel Sucks Rocks

I travel very infrequently. In my youth, I had dreams of jetting about the globe.

I think jetting about the globe was significantly more sexy 20 years ago. The hard cold reality is flying is not nearly as glamorous as portrayed in Pan-Am, the short-lived blatant TV series rip-off of Mad Men. Mad Men is the bomb.  But that’s another blog entry for another time.

In this global society, the airlines can stick it to the consumer in the shorts and we are a powerless lot.

We are being nickel and dimed to death. $25 to check a bag. Really? All that does is encourage an entire plane full of people to bring a too big carry-on and jam it into the overhead bin. Then when it doesn’t fit, they can get the pink tag and have it checked under the plane…but without the $25. Bastards.

And then…there are the actual seats on the plane. Never have I paid so much to be so uncomfortable. Somewhere there is a group of masochists who work for their respective airline figuring out how many seats can be squeezed into a plan. Torture. Plain and simple. On my most recent flight I had an older lady with a very robust smoker’s cough practically sitting in my lap. I kept digging in my purse for my bottle of hand sanitizer. If only I had a plastic bubble, or a bottle of Lysol. Or both.

I’m not even going to comment on the food, drinks or the fake stewardesses.

Security procedures are an unavoidable annoyance. Now some airports have the new “body scanners”. I’ll admit. Not a fan. I felt uncomfortable being body scanned. Check your privacy at the door if you want to fly from coast to coast.

Any inclination I had about globe-trotting is officially squelched.

Lifes Curveballs

My son plays baseball. It’s his thing. And because it’s his thing. It’s my thing. It gives me joy to watch him play. I’m his biggest fan. Which I tell him often and I’m sure causes the internal eye roll.

From t-ball to present we’ve spent every summer at the ballpark. He is a skilled player, excellent command of the game and great defensive skills. He doesn’t have the biggest bat in the line-up but he consistently executes. He’s practices hard and has earned his way onto all-star teams for being a solid versatile player. He has never hit a home run. He doesn’t pitch with the same velocity as a kid who has 6 inches and 30lbs on him. When other boys were growing 4-5 inches in a summer and smacking the ball out of the park, he was consistently one of the smaller players on the team. He’s had to work a little harder than some of the bigger boys to be noticed and hone his skills.

Baseball has provided many life lessons. As clichéd as it sounds baseball has taught the value of teamwork.

How to lead by example.

How to not be “that kid” that throws his bat or argues with the umpire.

How to be a gracious winner and a gracious loser.

How to hold your head up after taking a pounding on the field.

How to shake off hitting a batter, a strike out or multiple strike outs.

How to savor the moment of batting in the winning run during a district game or experiencing a hitting streak.

The good with bad. The sweet and the bittersweet. The wins and the losses.

All good life lessons.

In the big picture of life he has an awesome youth baseball experience. His hard work has paid off. He has been privileged to play on an All-Star team every year since he was 10. He has been on a district winning team and a state winning team. He represented his state in the Regional tournament. All things being equal – baseball has been more fair, than unfair, to my son.

Until this year.

One of the challenges of growing body, is it’s growing. Youth athletes are not fully matured physically, yet they are put through their paces. Injuries are bound to occur.

At age 13 it was “Little League Elbow” – kind of fancy name for growth plate irritation and overuse; which made sense. That was “the summer” of non-stop baseball; games, practices and lots of throwing. His body sent a warning signal. Please stop. Rest. Heal. And he did. He worked hard. He did physical therapy. He built muscle mass. He refined his technique.

At age 14 he battled some bicep tendonitis. He rested. He iced and continued physical therapy. He did everything he was supposed to do. He had a good season.  He continued his PT through the winter.

At age 15, a mere four weeks into open gym conditioning for the spring season there is shoulder pain. Not soreness. But pain. Now in all fairness, the season hasn’t really started, so overuse can’t really be an issue here. But it causes concern so we trot off to Sports Medicine where we are delivered a nice curveball…. Little League Shoulder – another fancy name for growth plate irritation. LLS is normally caused by overuse (which doesn’t apply here) so it basically boils down to bad luck. He just has one of those bodies that have sensitive growth plates.

6 weeks rest. No throwing. No batting.

Tryouts are for the spring seasons are in 4 weeks.

Now as a parent I am the first one to say, life isn’t fair. It isn’t. But this is doubly unfair. It sucks actually. It’s a mammoth disappoint for a 15 year old to be faced with the possibility of missing the entire season just because his growth plates are sensitive. It is taking all of my parental acumen to look at the big picture and not break down into a puddle of tears.

It could be worse and it’s not. It’s fixable. It doesn’t require surgery. It isn’t a career ending injury.

It will force some challenging conversations with coaches, which is good experience. It will require honest self-assessment. It may mean he has to work doubly hard to make the team next year, if he misses the season. It will force showing up for open gym and participating in what he can, if only for political posturing. It will help him develop tenacity.

I have mixed feelings about a 15-year old being put into a position to have those conversations, but I am confident in the long run it will make him stronger, more confident and earn respect from his peers and coaches for facing a very difficult situation with grace and class.

I have confidence in his ability to weather the disappointment, if it comes to that. To come out the other side stronger. That all said, I would gladly take on this disappointment for him if I could.

In a heartbeat.

Handwritten Notes – A dying art form

I have a love affair with period drama. You know, Sense and Sensibility, Howards End and most recently Downton Abby. (If you’ve not heard of Downton Abby – rent Season One from Netflix. You’ll be glad you did. And Season 2 is currently being shown on PBS on Sunday nights and it was just released on DVD, so there is plenty of time to catch up).

There is a lot of letter writing in period dramas, lovely handwritten notes, eloquently articulated, on creamy thick paper before being precisely folded and sealed with wax. The letters are delivered on silver trays by the footman, while the recipient drinks tea and eats little cakes.

I have come full circle with my appreciation for hand-written notes. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that hand-written notes are a rarity in contemporary society. The explosion of social media has all but eradicated hand-written notes from the norms of our culture. I get it. I do. Email is fast. It’s quick. It’s easy. It doesn’t require a note card or a stamp much less remembering to get the note to the mailbox in a timely fashion. Let’s face it. Our lives don’t include the footman making deliveries on silver platters.

There are two events that have stirred my fondness for handwritten notes.

1. My disdain of “thank you notes” via facebook which you can read about here.
2. I received one, an honest to goodness handwritten note. An actual thank you that someone wrote on a paper card and mailed to me. And gee, it was nice to get something in mail that wasn’t a bill. I was touched the sender would take the time to write me something. And then mail it. With a stamp. Maybe it’s because I do know we all lead busier, more hectic lives and she didn’t take the easier way out.

So my goal for this year (notice how I’m not calling it a resolution since resolutions are dumb and almost always fail) is to write more handwritten notes. Because notes are nice and significantly more personal than an email typed in Arial 12pt font. Maybe it will prompt a resurgence of footman and tea drinking.

One can hope.

Winter Sloth

Editors Note: As I finished writing this entry, Madison is currently expecting 6-8 inches of snow. Big. Heavy. Sigh.

I had a tarot card reading a number of years ago in New Orleans. For $20 a gal with heavy eye make-up and lots of bangle bracelets at Madame LaVeaus House of Voodoo gave me a peek into my future. In addition to being wildly entertaining, I received a gold Mardi Gras coin (of only the finest gold plastic) and an index card with some notes about my reading. I still have the card tacked up inside my work cubicle.

“Summer is best” is what is says on my card in addition to the “8 of clubs”. I can’t remember what the significant of the 8 of clubs is supposed to mean. But I do recall the bit about summer. According to her, I am most productive in summer. That also means, in winter I am part sloth. True story.

Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder is the true diagnosis but if you read between the lines it’s nothing more than the winter blahs or hibernation like tendencies. Most winter days I can barely haul myself out of bed on time for work. On winter weekends I sleep in too much and then migrate to the couch to perfect the art of couch-potato-dom. An art I can do very well by the way.

Some winters are better than others. Cliché but true. Cold winters with tons of snow are the worst. The winters that have 100+ inches of snow beyond torturous. Cold, snowy and crappy driving. This winter is respectable. It’s been mild and snow free. I have seen pockets of sun. I’m still sloth like but only moderately slothy intead of full on sloth.

Sloth-dom also negatively impacts my ability to plan for the summer art festival season. I should be using the “off season” to plan. But motivation is low and when I finally feel like planning I’m scrambling in the 11th hour. A known fault but difficult to change. In addition to sleeping too much and lolling about, I tend to carbo load with all manner of comfort foods. Mashed potatos work best. So does homemade bread. With butter.

With the help of my neighbor I’ve been forcing myself off the couch and outside to take in some fresh air. So far a reasonable proposition as previously mentioned due to the mild weather. But mother nature has cruel tendencies and its only a matter of time until the temperature drops like a stone and the words “frigid” are used in the daily forecast.

Repeat after me. Summer is best.

Survival and Resolutions

Hallejulah. It’s over. Done. Finished. The holidays are past me.

I survived. Barely.

My house is de-Christmastized.

Tree down. Lights put away.

All that remains in my too tight pants, a looming Macy’s bill, and a long joyless January and February.

I need to reintroduce myself to my tread mill. Apparently 10 days off work includes an unwritten but obligatory over-indulgence rule. Egg-nog, bacon wrapped dates (heaven), roasted olives (more heaven), salted caramels, bacon wrapped tenderloin, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses and a deep dive into the brandy slush (no life preserver needed).

Now my pants are tight.

Or maybe they just shrunk? Yeah! That’s it. The ol’ Maytag screwed up my pants. Bastards.

Stupid brandy slush.

But it wasn’t stupid. It was oh-so-tasty and fruity brandy-slushy-liciousness that provided much needed coping mechanisms at otherwise stressful family gatherings where sedation is not only required, it’s encouraged.

Now I could take the “New Year’s Resolution” way out of the too tight pants debacle, and tape a few well articulated New Year’s Resolutions to my fridge about how I will eat, drink and spend less and, of course, exercise more.

But who’s kidding who. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m the living example of ‘on-the-wagon-off-the-wagon’ when it comes to diet and exercise. Never mind the spending. That’s the whole other litany of blog entries I haven’t even tackled yet.

The only resolutions I have a snowballs change of successfully completing include drinking more champagne and perfecting the pork chop (mmm, I just love a good pork chop! Pigs are so tasty!)

Or spa treatments.

I could resolve to go to the spa more, get a few more massages, pop for facials or change up my toenail polish color more often while talking myself out of another round of abdominal exercises.

Perhaps the best resolution includes resolving to accept my weaknesses for what they are, work with what I have, and move on to tasting more kinds of tequila. Or I could simply resolve to do what I need to do to survive the holidays each year.

Wait. I’ve perfected that one. Brandy slush and bacon wrapped dates.

Check.

Commercialized Excess

I spent the better part of the weekend wrapping Christmas gifts. And when I was done, 2 days later, my living room was a practical example of Christmas commercialized excess. 

I know that society has been bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas  forever.  But for real. It's gotten out of hand.

I am not a practicing Christian by any means, but I do buy into the whole "Peace on Earth/Goodwill to Men" angle of the holiday.  The family aspect. The nice meal. The relaxing in front of the fireplace sipping a 1,000 calorie per glass of eggnog.  I am past the age of 12 and while I do appreciate a nice gift, it's not that important to me.  From my perspective, the magic of Christmas is for kids. 

While I do like buying a few well chosen gifts for close family and friends. There is a societal perception that one must pick up "a little something" for every person we come into contact with on a yearly basis in the spirit of the season lest you be labeled a Scrooge.  It's a layer of financial stress that I can't fully articulate. It has become a burden and not a joy.

This will come off as ungenerous and grinchy. So be it. I do consider myself generous and thoughtful gift giver but I'd rather do it on my own terms at any other point in the calendar year except the day when it is expected.  My thoughtful well chosen gifts are replaced with the mad dash of gift cards so I have "a little something" for a laundry list of names. And frankly...all those "little somethings" along with all the other expenditures of the season, the booze, the special Christmas dinner, the hosted events,  all add up to a big final total. A total that could be mistaken for a mortgage payment.

The commercialization of Christmas is real and it's exhausting.  The malls start with the decorations and the music before Halloween. Then there are the ads. The doorbusters.  The gazillionith rendition of White Christmas. 

As I write this, it's 5 days before Christmas and I, for one, can't wait for it to be over.  I am ready to settle down for a long winters nap.

There ought to be a law

In case you missed the fantabulous update about the dismal nature of the big Kohler show, you can read about it here.

The Kohler show is a hybrid of both hand made and commercial vendors. Most of the commercial vendors are nicer things, such as candy companies and better knock-off designer jewelry. There was also, however, all natural jewelry cleaner...conveniently positioned right next to me.  Who's so lucky?

Now the all natural jewelry cleaner booth consisted of a couple of tables with pepto bismal pink table coverings and 2 large signs that screamed "FREE RING CLEANING", ala QVC.

Next to the pepto pink ring cleaning lady was guy selling wooden frogs of various sizes. What's the purpose of the wooden frog you wonder? Well, the frog has a wooden pin stuck in it. If you remove the pin and stroke the wooden pin up the frogs back, it croaks. Big frogs make deep croaks. Little frogs sound like crickets.  Who's so lucky?

For three, long, painful, sales-free days my Kohler show experience was a cacophony of piped in Christmas music, the "FREE RING CLEANING" sales pitch and frog croaks.  I couldn't make this up if I tried.

"Ladies would you like a free ring cleaning"

"Croaaaaak"

"Once a week take this cream and rub it into your diamond. It's safe for all gemstones including pearls and opals"

"Jolly Old St Nicholas"

"Croaaaaaak"

"What the cream is doing is removing the sticky oxidation."

"Croaaaaaak"

"Silver Bells"

"It's all natural, with banana oil, coconut oil and grapeseed oil"

"Croaaaaak"

"Then rinse and dip in the brightener"


I wish I had blow dart gun to put us all out of our collective misery. Pfffffft.

Now, to be fair, I will say that the jewelry lady has a good pitch. I'm sure she could sell ice to Eskimos; however I am a jewelers daughter and I can tell you with 110% certainly that "oil" is about the worst thing you can put on your jewelry. What's sticks to oil? Everything.  Which is the reason we all clean our kitchens with amonia or another like product to cut through the grease.

Never let it be said the buying public had the sense God gave a lemon. Women lapped up "all natural jewelry cleaner"  for the "special show price" of $24.95.

Editors snark note: Clearly these are the same women who fall for the Arbonne skin care sales pitch because it's "naturally and botanically based". You can pick em out of a crowd as they have lines in their forhead that could hold a dime and could really benefit from a little Botox. Chemicals have their place people; both in skincare and diamond cleaning.

The frog guy sold 1/2 his inventory. Apparently Northern Wisconsin has an affinity for frog dust collectors that make a frog noise. What do you do with this thing once you get home? Seriously?

Meanwhile,  I couldn't give it away but every other lady bought an oil based product to rub into her wedding ring or a wooden frog.

Croaaaak! Cue the dart gun. Pfffft.

Painful Life Lessons - Art Show Style

At 44 (cripes, I still can't say that numbe out loud without flinching a little), one would think that I have learned all the big life lessons. I've had 44 years of the "the moral of the story is...",  I should be done. Alas. Not so.

The "big" Kohler show was a protracted, painful, 3-day lesson in the grass isn't always greener on the other side."  It's just more expensive.

I had expectations. I admit it. Big fancy, American Club, expectations. I spent months (months, I'm not kidding) prepping for this show. Buying stock. Alot of it. Dying stock. Alot of it. Configuring displays. Artfully problem solving how I was going to jam all my stuff in a too small, very expensive space.  I was prepared and ready to sell.

What's that saying? Make plans, God laughs.

What I wasn't prepared for was the staggeringly bad loction of my booth. Location is everything.  Of 101 vendors, I was 101. Stuck way in the back of the "Bay de Noc" room.   The American Club venue is truly magnificent. It's opulence and over indulgence at it's finest. The doormen wear top hats with black wool coats with red trim. It's nice. I want to live there.

All of the other rooms have 2 doorways, creating "flow". The Bay de Noc room is a conference room broom closet. One entrance, like a hallway. There is no flow. There is only the average patron taking half a dozen steps inside, craning their neck to get a lay of the land, turning and leaving.

Strike One.

I also wasn't prepared for having another artisit that sold the EXACT SAME STYLE dresses as I do, 2 booths over.

Not kidding.

Hand dyed.

Not kidding.

Althought his were painted with little birds (ok, ewww).  I am all for healthy competition but geez-oh-petes. There weren't that many childrens vendors, break it up a little. 

And the artist was a head-case. Running over to my booth ever 20 minutes, checking my price points (mine were $28 - his were $32). He actually said to me and I quote "Your stuff is pretty but mine is a better value since there is more embellishment".  What a tool.  Please leave my too small, expensive 8x10 booth.

Strike Two.

And the most important thing I wasn't prepared for, and I should know, is the market dictates everything.  Tye Dye just isn't beloved in the northern parts of Wisconsin. It's definately a Madison area type product. For good or for ill -- people associate tye dye with hippies. These weren't my people.  These people wanted chickadees painted on heathered green dresses, not bright rainbow swirls.

Strike Three.

So for three staggeringly long days, I endured barely (and I mean barely) enough sales to cover my over-priced booth fee and my hotel.  At the end of my show I took my bruised ego and my over-abundance of tye dye, packed up and went home.

Big. Heavy. Sigh.

The quest to not give up

Here’s the thing.

Straight up.

Aging sucks rocks.

Yeah. Yeah. I could be one of those women who spouts some fallacy about how age is just a number and you’re only as old as you act or feel or look…whatever that is. But here is the hard cold, right between the eyes reality.

It sucks.

Inside my brain I still “feel” 25,  but my low back, right hip and hamstring muscles think otherwise.

And there is ooze. Alot of ooze. There is muffin top where there once was none. And back fat. WTF? Seriously! Where does that come from? And why does it suddenly spring up out of no-where.

Now I fully admit, that I spent the better part of the summer licking the ice cream spoon, but all things being equal, I am an active woman. I work out. I walk. I take the stairs. Not 7 days a week, but consistently.

But the muffin top doesn’t care. It continues to rise. Things jiggle where they didn’t…and where they shouldn’t. And I’ve already lamented about the waddle. Oh yes, there is a “fund” started so I can address that little horror show in a few short years.

There is a big part of me that wants to say “screw it”, throw in the towel and start shopping in the polyester elastic pants section of the JC Penny. Mumus are fashionable paired with some sensible Hush Puppies, right?

Then there is the other part of me that screams, look at Helen Mirren for cripes sakes! She’s 65 and has a bod and half. She looks 110% mahvelous dahling! Yeah. I get she probably had some cupcake boy toy of a trainer chasing her around for 3 hours a days. And a personal chef preparing low fat, healthy tasty meals; she probably never has Ben & Jerrys Cherry Garcia Ice Cream in her freezer (which is a real shame because that flavor is the bomb and Helen doesn’t know what she is missing). But if Helen, in her 60s still has it going on – well, I can at least continue to hit the treadmill, limp through the sore hip and buy another body shaper to smooth the lumps. Right?

So I’m trying really hard not to give up. To not be one of those women who throws in the towel when the very unkind,  and frankly bitchy Mother Nature, unleashes the effects of gravity all over my body.

I’m sure there will 100+ like entries on this subject because not giving up is exhausting and wouldn’t it just be so much easier if eating Ben and Jerrys out of the carton while reading the latest Fitness Magazine was enough?

Stay tuned.

So What Exactly does a Non-Answer Cost?

I recently mourned celebrated another candle on my cake. I’ve stopped counting candles. Candle counting is depressing.

The non-depressing part about adding a candle to my cake is the birthday octave. You can read about it here.

This year’s birthday octave festivities included one GNO (girls night out for those of you not familiar with uber-cool acronyms).

Five ladies descended upon Lillianas, a very lovely restaurant with New Orleans inspired fare and a wonderful wine list. The intent of the evening was drinks and snacks; snacks of course including dessert. What’s a birthday celebration without dessert? Just sayin’.

I am the first to arrive at said restaurant, where the very nice bartender inquires about what kind of drink I would like. I order a glass of his recommended wine, that is happily 25% off due to happy hour. I can get happy.

Friend #1 arrives and inquires about my wine. Brian, the nice bartender, suggests a bottle of said wine. I inquire about the cost of the bottle of wine which I am told is a great “value” because we’ll get it for the happy hour price of 25% off. (Notice how this isn’t a real answer. ) But order it we do. Because it’s Friday. And we’re celebrating. Yay us! Aren’t we thrifty?

The entire group congregates. Wine is poured. Appetizers are ordered and consumed. More appetizers are ordered along with 2 particularly delicious sounding entrees. A second bottle of wine is ordered. Entrees and appetizers are devoured. The second bottle evaportates. Three desserts are ordered because if one is good, three is better. Then there is coffee.

And then.

The bill arrives. (Insert scary sounding horror music here.)

$278

I know.

That’s a car payment.

Or a Coach purse. Whichever your prefer.

The culprit? That damn happy hour wine at $78 a bottle. A bottle! Now I will concur that it was indeed very delicious. But $78 delicious? Hard to say. But what’s done is done. That ship has sailed and now it’s time to pay the piper for my very good (and unknowingly expensive) taste in Malbec wine.

Important life lesson – get a solid answer on the cost of the wine. Oh and always order the bananas foster for dessert, because bananas with butter, sugar and rum almost makes it worth adding another candle to my cake.

Kohler is Upon Me

If you’ve been following along then you know that in a few short days I will make my pilgrimage up to The American Club in Kohler, Wi for the Kohler Holiday Mart.

Three days of what I am hoping will be stellar crowds and stellar sales.

And thankfully the Verona show as respectable. I have broken the bad luck streak.

A full debrief to follow…

The Pet Life Cycle

My least favorite part of having pets is the end of the pet life cycle…or the dying part. It’s probably their least favorite part too.

With most pets, the life cycle is long. Most cats live upwards of 15+ years. I can tell you that having had a pet from infancy to death, 15 years isn’t long enough.

Hamsters, unlike cats, live about 2 years. Hamsters have a little internal egg timer, once they hit the elusive 2 year mark they are usually toes up in the bottom in the cage. Now a hamster isn’t a cat, he won’t purr and is most of the time afraid of the people who feed him. He spends most of his time burrowing in his cage or running on his plastic wheel. But he’s still cute and furry and has a sweet face. Finding your hammy dead is indeed a buzz kill. Let’s face it. Dead hammys are no fun.

As was the case Monday night, say oh, 9pm, when my son was in the feeding and watering phase of hammy care for the night. Only the hammy no longer needed feeding and watering as he had followed the white light to the green hammy wheel in the sky.

We found his little body curled up in his straw hanging thingy in his cage…the hammy version of a straw tire swing. My son tried to get him out of said straw hanging thingy, but hammy must have crossed the rainbow bridge quite a number of hours earlier. His body was a little, uh, stiff. There was no budging his body from that swing. Poor ham.

So we wrapped the whole tire swing/hammy combo in an old dishtowel and proceeded to commence burial at 9:00 at night. I was quite the site dressed in my blue doggie flannel jammies, holding a flashlight in one hand and towel wrapped dead hamster in the other while my son dug a grave along the back end of our lot line near the green space.

I feel bad. I do genuinely feel bad. He wasn’t the type of pet that gave unconditional love, but he was unconditionally cute and if he had lived 15 years, I would have taken care of him. Hammys don’t need much in terms of care. On the pet scale – they are pretty low maintenance.

Rest in peace little ham. He really did have the cutest little hamster face.

Not as simple as it looks

Just in case you haven't been paying attention. The big "Kohler" show is a  few weeks away.

You can read about it here and here.

As previously mentioned Kohler booth space is at a premium. My overpriced 8x10 booth will be "cozy" and because clothing takes up some space, so I've been brainstorming about how to maximize my space opportinity. I can't have any "stock" visible (no boxes or tubs) so I needed to figure out how to have extra stock artfully displayed.

I found some fun litte black wire cubes from http://www.robertham.com/. Supposedly they assemble and disassemble with ease.   Ease is apparently a subjective word.

2 hours and one rubber mallet later I was still assembling, along with a few choice curse words all while thinking there is no (insert choice curseword here) way I am taking these apart and putting them back together again.  My car is already going to be packed full but I'll make it work with assembled cubes if it kills me.

Two weeks and counting. Tick tock.

Updates to follow...