Babies as Pasties, New Fashion Trend?

I understand that this may be beyond the comfort level for discussion, but I have to go there.

First, a story.

I was out in public last night. Public, remember this fact. There was a woman sitting on a bench in full public view. She had a young infant with her who was obviously hungry. She proceeded to, how do I say this? Okay fine, out with it. She cranked up her shirt, pulled up her bra on one side, and plugged the kid on. She did not attempt cover up with a blanket. Hell, she didn't even put the baby's head under her shirt. Truthfully I found myself a little ooged out. What I want to know is, am I being an unreasonable prude here?

So a couple things. First, I understand that babies need to eat. I also understand that babies need to eat in public. Thus the whole cover-that-with a blanket theory. I have zero complaints with that methodology. I know some people would tell me that nursing is a beautiful expression of blah blah blah blah. I'm not arguing with that. But does that mean a free pass for public flashing?

Even with the kid nursing, I could still see plenty more that I was comfortable with. Much more than would be revealed by any low cut shirt. The kid didn't even cover as much as a pasty would in a strip club. Sorry to be so graphic, but them's the facts. Is this considered more socially acceptable because the pasty happens to be a chubby infant as opposed to a sparkly red number with tassels?

So feel free to tell me, am I being totally unreasonable here?

Cyndi

They all fall down! (Or just me)

I was debating on whether or not to post this, but I love you all too much to deny you the laughs.

I was coming back from a meeting this morning... I was in the elevator with my laptop in hand when I remembered something I used to do as a kid. Between elevator floors I would squat and them jump up when coming up to a floor. The gravity does something funky. Anyhoo, on a whim, I decided to squat and push up when arriving at the 5th floor.

So I squatted, then pushed up, then fell over. I guess I've lost the touch. I'm going to blame the laptop for throwing my alignment off. I managed to save my laptop from hitting the ground, but I was a heap of legs, arms, and heels. Now, I could stop here, and this would be sufficiently embarrassing. But unfortunately there is more.

As I rocked up from my side to get up the elevator doors opened and there before me was a group of employees heading to lunch. The Oh my gosh are you okays? ensued and I was thoroughly, thoroughly mortified.

I need to come up with a theory about why these things happen to me. I must have warped karma or a misaligned chi. Either that or I'm the biggest klutz that has ever lived. I'm voting for the chi.

Cyndi

From the Desk of Cyndo

I work as an administrative assistant. This means that I do alot of typing. This is usually things like meeting notes, official communications, etc. Over the years I have actually learned to type pretty quickly. This is a far cry from my days as a hunt and peck gal. The only problem is, once I get into speed typing mode, there are certain words that I always always type incorrectly. One of these words is "from," I always type "form." Sadly, another one of these words is my name. I always type "Cyndo" I simply can't make my finger hit the "I." it always goes for the "O."

On a couple instances, I have not caught this mistake before sending out an email or a set of notes. I have received a couple of responses saying: "Good Morning Cyndo (what an unusual name, is it Greek?)" Or some variation of that type of thing. I just haven't had the heart to correct them (either that or I am terribly embarrassed). For this reason, there are a couple vendors that call regularly asking for Cyndo. I have actually had to tell the receptionists downstairs that if anyone calls for Cyndo, that it's me they are looking for.

Why cannot I not type my own name correctly? They should have a spell check for this sort of thing.


Love,
Cyndo

erm...Cyndi

I Can Button My Pants!

Ladies and gentleman, today is a landmark. Well actually a couple days ago was a landmark, but who's counting. As of today (and couple days ago) I can...(drumroll) BUTTON MY PANTS! I know this does not sound like much of an accomplishment, but you need to understand the back story.

About a year ago I bought a bunch of cute careerwear. In the year since, I gained enough weight that some items had to be taken out of rotation while others had to be erm...modifed so I could continue to wear them. By modified I mean that I left the top button unbuttoned and used a safety pin to fasten them closed in a location that didn't cut off the circulation to my legs and potentially cause paralysis.

I know what you are asking yourself. Why didn't you just buy a bigger size? Well I couldn't do that. That would have meant that I needed a bigger size. Duh! As long as I could get the pants on and fasten them, that counted as fitting.

But now! Now I can get the pants on and button them. Even the top button! And I don't even unbutton them while in the car or during long meetings. Tada!

It's all about the small victories people. 21 days working out! Yay me!

Cyndi

Roadkill Flats- A New Fashion Trend?

I'm reeeally sure that I'm over this whole snow thing. It took me the better part of two and half hours to get to work today. Ugh. After finally slipping and sliding into the parking lot, I got out of the car and stepped right into a snow drift. My shoe and pants leg filled up with snow. I've never really mastered this whole practical shoes thing.

After extracting my foot from the drift I gave it a shake to try to get some snow out of my pants leg. I guess I gave it a little too much juice because I ended up kicking my shoe off. It sailed and slid about 100 feet to land right in the path of an oncoming car. (Cue dramatic lighting and action movie music)

Time moved in slow motion. I stood leaden, a scream frozen on my lips. I could see it was already too late. The car...could not stop (said in William Shatner voice). I witnessed in horror as my poor little shoe got runned over. So much for not liking flats. Now I had the delicate choice of whether to hop on one foot to my shoe (treacherous with the slippery parking lot and my notable lack of coordination) or walk with one foot in the snow. In the snow it was.

I retrieved my roadkill shoe (now squished and filled with slush) and limped with my frozen foot into the ladies bathroom. I revived my nearly frost-bitten foot with warm paper towels and did my best to re-shape my shoe.

Once again, I must reiterate...I rock!

Cyndi

How the Gourmet Cooks Do It

I don't think I have discussed the concept of "Fat Friday" quite yet. I suppose now is as good a time as any. In order to make myself eat healthy and work out 6 days a week I allow myself one day a week to eat like a cow and congeal into a fat and sugar induced puddle on the couch. This day is Friday. Every Friday, I make a show of being ridiculously lazy when I get home from work and eat astoundingly unhealthy combinations of food.

During the week, Andy and I watch episodes of Tyler's Ultimate in order to decide what we will consume for fat Friday (how many times do I have to tell you people? I am a NERD!). This week, we saw an episode about the ultimate barbecue chicken and were instantly salivating all over our organic pita chips. Decision made.

Tyler's secret for making the chicken taste smoky without having an outdoor grill was adding bits of crispy bacon the the barbecue sauce. Chicken and bacon. Yep, no complaints here. Friday night rolled around and we scurried from store to store acquiring ingredients for our unhealthy feast.

Then at home, we assembled the sauce lovingly. We crisped the bacon, we brined the chicken, we sauteed onion and garlic, we seared the chicken in the bacon fat. We then transfered our golden chicken to the oven and roasted it with the utmost of care, waiting for the perfect moment to shmear it with our heavenly homemade barbecue sauce. Then, with breathless anticipation, we turned the heat up to caramelize the sauce onto the delightfully crisp chicken skin.

5 minutes passed, and unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I opened the oven and pulled the rack out so I could examine these promises of smoky deliciousness first hand. I looked down and beheld the most exquisite chicken I have ever seen. I inhaled deeply, and a distinctly smoky aroma filled my nostrils. In awe I shouted to Andy, "Andy! This is chicken is glorious! It smells just like barbecue chicken from an outdoor grill! I can even smell the smoke!"

I inhaled again, it seemed even smokier now. Amazed at my efforts, I looked down at the chicken once more and I could swear I even saw smoke curling around the bronzed chicken. That's truly astounding I thought as I leaned closer. It was then that I saw a strange orange flicker reflecting off the oven wall.

Suddenly, I realized that in opening the oven and pulling out the rack with the chicken on it, the tail of my dish towel came to rest on the oven's heating element. And was now on fire. It was from this flaming dishrag concealed under the chicken pan that the smoky smell had been emanating.

I quickly yanked the towel out of the oven and began to swing it around my head in order to put the fire out. This only served to super-oxygenate the flames and they blazed forth with attitude. Finally I flung the towel into the sink and doused it with water.

Smoky chicken indeed. Somehow I don't see that sort of thing happening to Tyler. I'm quite sure this is not how the gourmet cooks do it.

Yeah, I rock.

Cyndi

PS. Kitchen disasters aside, I have worked out for 18 days and have lost around 12-ish pounds.

Am I Totally Uncool?

I've never been big into high fashion. When I must shop I circle around the clearance racks and grab a few things here and there before moving on. I've never really felt that I have bad taste, but lately I have been led to wonder. The hubby and I like to hang out at Borders on Saturday mornings when we can. We sometimes amuse ourselves by looking at magazines. In the magazines are often pictures. And in some of these pictures are clothes. It's the clothes in these pictures that have set me to wondering. Here are some things I don't get.

Skinny jeans: Are we really down to mugging 8 year old boys for their pants? My theory is that these are designed with such tight ankles to cut off circulation to your feet so your shoes don't hurt. But really, just what is the point of these? Do they really look good on anyone? I don't know about you, but my leg is shaped like about like a drumstick (currently the extra-crispy kind you get at KFC. Mmmmmm KFC.....) Anyway, unless your leg is roughly pencil shaped (and sized) I can't see that these would be remotely flattering.

Ballet Flats: You know the kind I'm talking about. Typically made of some shiny material with soles made out of a double-ply sheet of toilet paper. Flatter than flats. I don't have large feet, but when I tried a pair on, I looked sort of like a duck. Is it now fashionable to look like a duck? I guess they do have rather skinny legs. I bet ducks would look downright sassy in skinny jeans.

Gold/Silvery Fabric: In almost every magazine I have picked up, the purses seem to be made out of some strange metallic fabric. What is this stuff? Aluminum foil? Gum wrappers? Leftover lining from the inside of Liberace's piano bench? And what is the purpose of a metallic purse? To coordinate with your hub caps? I suppose it might match your shiny metallic duck flats and skinny jeans.

I'm not trying to be mean or anything. I just don't get it. It causes me to wonder of course. If this really is what's cool, then maybe I've finally turned the corner into official "un-coolness."

Contemplating what a tall chicken-legged duck with a gum-wrapper purse would look like,

Cyndi

Did I Miss My Calling?

Have you ever had one of those moments when you wonder if you missed your calling? Where a profession suddenly appeals to you, and you wonder if you might have been able to do it, had your life path been different? I had one of those moments this morning.

I was on my way to work listening to La Boheme, (opera is some of my favorite commuting music. I told you I was a nerd) when I wondered what my life would have been like had I been an opera singer. It seemed like it could be a good fit. After all, I already wear enough make-up to be seen from a stage. How hard could the rest of it be? I would get to wear cool costumes. I could handle that. I've always wanted one of those Valkyrie hats with the horns on them (mostly because they look handy for carrying purses and groceries, thereby freeing up the hands. Hey, it could work.) It would also give me an excuse of not caring about my weight. Stereotypically speaking, you can be Rubenesque, right? And besides, if anyone teased me about my weight, I could lower my head and go after them with my helmet horns. Take that!

I had pretty much decided that this would be the perfect career move when it occurred to me that I would actually have to sing.

The question intrigued me. Could I sing opera? It occurred to me that I had never tried. Here I was, alone in my car, opera blasting. It seemed like the perfect time to give it a shot. I did a few warm ups and waited for the perfect note, then I opened my mouth as wide as I could and let fly. All I can say is "wow." I had absolutely no idea I was capable of making a sound that horrific. I felt my face turn red. I was actually embarrassed for myself. I think my eyes even watered.

So I may in fact confirm for you that the answer is a resounding no. I did not in fact miss my calling. I'm sure there are many an unshattered eardrum that can now breathe (can an eardrum breathe?) a sigh of relief.

Cyndi

PS. Nine pounds of weight lost and two weeks of official workouts. Wahoo!

Annoying Things My Cats Do, Vol 1.

Okay, so I guess I already broached this topic with the potholder post a while back, but cat ownership is such a multi-faceted experience full of magic and wonder. How could one post hold it all? It can't. Welcome to "Annoying things my cats do." I promise not to post on this title more than once a week.

This week's winner: Gilbert (and his feline battering ram of death).

We sleep in a modest queen sized bed. It suits Andy and I quite well. It does not however suit me, Andy, and three cats (one of them rather large). And yet, this is where we all prefer to sleep. Naturally this causes some conflict. Gilbert, Mischa, and Stewie regularly claim various spots on the bed. I believe that the higher the level of irritation a spot causes, the more desirable it is to a feline.

Gilbert, for example, prefers to rest his ample girth directly on a human's ankles, thereby cutting off the blood flow to the feet and making a shift of position impossible. Stewie prefers to wedge himself near the spinal region of a sleeping human so as to prevent them from rolling over without squishing him and being treated to razor sharp claws in the back. Mischa likes to lay wherever it is that is most natural for one to stretch out a foot. When said foot approaches her position she protests with frightening deep throaty growls and quick flashes of teeth and claws as she violently attacks the bump under the covers. I told you she was psycho.

It would likely make sense to you then, that on occasion, in a foolhardy gesture of independent defiance, we have attempted to lock the cats out of the bedroom while we sleep. I believe the record for keeping them out is approximately 12 minutes. This is mostly due to the efforts of the older statesman, Gilbert, and his battering ram of death. Let me set the scene for you.

*Andy and Cyndi, giddy at the thought of a good night's sleep without cats rush to the bedroom and close the door. Cats safely trapped on the other side of the door, Andy and Cyndi hop into bed and spread out in extravagant space hogging poses and drift off to sleep.* Then it begins.

Mew. Mew. Mew. Meow. Meeeow. Meeeeeeoooow. Meeeooooow! MROW!

*Cyndi shoves her head under the pillow and prays that they will go away. She breathes extra shallow thinking, "Maybe if I am extreeeemely quiet, they won't know I'm in here." Miraculously, the meowing stops. And then...*

Bump. Bump bump. Bump bump bumpp bump bump. CRASH! *This is the sound of Gilbert, attempting to use his massive bulk to break down the door. Again, Cyndi and Andy ignore him, and wait for the din to die down. Surely they will tire and go away. Surely. The banging stops for a moment only to convert to plaintive meowing, once again.*

MREOOOOUW! ROOOOOOOW! Meow! Squeek! (Stewie has become stressed out by Gilbert's wailing and joins in.) Mroooooow! Squeeeeeek! Meeeeeeooo! Squeeeek! Bump bump bump! Bump! Squuuueeek! MROOOW! Bump! Crash!

"We can't let them win," Cyndi says aloud. "We have to be strong or they'll never stop."

Scratch. Scratch scratch scratch. Bump bump scratch. *At this point, being unsuccessful in battering the door down, Gilbert has decided that he will simply tunnel under it Alcatraz style with his claws by pulling the carpet up in chunks.*

Scratch scratch! Squuueeek! Mrooooow! Bump bump bump! Scratch scratch! Hiss! Yoooowwl! Grooowwwl! CRASH! (Mischa has now figured out that she is locked as well and when she comes to the door, she and Stewie get into a slapping match.)

"Fine! Fine!" Cyndi screams, jumping out of bed. "You win!" She yanks open the door. "Come on then! Get in here." All three stare up at her wide eyed and innocent, as if to say, "Oh, hi! You must have left the door closed on accident. We just wanted to make sure you knew we were here." They saunter off in various directions. Not a single one attempts to come in. At least, not until after Andy and Cyndi have fallen asleep and they have the opportunity to jolt them awake by leaping up onto the stomach or using a dangling limb as a rope ladder.

Ahh the joys of cat ownership.

You know you want one. Here are some pictures of mine, in case you need inspiration.

Stewie: You said I couldn't sit onto the counter. You said nothing about lounging on it. (Notice my Rambo squirt bottle in the background begging to be used.)

Gilbert: Are you sure there isn't anything I could poop or vomit on for you? It's no trouble, really.

Mischa: Cat food is nice and all, but what I'd really like is a nice helping of... your soul!

The Amazing She-Male

Come one! Come all! And observe the amazing She-Male!

What I failed to mention the other day in my "The Man's Rule of Double Bad" post is that a similar scale exists for females as well. On the scale of manly femaleness I, and a couple of my other favorite women, happen to be on the more manly side of feminine. As can be proved by my actions last night.

Andy and I were making dinner and I noticed Matty's airsoft gun on the counter. Stewie was on the counter as usual, so I picked up the gun and pointed it at his haunches. (Yes I know there are all kinds of things wrong with the information in that paragraph. But that's how I roll.)

Cyndi: "All right Stewie, last chance."
Andy: Actually, that thing really hurts. You shouldn't shoot him.
Cyndi: How do you know?
Andy: I shot myself in the hand to see if it would hurt.
Cyndi: And?
Andy: It does.
Cyndi: Really? That bad huh?
Andy: Yep.

Cyndi looks at the gun curiously.
Andy: Don't do it. I'm telling you, it really hurts.

Witness the duality of the amazing she-male's brain. Cyndi's Man Brain thinks: Well if he could shoot his hand then it must not hurt that much. What are you? A wuss? Go on, try it! Don't you want to show Andy how tough you are? Cyndi's Woman Brain is surprisingly on board as well: The pellets are red and green! Look how Christmassy they look. Nothing that festive could hurt that bad. I mean, it's not like they're metal bbs or anything.

Cyndi aims the gun at the most padded spot she can think of (her hiney) and pulls the trigger. Unfortunately it's the woman brain aiming and she shoots herself in the back of the thigh.

Cyndi: YOUUUCH! Holy mother! That freakin hurts! Why didn't you tell me? *Hopping around the kitchen in pain while holding her thigh.*
Andy: *Sighs*

And today, my thigh looks like...well...like someone shot it with an airsoft gun. Hee.

Go on, tell me how brilliant I am. I'm waiting.

Cyndi

Skinny shoulders, Healthy Saddle Bags

So I've heard the adage that the last place you gained weight is the first place you will lose it and the first place where you gain it is the last place where you lose it. What a horrible sentence. Sheesh.

Anyway, I don't know how true that is, but I have been noticing an odd pattern. I've worked out for eight straight days in a row and I have lost about 3-4 pounds so far. So naturally, I have been examining the terrain to see from whence the fat has departed. As far as I can tell, it has all come from only one area. My shoulders.

I was standing in the bathroom last night changing into my jammies and happened to look into the mirror at the right time to see an odd bone protruding out of my shoulder. I poked at it. I poked at the other side. I turned to and fro. Surely enough, they were looking downright scrawny with their boney protrusions. I called in Andy to confirm that I wasn't just hallucinating this. "Yep, that's a skinny shoulder," he agreed.

Now weight loss is weight loss, and I know I ought not complain, but really, my shoulders? This seems terribly unfair. My shoulders have never had cellulite. They have never formed rolls when I sat just so. They have never wobbled gelatinously when I poked at them. Why should they feel like they needed to lose weight? My saddle bags on the other hand need to lose weight desperately, but I sense that they will require some "persuasion."

Here are some of the solutions that didn't make the cut.

Plan 1. Bribe a line cook at Denny's to let me rest my saddle bags on a hot griddle until some of the lumps melt off. Sautee lightly on both sides and serve with a squeeze of lemon.

Plan 2. Poke holes in saddle bags with one of the boy's sharpened colored pencils. Turn blow-up bed pump to "deflate" and stick it into aformentioned colored pencil punctures. Repeat as many times as needed.

Plan 3. Brandish a wheel of brie cheese near saddle bags and see if fat-starved fat cells will leap out from under skin to consume brie cheese. Crackers optional.

Plan 4. Offer two first class tickets to French Riviera to saddle bags. Explain such terms as "bechamel sauce" and "croissant" to them in hopes that they will depart for greener pastures, or at least someone else's thighs.

Plan 5. Sharpen kitchen knives and practice technique for slicing sashimi, removing saddle bags in thin slices so they don't catch on until it's too late.

Plan 6. Drink V-8.


Oh well. It looks like I'm just going to have to settle for doing more squats and lunges. *Sigh*

Cyndi

PS. Sorry for the slightly cannibalist undertones of the above proposed solutions. I've been listening the Hannibal book during my commute and I think it may be marinating my brain. Whoops. There I go again.

Does Anyone Really Enjoy V-8? No, Really.

Okay, I know this is completely random, and it is my second post in one day, but I am compelled to ask a question.

Who enjoys drinking V-8 juice? Really. Right now I have an itty bitty can of it sitting on my desk, half a sip of which was consumed and spat back promptly into the can. I was at my desk when I took a sip, decided I couldn't handle the texture (another quirk for you), and then realized I had nowhere to dispose of it except back into the can. I have plans to dump it out, but I'm embarrassed to do it in front of my co-workers. I shall wait until they leave then slink over to the sink and with shifty eyes and a sheepish expression send it down the drain.

I know what you are thinking. At least I think I know what you are thinking. "If you hate it so much, why did you open the can?" Well...yesterday as I went to collect a diet Pepsi from the communal fridge downstairs I saw a slim young woman shaking a can of V-8. I thought, "I want to be slim. Maybe I should try to drink my veggies too. I'll grab a can tomorrow." And so I did. I took my chilled prize back to my desk and opened it. It smelled like canned tomato soup (which I also hate). I should have taken this as a sign, but I did not. I took my half a sip and *sploot* right back out it came.

It tasted like ketchup. Without salt. Like someone had just chewed a large stalk of celery and spit in it. And it was cold. And thin. It tasted like ghastly cheap celery-spit ketchup that had been mixed with a good bit of street slush to chill it. At least, this is the conclusion that my brain arrived at once it received the frantic SOS signals from my taste buds. "Abort! Abort! Close down the seals! Initialize back flow pump!" Something like that.

So, my apologies to V-8, but you have just officially made my list of detestable foods. I hope you Spaghettios, and candy corn will all be the best of friends.

Cyndi

The Man's Rule of Double Bad

Disclaimer: The following post is written with the utmost affection for the male of our species.

I'm married to a man.

Now, this might seem like an obvious statement to some of you, but I feel the need to point that out before I continue. Now you see, being the post structuralist post post modernist blah blah blah (see how I help you tune out the boring bits?) that I am, I know that the term "man" is a relative one. What I mean is, there are of course certain qualifiers to be labeled a man (obviously, I don't need to go into that one), but there are many varying degrees of manliness. For my sake, and because I am a detail oriented dork who loves lists and charts, I will say that these degrees shall range from one to ten. One being an eyebrow plucking, Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses wearing, Clinique exfoliating scrub using excellent dresser, and ten being my dear husband, Andy. Please understand that this scale is for measuring straight men only. Allow me to explain.

A former coworker of mine (yes, a man) asked me to jump up on top of a recycling bin once to help him hang a banner. He "didn't want to get plaster in his hair because it was spiky and gelled, and since I didn't have gel in my hair, it would be much easier for me to brush the plaster dust out." I was wearing heels people, HEELS and he still somehow rationalized it to himself that I would be the better banner hanger. I ran into him the other day, and I'm sure he would have looked surprised to see me, if he had any eyebrows left after the hourly plucking, that is. Man scale 1.3.

So, on to the other end of the scale. My beloved husband, Andy. He knows I'm writing about him today, so all of this is okay, I assure you. Andy is a card carrying member of the Brotherhood (AKA The He-Man Woman Hater's Club). I'm not supposed to know it exists, in fact, no woman is. Since I know very few people read my blog, I think I am safe to talk about it freely. Mind you, if the Brotherhood's sources were anywhere as good as mine, Andy would have been expelled years ago. He's far too intelligent, sensitive, caring, thoughtful, etc. And yet....and yet, there are certain carry overs from the HMWHC that cannot be cast off. In Andy, the primary of these is what I like to call the Man's Rule of Double Bad. Permit me to give you an example.

I come home from belly dancing last night (I do that, by the way) and plop onto the couch next to my love. He's eating a bowl of frosted flakes with gusto. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back affectionately and giggle ( I do that too). "You have milk in your goatee" I point out.

Now, I've always wanted to be on one of those TV shows where I can pause time, so imagine if you will that I have paused the above scene so we can analyze what happens in Andy's brain. Pay careful attention now, because the following thought process is rather complex.

Here is what I believe it looks like (obviously, I am not a man, so I wouldn't know). *Inside Andy's brain* "Dude! She just said you have milk on your goatee. She wants you to wipe it off because it's annoying her. What? Does she expect you to be perfect when you eat? Never drop a crumb? Next she'll notice that you dripped some milk on your shirt. Then she'll notice that she doesn't like that shirt on you. She'll start yammering on about how that color is bad for your skin tone. She'll take you to the GAP and make you pick out a new shirt. And then she'll start trying on jeans and make you wait outside the fitting room. She'll ask your opinion. You'll say the wrong thing. Then she'll feel fat and depressed. Forget it man. You have to shut her down. You're a man! You can't be told what to do. Show her! Show her now!" *Time unfreezes*

Andy shoves his face into the bowl of frosted flakes until his entire chin is submerged and milk is running in rivulets down his neck. "Is that better?" he asks, triumphantly. (Man scale 10.5) Cyndi shakes her head.

"Wow" he muses, "that's really cold and unpleasant, having milk running down your neck and into your shirt."

"Huh" Cyndi says, "who'd have thought."

So that's the man's rule of double bad. If your woman points out anything, or says anything that remotely resembles criticism, then you must immediately do or say something double bad in order to reset her completely unrealistic expectations of your behavior. I'm onto you men. And soon, very soon, the other ladies will be too. Bwahahahaha!


Cyndi

PS. I have worked out for seven days in a row. Whoot!

Waiting for Waiting for God No More

Meet Tom and Diana of Waiting for God fame.

This is my blog, and I am going to take this opportunity to reveal some of the delicate subtleties of my one over-arching personality trait. Nerdiness. If you have any aversions or allergies to pure unadulterated nerdiness, I suggest you look away now.

So, I love TV, but I do not actually watch TV a great deal. I hate commercials and I despise reality TV ( I knew I was done a few years back when I saw a commercial for "The Littlest Groom" and it didn't turn out to be commercial for Geico.) I've never seen an episode of Lost, or 24, or Grey's Anatomy. For this reason, and for many others, I have embraced the world of DVR. I can come home after a long day and watch only the shows that give my inner nerd license to spring free after a day stuck in business casual wear, uncomfortable heels, and the guise of a generally well put together executive assistant.

One of the shows that delights my inner nerd most is "Waiting for God." It's about the goings on in Bayview retirement home (think a sarcastic old lady, a neurotically fantasizing elderly man, an arthritic old chap named Basil who calls himself the Bayview Stallion, and a cast of other delightfully quirky characters). Do you see how pathetic I am? I'm trying to convince you it's cool. (Cough cough, NERD!)

Every few years, someone at PBS who loves me decides to air a couple seasons, and for those few months all is right in the inner sanctum of my nerd-dom. Last night, as Andy and I were flipping through the channels, what did I see on the TV schedule but Waiting for God. I could scarcely believe my luck. I squeaked, I squealed, I flapped about excitedly, I even considered doing a cartwheel. But then I remembered that my cartwheels look something like a slightly chubby giraffe trying to do a forward hand spring down a hill covered with axle grease (NOT PRETTY). ( And no Heather, I will not try to do a cartwheel, film it, and post it here for your enjoyment. I have to maintain some dignity, don't I? Could be too late for that one anyway after this post).

And so for the next few bleak winter months, I shall have my beloved Britcom to give me much needed warm fuzzies. To my anonymous friend at PBS, I send a hearty smooch.

Doing a cartwheel in my mind so no one gets hurt,

Cyndi

Unsolved Mysteries: Unexplained 4am Perkiness

As always, I must begin with a brag. This morning makes six days in a row that I have worked out. As soon as I get a reliable scale I'll start posting my weekly weigh-in stats. I'm pretty sure no one cares, but knowing I have to post them is one more reason not to eat the donut, so to speak.

So, to the mystery at hand...

I've made no secret of the fact that I am NOT a morning person. Some people spring out of bed with a smile on their face and with a merry tune skip down the hall and into a shower ( I typically would like to hit these people. Hard.) Me? I pretty much emit only various grunts before 10am. I do alot of pulling the covers over my head and glaring slitty eyed at the alarm clock. Sometimes I throw things. I commute to SLC for work, which requires me to be out of my cocoon by 6am, and I'm never happy about it.

And yet, at precisely 4am this morning my eyes popped open. I forced them shut. POP! They open again. I found myself possessed of an urge to get out of bed and do something constructive. Fearing this might be a symptom of the early onset of dementia, I had a chat with myself about these irrational urges. I do this often as you will soon discover.

Perky Cyndi: Come on sleepy head! Let's get up!
Fat Cyndi: Grunt.
Perky Cyndi: Wasn't that a great night's sleep? I feel so energized!
Fat Cyndi: Snort
Perky Cyndi: Well that's not very polite. Come on! Let's get up and fold the laundry!
Fat Cyndi: Huh?
Perky Cyndi: Let's get up early and make Andy breakfast!
Fat Cyndi (noticeably perkier at the mention of food): Mmmmmmm. Doooonuuuuut.
Perky Cyndi: Dream on. I was thinking first we could work out, then...
Fat Cyndi: Worrk ouuut bad! Doooonuuut goooood!
Perky Cyndi: It would be awesome!
Fat Cyndi: Grrrrr!
Perky Cyndi: Well I'm getting up. You can stay here if you want, but I'm getting up.
Fat Cyndi: Pppppbbblwww! (Blows raspberry).

And I really did get up. I snuck out of bed, I changed into my workout clothes, and I did a Power 90 Sculpt video. But I still had a bunch of energy, so I did a Sweat video as well. Then I folded the laundry. Then I made turkey bacon for whole wheat turkey bacon BLTs for breakfast.

So what the heck was that all about? Feels like I'm in an episode of the Twilight Zone or something. Any second now I'm going to discover that aliens planted a mind control device planted somewhere on my person.

If anyone has any tips for getting rid of alien mind control devices that cause undesired perkiness, please let me know. I'd really like to sleep until 6am tomorrow.

Cyndi

Confessions of a Saturday Night Grazer

I sit here watching my Matty become one of the pantheon of metal gods by jamming out on Guitar Hero III. And while I sit, I write. Not really because I feel like writing necessarily. But because if both my hands are typing then neither one of them can be shoving a chocolate donut in my mouth. This fear is indeed a reasonable one as there sits atop my fridge at this very second a lovely box containing lovely chocolate and glazed donuts that would add a lovely 5 pounds to my thighs. These donuts very nearly perished in one of my "grazing sessions." Allow me to explain this for you uninitiated folks.

See, if this were a GA (Grazer's Anonymous) meeting, it would go something like this.
Cyndi stands up. "Hi, my name is Cyndi, and I'm a grazer."
[The groups chimes in "Hi Cyndi!" Cyndi sits. The spokeswoman with large haunches and sweats speaks. "Welcome, Cyndi. Why don't you tell us about one of your recent grazes." Cyndi clears her throat and tells the following story.]

"Well, it was Saturday night. Earlier that day I went shopping at Walmart. This stimulus normally ends in a grazing episode, but I didn't fall of the wagon. I'm trying to lose weight you see."

[The group murmurs in understanding approval]

"When I arrived home I found that someone had spilled an entire bottle of Elmer's School Glue on the floor. I spent about an hour scrubbing it and scraping it out of the carpet with a butter knife. And well, I'm afraid I might have accidentally eaten some chicken wings out of stress afterwards."

[The group sighs sympathetically]

"But I was really good after that. Perfect really. I even skipped dinner and worked out. Okay, well I might have snuck a couple bites of macaroni and cheese while I was making it for the boys, but only a couple."

[The group tisks disapprovingly, knowing that for a grazer "a couple" can almost always be loosely translated to "I will only admit to two, but I really stopped counting at eight"]

"Bolstered by my -ahem- couple bites of mac and cheese I made it to about ten o clock at night. My husband took the older two boys to Alien vs. Predator. Alien made me think of those things popping out of peoples' stomach, which reminded me that my stomach felt like it was eating itself, so I...sorta wandered into the kitchen."

[The group gasps collectively. A grazer must never, NEVER, wander into the kitchen after a certain time at night. We're sort of like gremlins that way. If you give us a crumb after 10pm we won't stop until the kitchen is reduced to rubble covered with a fine dust of cheetoh powder and chocolate skid marks.]

"I figured I would just have a bite of something to tide me over. So I had a couple smoked almonds. Almonds are healthy right? I mean, it's not like went for the potato chips. Well, then my mouth was all salty, so I thought that if I could just have a bite of something sweet, I would be good for the night. That's where the problem started really."

[The group nods knowingly and shakes their heads in shame]

"That's when I saw the donut box on the top of the fridge."

[A woman shrieks in horror, "YOU DIDN'T!"]

"No, I didn't. I toed the line mind you. I opened the box, I inhaled deeply. I even picked up a donut. But somehow, I managed to put it back. Still, I felt bad for getting their hopes up by opening the box, so I scraped a bit of frosting off the lid and ate it, just to show the donuts that it was nothing personal."

[The group sighs in relief. "Well that's not so bad." Someone pipes up]

"Well that's not all I'm afraid. The frosting was so sweet that I really needed something salty. So I ate few more smoked almonds. But then I was too far back on the salty side. I opened the cupboard and discovered the last few slices of chocolate orange. So I ate one thinking it would be just what I needed. It wasn't. Now I needed something meaty. I opened the fridge and found some leftover barbecue shrimp. They looked so cute sitting there in the bowl. I ate a couple, and finally felt satisfied. So I left the kitchen.

[The group cheers]

"But then...as I sat there, I thought about the three shrimp I left in the bowl. They looked so lonely. What had they done to be left behind? I mean, there they were, all happy and swimming in the sea one day when someone yanked them out with a net, froze them, thawed them, pulled their little heads and tails off, and then barbecued them. And after all that they were going to be left uneaten. I started to feel guilty. I mean, it was the least I could do right? So that they knew they hadn't died in vain. So I went back to the kitchen and ate them."

[The group groans in despair]

"You know the rest, I'm sure. The shrimp put me all salty again, so then I had to finish off the chocolate orange and drink two glasses of milk. It was skim milk though."

["So what happened then?" someone asks.]

"Well, I decided that I had to leave the kitchen and go type a post for my blog to keep my hands busy."

[The group erupts into applause. "I think we've had a break-through!" Haunches the spokesperson shouts. Cyndi finally sits. Another group member stands. "Well," he begins, "it all started in the check out line of the 7-eleven]

Okay, enough of that little meandering. All in all though, I must consider myself a success this time. I've worked out four days in a row, and I didn't eat the donut. I mean, that's something, right? Right?

Well, I better sign off. Matty is done rocking the free world and is now in the kitchen searching for a snack. I think I'll go see how he's doing...

Cyndi

Cat-Hide Potholders Anyone?

I have cats. Three cats.

The trouble is, more and more lately I have been wishing that I had zero cats. This poses some difficult issues, first and foremost being how precisely to get rid of said cats. Of course there are several solutions that have not failed to escape me. One could simply take them down to a shelter. Perhaps on a lovely family car ride they could be hurled out the window. Yesterday, briefly, I considered an even more practical solution. Potholders. Think about it. They were perfectly designed for it really. Before you judge me too harshly, you need to hear the events that proceeded this thought.

I came home from work to the usual sight of Stewie, the youngest of the three cats, lounging regally on the counter he knows full well he is not supposed to sit on. "Stewie, down!" I bark in my usual fashion. He blinks at me innocently. "Down!" I say much more forcefully this time. He finally squeaks and jumps down, knocking several glasses into the sink as a bonus.

Counter cleared, I drag out the ham to warm up for tonight's dinner. By this time, I can see Gilbert, my obese middle child/cat, circling the litter box. Gilbert has a little trouble squeezing his plentiful hide into the box every now and again and occasionally elects to conduct his business on the floor near the litter box, so understandably I was watching him with interest. As soon as he had cleared the doorway and was in the box I turned back to my meal preparations just in time to swat Stewie off the counter, again.

No sooner had I done this then Mischa, my cranky, slightly psychotic oldest cat wanders out from the back bedroom where she spends her time. She promptly began to drag her hind quarters on the floor to alleviate what I can only assume is an itchy butt caused by her overly fluffy fur. "Mischa! No!" I shout, startling her. She hisses and runs away to hide in her cave once more. No sooner is this accomplished than I can hear Stewie in the front room clawing the couch. "Stewie! No!" He goes on merrily. "Stewie! Knock it off!" He continues, unfazed. "Stewie!" Finally I march across the living room and scoop him away from the couch with my foot. He promptly jumps back on the counter. I sweep him off with my arm and continue with dinner.

Seconds later, I hear the sound of papers shuffling. Unfortunately I know all too well what that sound means. Gilbert has crapped on the floor and is pawing whatever he can find nearby to try to cover it up. "Gilbert! NO!" I scream. At this point I lose it. Feeling like I know Rambo must when he unloads a full clip into various infidels hidden in some tiny obscure training camp in a jungle, I grab the water bottle and begin squirting Gilbert as he flees from my wrath.

"Bad kitty! BAD!" I shout as I begin the pleasant task of scooping his fresh deposit into a freezer bag. Whilst engaged in this activity, the brilliant potholder idea occurs to me. Naturally, potholders gets me thinking of the stove. I glance back into the kitchen observe Stewie, who is again on the counter, and has taken the opportunity to score some ham while I am cleaning up his brother's fresh pile. "STEWIE! GET DOWN!" I yell as I grab the squirt bottle and give him the Rambo treatment. This time, I don't stop until I chase him down the hall and into the bedroom.

I finally managed to get dinner made, but not before thinking about how lovely genuine cat hide pot holders might look hanging from a decorative rack in the kitchen.

In you know anyone who needs a cat, or some potholders for that matter, let me know.

It's New Years, and I'm fat...again.

2007 was a big year for me, in more ways than one. Shall I review? I must.

1. Cyndi gets laid off. (Gets depressed, eats chocolate cake. Yes, a whole chocolate cake)
2. Cyndi moves from Utah to Colorado. (Feels lonely in a new town, discovers local German restaurant, and later, a new tummy roll).
3. Cyndi moves from Colorado back to Utah. (Eats mass quantities of fast food to avoid stocking a new pantry in a new apartment)
4. Cyndi gets a new job. (Feels the need to celebrate. With food. Lots of food.)
5. Cyndi gets married (Celebrates again. With exotic cheeses and fig spreads. And fudge. Hey. It was a wedding. I was entitled. Don't judge me.)
6. Cyndi celebrates her first Halloween with the boys. (Buys 20 pounds of Halloween candy, 5 pounds of which make it to the trick or treat bucket. 15 pounds makes its way to Cyndi's rear end and thighs.)
7. Cyndi celebrates her first Thanksgiving with children. (Okay, so the boys weren't actually there for Thanksgiving dinner, but should that stop her from making a turkey and all the fixings? She doesn't think so.)
8. Cyndi celebrates her first Christmas with children. (Cyndi bakes Christmas cookies with the boys and eats a dozen or so. She also feels bad that the boys missed out on Thanksgiving dinner. So she makes a turkey. Again.)

Needless to say, like every other woman in the world, yesterday I made a resolution to eat nothing but water and crackers until July the 4th. I promptly solemnized this pact with a handful of Junior Mints. Cyndi, the veritable epitome of willpower.

Seriously though, I am doing a round of Power 90, the miraculous program on which I lost 30 pounds once (before all the celebratory binging). Here's hoping it works for me again. I figure by making myself accountable here, I have a decent shot at pulling it off. So it's official. I want to lose 30 pounds by April. There's no way in hell I'm posting before pictures, but hopefully there will be some nice afters in a few months.

Wish me luck! Never mind. Wish me a smaller butt.

Cyndi

PS. As soon as I get the right cabely thing, I intend to upload some pictures of me and the boys and various other fun ephemera. Don't hold your breath. But it could happen soon.