One of my clients, Craig – someone I also consider a friend – owns Texas Pepper Jelly. Recently, he started making a new product he calls Texas Rib Candy. As a southern girl born and bred, I love me some ribs. And it doesn’t matter how skinny I get, you put “candy” in the name of something, and you have my attention. So I thought I’d ask Craig if he’d like for me to try out his new product and pimp it out on my blog and on Facebook. I’m thinking he could send me a little sample-size jar of one or two flavours, right? Nope, he sent me four FULL-SIZED bottles of the stuff, but I had to promise him that I wouldn’t drink it right out of the bottle.

It says on the bottle not to let the name mislead you; Texas Rib Candy can be used on chicken, seafood, and a whole bunch of other stuff. Since I had some chicken in the fridge, I decided to try out the Apple Habañero flavour tonight.

I almost licked it right off the basting brush, but I didn’t!

I also managed not to lick that little pepper right off the raw chicken. Salmonella is a powerful deterrent.

And then I put it on the grill. I had to change my shirt twice cause of all the drooling. Note to self: Wear a bib or something when you start slathering this stuff on ribs.

I almost didn’t get this picture because I was so busy trying to figure out how to ingest that piece of chicken through pure osmosis.

Seriously, this is some wicked good stuff. It’s sweet, but not so sweet that it overpowers the flavour of the chicken. It carmelizes beautifully, sealing in all those yummy juices, and it has just the right amount of heat. You can definitely taste the habañeros, but they don’t blow off the top of your head. I also love that it’s a very, very simple recipe: apple juice, sugar, vinegar, habañeros, and pectin. That’s it. Nothing I can’t pronounce, no weird preservatives.. just good stuff that’s well-made. The only thing I would like to see is nutritional info on the label, so that I can enter it into my food journal.

Thanks, Craig, for the generous samples – I can’t wait to try it on ribs! I KNOW it’s gonna be a hit.

So, I didn’t get to see Emily after school today because I had an orientation at the college. I ended up having to meet Lorei at cheer practice and didn’t even get to talk to Em about her day until we were on the way home from practice at 7:30.

The funniest thing happened, though.

Backstory: When she first started in cheerleading, the coaches were constantly reminding the girls to wear deodorant. Emily, who has been obsessed with my deodorant since she was about two, took that as her cue to tell me she needed her own. I told her she didn’t, because she’s eight, and she doesn’t stink yet when she sweats. She was on crutches, and seriously unmotivated during practice; she was barely paying attention, not making much effort to learn the arm movements or chants, etc. In an attempt to get her more motivated, I told her that if she would show some real effort and really work hard between then and when the cast came off, I’d get her some of her very own deodorant.

Fast forward to yesterday. We went to Wal-Mart after practice because I needed to get her some after-school snacks and pick up a few other things. I also got her some special deodorant because she worked really hard and showed me that she really did want to be on the team.

(Finally, the funny.) Today, I get to practice and find that she’s brought along my little owl purse with a hairbrush and her deodorant in it. The girls were instructed to wear their full uniforms for pictures today, so Em’s all decked out, and her shell is sleeveless. On three separate occasions, she comes running over to her bag and puts on deodorant. In front of everyone – all the other cheerleaders, coaches, photographers, moms & dads. She doesn’t care. I finally had to pull her aside and inform her that deodorant is not like lip gloss; it doesn’t need to be reapplied throughout the day. Once a day is enough, and it needs to be done at home, in the bathroom, not in front of god and everybody.

(My apologies for the poor-quality picture. It was taken with my phone in a hurry – I almost missed the shot.)

This morning, I crawled up onto to the top bunk to wake Emily for school. Emily, Bungy (her beloved stuffed rabbit) and I had an interesting conversation.

Bungy: Oh my gosh, look! There’s a fourth-grader in my bed! Look at how big she is!
Emily: This isn’t your bed!
Me, to Bungy, whispering: We’ll just let her think it’s not your bed. We both know the truth.
(Bungy nods.)
Bungy, singing: It’s time to rise and shine and give Bungy hugs and kisses.. rise and shine and give Bungy hugs and kisses.. rise! and! shine! and! give Bungy hugs and kisses… or, um, oh dear, I don’t have hands.. oh! Mom will tickle youuuuu!
Me: We’ll do better on that next time.
(Bungy nods, Emily giggles and does not give hugs and kisses. Bungy sings again, and Mom tickles. Em gives Bungy hugs and kisses.)
Me, to Bungy, whispering: I climbed all the way up here and I still haven’t even gotten a “good morning” from her, much less hugs and kisses. Guess I’m gonna have to sing too. No respect, I tell ya.. no respect!
Me, singing: It’s time to rise and shine and give Mom some hugs and kisses.. rise and shine and give Mom some hugs and kisses.. rise! and! shine! and! give Mom some hugs and kisses… or she’ll tickle.. youuuu!
(Em makes a half-hearted attempt at hugging me, but can’t because of the position she’s sitting in.)
Me, dramatically: Oh! Fourth grade has changed her! Listen to the excuses! She can’t even give me loves anymore! Oh, woe!
(Emily dissolves into giggles and leaps up into my lap and gives me all kinds of hugs and kisses and snuggles.)

Best way to start the day, ever. Happy Fourth Grade, babygirl.

We sure have been through a lot together.

Many moons ago, you hit one of the lowest points in your life and decided that you did not want to go on living. Were it not for the speedy reaction of the Nashville Fire Department to Gail’s frantic 911 call, I wouldn’t be here today to write you this letter. A few days after that phone call, however, Gail came to you in tears, begging you never to put her through that again. You said you wouldn’t. She asked you to promise. “Say it. Say you promise.” “I promise,” you said. For the next couple of years, that promise kept you alive, because you couldn’t bear the thought of causing someone you loved that kind of pain again. You couldn’t break your promise, because promises are sacred, and meant to be kept.

After a few years, life got a little better, you got yourself onto a more even keel, and you were able to make that promise to yourself. You’ve never looked back. Even though there have been some rough spots, and some downright bleak times, you’ve never even considered taking your life again, because you have so much to live for.

A few weeks ago, you stepped on the scale, and saw that magical number that you’d been waiting so anxiously to see – that non-200s number. Onederland, they call it. 198.4, it said. You almost peed your pants with excitement. You got the camera, took a picture (stupid camera weighed almost a pound!) and posted it to Facebook, where all your friends congratulated you on your success. Then, about 10 days ago, you stepped on the scale again, and nearly had a stroke. 205. Not only weren’t you in “onederland” anymore, but it was almost 7 pounds. That’s way more than a natural fluctuation. You cursed, kicked the scale, and stomped off.

A couple nights later, you had dinner at a friend’s house. You ate what most people would consider a “normal” meal. Lamb, potatoes, zucchini, bread. You are not most people. You shouldn’t be eating potatoes and bread, and the amount of food you ate was entirely too much. It was that night, sitting on the couch, miserably full, that I realised I had to do something.

So, I’m making you a promise.

I promise to take care of you. I promise to do the best I can, every day, to feed you the foods that are good for you, and to not just shovel in whatever’s available. I promise not to justify junk foods because you skipped breakfast, because that’s a slippery slope that you inevitably end up sliding down. I promise not to make you eat foods that aren’t good for you because I feel guilty preparing something different from what everyone else is eating. I promise that I will work really hard to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks, and just get out there and MOVE. You’ve finally gotten the dizziness under control, and exercise is an option again, so I promise to make it a priority again.

I’m giving you this pretty little ring as a reminder of my promise. Every time I look at it, I will be reminded of the promise I’ve made to you. It was a promise that kept you alive all those years ago, and it will be a promise that keeps you living the life you love now.

I love you,
Me

I posted on my Facebook wall tonight that I accidentally quit smoking this week. I had half a cigarette on Sunday, and haven’t had one since. I have this bronchitis to thank for getting me to stop, but I have precious Savannah to thank for opening my eyes and giving me the will to stay on the wagon.

I did get to see Savannah for a few minutes on Monday. It worked out so that we got to spend a bit of time outside the hospital after she finished her radiation treatment. (Being outside meant that I could stay back from her but still get to see her sweet smile.)

I have never consciously thought or said that cancer can’t happen to me. Having spent a large part of my life thinking it was one of those things that happened to other families, I learned a big lesson about that when my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Despite that, I have been acting like I’m too special to get cancer. I would think about it every time I smoked; every time I filled my lungs, I could almost SEE what it was doing to me. I felt guilty and had gotten to a point where I didn’t even enjoy it anymore.. but I continued to smoke.

Seeing Savannah on Monday was unbelievably humbling. If this precious, flaxen-haired angel isn’t exempt, despite her innocence and complete lack of anything even remotely deserving of cancer… then there’s no way in hell *I* am. The last time I quit – for two and a half years – I kept a visual in my head that motivated me. It was the image of my mother rolling my dad down to the main entrance of the hospital so that he could smoke, while receiving chemotherapy for his lung cancer.

This time around, my visualisation will be of Savannah. This is for you, babygirl, along with all the love and healing energies I can possibly send.

There have been several things I’ve had to learn or change since I started losing significant amounts of weight. There are a few that I’m stumped on, so I’m asking the masses: How do you do it?

I have finally discovered why they’re called armpits. Back in the day, there was lots of fat, so when I shaved my underarms, it was relatively flat. Now, though? There’s a big hollow – a pit – when I raise my arm. I can’t figure out how to shave inside that hollow without taking off a few layers of skin. Suggestions?

There’s been a lot of talk lately in the WLS community about excess skin. I’m no exception, as I’ve mentioned before, and have a rather sizeable apron of skin on my tummy. It looks awful when I wear jeans – it’s like I have a camel toe all the way to my belly button. I know that’s a visual you needed. You’re welcome. Anyone have any good ideas on how to minimise that (short of a pannectomy; I want to get to goal and stay there a bit before I do that.)

Finally, my hair. I lost a pretty decent amount of hair in the first few months after surgery. For someone whose hair is as straight, flat, and fine as mine, it was a pretty big deal to me. Now the hair is growing back, which is great, but I have this annoying little two-inch-long mohawk that runs the length of my part, accompanied by little horns on either side of my forehead. I understand now why so many women who have had WLS end up with adorable little pixie cuts. Unfortunately, a short cut like that would make me look like a little boy (see aforementioned straight, flat hair) so… I’m stuck. I hate using a bunch of hair products because I don’t like my hair feeling like cardboard, but I’m not averse to a little something. Help!

This morning, I stood in front of a mirror, clad only in my underwear, doing that which all girls do – striking poses and trying to figure out the angle at which my excess skin and stretch marks were least visible. For a fleeting moment, I considered taking pictures. I considered that all those stretch marks were evidence of my journey into severe morbid obesity. I thought that the flabby skin on my arms and stomach were hallmarks of my battle to overcome said obesity. There was a flash of confidence, when I told myself that I shouldn’t be ashamed of how my body looks now.

Of course, that confidence was quickly squashed by the horror and embarrassment of the reality of taking those pictures. For whatever reason, looking in the mirror offers an entirely different view than that which comes through a camera lens. With as fragile as my self-image is (and has been most of my life) I don’t want to see pictures of me in my underwear.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: I still see 355 pounds when I look in the mirror. I honestly believe it’s because of the extra skin, particularly on my stomach, but in the absence of my ability to see my body without the extra skin, I can’t be sure. It could very well be that my body image is so distorted that I cannot see the 150 pounds I’ve lost. I know it has happened, because the scale and my clothes tell me so, but my eyes have a hard time believing it.

I knew going in to this weight-loss surgery journey that I would have excess skin. I knew that losing the weight would not fix my self-image. What I didn’t realise was that my self-image wouldn’t change a bit. I fully expected to see the sagging tummy, but know that it was just that – skin – and I would feel better about how I looked. I don’t. This has to be the most frustrating part of this entire process. I’m proud of the weight I’ve lost, and people tell me all the time how great I look, but I’m terribly discouraged by the fact that I don’t feel like I look any better now than I did a year ago.

I don’t know where to go from here. There’s a little voice in my head that says once I have a tummy tuck, I will look great in a pair of jeans and this will all go away. History shows, though, that this will probably not be the case. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life avoiding mirrors and cameras, being self-conscious, worrying about what others might think about the way my body looks, and hating my body… I just don’t know what to DO about it. I’ve tried positive affirmations and crap like that, and it eventually just pisses me off because I feel like I’m just lying to myself. Telling myself that shit smells like roses over and over again doesn’t make it smell any better, and honestly, it makes me question my own sanity.

There’s a therapist out there somewhere who could make it his/her life’s work just to figure out WTF is going on in my head.

Has it really been that long since you left us? Since that awful night when I was sitting at my computer and the phone rang.. and I learned that you were gone?

It never really occurred to me that you might die from the cancer. It really didn’t. I assumed we’d watch you suffer through months of harrowing chemotherapy and radiation, that you’d drop weight and lose your hair and be miserable for awhile, but you’d survive it. It was so surreal when you died that I couldn’t even wrap my head around it.

I was angry, too. I have to admit that sometimes I still am. I wanted you to fight it, to tell that awful disease that there was no way it was going to take you from us. Instead, it kind of feels like you just gave up the minute the doctor said the “C” word. It makes me worry that we didn’t make your life rich enough, that we didn’t give you something to fight for.. or, worse, that you didn’t realise just how much we loved and needed you.

Just in case the latter is true, know this: we loved you then, and we love you now. I still think of you every day and I still miss you as much today as I did four years ago. I’m glad that you’re no longer suffering, but that doesn’t make me wish any less that you were still here with us.

I don’t know if I’m ambitious or just crazy, but I joined a challenge on Daily Mile this morning to run 50 miles in May. So, this morning, I got off my ass, even though I was sore from nose to toes after yesterday’s workout and run, and went out in the cold. My plan was to walk two miles up and run the two miles back, but I got a stitch in my side after about a mile of running.

What I learned:

-Do not try to push through a stitch. I gave it about another half mile before I felt like I was being stabbed with a white-hot knife and decided to walk the rest of the way.
-If this route is always going to smell as foul as it did this morning, I’ve gotta find a new route. Holy cow, that was funk-eh!
-I need running pants that fit me. Everything I have is at least 2 sizes too big. Not so much fun having to hitch up my britches every few minutes.
-I need to quit smoking. Like, yesterday.

The last, and most important thing I learned? Two sports bras + Megadeth’s “Liar” = Shut The Fuck Up, Dustin. Seriously. I have loved that song since I was in Jr. High, but forgot I’d put it on my iPod. It comes on while I’m running, and it was like a 400-megawatt subwoofer came on in my brain, totally drowning out my insecurities. The refrain about 2/3 through goes:

Start trouble, spread pain,
Piss and venom in your veins.
Talk nasty, breathe fire,
smell rotten, you’re a liar.
Sweat liquor, breathe snot,
eat garbage, spit blood.
Diseased health hazard,
scumbag, filthy bastard.
Greasy face, teeth decayed,
hair matted, drunk all day.
Abscessed, sunken veins
Rot gut, scrambled brain.
Steal money, crash cars
Rob jewelry, hock guitars.
Rot in hell, it’s time you know
To your master, off you goooo
You’re a liar
A fucking liar
Filthy liar
You fucking liar

Yeah, that angry thing? It works exceedingly well for me. Forget that calm, peaceful acceptance crap.