On Seven Months and Meeting the Folks

Today the boyfriend and I celebrate seven months together. I've met his mom and he's met my dad; we've fought and celebrated and made out and made love and made cookies. Things are going quite well.

Sigh.

This video is dedicated to him.

<3

On Achievement

FINALLY!

I crafted the elusive fingerless glove. If you know me and are a friend or kin to me, this benefits you. Fingerless gloves for all!

My hands are smiling.

Also, HAPPY HOLIDAYS dear readers.

On Knitting

If you read the previous post, you know I like getting crafty. I have an affinity for knitting, which I've been doing for about 7 or 8 years. For the the first 6 or so years, I was content making scarf after scarf in a variety of patterns, colors, and stitches. It recently occurred to me that I should be progressing in this craft, so this will be my winter of experimentation. With loads of support from my knit buddy numero uno, B, I've undertaken knitting in the round. I can now make a pretty decent glove. My next challenge is the dreaded sock.

Hopefully this season will breed tons of cool stuff that I could possibly end up selling . . . or bestowing as gifts.

Here's a recent pattern I've been working from: Pele

Just thought I'd share this, as it is the hobby that is consuming much of my time these days.

Updates and pictures to come.

On Joy

So a few days ago, my friend and sometimes life coach Kate passed a little mission on to me. I have to name six things I do for joy and then pass it on to 6 more creative bloggers. Sadly (or happily), all the creative bloggers I know have already received and fulfilled this little mission. Nonetheless, I present Six Things that Bring Me Joy:

1) Going to the craft store is one of my favorite things to do. Not sure how many of you know this buy I'm crafty. Not in the conniving soap opera way, in the I knit, crochet, and make and paint things for fun way. I love looking at the yarn and beads and buttons and ribbon and fantasizing about future projects. Taking me to a craft store is like taking a puppy to a Milkbone factory, which brings me to my next source of joy . . .

2) Petting/harassing/baby talking dogs - Everyone who knows me knows I'm am a dog fanatic. I absolutely love them, all of them. My neighborhood is filled with dogs and not a day goes by that I don't inform a neighbor of how cute their schnauzer is or ask to pet an enthusiastic choco lab. I have two dogs back home that I miss terrible, especially in the winter, which is prime bedtime snuggle season.

3) I feed pigeons. Yes what some call "flying rats." Not only do I feed them, I feed them from my palm. Baltimore is full of bold pigeons who will walk right up to you and, when offered, will pluck a piece of blueberry muffin from your hand. They are such sad, hated little birds and it makes me feel good to be kind to them.

4) I nap. Gratuitously. Not just an hour but 3 or 4 of dreamless, wonderful sleep. It does a body good. Yes, better than milk.

5) I give gifts, little ones, usually handmade -- a mix CD, a scarf, a pint of gin (I wish I could say I make gin) -- it's one of the ways I show my appreciation for the people I care about.

6) Kissing (no explanation required)

This list was fun to make and I've loved reading my fellow bloggers' lists. What's astounding is that all the listed joyful items were so very simple. I feel lucky to know such down to earth human beings. Taking stock in the things that give one joy is essential to a happy life. I hope everyone who reads this will take on this mission or at least think about the little things that keep us going and enjoying life.

On Shucking

Last weekend, the boyfriend and I made one of our weekly trips to Whole Foods. I'm not much for cooking, but I love grocery shopping. The Whole Foods doors are probably my favorite doors to walk through because upon entering you're hit with the delightful and surprisingly still lingering scent of cinnamon. I say surprisingly lingering because a few weeks ago the doorway was full of whole sticks, skinny tree branch size sticks, of real cinnamon. The cinnamon is long gone, but you wouldn't know it from smelling that entryway.

Cinnamon must have some favorable aroma therapy use because as soon as I walk through those doors I'm instantly put in a good mood. Aroma-marketing perhaps . . .

We wind our usual way through the store, making our requisite first stop in the fruit and veggies section. I should eat more fruit -- I've been trying -- but I basically have accepted that I'm a meatatarian. I'm ok with that. I can appreciate the colors though. Aesthetically, fruit and veggies are beautiful. The boyfriend and I discovered a some sort of fruit called a Buddha hands lemon, which basically looks like a tentacled lemon. We decided to rename it squid monster lemon and return for it once we figured out what to do with it. I like fruits and veggies because they're real lookers, much more visually stimulating than red/pink/gray meat. I'm all for feasting my eyes, sometimes my mouth, if I'm pressed upon.

We usually pass the seafood (bf is not a fan) but this trip oysters were on sale. Neither of us can turn down oysters and these were especially fresh, as in sealed shut and still alive. We decided to buy six.

Excited about fresh, FRESH oysters, we left soon after. I, now calling myself the walrus, and bf, the carpenter. How hard could shucking oysters be?

Hard.

Like every living thing, the oyster doesn't want to die and will use its natural defenses to keep from becoming dinner. Evolution did them well. Picking up the oyster and examining it, you are hardly able to see where the top and bottom meet. As long as they're cold (read: alive) they seal themselves shut, leading a very insular life. They only open when they die. Turning it round and round, if I didn't know any better, I'd think we'd just bought some exceptionally flat rocks. But boyfriend is a determined one and immediately went to prying at a possible hinge with a flat screwdriver. I, much more hesitant, got a butter knife and joined the struggle.

For at least ten minutes -- nothing. I swear the oysters were laughing at us. Little bubbles were forming at the "mouth" of one. Force wasn't working, so I decided to get literary by reciting "The Walrus and the Carpenter" to them. This was meant to scare them out of their shells, but I probably strengthened their resolve.

Finally, boyfriend got one open and I few minutes later I claimed my own. Small victories. It took us another 10 minutes to pry one more apart, after which we gave up. We put the remaining three oysters back on ice to let them think about their decision. We ate the three half-shelled ones and vowed never to shuck again.

***Fun Fact: If the oyster is really fresh, there's a good chance it's still alive when you eat it.

On Small Gatherings

Last Friday, I had a small gathering at my house that consisted of the boyfriend, my sister, her friend, and a friend of mine that was visiting from West Virginia. The whole thing started out kinda slow and awkward, with me suggesting several times that we just head over to Brewer's Art insanely early (8:30pm).

Five days later, I'm still wondering how this small, initially hopelessly boring gathering ended in an arrest, a freak out, an old school flash, and a little accident between one guest and my comforter.

. . . to be continued . . .

On Self-imposed Starvation

If you knew me, you know I would never starve myself. Even if you don't know me, you could probably guess my stance on food. It's wonderful. And it's especially wonderful if it involves cheese and/or meat and/or bread.

My entire childhood, I was thin thin thin. Like sickly thin, but not sick. I hated it. I wanted to look normal like other children, but at that time, I was genetically predisposed to being thin. I just couldn't help it. Despite my best efforts to gain weight (eating terrible things, drinking Ensure with every meal) I stayed small and got made fun of for all my trouble. The only good thing about being so thin was that I could eat anything I want and not worry about the consequences.

From sixth to twelfth grade, the question that was posed to me most by bullies and friends alike was, "Why are you so boney?"

Boney. I hate that word.

This all changed when I was 19. I started on this course of medicine (what and why in a future post). To my delight, I was gaining a little weight, getting a little curvy. Guys started paying attention, I had more confidence, and no one called me "boney" anymore.

__________________

Two days ago, I had an appointment with my PCP. I hadn't had a basic check up since I was 19. Long story short, I have gained a good deal of weight since then and the doctor thinks I should lose 40 pounds, putting me somewhere around 105-110.

Now, at 23, if I even smell something mildly fattening, it goes to my thighs. My situation has reversed: Putting on weight is no sweat. It's easy as pie (ha). Losing it is . . . well . . . a problem.

I love food. I do. Eating feels good and you need it to live. But I take it to a whole 'nother level.

I credit myself as being intelligent. But when it comes to food, I'm a moron. I love quesadillas and pizza and apple turnovers, cherry pies and creme brulee, bagels, eggs, BACON, sausages, chili, cheeseburgers. Vegetables? They come out of the ground and dirt is on the ground. Eww. My mind loves these fat foods, as well as my body, which loves them so much, it sees fit to hang on the best parts of them -- the mmm mmm mmm fatty parts. My curves were lovingly crafted with not a second thought as to the increasing amount of me I was carrying.

I can stand to lose weight. But 40lbs?!

Everyone I've told about this thinks it's crazy and that the most I should lose is 25lbs. I'm up to the challenge. I want to improve my health, feel better, and such. The thing is I LIKE the way I look now. I've wanted this body for years. I like my breasts and my wonderfully prominent bum, as the Boyfriend enjoys these things, too.

Sigh.

It's so strange to be told to diet when all my life I was encouraged to eat. Being black and Southern, "good eatin'" is apart of my upbringing. Black ideals of beauty and white ideals of beauty are markedly different. My doctor (actually nurse practitioner) is a 30ish white woman. To her, I probably look unhealthy and unattractive (it's funny because she couldn't have been more than 10lbs less than me, but I need to lose weight?). White beauty, that Hollywood ideal beauty (the Friends Construct) is THIN. I am not thin anymore and I'm fine with it. To black people, I'm the physical ideal.

Chest+booty+hips=Curves=beautiful.

The Boyfriend has encouraged me to eat to be healthy and not to eat to lose weight, which I think is a good idea. I like how I look, but I do need to take into consideration that I'm older, my metabolism isn't what it used to be, and I don't want to have a heart attack at 40. My sister told me to just not eat (she, at a svelte 115 and size 0, would know a little about eating less than necessary), but that's not an option.

So onward! For the past two days I've definitely cut my portions and calorie intake. It hasn't been hard thus far, just boring. I'll miss the anticipation of a sausage and pepperoni pizza and the magic of its delivery. I guess I'll have to get my kicks in other ways. Perhaps, some fun way of getting active?

Updates to come.

*Note: This will never become a diet blog. This blog is my emotional dumpster and being called fat for the first time in my life by a doctor -- TRAUMATIZING.

I should have offered her a kick in the face. I'm Tyra Banks fat, not Rosie O'Donnell fat, bitch.