Archive for February, 2013


WARNING: This post is full of TMI of a personal nature. Please avoid if you are allergic to such.

Self! Get it together!

Self! Get it together!

I don’t know if you know this, but I’m fat. I’ve not always been fat, but I was one of those people who gained a bunch of weight during a first pregnancy and never really lost any of it. I’ve gained more since then. I’ve now been fat twice as long as an adult than I was thin as an adult. Of course, I’ve hated this and I’ve dieted with some success, but nothing stuck. The only three things, healthwise, that I’ve done successfully in, quite possibly, my whole life is quit smoking so I could get pregnant without dealing with that addiction and successfully regulate my blood sugar with diet while afflicted with gestational diabetes so  I wouldn’t have to subject my baby to drugs and have three children naturally.

All pretty big things, I think.

For some reason, weight loss is not one of the things I’ve been able to do. I think because it isn’t directly FOR anyone else. I haven’t really held myself in the highest of esteems for quite some time (see this post), and that makes doing anything for me, low on the list of priorities. Then there is the whole “I HATE EXERCISE” bit. I don’t hate doing things (for example, I like swimming, and gardening and lite-hiking and camping and cruising around on my bike (in theory)), but I hate the whole endeavor of working out. On top of that, I have pretty bad back issues that result in a sort of Catch 22, damned if you do damned if you don’t, kind of scenario. I need to be moving, but I can’t move too much or in certain ways, or I’ll reinjure my back. So yeah.

A couple of weeks ago, I went in for my physical.

You know, I’m pretty smart. I have pretty great intuition and self-awareness. I’m not a hypochondriac. I probably deal with more pain than I should because I really HATE doctors (even though my doc is pretty awesome). I’ve known for a long time that if I didn’t get a handle on my weight, the shit would eventually find the fan and my health would be at risk for failing. Well, my dear friends, loyal readers, that time has come.

My cholesterol is way out of control. I’m extremely iron deficient. I’m extremely vitamin D deficient. I have inflammation indicating that my body is struggling with something (that something could simply be Epstein Barr, which I have, and which flares up when I get worn out, which I have been and is super easy to do when you are as out of shape as I am). Right. My Doc says I should look into removing all animal and animal by-products from my diet. She strongly urges me to do so. At the appointment, I smiled and laughed derisively at the suggestion. BAHAHAHAHA! Me? Vegan? Not in this lifetime.

I get home and I think. I go about my daily stuff and I think. I do some research on various dietary alterations I should be making and I think.

My grandmother is hospitalized and I go to sit with her. It’s a fourteen hour drive followed by 10 hours of sitting in her hospital room while she mostly sleeps. AND I THINK.

I do a lot of thinking. When I get home, I do a lot of reading. I watch some documentaries on food. And I think, “Self, you’ve done some pretty whacked out diets that SUCKED, but had good momentary results. Would being vegan to get your crap together be so awful? Don’t you, in fact, love fruits and veggies and nuts and legumes and whole grains? Well, Self, you do even though you seem to avoid them rather handily normally.”

So I came across this diet. It’s called Engine #2 and it’s all about the whole food, plant based eating. It sounds doable to me. It sounds deLISHous, to be honest. I’m not saying that I’ll be able to stay vegan forever, but making it part of my life in a sustainable, ongoing way? Count me in.

So I’m going to journal about the experience here. From one Omnivore who likes it that way out to the world. The plan is to actually journal, not just blog. I have added a, currently empty, board to my Pinterest boards onto which I will post foods that sounds yummy and I will label them when I make them, and stipulate their level of delishiosity. (I can spell it how I want. It is MY word.) Just in case you are interested.

We’ll see how this goes.

I’ve written about my kitties before. I am a cat person through and through. I love all kinds of animals, really, but cats own my heart. I wrote last year about my most favorite kitty ever, Sebastian McAwesomepants and his antiquity. That post turned out to be very timely. Sebastian passed away one month later. It was really, really hard, and I still can’t quite believe he’s gone. I truly, although completely illogically, thought he’d live forever. He was my buddy and bestest bestie for over half my life. I haven’t known many people as long as I knew him.

That said, I was devastated when he died. I felt this giant hole open up in our household where Sebastian’s EPIC presence had always resided. I was completely at a loss as to how to fill it or fix it. Just learn to live with it until it becomes the way things are supposed to be? Until the memory of his presence has faded? All I knew was that I suddenly never wanted to have another fuzzy friend ever again. Biggus Sithus would be the last. I just couldn’t stand the thought of incorporating another yummy fuzzy buddy into my life only to have to deal with his/her loss. If Immortal Sebastian could come to the end of his life, then no mere mortal kitty could possibly survive. My heart couldn’t take it. (Don’t let me down, Sith!)

But, Time did what Time does and continued unspooling out ahead of me into the future, lumping itself up into heaps of memories behind me, and helping to heal that which seems impossible to heal.

So it happened that I decided I need another cat. Sith isn’t as clingy as he was for the three months or so after Sebastian’s passing, but I think he needs a friend. My kids have only ever lived with decrepit, ancient kitties. Even Sith, who is now 13, has never been a kitten in their lifetimes. Young, yes, but passed that attack-your-under-the-covers-feet-in-the-middle-of-the-night phase. I decided to get a kitten.

Easy Peasy.

Wrong.

Meet Sith's Minion.

Meet Sith’s Minion.

There were ZERO listings for “kittens” in the classifieds and craigslist. Since when is it so hard to find free kittens? Sheesh.

So off I went to the Animal Control Shelter. This is a kill shelter and I didn’t realize how hard I was going to take knowing that. On the bright side there was a litter of sub 2 month old kittens. On the down side, I perused all the cats, even though I wanted a kitten, and I fell head over heels for like 5 other cats. Then, of course, the lady who took all my info and my adoption money lectured me about how the grown cats tend to die as opposed to finding forever homes. Yeah, like I didn’t know that and like that was doing anything but making my decision worse.

Ugh, I still get upset thinking about it.

Not Happy about the Minion.

Not Happy about the Minion.

So. I adopted a little fuzzy kitty and due to it’s age, I had to wait a week to pick her up because the Shelter requires that all the animals leaving their care be spayed or neutered. I picked her up this afternoon. She is rockin.

We decided to name her Minion. Some day, she’ll be Sith’s Minion. We’ll call her Min, or Minni, or Minute (cause she’s no bigger than). For now? Sith is unhappy about the Minion we’ve chosen for him. He’ll come around.