June 22, 2011

Random Fact #2

In honor of Pukefest 2011 here's a story about how I learned the definition of vomit. And how I know to keep the puke in the toilet.

When I was in the fourth grade I was on a series of antibiotics. I don't remember what for but I remember they were serious business. I had to take them three times a day with food three in order to prevent nausea. That meant I was responsible for taking my lunchtime pill while I was at school. A responsibility I took very seriously. As seriously as fourth grader Katherine can.

So this one Thursday during the week of antibiotic treatment was Art Day. My second favorite day after Music Day. This Art Day I wore my super cute pink and black knit sweater to show how cool and artistic I was. And this Art Day I took my pill with my mediocre school lunch. Ok. Maybe a little before my lunch. On an empty stomach. Anyway, back to the turn of events. My class filed into the classroom and just as we took our seats I started to not feel so good. I excused myself to head to the little ladies' room. Then started to speed walk there. But before I reached my destination I projectile vomited all of my lunch, strangely I don't remember what it was, and my pill. Sitting in the puddle of excrement was the perfectly undigested black and pink pill. Which at that point I realized matched my bitchin' sweater perfectly.

Coming around the corner was the other fourth grade teacher of the school and I am thrilled to say I stopped him dead in his tracks. He stammered something about getting a janitor and when he ran off I snuck into my empty classroom to clean off my fashionable sweater- I had gotten some puke on my sleeves. Total bummer. Then my teacher found me and took me to the office to call my mother. She told the secretaries that I had "vomited in the hallway" and the administrative staff had a little clucking over the situation and then handed me the phone. What did she say I did? I thought I puked. Maybe something else happened? I dunno. My mother wasn't home so I left a message. When I got to the point in the message telling her what happened I paused, looked around, and regurgitated my new vocabulary. (Hahaaaa. See what I did there? How's a little word play for you? Zing!) Being nine years old I didn't put the word association together and thought I was being all encompassing by telling her I vomited instead of just puked. And my obvious feigned intelligence made the whole office staff chuckle. As if I wasn't embarrassed enough!

Mom came and got me and as soon as I got home, before I changed out of my sweater, I went to the dictionary and looked up the word "vomit." I was too embarrassed to ask anyone. More embarrassed than I was about the whole puking part. I'm sure you're all dying to know if I had to restart the antibiotic regiment. Well, I didn't. Whew, right? In fact, I think they changed the kind of pill so that wouldn't happen again. Because let's be real, it very well could have.

June 20, 2011

I Should've Worn Pants

I haven't been blogging because I haven't had much to say other than wallowing in the situation I've gotten myself into. And the thing is I'm not that negative day to day, just when I sit down to write I've got nothing.

What I will tell you is that I turned thirty on Saturday. To celebrate it I went to the town's biergarten to get the birthday boot- a glass boot that holds two liters of beer. My goal was to drink it in under two hours. Instead I drank it in one hour, had an hour of drunken conversation and puked for five hours. It's my fault entirely. I should've eaten more- I just didn't. All day I kept thinking, "I should just eat some popcorn or something." Then when we went to the biergarten I kept thinking, "Just eat something and stop drinking so fast." I had downed half of it in about 45 minutes. But when the fellas pointed out that another woman there finished her boot in an hour I felt it was go time and stopped drinking and started chugging.

I like to pretend that my party ended at the biergarten and that there wasn't A WHOLE SECOND ACT to my birthday. Mike bought a "30" pinata, a cake with my name on it, decorated our friends' home and bought a whole cookout worth of food. Thank GOD all the food was eaten and he saved me the pinata. Everyone had fun, even my friend Lyndy who spent much of her evening rubbing my back while I heaved into the toilet. And I can honestly say, since I lived through that, I had a good time as well. But in my old age let me tell you, don't wear a dress when you plan to drink your daily calories in beer. Everyone will thank you.

June 7, 2011

Blub Blub Blub

If I weighed what I should, which really isn't that far off from what I weigh now, and the weight never fluctuated no matter how much I ate or how little I worked out, I would be tremendously happy. Instead I weigh what I do and I'm not tremendously happy. I'm really tired of negating all the hard work I do by one or two nights out. Or at least that is what the culprit appears to be. I don't work out every day but I work out an average of five days a week. I don't eat food out of a box and I don't eat out a lot. So what is my problem?

Yeah yeah yeah. I've been a Weight Watchers subscriber for over five years (I know exactly how long I've been giving them my money I'm just too embarrassed to give you the real number) and haven't been able to get to my goal weight. I was only a few pounds away but I just never got there. I know very few people who've kept the same weight for years and years. People grow and shrink. It's only natural. And I should be grateful that I've kept thirty pounds off from when I started my journey. And I guess I am. What it is, is my resentment at how difficult it is for me. My sister is eternally svelte- yes, she's one of the few people. My brother can't keep weight on to look even normal- he's the other of the people. I, however, can gain six pounds in one week without really trying. I know that for a fact. I've measured it. I got the short end of the stick I guess.

June 4, 2011

I Really Do Want to Be a Millionaire

A week and a half ago a friend and I went down to Manhattan so I could audition for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the midday game show hosted by Meredith Vieira. I decided I wanted to audition a few weeks back after watching an episode on the elliptical machine and realizing how dumb some of the contestants on that show are. I know a bunch of random stuff about random stuff and it comes in handy winning free beer at trivia nights. I can confidently say I'm good at trivia. So I went to the website and signed up for a time slot the following Wednesday.

That morning I woke up with amazing hair and blue skies smiling at me. Breezed through a good day at work. Then we headed towards the city. The drive was easy and the weather was just so good I have to mention it twice. The ABC offices were really easy to get to. The building is right next to Central Park and a block up from Lincoln Center. Right around the corner is a Mormon chapel that shares a building with a folk museum. (I thought an American folk religion sharing a building with folk art was amusing. But maybe that's just me.) So my friend killed time at the museum while I waited in line and took the test.

It was pretty straight forward. We got in line outside and then we went through a metal detector, that I set off somehow, and sat at tables set up in a small studio cafeteria. I sat next to a dude who also tried to get on Jeopardy and across from a woman whose daughter is trying to be an actress. We had ten minutes to take a thirty question exam. I felt pretty good about it. I knew most of it and the ones that I didn't feel so good about were few and far between. When our time was up we had to remember what number was assigned to our test and listen for it to be announced as having a passing score.

I didn't have a passing score. Nor did thirty-nine of the other forty-five people there. I was kind of surprised. I didn't think it was going to be terribly easy but that's how good I felt about my trivia knowledge. And that's saying a lot. I tend to not think very highly of myself so when I say I feel good about a skill I possess that means something. I'm not the only one surprised either. Even my dad, who's not big on false hope, was surprised.

What does this mean? That I wallowed or now consider myself stupid? No. It means that show hasn't seen the last of me yet. It must've just not been my day. I'm going to try again. And I'm bringing Mike with me. Because if I don't pass, he most certainly will. My husband knows everything. For reals. I actually took something from this- that I'm finally gaining confidence in parts of myself. One down. Hundreds to go.