In general, when a company markets weight loss, they market a better appearance, feeling better, more energy, etc. Today, I saw a NutriSystem ad claiming that their food was $55 a month less expensive than many American's monthly grocery bills. Hmmm... Capitalizing on the bad economy is an interesting and probably intelligent ploy.
And, I could almost believe the part of that is true. Almost. But what I'd believe more is that people save money and lose weight because they're eating less when faced with the prospect of eating raunchy food made by NutriSystem. But what do I know?
Speaking of marketing, the Super Bowl is coming up. How funny is that that sports are synonymous with marketing (when done publicly), pain (when done privately) or both?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Productivity.
I'm so excited - I've actually been productive this weekend, which virtually never happens. Not only have I had a chance to do my weekly cooking, I've also patched the drywall, spackled the bathroom, vacuumed and scrubbed the kitchen. And I made time to work out and write. It probably doesn't sound like much, but I often allow Ragsy to be my excuse for not doing what I need or want to do, failing to realize that he really can play by himself for a few minutes, even though he may not necessarily want to.
I really have nothing interesting to say. Although I was really excited last night when Ragsy used a chapati (flat bread) to pick up his palak paneer (spinach with cheese cubes) instead of bare hands or a fork. It sounds stupid, but it takes some amount of coordination to make the appropriate dimple in the chapati, then get the food into the dimple and wrap the rest of the piece of chapati around it to be able to pick it up. While we were in India, most kids his age were still being hand fed, so it was cool that he tried to do it himself and was successful. Of course, with my cultural background, I stopped handfeeding my son once he was able to pick his food up himself. Although it does make sense when you think about it - Indian food can be extremely messy and, when you eat with your hands, you're much more likely to transmit dirt and germs into your mouth if you're a little kid. Plus, you get it everywhere and if you're eating something with lots of spice, that can burn your face. So having an adult who knows how to manage the food put it in for you is better than risking a painful rash.
Anyway, after dinner, he was reading in bed and, when I got up to do something, he dismissed me with, "Mama, thanks for stopping by." I was a little dumbfounded until he informed me that that was what Mickey Mouse said. My little terror is asleep right now and will hopefully stay that way for at least another hour. He refused to nap yesterday, then woke up this morning at 5 a.m. covered in pee, then flatly refused to go back to bed after he'd been cleaned up, sheets changed and new pants put on. He was exhausted, but apparently didn't care. So, like a horrid mother, I brought him out here to watch TV and promptly passed out on the couch for a half hour. Getting just a few hours of sleep will do that to you.
Unfortunately, my husband has absolutely no excuse for being asleep still at almost 1 p.m. in the afternoon. I had been planning to wake him a couple of hours ago, but since Ragsy went to sleep earlier than usual, I opted for free time instead, with the added bonus of being able to run out to the Y later to get in a long weekend workout. Ah, yes - there's my boring life. Now I'm watching Beauty Shop with Queen Latifa (what? I'm too lazy to commit to watching a whole DVD) after having devoured a bag of popcorn and a handful of chocolate chips. See? I could really use the workout.
I really have nothing interesting to say. Although I was really excited last night when Ragsy used a chapati (flat bread) to pick up his palak paneer (spinach with cheese cubes) instead of bare hands or a fork. It sounds stupid, but it takes some amount of coordination to make the appropriate dimple in the chapati, then get the food into the dimple and wrap the rest of the piece of chapati around it to be able to pick it up. While we were in India, most kids his age were still being hand fed, so it was cool that he tried to do it himself and was successful. Of course, with my cultural background, I stopped handfeeding my son once he was able to pick his food up himself. Although it does make sense when you think about it - Indian food can be extremely messy and, when you eat with your hands, you're much more likely to transmit dirt and germs into your mouth if you're a little kid. Plus, you get it everywhere and if you're eating something with lots of spice, that can burn your face. So having an adult who knows how to manage the food put it in for you is better than risking a painful rash.
Anyway, after dinner, he was reading in bed and, when I got up to do something, he dismissed me with, "Mama, thanks for stopping by." I was a little dumbfounded until he informed me that that was what Mickey Mouse said. My little terror is asleep right now and will hopefully stay that way for at least another hour. He refused to nap yesterday, then woke up this morning at 5 a.m. covered in pee, then flatly refused to go back to bed after he'd been cleaned up, sheets changed and new pants put on. He was exhausted, but apparently didn't care. So, like a horrid mother, I brought him out here to watch TV and promptly passed out on the couch for a half hour. Getting just a few hours of sleep will do that to you.
Unfortunately, my husband has absolutely no excuse for being asleep still at almost 1 p.m. in the afternoon. I had been planning to wake him a couple of hours ago, but since Ragsy went to sleep earlier than usual, I opted for free time instead, with the added bonus of being able to run out to the Y later to get in a long weekend workout. Ah, yes - there's my boring life. Now I'm watching Beauty Shop with Queen Latifa (what? I'm too lazy to commit to watching a whole DVD) after having devoured a bag of popcorn and a handful of chocolate chips. See? I could really use the workout.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
All a matter of perspective.
Since having Ragsy, there are things that have come out of my mouth that have made me sound a) exactly like my mother and b) completely insane. I like to keep a record of the latter because, well, most women I know spent half their lives in mortal terror of turning into their mothers and I'm no different. So, earlier this week, it felt completely normal to hand my child a toothbrush and advise, "Okay - this is not for your butt. Teeth only." Or to turn in the shower, look down and sigh, saying, "Excuse me, Captain Hook, but right now is not the best time for a sword fight. If you'll let me finish showering, we can have a 'fine, slashing duel' once I've put my clothes on."
It's amazing how your perspective changes as you get older. And it's not even just parenting. A lot of it's health, too. I was running on the treadmill last night (I can finally - finally! - run for thirty minutes without stopping again; it's been almost three years), getting a little maudlin while cooling down because I was listening to the song 100 Years, which was on the radio the day I found out I was pregnant. And I was surprised to find myself thinking, "I'd better run tomorrow, too. I need to get really healthy in case we decide to have another child."
This is a complete turn-about from even a couple of years ago, when vanity and pride would have seen me doing a half-assed job on the treadmill. Now it's all about health, and that carrot makes me work harder than I have in years - I have even more drive than I did when I was running marathons. When the heck did that happen? When I was younger, even though I've always battled high cholesterol (even running marathons), it never occurred to me to worry about my health. But now that I'm older, I work out and eat healthier because I want to stay around as long as possible and, if we do decide to have another kid, give it the best home it can have for 9 months and both my children the most energetic mom possible.
Does this mean I'm getting older? Wiser? Nah, I still feel 20 sometimes. And virtually all the time I feel like the village idiot. In fact, I'm pretty sure I became the village idiot during grad school. I knew everything when I graduated until I went back to school and realized that everything - history, mathematics, scientific disciplines (including archaeology, which is a mish-mash of math, science, anthro and history) - is all completely interconnected. It's a lot like Medicare and Social Security. You can't understand one without understanding the other and you have to know everything about both and that takes years, if you ever truly master it at all. So, yeah - I'm actually dumber than when I graduated college. Who knew?
This long, rambling, silly and introspective post brought to you by the letter M for maudlin and the number 13, because I like that number.
It's amazing how your perspective changes as you get older. And it's not even just parenting. A lot of it's health, too. I was running on the treadmill last night (I can finally - finally! - run for thirty minutes without stopping again; it's been almost three years), getting a little maudlin while cooling down because I was listening to the song 100 Years, which was on the radio the day I found out I was pregnant. And I was surprised to find myself thinking, "I'd better run tomorrow, too. I need to get really healthy in case we decide to have another child."
This is a complete turn-about from even a couple of years ago, when vanity and pride would have seen me doing a half-assed job on the treadmill. Now it's all about health, and that carrot makes me work harder than I have in years - I have even more drive than I did when I was running marathons. When the heck did that happen? When I was younger, even though I've always battled high cholesterol (even running marathons), it never occurred to me to worry about my health. But now that I'm older, I work out and eat healthier because I want to stay around as long as possible and, if we do decide to have another kid, give it the best home it can have for 9 months and both my children the most energetic mom possible.
Does this mean I'm getting older? Wiser? Nah, I still feel 20 sometimes. And virtually all the time I feel like the village idiot. In fact, I'm pretty sure I became the village idiot during grad school. I knew everything when I graduated until I went back to school and realized that everything - history, mathematics, scientific disciplines (including archaeology, which is a mish-mash of math, science, anthro and history) - is all completely interconnected. It's a lot like Medicare and Social Security. You can't understand one without understanding the other and you have to know everything about both and that takes years, if you ever truly master it at all. So, yeah - I'm actually dumber than when I graduated college. Who knew?
This long, rambling, silly and introspective post brought to you by the letter M for maudlin and the number 13, because I like that number.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Outdone in St. Louis
My husband and I went to visit one of his friends last night. We had a fabulous time, even though I looked like I'd been beaten. At least the bruising is fading. Anyway, we had a great time - both children were running around the house playing in tandem and scarfing down food like no one's business. Ragsy outlasted their daughter, who passed out on the couch in front of the TV while we were all eating. I think he's the Energizer bunny in disguise because he had no trouble waking at 7:30 (late for him - he usually gets up at 6) even after going to bed after 11, much to late for him.
I'm so glad Ragsy likes Indian food. And Chinese. And Thai. And Vietnamese. Basically, if it's put in front of him and other people are eating, he'll pick it up and try it, provided he's not being asked to do so. It was a good thing he likes Indian food, too, because my husband's friend's wife completely outdid herself.
You know how you sometimes go to someone's house and immediately want to go home and clean yours? This particular visit not only made me want to go home and clean. I wanted to go home and cook, too. Normally I don't write about food, but being presented with two appetizers, then seven different dishes, all made from scratch, and that's not including the homemade flatbreads, is nothing less than remarkable. Then there was dessert, which we couldn't eat, but the kids devoured.
The woman was a genius with food. My husband and I had been hoping to go to the Indian restaurant this weekend, but we couldn't bring ourselves to do it. We were still full this morning when we woke up. We started off with nachos and samosas. Then there were chicken biryani (a rice dish), a shrimp masala, an okra dish, malai kofta (a creamy veggie croquette), matar paneer (cheese cubes in tomato & pea gravy), sambhar and idli (a spicy veggie stew with steamed rice cakes), toor dahl (lentils) plus the requisite chapatis and parathas (both flatbreads, which she flavored with fenugreek & potato), rice, homemade pickle (made with cranberries and chilis) and homemade yogurt. It was absolutely humbling. It must have taken her hours.
By the time we left - around 10:45 - we were all stuffed to the gills and sent off with piles of leftovers plus a bit of her yogurt culture so I can make my own. It's amazing how easy it is to do. Anyway, I now feel like a huge slob. So we've been cleaning all morning. Ragsy has passed out (for the moment - he's due to wake up anytime), but the Christmas tree is finally put away, kitchen is almost clean and the wallpaper will at last be totally removed from the bathroom walls today once Ragsy wakes up and I can kick everyone out of the house for a bit. It's a lot of work, but at least I'll be able to work off the five pounds I gained yesterday alone.
I'm so glad Ragsy likes Indian food. And Chinese. And Thai. And Vietnamese. Basically, if it's put in front of him and other people are eating, he'll pick it up and try it, provided he's not being asked to do so. It was a good thing he likes Indian food, too, because my husband's friend's wife completely outdid herself.
You know how you sometimes go to someone's house and immediately want to go home and clean yours? This particular visit not only made me want to go home and clean. I wanted to go home and cook, too. Normally I don't write about food, but being presented with two appetizers, then seven different dishes, all made from scratch, and that's not including the homemade flatbreads, is nothing less than remarkable. Then there was dessert, which we couldn't eat, but the kids devoured.
The woman was a genius with food. My husband and I had been hoping to go to the Indian restaurant this weekend, but we couldn't bring ourselves to do it. We were still full this morning when we woke up. We started off with nachos and samosas. Then there were chicken biryani (a rice dish), a shrimp masala, an okra dish, malai kofta (a creamy veggie croquette), matar paneer (cheese cubes in tomato & pea gravy), sambhar and idli (a spicy veggie stew with steamed rice cakes), toor dahl (lentils) plus the requisite chapatis and parathas (both flatbreads, which she flavored with fenugreek & potato), rice, homemade pickle (made with cranberries and chilis) and homemade yogurt. It was absolutely humbling. It must have taken her hours.
By the time we left - around 10:45 - we were all stuffed to the gills and sent off with piles of leftovers plus a bit of her yogurt culture so I can make my own. It's amazing how easy it is to do. Anyway, I now feel like a huge slob. So we've been cleaning all morning. Ragsy has passed out (for the moment - he's due to wake up anytime), but the Christmas tree is finally put away, kitchen is almost clean and the wallpaper will at last be totally removed from the bathroom walls today once Ragsy wakes up and I can kick everyone out of the house for a bit. It's a lot of work, but at least I'll be able to work off the five pounds I gained yesterday alone.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Taking a beating.
I got a bloody nose today from my toddler son. The corners of my eyes are also purpling. We were playing inncoently in the living room. He had pushed me onto my back so he could stack some balls and cushions on top of me. He likes for me to pretend I'm trapped, then to come to my rescue or bounce on me, usually the latter. So, I lay back and he rolled a body ball onto me. I should know better than to forget to protect my head when I'm in a vulnerable position with him.
After stacking the ball on, he walked out of my line of vision to get something else to stack on me. Usually this is a pillow or blanket. Unfortunately, I forgot that he'd been playing with the stainless steel insulated pot we usually put our chapatis in. All of a sudden, I saw my reflection rushing at me, then stars. I let out a strangled scream and shot upright, hands to my nose.
I rarely ever freak out in front of Ragsy. I don't scream and I rarely cry. Even during a two-hour-long temper tantrum, toward the end of which I was considering a call to the doctor, did I get ruffled. Even when he crushed my left breast during a full body slam with a well- or ill-placed elbow and when he ripped a bandage off of my finger when I had cut the tip off, I didn't cry. But this was uncontrollable. Getting hit in the face in the perfect spot will do that to you. I burst into tears and a trickle of blood dribbled out of my nose. Ragsy began to wail. After I had calmed myself to the point of tears merely gushing out of my eyes instead of outright sobs, I pulled him over to me and wiped his tears with my non-bloody hand and explained to him that he needed to be much more careful, we were going to put the pot away and that, if he hurt someone, he needed to stay calm and find out if they were ok.
He eventually calmed down enough to kiss my nose better (God I wish I were a kid still sometimes) and hug me and helped me by finding a tissue. Now my entire head hurts. I think the only thing that doesn't is my chin. I have received more injuries in the two and a half years since this kid was born than I had during my entire life before that. Fortunately, none are quite as serious as slicing open my hand after running headfirst through a doorway, but a bloody nose and the start of a double black eye from a toddler? That shouldn't happen.
After stacking the ball on, he walked out of my line of vision to get something else to stack on me. Usually this is a pillow or blanket. Unfortunately, I forgot that he'd been playing with the stainless steel insulated pot we usually put our chapatis in. All of a sudden, I saw my reflection rushing at me, then stars. I let out a strangled scream and shot upright, hands to my nose.
I rarely ever freak out in front of Ragsy. I don't scream and I rarely cry. Even during a two-hour-long temper tantrum, toward the end of which I was considering a call to the doctor, did I get ruffled. Even when he crushed my left breast during a full body slam with a well- or ill-placed elbow and when he ripped a bandage off of my finger when I had cut the tip off, I didn't cry. But this was uncontrollable. Getting hit in the face in the perfect spot will do that to you. I burst into tears and a trickle of blood dribbled out of my nose. Ragsy began to wail. After I had calmed myself to the point of tears merely gushing out of my eyes instead of outright sobs, I pulled him over to me and wiped his tears with my non-bloody hand and explained to him that he needed to be much more careful, we were going to put the pot away and that, if he hurt someone, he needed to stay calm and find out if they were ok.
He eventually calmed down enough to kiss my nose better (God I wish I were a kid still sometimes) and hug me and helped me by finding a tissue. Now my entire head hurts. I think the only thing that doesn't is my chin. I have received more injuries in the two and a half years since this kid was born than I had during my entire life before that. Fortunately, none are quite as serious as slicing open my hand after running headfirst through a doorway, but a bloody nose and the start of a double black eye from a toddler? That shouldn't happen.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Oh, the humanity!
My son has already turned into an angst-filled teenager. I don't know when it happened, but the other day, he came up to me and I said, "Hey babe - can I get a big wet sloppy one?" He sighed deeply and said, "Yeah, okay," the dutifully kissed me and walked away to play with his trains. When did I become boring?
Speaking of which, I went on a girl's night out this evening with a friend from my former employer. It was anything but boring, but... Remember when girl's night out meant bottles of beer or cheap wine and mixed drinks and a fat, juicy burger? Or maybe it was a pile of brownies and a gallon of ice cream devoured during a three-hour-long gossip session. Well, I'd been saving up all day for this girl's night out, thinking that I'd at least get something deep fried. Heck, I've lost 6 pounds over a two-week period, I figured that some tempura wouldn't hurt me that much as long as I'd budgeted for it.
So, I get to Wasabi Clayton, and we order. I glance over the menu and agree - let's get something to split. Something big. Oh, yeah - something bad. And then, it happened. We ordered. Once we had, I found myself thinking, when did indulgence turn into edamame, salad, california rolls and sashimi with the odd squid tentacle on the side, washed down with Diet Coke and water? Even stranger, it tasted really, really good and I didn't miss the fat, juicy burger. Well, not too much anyway.
Speaking of which, I went on a girl's night out this evening with a friend from my former employer. It was anything but boring, but... Remember when girl's night out meant bottles of beer or cheap wine and mixed drinks and a fat, juicy burger? Or maybe it was a pile of brownies and a gallon of ice cream devoured during a three-hour-long gossip session. Well, I'd been saving up all day for this girl's night out, thinking that I'd at least get something deep fried. Heck, I've lost 6 pounds over a two-week period, I figured that some tempura wouldn't hurt me that much as long as I'd budgeted for it.
So, I get to Wasabi Clayton, and we order. I glance over the menu and agree - let's get something to split. Something big. Oh, yeah - something bad. And then, it happened. We ordered. Once we had, I found myself thinking, when did indulgence turn into edamame, salad, california rolls and sashimi with the odd squid tentacle on the side, washed down with Diet Coke and water? Even stranger, it tasted really, really good and I didn't miss the fat, juicy burger. Well, not too much anyway.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
That'll leave a mark.
"I'm in ok shape," I thought. "I can run for a long time. I can do anything." You know that that mindset is pretty much the beginning of the end. So, I took Ragsy swimming Saturday and went to work out this afternoon on my own at the gym, planning to get in at least 45 minutes to a half hour of running plus something else. I've been running a lot on our treadmill at home and I really need some variety and something to truly challenge my muscles.
So I got on the treadmill. Every treadmill is different. This one is a bit easier than mine, so I was able to run for about 20 minutes as a warm up without really breathing hard, even though I was running faster and at a much higher incline than usual. That didn't stop me from feeling slightly full of myself, though. Then my bloated self esteem took a much-needed hit. Oh, and I got what I came for. I tried the Adaptive Motion Trainer. I'd never heard of it and assumed it'd be just like an eliptical. I also ignored the fact that only one was being used and the person using was pouring sweat.
I hopped on, noting that, "Hmm, the pedals are a little heavier and harder to move than most elipticals." So I stood on the machine. The pedals still didn't move. So I pressed down. Hard. Finally. Movement. "Well, I guess it'll just take a few strides, then it'll ease up." I started to move. It wasn't getting any easier. I set the timer. "Umm, this is harder than I expected. But I can do at least 20 minutes. Well, how about I set it to 15 and add on if I want to?" Even though I had the resistance down as low as possible, I was only able to complete 10 minutes, which was a stretch because I was seriously considering getting off after 5. Typically, my heart rate doesn't rise above 130, even while running, unless I'm going faster than usual (which is admittedly probably a regular or even somewhat slow pace for many) or at a fairly punishing incline (I'm proud to say that now I can do inclines. Go me!). On a standard elliptical, it'll get up to maybe 140 or so. By the time I was done on this machine, also referred to as an AMT, it was 167.
Apparently this machine is supposed to combine an ellilptical with running and stair climbing, hence the extremely heavy pedals. Plus, the stride dial was set to "deep lunge," which means that you're doing a very deep step over and over and over again. This machine kicked my butt. My but and hips are tender. My thighs are already getting stiff. My lungs feel slightly constricted, like they used to when I was starting to run for the first time. Running tomorrow is going to be tough, especially since I promised myself I'd do intervals. But you know what? It was hard. I liked it. I want to do it again.
So I got on the treadmill. Every treadmill is different. This one is a bit easier than mine, so I was able to run for about 20 minutes as a warm up without really breathing hard, even though I was running faster and at a much higher incline than usual. That didn't stop me from feeling slightly full of myself, though. Then my bloated self esteem took a much-needed hit. Oh, and I got what I came for. I tried the Adaptive Motion Trainer. I'd never heard of it and assumed it'd be just like an eliptical. I also ignored the fact that only one was being used and the person using was pouring sweat.
I hopped on, noting that, "Hmm, the pedals are a little heavier and harder to move than most elipticals." So I stood on the machine. The pedals still didn't move. So I pressed down. Hard. Finally. Movement. "Well, I guess it'll just take a few strides, then it'll ease up." I started to move. It wasn't getting any easier. I set the timer. "Umm, this is harder than I expected. But I can do at least 20 minutes. Well, how about I set it to 15 and add on if I want to?" Even though I had the resistance down as low as possible, I was only able to complete 10 minutes, which was a stretch because I was seriously considering getting off after 5. Typically, my heart rate doesn't rise above 130, even while running, unless I'm going faster than usual (which is admittedly probably a regular or even somewhat slow pace for many) or at a fairly punishing incline (I'm proud to say that now I can do inclines. Go me!). On a standard elliptical, it'll get up to maybe 140 or so. By the time I was done on this machine, also referred to as an AMT, it was 167.
Apparently this machine is supposed to combine an ellilptical with running and stair climbing, hence the extremely heavy pedals. Plus, the stride dial was set to "deep lunge," which means that you're doing a very deep step over and over and over again. This machine kicked my butt. My but and hips are tender. My thighs are already getting stiff. My lungs feel slightly constricted, like they used to when I was starting to run for the first time. Running tomorrow is going to be tough, especially since I promised myself I'd do intervals. But you know what? It was hard. I liked it. I want to do it again.
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