Already slipping

Yikes. I'm already falling behind. First of all, I'd like to point out I worked my arms on the elliptical yesterday and I've been wondering all day what's wrong with my forearms because they are sore and stiff and...oh yeah...I worked my arms on the elliptical yesterday. I should get a picture of myself when I work my arms because I look like a total jackass.

fat gal in a little car

Second, no activity today. Groom and I ran a bunch of errands, including test driving a few cars. I'm leaning toward a Fiat because it is both affordable and super stinkin' cute (seriously, watch the commercial I just linked). It drove pretty well, especially when I put it into "sport" mode--why anyone wouldn't put it into sport mode is beyond me, but whatever.

But here's a wrinkle. Groom processes things differently than I do. He takes everything into consideration and picks his best option. I, on the other hand, rule things out quickly and look at what I have remaining. I bring this up because he insisted...well, that's too strong a word...he encouraged me to take a VW Jetta Sportwagon TDI for a spin so I could be certain I would be making the most informed choice. I had already ruled out the Jetta as "beyond our price range," since we have no cash flow, what with the kitchen remodel (oh my god when did I turn into this person?!).

Anyhoo, I am currently pissed at Groom because he has taken an item I had initially ruled out and he has brought it back into the running. I would have been happy with a nice affordable Fiat but nooooo. He shows me the sirloin when I would have taken chuck and now I want that damn sirloin. Well, I really want filet, but let's be reasonable.

I keep thinking about it. I want that VW. It's a comfortable ride. It has room for dog and skis. It has leather seats. And it has a sun roof that runs stem to stern. And the steering wheel? Meow. (I've always had a steering wheel fetish. I know it's weird. When I was in college, a friend observed that I "hate everything." My response was, "I love my steering wheel." I was driving a Mercury Lynx at the time. So...yes... clearly I do love steering wheels if that thing got me hot.)

Then I started thinking, do I really want a Fiat? Do I want to be a fat gal in a little car? And, now we are back to the blog....

I did not get any activity today, unless you count walking around car lots as an activity. As we were crossing Tukey's Bridge, I suggested we walk the Back Cove, but that wasn't going to happen. I was in sandals, after all. Then I suggested we take up a physical activity together as a couple, wouldn't that be fun? Like jogging...but...not...jogging.

Groom suggested salmon fishing. 

We've settled on kayaking for now and possibly bicycling later. But, I mused that we should train for the Tough Mountain Challenge, which, he reminded me, he can't do with his bum leg. So, I don't know. Do you think a goal would help? I have never been goal oriented. Deadline oriented, yes. Goal oriented, no. I just know I am one bump away from falling off the "get in shape" wagon here.

wrong

Let's talk about my food failure. Groom and I were completely lame with food today. Breakfast was toast made from unsliced bread baked at Hungry Hollow in West Paris (local). I ate mine with Skippy peanut butter while he ate his with some sort of raspberry jam. I do want to point out, while I'm all pissed at Groom for making me test drive a car I can barely afford, he always buys chunky peanut butter because he knows l like it even though he hates it. Conversely, I always buy smooth peanut butter (ew) because I know he likes it. It's our own personal Gift of the Magi.

Lame breakfast was followed by lame lunch at Thai Garden in Freeport (meh, but local), and then dinner at home. I made pasta with frozen peas and--oh my god I can't believe I'm admitting it--garlic bread by Pepperidge Farms. We also had lettuce that I bought at Shaw's (ugh), but at least it was accompanied by a farmstand cucumber. Jesus. So wrong. Wait. We added sausage from Mailhot Sausage in Lewiston. Do I get a pass?

Tomorrow morning, I swear I'm getting on the elliptical. I swear it. I would have done it tonight, but we didn't get home until about 7:30 and, come on. That's totally martini hour.

Two steps forward

Last week, while I was limping around on my bad foot, a friend who drove up to see me, pointed to my Ace bandage and said, "Are you on another exercise kick? Don't you know you're supposed to start slow, Devlin?!"

Oh my god, are you kidding me?? I was taking it slow and, now, after taking two weeks off, I've had to start over completely. All right, I have to be honest and this is killing me, but you know what? I really have been taking it slow. Really slow. Ridiculously slow. I've been takin' it easy like Donna M. I was on the elliptical Friday and Saturday for an overall whopping time of 30 minutes. Total. That's 15 minutes a day. I feel like an old Dodge Dart that's been sitting in the backyard collecting bees (thanks Louis CK).

I was chatting with another friend about my ankle (I really am a bore sometimes), basically lamenting the fact that I didn't go to a doctor when I initially injured it about eight years ago. This friend has broken pretty much every bone in her body and has gone through countless hours of physical therapy, so I trust her opinion. She has also spent the past year visiting with a personal trainer to get herself back into shape and she looks great. She talks about how she hasn't lost weight, but that's not how I calculate that stuff. I've mentioned her before in this blog, but I want to say it again because it's inspirational, even though I really hate that word. She is thinner; she is stronger; and she is holding herself more solidly. That's enough for me.

Anyway, she said, "If you had gone to the doctor, you would have gotten an air cast, but that would have nothing to do with how you're feeling now. The doctor would have prescribed hours of physical therapy and that's what makes the difference. Would you have gone to PT or would you have blown it off?"

"...blown it off..."

"That's your answer. Stop bitching about it."

I love her like a sister.

Speaking of Louis CK, my friend Hugh, who is a doctor, reminded me of this bit about being over 40 this past weekend; I hadn't even told him about my painful ankle because I was boring even myself with it. In short, for the rest of my life, I can't get above 15 miles an hour before shit starts cracking and falling off and there's nothing I can do about it. Perfect.

a-howww-ow-ow-ow

I promise I'll just keep going. Just keep swimming. Even when it's demoralizing. In fact, I was working my IT band last night and I heard myself going, "Oh...ow...okay...yup...[groan]...that's the spot...riiiiiight....oof....there....[huff huff huff]..." I wonder how many times I've done that in public. I think I've been doing that for years. I want to crawl under a rock. But, in all fairness, that maneuver where you put the foam roller near your crotch and creep forward is pretty sexual. And, whatever. Now you can go to the gym and stretch on those mats that nobody seems to use and you will know, for a fact, that you are not the grossest thing to hit the room. I am.

If I can keep doing this, anyone can. Get an injury, take some time, then get back on the machine. Get another injury, take more time, get back on the machine.

Two steps forward. Two steps back. Two steps forward. One step back. Two steps forward.

Mow Mow Mow

One of the things I handle in the summer, and this is fairly recent--like, since Groom broke his leg a year ago--is mowing the lawn. In fact, I've used it as my form of activity this summer.

I think Groom and I are having a bit of a struggle over it. I consider it my job; he considers it his job. Whichever way you look at it, the lawn needs to be mowed. Groom works two hours away, and since I'm the one who lives here full time, I consider it to be my job. So...suck it, Groom.

But, here's the kicker: The mower is out of gas. It's just sitting in the middle of the lawn like some weird lawn ornament. Maine's version of the yard globe or tire painted white and filled with flowers. (Now that I think of it, we have a couple of boats that fill that role.)

I actually considered walking to the Center Store with the gas can. I'm at the point where I'm like, you know what? Screw it. I'm walking down there. This needs to happen and nobody else is taking care of it.

And then I remember my mom.

My mom was pretty sick when I was young. I was probably about 8 or 10 years old, which would have made her 36 or 38 years old--certainly younger than I am now--when she was stranded at the house. In fact, she was stranded at the house a lot and she hated it. As a child, I thought she was crazy. As an adult, I recognize it for what it is. She had no control over her comings and goings because she was deemed "unfit to drive." I put that in quotation marks, but I can assure you, she was truly unfit to drive. But, stranded? That pisses me off.

She used to try to cook dinner for us--there were five of us kids--with what she had in the pantry and fridge so at one point it was (and I'm not making this up) old hot dogs and ZaRex, and not much ZaRex at that. She had nothing else. Admittedly, to this day, I love the taste of caramelized meat, but is that really the point?

Groom is fantastic about taking me where I need to go when he is here. I know he would take care of me if I came home diagnosed with a terminal illness. But my mom? I have no idea what she went through. I just know I have her genes and I know I'm restless as a feral cat in this house and I see that the lawn needs to be mowed and I feel like I should walk to the store with the gas can and fill up the mower.

I'm just glad I don't have a 10-year-old kid judging me right now.

From the elliptical to eugenics

Yesterday, I received the following advice in a private message: "JEEZUS! Lighten up." The writer had read my post and contends that people need people around them in order to thrive; he even used solitary confinement, or a night in the box, as the ultimate example of the ultimate punishment. I agree with him, but I want to point out I am married to a man who, until just a few years ago, would hitch an RV to his truck and drive to Montana for four months at a time. Alone. He also happily spends 12-14 hours alone in his boat. My perspective is a little skewed, I'll admit. So, read yesterday's post with a grain of salt. But not too much salt 'cuz it's bad for you.

Things are settling. I hopped on the elliptical last night for 20 minutes--it was painful. I really am starting all over again. I iced my ankle during dinner (which was all local and/or traceable yumminess) and I wrapped my leg before bed. It feels okay today, so I'll get on the elliptical again this afternoon.

Oh! Groom and I invented the strangest yet most delicious thing last night! Stay with me here. I mixed cucumber, corn scraped from grilled cobs, avocado, and feta, with a little olive oil and balsamic. It looks disgusting--I regret not taking a picture--but it is so effing good. Mix in some grilled chicken that has been marinated in olive oil, basil, lemon juice, garlic, a squirt of brown mustard, and a dite of maple syrup with a little salt and pepper and you are in business. Holy crap. Good stuff.

This morning, I stuck with oatmeal flavored with maple syrup from a friend's taps and I totally splurged on a grilled cheese for second breakfast. (What.) The bread...not local...the cheese from Pineland Farms, which is kind of a cheat because Pineland Farms cheese feels very corporate to me, but whatever. And, I don't know. There's something strange about that place.

It could be bad juju from the whole Malaga Island thing. (You can find plenty of material on Malaga Island. Here's a link that will take you to a recent article in Portland Press Herald about the Malaga exhibit in Augusta. Take a look at those and then we can continue.)

Oh, all right. To save you some time: In 1912, the town of Phippsburg evicted all residents of Malaga Island. About a fifth of the residents were transported to the School of the Feebleminded (now Pineland Farms) while the others tried to find refuge and a place to settle. Unfortunately, saying you were from Malaga Island meant you were crazy so nobody wanted anything to do with you. Furthermore, the town then exhumed all bodies from the Malaga cemeteries and moved them to Pineland Farms as well. And then they burned Malaga to the ground. This was a mixed race island fishing community, so it could have been fear or the rise of eugenics or stupidity or racism that compelled the town to do this. In short, it's a very black mark on Maine's timeline.

I walked around Malaga Island with my friend Tanya a few years ago. It's a small island and there isn't much there: evidence of a few wells, some shells that indicate people fished there, but that's about it. There are these weird tar-looking pits, which gave me the heebie-jeebies at first but upon further inspection, I recognized them from other boggy spots along the shore, so it wasn't, like, some cursed land or anything. Still creepy though.

And, for the record, the theory of eugenics scares the shit out of me. I linked a short documentary above, but I'm linking it here again to make sure you see it (try to ignore the graphic that looks like a giant sperm at about 8:34 in the video). And do you know what scares me even more? People like Glenn Beck are saying Planned Parenthood and pre-natal testing will take us down the road to eugenics, and no I won't link that. You can do your own homework on that one, but if you stick around to the end of the documentary I posted above, you get a hint of that argument, albeit via stem cell research, which I can sort of understand even if I don't agree.

All right. Off my soapbox. Onto the elliptical.

Starting over

from this

How do I explain myself? I went from eating fresh fruits and greens and getting exercise every day to sitting on my ass doing nothing. My entire experiment in this blog fell apart completely when I found myself eating two hot dogs, a bunch of fries, and multiple cups of Bud (heavy) at the Sea Dogs game the other night. I've hit rock bottom.

I woke up this morning with a new conviction. Maybe it's the weather--I'm more of a gray day kinda gal--or maybe it's because my ankle feels better or maybe I'm just horrified by my own disgustingness.

from this

I should explain that, while my ankle was healing, I figured I didn't need to update this blog. I'm not keeping a blog to keep a journal of my general comings and goings. But, perhaps I should. I mean, I fell off the wagon hard, mostly because I wasn't holding myself accountable.

Here's what happened during my little intermission. My ankle hurt pretty badly, and I know I said I would go to the doctor, but I don't have $500 for a visit and an x-ray, and physical therapy at a hundred bucks (or more) a pop would kill me. I rested. I iced. I compressed. I elevated. I think we're good now.

to this

The other thing that happened is my car died for good and all our money is wrapped up in the kitchen remodel as I've already mentioned a bunch of times (oh whoa is me...I know). Even if it fit in our summer budget for me to join a gym, I can't get there. I'm rattling around this house, working at my computer by day, watching movies at night. I realize, when the zombie apocalypse occurs, I will not survive the boredom. I'm not like the omega man in I Am Legend (the book, not the movie) who worked out during the day to keep himself in shape--he did also drink copious amounts of whiskey, so I might be a little like him. It seems to me, however, when the zombies take over, only the super smart and the super athletic will survive. The smart guys will create bunkers and serums and antidotes and whatnot while the athletic will...well...be athletic. I am neither super smart nor am I even slightly athletic, as though you haven't noticed already.

to this

RICE

Without getting any exercise whatsoever, I already feel things softening up and I feel shitty. My back hurts; I groan when I get out of bed; I can't stand for long periods of time; and my face is covered in acne. So let's recap, shall we? I am fat, lazy, unhealthy, and my face is covered in zits. The daily activity is working for me. It really is. I need to get back at it.

Here's another thing that happened and why I fell off track: When I spend a little bit of time alone, I feel rejuvenated. When I spend a lot of time alone, I go dark. I don't mean I get all depressed and angry. Well, I suppose I do to a certain extent, but I mean my brain goes dark. I have trouble writing and I have trouble thinking and I have trouble motivating. I need noise and people to have a successful day. I have friends (thank you Liana and Caroline and Tanya and Chicky and Amy) who have driven here to pick me up for adventures or have come to visit, and Groom lets me borrow his truck when he can, but otherwise, here I sit.

When I was in my early 30s, I had a few epiphanies about what kind of person I am. First of all, I realized I was a total bitch and I'm still reeling from the repercussions of my younger-self behavior, but we don't need to get into that.

Second, I was in Amsterdam on business and this sweet Dutch man sat next to me at one of the dinners. He was slightly overweight--in America he'd be considered average...god I sound like such a euroweenie but it's mostly true--and he said to me, "I am...uh...like you? I...struggle wit za weight..." I was like, "Whoa." I had never struggled with my weight. What did I look like?

Third, I was traveling alone in Italy--also for work--and I didn't (still don't) speak Italian. I had no car and I would spend my day working alone in my room before venturing into the evening air for dinner in the village. This was when the Internet was still in its infant stages, so I couldn't just get on my iPhone and click around and it was a hassle to check email. In Amsterdam, I could visit any number of Internet cafes--they were far more prevalent there than in, say, Maine. But in Italy, I was holed up in a hotel in Santa Margherita Ligure along the Italian Riviera. There were no Internet cafes. I would wander the village and listen to people speaking a language I didn't understand. I hopped the ferry over to Portafino and wandered about over there for a day but, again, I had nobody to talk to. I walked for miles and miles by myself.

Each day, I would go into town even though I couldn't talk to anyone, and I would sit at an outdoor cafe and listen to people chatting because I desperately needed that stimulus. But I was so freaking lonely. It got to the point where I didn't want to be around people anymore because it made me anxious and tired and sad. The feeling hit me sooner than it would have hit me if I had been in an English-speaking country, but I recognized the sensation. That's what comes out after a week of being alone. I realized then that I need to interact with people or I start to shut down.

Side story: I was sitting alone at one of the sidewalk cafes enjoying the morning with an espresso and a chocolate pastry when a man sat down at my table. Normally, I would given that person a bargoyle face--you know the face. The "I'm sitting here at the bar reading my book and I don't want any nonsense from you so take your smiling mug away from me before I spew hot fiery lava all over you or worse I shall turn you to stone" face. But, this day, I was happy for the companionship. He invited me to spend the day with him in neighboring Rapallo, which boasted a more lively scene, or so he claimed. I accepted.

It was Italian Job all the way to Rapallo and though I could understand only half of every word my driver spoke, it was nice to have a slight taste of freedom. After a day in what turned out to be another touristy destination with even more people with whom I could not communicate, I was driven back to my hotel where the man asked me to dinner. I politely declined. It's true, I was feeling better than I had in days and I enjoyed some company, but I was exhausted after trying to understand what was happening around me and I didn't think it would be a good idea to join this stranger for dinner (said the girl who had just accepted a ride in a strange car to a strange place in a strange land).

As I ascended the stairs to the Grand Hotel Miramare feeling like a gorgeous American model who had spent the day on a wild international Italian adventure, this man--who had taken pity on me and spent a day showing me his countryside--called out. I turned around and descended the stairs to wave as he pointed to a rather large zit on my cheek and said, "Eeeh...no more chocolate for you, yeah? Iz bad for...ah...complexion."

No car. No company. No stimulus. It all made me go dark. I've crawled out from under the blanket on this rainy day to say hello and to say, yes, I plan to get on the elliptical today.

I plan to start over.

Hero complex

I'm sorry I didn't update yesterday. I wasn't doing anything in particular. I just wanted to spend some time by the window. It was far too hot to move and I fell asleep in the chair like some old lady napping after lunch only to be awakened by a cool breeze. Huzzah. Finally! So, I got up and...continued to do nothing.

Saturday at Funtown Splashtown was nothing as I anticipated because I never made it. On my way to that pee pool park, I got a call. A friend was out in his new boat and the outboard was all aflutter. After pulling over on the side of the highway and making a big frowny face, I turned around, swung into Bamforth Marine, grabbed some supplies, and headed to Popham where they had picked up a mooring. SeaTow was on the scene--when are they not on the scene when someone has boat trouble--and I waited by Fort Popham while they sussed it out.

Friend's outboard fixed, yay! Friend's outboard not fixed, boo! It definitely needed to go back to the shop. For various reasons, I ended up in the boat getting dragged back to Bath where this guy keeps his vessel. That's not really worth talking about--when your new boat runs into trouble, you don't want to talk about it and you don't want other people to talk about it. You just want it fixed, which I suspect is happening right now. And getting towed--even when you're blameless--is worse than any early-morning walk of shame through the dorm.

But, the ride up the river was super interesting. We were moving at a pace only slightly faster than sailing and it made me remember why I love to sail. And it made me remember why I hate to sail. The view is excellent and the sound of water on the hull is soothing, but damn is it slow. Granted, when you're sailing, you're screwing around with lines and perfecting the sail trim (heh-heh I said trim and I can't find the "48 Hours" clip where Eddie Murphy uses that word so perfectly so I'll give you this one instead) and rigging something or tying something or fixing something. When you're getting towed? You just sort of sit there, or if you're the guy who owns the boat, you just sort of sit there and wonder how an outboard with only 35 hours on it could fail. Still, a bad day on a boat is better than a good day at....yadda yadda yadda--click this at your own risk. It goes from awesome to...oh...no... pretty quickly.

Sadly, the only form of exercise this weekend came in the form of swatting greenheads. I did kill about 25 of the little f*ckers, but that doesn't really count for an actual activity. Or does it?

After a couple of days of hot, sweaty, no exercise blah, I've given it some thought, and I should do what normal people do when they want to get some exercise. Ugh. I think I need to join the local gym. I hate going to the gym with the TVs blaring in my face and that guy with the super abs and that woman who seems to know everybody and wants to know who I am and where I live. But I would benefit from a stationary bike while I wait for my ankle to settle down. And, they offer core classes and strengthening classes. Oh my god, I'm having palpitations just thinking about it. I joined the Y when I was living in Portland and liked it; I would visit the gym all the time. But, it was a big Y and I never saw anyone I knew and I didn't have to chat with people. Plus it was easy because I lived within walking distance--yeah, I didn't live in a great part of town.

Not that the Y is generally in a bad part of town. It's just that the Portland Y used to be in what was considered a bad part of town.

So, there we have it. I'm joining the gym if I can work it into our budget. As you may or may not know or may or may not have gleaned from reading this blog, we are remodeling our kitchen, my car has died, and I'm trying to watch my spending. But, I can justify this expense far easier than I can justify spending an evening drinking martinis. It would cost about the same.

If you're not a gym goer, and you're reading this, please wish me luck; I'll keep you posted on all the demoralizing shenanigans. If you are a gym goer, and you're reading this and have been thinking "Why doesn't she just join the gym??" then shut up. Fine. I'm doing it.

faster than a speeding greenhead

It's just that I do prefer sitting quietly in my little Fortress of Solitude and I come out of that experience feeling similar to how I feel after getting some exercise. Sadly, as I sit quietly building my inner strength, my Kryptonite is graphic novels and The Office reruns. I can spend all day in my favorite chair, flipping between Adrian Tomine and Ricky Gervais clips. But, now that I think of it, Kryptonite, as a particle from his home planet, renders Superman human, right? So, if A = B and B = C, then my dorky desire to sit alone with a bunch of weird dorky entertainment just makes me human. That, or it's possible I think I'm Superman. I don't know. Rescuing a friend? Destroying a bunch of enemy greenheads so they cause no harm to others? That sounds sort of hero-ish to me.

I do wish a desire to eat vegetables and run marathons is what made me human, but I guess those desires are what would make me Superman after all. Must rebuild my fortress.

Doing my part

I haven't gotten a lick of activity in these past couple of days. I'm thinking I might have my ankle looked at, but we're getting low in our HSA--that's a Health Savings Account for people who don't have one. I didn't know what an HSA was either until Groom put it together.

But, I might be in this mess because I blew off having a professional look at my ankle when I rolled it in the first place so many years ago, so.... Hunh. If I were listening to me complain about my ankle right now, I'd be annoyed and tell me to just get the stupid thing checked out already.

I've been sticking to my plan to eat locally. I've eaten more lobster in the past few days than I normally eat in an entire summer. As I've mentioned, I'm trying to be frugal because I had that accidental vacation last week, which means no shopping at cute local galleries and no swinging by the farmers market for the most delicious yet most expensive cheese ever.

but the salad was good

lobster was bland

Instead I'm doing my part to get lobster prices back into a reasonable range so the lobstermen can set their traps and make some money--boat prices are ridiculously low. According to my friend Cary from the wonderfully delicious and local Cleonice, soft shell lobsters (aka shedders) are most prevalent right now in her area. Albeit delicious, shedders don't live as long as their hard-shelled brethren so Cary isn't seeing the lower prices yet...I don't know, I think I need an economics lesson to figure it out. In my tiny world, though I prefer the shedders, Groom and I got some the other day for $3.99/lb (much higher than other areas) and they were bland.

Look at me complain about bland lobster. Such a luxury.

red's

Right now, the cost of a lobster roll at Red's Eats, that Gourmet Downeast Yankee Top Ten Food Network tourist destination in Wiscasset that causes all the traffic along Route 1, is $15.95, down from somewhere in the low to mid-$20s last season, so if you're going to get a lobster roll, now's the time. Just make sure you thank all the drivers trying to get across the bridge for stopping. Seriously. Look up and down the road and say "thanks guys!" I dare ya.

Today, I've been roped into going to Funtown Splashtown USA with a friend and her son. I plan to spend most of my time at the objectionably named Funtoberfest Beer Garden because, as we all know, I refuse to get my face wet unless there's soap nearby and I'm getting ready for my day or a night on the town. I don't even own a freaking bathing suit. Please, bitch.

But, I'm psyched to hang out with my friend, so that makes it all much easier to handle. For me, spending time with good friends is as important as getting some exercise. On the plus side, I laugh so hard when I'm around her, the chances of getting a nice core workout are pretty high. And, it's a Saturday in mid-July with temperatures forecast to be the 90s... I'm sure it won't be too crowded. I'll try to keep a brisk, pulse-raising pace as I indulge in some judgmental wandering about the park.

Water parks make me think of a joke I heard recently. A writer and an editor are lost in the dessert. They stumble upon an oasis and crawl eagerly toward the cool, sparkly lake. The writer dunks his head and starts gulping back the refreshing water, reveling in his good fortune, before he notices the editor taking a piss into the water.

"What are you doing?!" the writer shouts.

The editor responds, "Making it better."