That’s What I Get

"Hey! I think I know that guy!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He works in the warehouse, but I almost didn't recognize him--he doesn't usually wear eyeliner."

Jon and I don't go to many concerts, and when we do it's usually because the tickets were free--such was the case with the Nine Inch Nails concert on Friday. Jon was absolutely smitten. He's a long time NIN fan, but I am mostly guilty by association. Don't get me wrong, I love some of their stuff from the late '80s and early '90s and I don't particularly have a problem with any of the newer albums, it's just my interests have been waning amidst all of the new music I've discovered in the last few years. Nevertheless, it was one of my husband's favorite bands, we only had to pay for parking, and I was just happy to be out doing something on a Friday night.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I'd been to a NIN concert before, but it was almost 10 years ago, I was a teenager, and I didn't give a shit what I looked like back then, but now? Now, after walking in the front doors of the Quicken Loans Arena, surrounded by men in black fishnets and KISS-like platform boots, almost all of them pleading their case as to why they should be allowed to wear their spiked chokers, bracelets, and rings in the arena, it was obvious that the 2 days I spent rummaging through local department stores for a casual yet flattering black shirt, and the hour I spent trying to beautify my hair without looking like I actually tried was all for naught. I wasn't going to fit in here. And just to drive my point home, the security guard in charge of bag check made eye contact with me and sighed peacefully, as if she was relieved to see the only other human in a world full of inept goats. She waved her miniature flashlight over the loose receipts and tampons in my purse and whispered to me, "These people are a bunch of freaks..."

The difference between me and the woman checking my purse for a camera, drugs, or weapons, was that I didn't think we were surrounded by freaks—I thought we were surrounded by people who were so comfortable in their own skin that they were able to express themselves freely, acknowledging that the rest of the world might view them as a different species, and yet they did it anyway. Here I had spent the last 2 days frantically searching for something that wasn't of a pastel hue so I wouldn't be mistaken for a Hannah Montana fan in the presence of Trent Reznor, and yet in comparison to all the mohawks, black lipstick, and heavy eyelids I felt incredibly boring in my black scoop-neck blouse and flip-flops.

Overall the concert was amazing--the digital effects were superb and the buffet of people-watching opportunities was some of the best I've ever been witness to. My self-diagnosed ADD was having a field day as my attention shifted from the enrapturing voice of Trent Reznor, to the crowd surfers who loved getting pushed around by the bouncers, to the girls who were flail dancing so fiercely that I thought they would fall off the balcony, to the guy behind us who mistakenly thought he had a better voice than Reznor and tried to over sing him the entire time, and to the people below who were gutsy enough to smoke weed in the kingdom of LeBron James.

Somewhere along the line I noticed my jeans were sopping wet from mid-shin down and discovered someone had spilled their drink and it was pooling around my feet. I had to start holding my wet purse in my lap and I stopped having fun after that. Again, I had to keep reminding myself that all we paid for was parking, and I managed to survive.

The important thing is that Jon can stop holding a grudge against me for being at the NIN concert years ago when he wasn't, and I've discovered the true identity of the quiet man I politely say hello to in the lunchroom corridor everyday. It's like our own little secret.

At the Dinner Table

Jon: "I read something interesting today."

Me: "Yeah?"

Jon: "Yeah. Did you know there are more internet searches on video games than for porn now?"

Me: "No, that's crazy."

Jon: "Well think about it, when was the last time you searched porn?"

Me: "I've never searched porn. When was the last time YOU searched porn?"

Jon: "It's been a while."

Me: "Was it on the new computer?"

Jon: "No."

Me: "Was it in this house?"

Jon: "No."

Me: "Really?!"

Jon: "......"

Me: "C'mon, tell me!"

Jon (walking away): "Leave me alone."

Me (calling after): "Honesty is the best policy!"

Jon: "Leave me alone!"

I still haven't gotten a straight answer.

Musical Paranoia

One of the sales reps asked me what I do to pass the time while driving to work after she heard that I commute 30 miles from Akron. I told her I listen to my iPod, singing along the entire time, and not just bopping my head and mumbling along with the music while I drive down I-71, but literally belting out the lyrics, distorted facial expressions, drumming on the steering wheel, and all. I sing so loudly that I have to keep the windows rolled up when I'm not on the highway because surely the driver in the neighboring car would not only hear The Decemberists crying "O Valencia!" but more so, they would hear me and my sorry voice. I must look like a total nut job.

The funny thing is it's not so much looking like a freak that worries me. No, I worry more about whether or not the car in front of me thinks I have serious road rage aimed directly at them, or even worse, they may think I'm singing along to Britney Spears.

They can peg me as a feminist for listening to Ani Difranco. They can call me emo for listening to Evanescence. They can even write me off as a homicidal maniac for some of Modest Mouse's outlandish lyrics, but please, dear God, do not let them think I listen to Britney Spears.

I Should Have Had a V8

So I've decided that losing weight is an awful lot like paying down old debts. I'm in this position due to years of bad choices and the only thing I can do is pay it down as best as I can and patiently wait for a light at the end of the tunnel.

I've lost 16 pounds in 9 weeks which is a perfectly healthy average of 1.8 pounds per week. I've dropped almost 3 points off of my BMI. I can officially put on and take off every pair of jeans that I own without unbuttoning or unzipping them, and yet, I woke up this morning with the mind set that all of this weight, all of these rolls, should just fall off, right now, I don't want them anymore. Just like the credit cards, I felt I've been putting so much time and energy into this that I should be farther than I am. This debt should be lower than it is.

I think part of my problem must lie in my obsession with studying weight loss and where all of the numbers should be. I'm not only tracking the calories that I eat, but also the calories that I burn, and my intake of fat, cholesterol, sodium, carbs, sugar, fiber, and protein. I think I'm driving myself mad looking for the perfect combination of all these numbers and I'm not even sure the perfect combination exists. My mind looks a little something like this:

"Reduce calories"
"Eat 5-7 servings of fruit/day"
"You're starving yourself. You have to eat more"
"I said NET calories!"
"Don't forget your veggies"
"By the way, drink lots of water. But not too much or you'll die."
"Eat nuts. Did I say any nut? No, no - you have to pick from this list."
"Don't forget your fats - but not too much fat. Make sure it's the good kind of fat or you'll be obese."
"Fat, check. Calories, check. Water, okay."
"Woah woah - that's too much salt - you're going to be swollen!"
"Eat your protein. How much - 30%. 30% of what, 2000 calories?"
"Too much protein - you're going to shut down your kidneys."

I had a dream the other night in which people all over the world, young and old, were dropping like flies because they didn't get at least 30 grams of fiber every day. I was frantically searching for more sources of fiber to save our lives and screaming at Jon for only eating Big Macs. The last thing I remember is totalling up my fiber for the day and falling short at 27 grams, much like I do on a daily basis.

I'm not giving up. I'm going to get the hang of this one day and I'm going to be the thin, level-headed, nutrition-conscious person I want to be, but today is not that day.

Where’s Bert When You Need Him?

Three years and three and a half months later we finally have two working fireplaces. Not that the second one was ever broken, but the previous owners had temporarily closed it off with cardboard and styrofoam. Jon and I thought about using it many times in the cold winter months but we didn't want to risk it until we could have the chimney professionally cleaned, and of course, because it involved money, we were putting it off as long as possible.

Last Thursday night, while I was wallowing in self pity on the basement floor, I started to hear odd sounds coming from the fireplace, or more specifically, something was knocking against the styrofoam. I'd recently been told a story about a couple who heard noises coming from their attic but didn't do anything about it, only to have a beehive and thousands of live bees fall on their bed in the middle of the night, so of course I went running to Jon, frantically exclaiming that we had to get someone here pronto to check on the chimney because he is allergic to bees and surely he would die if thousands of bees came out of the fireplace to attack him.

He wasn't quite as upitty about it as I was but that didn't stop him from throwing the possibility of bats out there to scare me even more. So we called around but the soonest we could get anyone out here was Monday morning. We were all, dude, there are animals in our fireplace just waiting to eat us, and all of the local chimney sweeps were like, sorry, we're backed up from the July 4th holiday. Don't you know people like to have fires on holidays? So we waited.

My logical side knew there couldn't be an animal because the dogs would have fretted about the noise before I did and they would have been simultaneously staring at and slobbering on the fireplace by then, but that didn't stop me from inspecting the dark corners of the basement for beady eyes before finishing each decent down the stairs. I must admit there was one occasion on Friday night where I flung my arms around and batted at the air while shrieking because I thought I'd seen something out of the corner of my eye. I've never actually encountered a bat before, but I'd seen what happens in the movies and it is never pleasant.

At 8:15 this morning Frank from Super Sweep Chimneys pulled into our driveway. He was everything that I had expected--a rough looking guy in his mid 50s with salt and pepper hair, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans covered in paint and soot. He brought a vacuum cleaner the size of my couch and made the house smell like burning dust. He was everything that I expected but I'd be lying if I didn't admit I was secretly hoping for a Mary Poppins-esque Dick Van Dyke to heed our call with stilts for legs and springs for heels, singing in all of his Chim Chimney glory. Dick Van Dyke was a true chimney sweep. Frank was a chimney plummer with expensive toys.

All disappointment aside, he cleaned our two chimneys well, didn't try to sell us on anything extra (I appreciate it when they're honest about the amount of time something has left), and he told us that all we were hearing was some built up soot falling onto the styrofoam. There were no raccoons, birds, bats, or bees living in our chimney, just a lining in desperate need of a cleaning.

Not that I don't appreciate his services, we will certainly be calling his company again when our chimney needs another cleaning or any repairs, but I feel silly for spending so much money on something I won't even use for another 3 or 4 months. Then again, I hear summer holidays are a popular time to light up the fireplaces...s'mores anyone?

Why I Couldn’t Join a Weightloss Challenge

Two words: I'm Hungry.

No, really, about 5 hours ago all I wanted was a Burger King Original Chicken Sandwich with gobs of their 210 calorie mayonnaise oozing out from under the bun. That sounds disgusting, I know, but it's just so freakin' good!

I resisted the urge. I couldn't do it. I've worked out everyday for 2 weeks straight and I couldn't ruin it all for a slab of microwaved chicken covered in the world's unhealthiest mayo. Nope, I ordered a cheese burger with ketchup, mustard, and pickles instead, and at only 340 calories, it was a much healthier choice. Baby steps, I guess.

All in all I'm getting a little discouraged by the scale's unwillingness to budge anymore than 3 pounds lower, but I've learned a very valuable lesson: exercise makes me feel wonderful. I feel healthy, optimistic, and, wait for it...happy...all the time. I swear 2 weeks worth of positivity is a new record for me. Who knew that when Psychiatrist Number 4 recommended yoga as a cure for my depression he actually knew what he was talking about?

While the scale may not be moving much I am noticing very subtle changes in my body like the return of my quadriceps whose appearance went MIA about 6 years ago--I can actually see them again. Oh, and my butt is lifting, looking a little more round. I've practically had to beat my husband off with a stick on more than one occasion in these last couple of weeks. I haven't seen much of a change in the spare tire though, but I'm holding out hope that it will start deflating soon.

I guess in the big scheme of things being hungry and denying myself the food that I should have been swearing off all along is small potatoes. And whether or not I lose 3 pounds or 20 pounds doesn't really matter as long as I'm taking care of myself, being the healthiest I can be, and feeling more confident, which I do and I am.

Now if only Burger King would fall off the face of the Earth I might have a chance at reaching that 22 pound goal...19 more to go.

Sunday Letters Vol. 5

Dear Kristin,

Today is your 21^st birthday! Jon and I met you and a few of your friends down in the valley at midnight last night and we stood next to each other as you nursed a Long Island Iced Tea and we sipped a couple of warm beers. Jon and I debated on the way home as to what was worse; the shot the three of us had together that tasted like Sprite and tart liquor, or the seemingly heated Coors Light and Corona that felt like it was curdling everything in our bellies. I think the warm beer won as worst drink of the night, but we really didn't have much desire to complain. No, for the most part, we were too busy texting and calling people about having a drink less than 10 feet away from LeBron James! Dude had it going on even in his Yankees cap as he sipped a Vitamin Water at a bumping bar. Thanks for inviting us, and for giving us a great story to tell when we go back to work tomorrow.

Boy, you and I sure have come a long way, haven't we? How often do two sisters fight so much that their grandmother, who lives three states over and visits once or twice a year, begins all of her check-in phone conversations by asking "How are Katie and Kristin getting along?" Life in our house was an all out war between you and I. I wanted privacy, you wanted attention, we both knew which buttons to push at just the right moment to make the other one fly off the deep end. You had the advantage though, because I was older and I should have known better, blah, blah, blah…you could have suffocated me in my sleep and Mom and Dad would have still blamed me, because I didn't love you enough or something equally absurd.

I can't even begin to tell you how happy I am that the constant bickering is over. Everyone said we would grow out of it, but to be completely honest, I had some serious doubts we would ever get along. I mean, c'mon, when you were 6-years-old you took the screen out of our bedroom window and threw all of my stuff out into the rain. You painted my bed and dresser with bright red nail polish. I still don't know how I ever forgave you.

A turning point came for me one day when you were able to look at Jon and say, "I hate you because you took my best friend away." You must have been 11 or 12 at the time, and the way you said it, as if you truly believed that we had ever been friends, let alone best friends, almost knocked me off of my feet. All those years I spent despising you, ridiculing you, pushing you away, and you still thought we were friends. It was at that point that I decided to let you in a little at a time, and we've been going strong ever since. I still cry whenever I come across a picture you drew for me, or an award you made for me, proclaiming me as The World's Best Big Sister, because I was never that kind to you.

That being said, Thank You, Kristin, for sticking around long enough to become one of my best friends--for being one of the very few people who I feel completely comfortable around, and for not judging me. Thank you for honoring Jon and I as Godparents to Isaiah, and of course, thanks for inviting us to that bar last night where we got stare at the back of LeBron James' head.

Happy Birthday!

Your big sis,

Kate