Health | Love, Jimmie

13.1. Yeah, I Did It.

11 Jun 2015 8 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, I Will Cut You, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Half Marathon, Humor

Four years ago I said, “Y’all, I’m going to run a half marathon.” And then I did. I totally did, except I only ran 3.1 miles of it which is practically the same thing. Then last year I told you all a story about drinking like a fish with My Girls and embedded in that story was a second promise to run a half marathon. And then I did.

Okay, that is a lie. I can’t even fiddle around with that one and pretend like I did something great. Instead, what I did was spend all my money fixing my car for the 95^th time after it kept crapping out on me and then I could not afford the trip to Cleveland for the race. (Recently spent another $450 on that vehicle getting some additional mechanical repairs; meanwhile the side piece under the passenger side doors hangs limply down from the frame in the manner of droopy drawers. Best car ever. Get a Hyundai Sonata. Go ahead. Tell me all about it when you do.)

What I learned from those two experiences is that when I tell you guys I’m going to do something, I don’t do it. There’s really no explanation for it, but I’m not so dumb as to keep telling you about my goals and whatnot and then have them not come to pass. If it’s all the same to you, I’m keeping the big stuff to myself. You can hear about it afterwards, like this:

I COMPLETED MY FIRST HALF MARATHON.

WITH MY GIRLS.

AND I WILL NEVER DO ANOTHER ONE AGAIN.

NEVER.

Months ago, and who even remembers when anymore as my “drinking like a fish” stories with My Girls are beginning to run together, we lounged around in our fuzzy pants and contemplated a second shot at doing a half together. Lo and behold, the next day my checking account was debited $35 for my race fee. A race in Medina, Ohio which sounds cute but also foreign and far away. I do recall Squash (the Girl who hails from Ohio) promising us that her weather would be fine and that the course would not be hilly, and I do recall some amount of enthusiasm as we each whipped out our mobile devices and our debit cards and happily signed away the fees. We clinked together glasses of rum and Coke and then merrily called Luke over for pizza and girl movies. (This happens often so while I cannot pinpoint the exact trip, they all kind of follow the same itinerary . . . .)

From left to right: Squash, Nurse Bananahammock, Woney, and your favorite, Jimmie

I realized immediately after that trip that I was really going to complete this half. And right after that I realized that I needed to train for it. And then not long after that I realized that Daisy was the perfect person with which to train because she walks like the Energizer bunny and her complaints are very soft-spoken. We began traipsing up and down the Greenway, three- and four-mile walks here and there and then longer walks on the weekends. We kept adding mileage every Saturday and eventually walked 11 miles in one go. It was awful. It was hot and hilly and our legs were so tired. We only meant to walk 10 that day, but I misjudged the mile markers (surprise) and when we finished we had walked just over 11 miles.

My Greenway

I could tell how the half was going to feel based on that one walk with Daisy. We were at mile nine and Daisy wearily turned her head towards me. She gave me a long look and said, “When we get back to the car, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

I looked wearily back at her and said, “You can’t catch me.”

And she wearily said, “You can’t run.” Valid.

She probably would have beat the shit out of me except we had promised each other pancakes that day, and our desire for pancakes outweighed her desire to kill me, so we carbed up and eventually forgot about our tired feet. Carbs are magical.

Don’t they look delicious?

The day arrived for the half marathon. I was excited enough to be full of hope and naïve enough to not be full of dread. I had on comfy clothes, a bra that cinched the lady bits into battle ax position, and two pigtails. There were 13 miles ahead of me and a medal and a chocolate milk at the end. I was with My Girls and the weather was fine. The promise of a flat walk was unfounded. We received an email a month before the race that was apologetic in nature – changes were made to the course so that the last eight miles were stuffed full of hills – but I live in Nashville. We are hills. I could take it, sure.

From our starting position at the back of the corral, My Girls and I trotted off. We kept a pretty good clip for quite a few miles (Nurse Bananahammock, the runt of the litter, practically had to jog to keep up with us) and even chatted while we walked. I greeted every volunteer who steered us in the right direction.

“How you durin?” I’d ask and they would cheerfully wave at us.

“I know, we *are* awesome, this is so great,” I’d say, every time we got the you are fabulous, good on you speech.

Woney said to the Girls, “I knew she’d be like this.”

And I was like that for about nine miles.

Mile nine was the marker where my feet started the burn. I could hear Daisy in the back of my head saying, “I’m going to beat the shit out of you,” and I thought, “Yeah, this is maybe not so fun anymore.”

By mile 10, I was a grouch. I was overly fond of pointing out, “That house is ugly. It looks like doo doo.”

Woney said to the Girls, “I knew she’d be like this. Just wait. It gets better.”

By mile 11, I was resigned. My dogs were barking, one of my pigtail holders had popped off, and my body was one giant salt lick from the sweat. “I’m finishing this bitch. I did not do all this walking to get swept and not get a medal. C’mon y’all. Two to go. Dammit.” Fun.

Woney said to the Girls, “Hold on. She’s coming back.”

Mile 12 was the killer. Somehow we had picked up a Negative Nelly who whined about her feet the whole last mile. “My feet really hurt. Do your feet hurt? Why aren’t you saying anything about your feet? This was a mistake. My feet are killing me.” Yes, our feet hurt. Our backs hurt. My butt hurt. Woney was drained. Nurse Bananahammock was winded. Squash was already finished but her feet hurt, I just knew it. If any of us had had the energy, we would have stabbed old Nelly over there with an ice pick. But we had a mile to go and there was no getting out of it. I really wished for Daisy at that point who would have said to Nelly, “When we get to the finish line, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” And she would have meant it, carbs or no carbs.

Not magical enough to save Nelly.

On we trudged. Resignedly I’d respond to the clapping volunteers, “Uh huh, we are great. Yeah, this is awesome. Sure, we can do this.” Most of that came out as a wheeze through parched and lifeless lips but at least it came out.

Woney said, “I told you she’d be like this.”

As we reached mile 12.5, I said to the Girls, “I usually like to cry at the end of these types of events. I don’t think I can today, I don’t have the reserves, but please know that I will want to.” When we reached the last hill we eyed a sign that read, “You can bitch about the hill, or you can make the hill your bitch. Finish line at the top.” We heaved mighty sighs and stoically placed one foot in front of the other all the way up the hill. I swallowed a bug. Maybe it was cigarette ash from a passing vehicle. I’m not sure, but it did not help. We had to shove an old man out of our way. He was blocking the path and we did not have the energy to veer. Children ran wildly at us and we cared not if they brained themselves on our knees. We were automatons and we were going to finish, up the hill, on a cobblestone street, across the line.

As we got to the top, I held one hand out to Woney and one hand out to Nurse Bananahammock. We locked fingers, raised our arms in victory and crossed the finish line together. Turns out I did have the reserves because I cried all the way across the line, sweaty, grimy, down to one scraggly pigtail.

Done.

It. Was. Glorious.

Here is the medal. Get a good look at it because it is the last one you will ever see on this blog. I worked for it. I earned it. I am proud of it. And I never want to do anything like that again to get another. Isn’t it pretty? Tell me it’s pretty.

One tired Jimmie.

Also, you know we drank like fish after that race was over. Keep this in mind for future posts which I will not tell you about in advance because I want the plans we made to happen. But yeah, happy times are a ‘coming.

A Walk In The Woods

16 Apr 2015 11 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus, Outings Tags: Humor

A few weekends ago, I gave Martie and Coach their monthly date night. They get at least one night per month to be randy teenagers, and I get to spend the night with my nieces and do crafty things. This particular date night was the anniversary of Martie and Coach’s wedding so I came for the whole weekend, giving them two nights to be randy teenagers and they came back utterly exhausted. Aging is a bitch.

Anyway, I had big plans for the girls that weekend, some of which included a crafty thing (which I will feature on Martie’s blog, A Hair In My Biscuit) and some of which included a walk in the woods with a picnic. See, Martie and Coach, et al., recently moved into Madre’s house, Madre moved into the guest cabin behind the house, and now Martie and Coach, et al., have all this land on which to traipse and explore. I want those children to be fearless when it comes to that exploring so I figured we’d take Madre, who knows every blade of grass out there like the back of her hand, and go see it all for ourselves.

Treacherous Creek Crossing

We packed up a healthy lunch, threw our hair into pigtails and set off into the woods. As we were leaving I said, “This is perfect weather. Sunny but not hot, and too early in the year for ticks and mosquitos.”

Madre and Tigger

After a bit of walking, we realized that carrying a picnic lunch and some blankets through the woods was a giant pain, so we settled into a clearing and set up camp. Lucy, Madre’s dog, sat diligently at the edge of the blanket waiting for any kind of crumb to fall from our sandwiches, chips, or apples, and once it fell, would leap to attention and snap it up, usually along with some grass or weeds, so excited and diligent was she. After lunch we left our paraphernalia and went exploring in earnest. We saw rabbit warrens and snake holes. We crossed over trees that had fallen and drug branches out of our way. We opted to cross the creek twice and had to throw big rocks into the water all the way across so that our feet wouldn’t get wet. We got tangled in a bit of barbed wire and saw the dumping grounds for someone’s trash which just ticked me off. Throw your stupid faded, busted up Big Wheel into the dump instead of our forest, please.

Young, spry children off in the distance

We are so cute

After a few miles of exploring, we walked back to our camp, occasionally swinging on a vine for the fun of it, or hanging like a monkey from an overturned tree. (Incidentally, did you know that women really have to work on upper body strength? I’m far weaker than I imagined, or far heavier, especially in light of all those free weights I do at the gym. Yeesh. My imagined leaping onto the tree trunks and swinging myself all around was actually more like tentatively grasping the trunk with both hands, lifting my feet from the ground, and dangling there like a spent worm for the 1.2 seconds I could hold my body weight.) We picked up our blankets and picnic baskets and headed home to shower and prepare for crafting.

Lucy’s rear

Upon arriving home, I began to notice an itching sensation in my navel region. I’d scratch, comb Pooh’s wet hair, scratch, get Tigger a towel, scratch. Etc. When I finally looked at what itched – y’all. Oh My God. Y’all! There was a tick on me! A tick! Oh, you should have heard the screeching. I was on that phone, banging out Madre’s number, bellowing, “Madre, get down here RIGHT NOW! Bring the tweezers, OH MY GOD, there is a tick on me! Hurry! HURRY! This is an EMERGENCY!”

Pooh and Tigger calmly watched from the kitchen table. “Can I see?” asked Tigger, and I showed her, groaning and moaning the whole time. This was a devastation.

“It’s just a tick,” said Pooh, and I looked at her with my eyes bugging all the way out of my head. Just a tick? No. I can handle snakes. Just step over them. Keep your distance from the poisonous ones. Throw a tarantula on me? No big deal. Just shove it off. Kill the brown spiders and the black ones but not the hairy ones. Rabid dog? Kick him in the throat. No biggie. But let a tick attached itself to me? The End Of The World.

Madre came down from her cabin and rescued me, and then again a second time when I found another. Doesn’t that sound calm? It wasn’t, I assure you. I reasoned with God, “No more, please! Pooh and Tigger are resilient little things. They can handle this with their hearty children’s bodies. It is too early in the year for ticks, GOD! Madre is 71, yes, but she’s not ailing in any way. She is not frail. Give her the ticks. She can take it! Just, please, no more for me!” And Madre listened to all that nonsense as she swabbed me down with alcohol and snatched the tiny, baby seed tick right out of my skin. What an ordeal. I still have not recovered.

Let this be a lesson to you, people. Don’t ever let me take your kids into the woods with my grand notions of instilling fearlessness. Hell naw. Or do. Because nothing is more ridiculous than a 42-year-old throwing a baby fit over two ticks. Even kids can see that.

My stomach still itches, though. Really bad.

Pooh and Tigger – brave, fearless girls

I Know You Want To See Me Naked, But Why?

27 Aug 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Philanthropy Tags: ALS Challenge, Humor, Philanthropy

When I was in high school, I was asked repeatedly by all the boys “to please, pretty please, I’m begging you, please enter a wet t-shirt contest and let me be a judge.” I was breastacularly blessed, remember.

Then when I was in college I got myself and all my friends free admission into an all-male review by promising to enter the wet t-shirt contest they were holding before the show. Not only was our admission fee waived, but we all got free t-shirts. Somehow the one they gave me was a size too small. I’m sure that was an honest mistake on their part.

A few years later I had breast reduction surgery which took my hoots down from “don’t lie on your back for any length of time or you’ll expire from suffocation” to “still larger than normal but no longer a freak show.” I’ve been thrilled with that change ever since as I like air and not having a hunchback.

Now that I have reached the age of 42 and gravity has begun its work and my hoots are of a size that allow me to breathe regularly, we’ve cycled back to the “please post a video of yourself in public in a wet t-shirt, I’m begging you.” I don’t know why everyone wants to see that but it seems they do. Sort of.

I was nominated for the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. And like I’ve done every single, solitary time I’ve been asked (I lied to those people at the all-male review – I never entered the contest), I’m denying you your wet t-shirt.

I’ll give you instead $100 spread over five charities that can really use the money.

ALS – because they started the whole thing

Parkinson’s – Robin Williams, I’d take every laugh you ever gave me and give them all back to you if it would have made you happy inside

Ovarian Cancer Research Fund – for Erica, a woman I never met but one I called friend

MS Society – because my ex-Roomie who is also my still-Cousin is pedaling his ass off for this

San Diego Children’s Heart Institute – for Emily, Woney’s daughter, who died at age eight

I won’t challenge anyone for the ALS Ice Bucket but only because I want to challenge you for other things. Find something you are passionate about and give your time and money there. No matter what your story, you are better off than someone else. Prove it. Go give a donation. Go make someone’s day.

Naw

24 Jul 2014 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health Tags: Humor, Juicing

Did I ever tell y’all about Boss’s eating habits? Probably not, because the man barely ate unless I reminded him. He was good for breakfast, only ate lunch when someone put it on a plate in front of him, and had dinner on the rare occasions that we traveled together and I put my foot down. Once he flew out to Texas to pick up a guy for an interview. The two of them were flying across the country so that the interviewee could meet the big dogs in each of our offices. It didn’t occur to me to remind either of them about getting some lunch and/or dinner and by the time they got to Nashville, the poor guy had gaunt cheeks and a hangdog look. He said to me, “Jimmie, I finally learned to grab a hamburger in the airport and I’d eat it behind a pole in about four bites. I thought it was some kind of test or something and that eating was forbidden.” Boss calmly worked on his laptop while this poor guy nearly choked just trying to get a meal down.

Also, I once saw Boss throw a chocolate cupcake away. He took a couple of bites and then was done with it so he threw it in the trash. We didn’t speak for a week.

Representation of the cupcake Boss threw away

I moved on from working with Boss to working with MJ-Love, and I have to tell you, she wasn’t much better. Being female, she did find some enjoyment in chocolate but her lunch usually consisted of peanut butter crackers or possibly a single taco if we all went out as a group. I don’t get these people.

Representation of a single taco

I now have a new boss. She’s just about the nicest person I’ve ever met (next to all the other nice people already on my list) and to my knowledge, she eats regularly. I heard a rumor that she once participated in an office eating contest featuring Krystal burgers. I don’t dare ask how many she ate because if she says, “Two, and I was stuffed!” I’ll have to quit on the spot.

What gives me hope about her is that I’ll often send a catering menu and ask for her selection to which she responds, “I have GOT to stop obsessing over this menu. Everything looks so good!” She also accepts my offer of sugar free grape minty gum and ate an entire bar of chocolate I got her for her birthday. Despite her whippet-thin figure, I think she eats and likes it.

Picure of an actual whippet

I mean, until this happened.

One day last week, New Boss came to my desk and plaintively asked, “Would you do me a favor? You don’t have to, please say no if you wish, I really mean that, but I feel as if I have no blood in my body and there’s a juice bar down the street? Would you get me a super greens with ginger and then buy something for yourself, my treat?” As if I wouldn’t take the opportunity to scamper to that juice bar asap, hello. I assured her that I would gladly head over there, to never worry about asking me for that sort of thing as my job is to make her life easier, and off I went.

I’d never been to a juice bar before and y’all, what a wonder that was! The whole place smelled like herbs but not the spicy kind. It was more like grass and cilantro, very fresh and if I may, wholesome. I ogled the juices already zizzed up into cups. Pretty beet reds and bright orange and green. There were plastic shot glasses filled with all kinds of emerald liquids, and the salads were the most gorgeous creations I’d ever seen. I could feel the cholesterol just pouring out of my veins as I stood there and inhaled.

I ordered New Boss’s juice and the asked for a recommendation for a shot of something. I may find the juice bar visually appealing but no way was I going to waste any money on something that might taste like slimy grass. The juice specialists recommended a shot of wheat grass juice for energy and whizzed it right up for me in their juicer. They capped it, I paid and they sent me off on my merry way.

New Boss loved her juice. She said the ginger flavor was strong and that nothing was sweet which was exactly what she wanted. She’s been peppy since then so I’m assuming the super greens jolted the blood back into her body and she’s going to live.

Juice for New Boss

I thought that since she had such success with her juice, I would try mine. I couldn’t tell if there was any kind of stirring needed before indulging so I kind of swirled the liquid around with my finger and was horrified to discover that upon removing, my fingertip was completely green. Green, I say. Like Elphaba green.

Shot o’ wheat grass

“I like green,” I thought to myself. “There’s not a green vegetable I don’t like,” I reassured myself. “One ounce will not kill me,” I reasoned. So I swilled it down.

Y’all. I can’t even. Have you ever eaten grass? Just picked up a handful and chewed it up and swallowed it? I think that’s what I did except in liquid form. Why?! Why did anyone ever decide that this was okay?! Who ever thought, “You know, I see that green grass over there and ima get me some of that, yum.” Oh, gak! It tasted just like liquid grass with some sugar thrown in it. In case I’ve not been clear, it was gross.

Some grass

I teetered right on the edge of wanting to barf and feeling energized for a good portion of the day. I couldn’t tell if the queasiness in my stomach was from the juice itself or the thought of the wheat grass. I ate some rice for lunch which helped things tremendously but I was still reeling a bit from the juice shot. It wasn’t until much later in the afternoon that I found myself fairly zipping around the office, moving files and swinging boxes around and cleaning up tables, just relishing in the amount of work I could cram in to one day, and I thought to myself, “Liquid diet – not that bad. New Boss is super smart.”

Later that night, I met Dammit Todd and Hulk for drinks. I had a different form of juice, in the vein of tequila, and after being hit on by every man 15 years my senior, or every man who poses that smoking two/three packs a day is reasonable, none of which offered to buy me dinner, I decided that maybe liquid diets aren’t for me. Questioning whether or not I want to barf from either a) ingesting slimy grass or b) the poor choices of men is not the way I want to spend a Friday, no matter how energized I feel.

Picture of an actual tequila shot

New Boss can keep her wheat grass juice and the rest of y’all can keep your tequila. Solid foods for me, all the way.

Tuesday, 6:00 A.M.

08 May 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus, Outings Tags: Aging, Ballroom Dancing, Humor

“Yes, ma’am, that happened because you are older than 25,” my new dermatologist said as I pointed out a skin flaw I have recently developed.

I groaned and pointed to another. “Mmm hmm, that one is because you are older than 25, too.” One more. “Yep, over 25.”

I pointed out a final weird skin thing, and looked up hopefully, waiting for her to finally tell me that one of my skin oddities could be easily fixed with an application of lemon juice and tooth paste. “That one, yeah, that one is because you are over 40. Yes, honey. Sunscreen. Go get it. Next time you come in here you better be lathered up in it.”

You want to feel old? Go to the dermatologist. When she lets you look at some exuberantly brown freckle through her magnifying glass, you’ll feel old as dirt. Your skin looks like crepe up close. Did you know that? And then to add insult to injury, she’ll ask you for $80 for her assessment (that’s the discounted rate) and have you schedule the first of many appointments just to get some work done on the damage aging has caused. It was a slow realization for me, that she meant it when she said “daily all-over sunscreen, even in the rain,” only because I’m loathe to wear it all the time. Not only does it make me permanently flushed of cheek, but I’ll be an oil slick, too. Yee-haw. Why am I still single, I wonder?

So that was a great way to start a Tuesday. Really made me feel good about myself.

On the opposite end of the coin, last week I ended a Thursday in a way I never expected. I’d have told you that there was enough alcohol in the world to make me to do it, but that the amount of alcohol would knock me on my duff, out cold on the sidewalk in the dirty part of town before I ever reached the point of wanting to try this activity. Yet there I was, in a dance studio, taking a ballroom dancing lesson. I know! Me! The girl with no rhythm, the one people have made fun of as I danced, that pasty white girl! I was learning how to dance!

In all fairness, I should tell you that the dances I learned involved four steps: forward, back, side, side. No wiggling. No sashaying. No hip shakes of any sort, although when I watched the instructors dancing I realized that they looked less mechanical than I and somehow far, far sexier. But four steps! How can I mess that up?

I’ll tell you how. First, when the instructor, whom I shall call Antonio, says, “Ready, 5 – 6 – 7 – 8, now back – back – side – together, back – back – side – together,” you’ll want to whisper to yourself, “Ready, 4 – 5 – 6 – wait, I mean 8, back – back – side – back – no wait, together, no wait – I lost it, now back – back – side – together, yay I’m doing it, back – oh crap, I lost it.” That’s how.

And then when Antonio says, “Let’s change the tempo. Now we are going to s l o w – s l o w – quickquick,” you are going to silently count it out and forget that right after quickquick comes s l o w – s l o w and drag Antonio along with you in the wrong speed because you are bossy and don’t know how to follow.

After 45 minutes of practicing your follow and your counting (I’m not kidding, I’m bossy – it’s hard) and stepping, stepping, stepping, forward, back, side, together, you’ll start to get it. Antonio was very patient with me and rather bossy his own self and teaches this for a living so I’m certain I am not his worst pupil to date. Then after your group lesson when it becomes readily apparent that you are the newbie with zero skills, you’ll feel even better about things, especially as all the instructors remain bossy but don’t let you remain bossy and give you pointers at every step and count out every dance for you. Finally, when they have the dance party and every single instructor fights for your attention as a partner, you’ll stop caring how stupid you look and just enjoy the dance. That’s the whole point anyway, to enjoy it.

Let me tell you what I particularly loved about that lesson. I loved that Antonio held my hand every time we walked across the dance floor. He never took a hand or arm off of me. He made me feel special and that I could trust him. I think there is a dance lesson in there about following, about trusting your lead, but whatever it was, I loved it. I belonged. His time was my time and nothing could take that away. The other instructors who cut in every few seconds during the dance party also made me feel special. I know I was terrible at it, and I know that if any of them became a permanent instructor to me, they’d sigh at the amount of work they had to do, but the attention I got from them did not belie that at all. They held my hands and led me around and counted for me, even when I lost the count and even when I didn’t shake anything at all but simply did the White Man’s Shuffle.

I sat down with Antonio after my lesson to discuss pricing. Truthfully, I had attended the lesson to be nice as one of my lovely new co-workers got a free lesson by bringing a guest. She’s been dancing for years and it shows. It made me proud to watch her. But I had only expected to pass an evening and not love it like I did. However. Pricing. Turns out that ballroom dancing is for swanky people and since my salary is going to be invested in Neutrogena sunscreen from now until death, I can’t see my way into paying for lessons that may or may not yank that bossiness right out of me. I’m afraid that eliminating it altogether would prove to be an impossibility, but maybe some tempering of it would have been nice.

Still single. Wonder why.

My Word, I’m Boring

17 Feb 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom, Weight Loss Tags: Humor, Whole 30

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day! Did you have a good one? I did, and I wasn’t even celebrating it. The amount of loot I got was astonishing. Over the last couple of weeks everyone has been so dang nice to me. I told you about the chocolates and the lip goo. I told you about some of the phone calls. I didn’t tell you about the tote bag that somebody made for me, nor the cards I got, nor the lunch and dinner dates. Two people offered to watch Magic Mike with me and I’m here to tell you, I’m going to take both of them up on the offer. Rowr! If ever I was in any doubt, my heart squish has proven to me that I am loved. I’m planning on getting dumped every other month or so because I’ve never felt so special in all my life. Also, I won a book in a contest. I’m charmed, I tell you.

I’m still on my Whole 30 “Cleanse” and that’s what I wanted to tell you about today. In my head I planned to say that this here “cleanse” is going to be the death of me because hahahahahahaaaa, but that would be untruthful. I feel pretty good, honestly. I’m on day 12, so not quite halfway through, and I still like the food I’m eating. I’m still experimental with it, and I don’t yet hate broccoli so for a least another week or two, I’m alright.

The chocolates that I got as gift continue to sit on my table in their pretty box, and I’m not even tempted to open it. I barely think about them. Isn’t that amazing? It helps that I accidentally had some sugar one night, I think it was in a marinade, and the sugar headache nearly did me in. That right there was enough to keep me from wanting any sugar. Oh, can you imagine the barfs I would get if I ate a whole passel of sugar right now? Oh, hurk.

So I bypassed the Sugar Headache that was to be Phase One on this here “cleanse.” I didn’t want to Kill Anything, Phase Two. Phase Three hit me like a ton of bricks, though. That was the I Want A Nap Phase, and boy did I ever. Napping is usually something you’d like to shoot for in the middle of the afternoon but personally, I aimed to nap at about 5:00 a.m., just as the alarm was going off. I’d have gone to bed at 9:00 the night before, slept like a hibernating bear, and then 5:00 would roll around and I would use every ounce of effort I had to lift my arm from the under the duvet and tap my phone to set the snooze on my alarm. I did this multiple times every morning. The cats even stopped freaking out, it happened so often. If Daisy hadn’t texted me early I never would have gotten out of bed. Once at work I was fine. I think that phase has passed, thank goodness, and having skipped right over My Pants are Too Tight (something about a bloat as your gut heals itself?) and The Hardest Days (I didn’t find that to be true), I’m now ready for Phase Six – Boundless Energy. I hear its coming, and boy am I excited about it. This house needs a deep cleaning. There is dust everywhere. Once that energy train rides in, I’m all over it.

I’ve learned some valuable information during this here “cleanse.”

I don’t like butternut squash. What a pretentious vegetable yet it is so overwhelmingly unsatisfying. It tastes like squash. As much as we hype this mind-blowing super food, you’d think it would taste better than squash. Blergh.
I really don’t need sugar. I haven’t craved it yet. Nor have I craved carbs. The things I haven’t had I don’t miss. I don’t even think about them.
I suck at making sweet potato fries. So not worth the effort it takes to cut each sweet potato into evenly shaped French fry-like shapes. Nearly lost a finger in that debacle.
I have a serious emotional attachment to food. No, I’m not craving anything right now but a part of me is mourning the loss of the food I used to eat. I’m mourning the preparation of it and the anticipation of it. I’ve used food as an emotional meter for so long. I want it when I’m happy, sad, excited, hurt, motivated. I’ve used it to show love or gratitude. I’ve used it as a comfort or to ease a wound when I’m hurting. It isn’t normal.
Nashville is home to some very snooty grocery stores. I feel like this here “cleanse” requires me to be snooty in some of the choices I make, and I don’t like it. The minute I get haughty and start yapping about how “Whole Foods is really the only market worth my time and money,” and “I eat Paleo,” and “Really, that butter you ingest is soooo passé. Here, try my ghee* . . . .” y’all shoot me in the big toe. I’m serious. One trip to Whole Foods on a Saturday morning has cured me of any airs I might have had or ever hope to have about grocery shopping. Bunch of men wearing skinny jeans and organic garlic sold for $6.00 a bunch. Posers.
I’m not going to be able to eat this way for any extended period of time. I didn’t go into it thinking that I would. I really just wanted to get back to foods as natural as I could get them and also hoped to kick a few bad habits. Perhaps drop a few pounds before my next big vacation and not feel hideous in my super-cute swimmy clothes. I’m going to miss brown rice, though. I can feel that coming.
After this shindig is over, I will not eat another egg for at least one year. Do not offer me quiche. Do not offer me crème brulee. Do not offer me custard of any kind. If you try to serve me a frittata and disguise the egg under a bunch of cheese and/or tomatoes, I will barf on your shoes. That’s a promise right there.

I guess I’m telling you all this to tell you I’m still fighting over here. I’m still kicking and all is well. This here “cleanse” is the only item of note in my life right now, so this is what you get. Yee-haw! Let’s all pray for something exciting to happen to me, yes?

* Ghee is a super snooty, pretentious butter. It’s clarified within an inch of its life and it is ridiculously expensive. I better love the heck out of it because there is no way, no how any of that is going in the trash. I’d shoot my own self in the big toe before I do that.

I’m A Tough Cookie

10 Feb 2014 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Friends, Health, Weight Loss Tags: Humor

In my lifetime I’ve seen my mother cry only a handful of times. When you talk about a tough broad, you think of my mother. At least I do. In times like this, with the car and the boy and the new job where I’m still learning my way, I want to be like my mom. I want to take the bull by the horns and wrestle it down and stand on it and shout about how I did it. I’ve done a lot of fighting lately and I’ve got to say, I don’t like it, but I think I’d rather be the bull fighter than the delicate, simpering flower.

Right after the break up where I got my heart smashed four years ago, before I really began the healing process, I went home for a visit with my mom. Actually, what happened was she called me in the middle of one of my crying jags and as I gurgled to her about my horrid, horrid life, Madre realized I was Not Okay. She instructed me to come home immediately which I gratefully did and while I was there, we went shopping. During this shopping excursion we ran across a woman whose husband made deer stands. That woman wanted to talk to my mom about those deer stands and I wanted nothing to do with deer stands because the douchecanoe ex-boyfriend was an avid hunter and used those deer stands more than once. I kept yanking on Madre’s arm, trying to quietly explain to her that talking about deer stands made me Not Okay, that there was a panic rising inside me I could not control and that I needed to leave immediately. That woman kept droning on, and Madre kept saying, “Yes, okay, see you later,” and finally I’d had enough. To the surprise of everyone, including me, I screeched at the woman, “You need to shut your fat f@%*-ing mouth!” and sure enough she did, with an audible snap. Matter of fact, everyone in the Dollar General did, and my mother, her eyes as big as dinner plates, ushered me out of there so fast you’d have missed it if you blinked. That’s how bad that break up was.

This break up is not that bad. Sure, I was down for the count and there will be times where I still suffer from feelings of “All hope is lost and I’m a worthless cow”, but overall, this is not bad. It helps tremendously that everyone has been very supportive of me. My brother called. My friends bought me chocolates and lip gloss. Dammit Todd had lunch with me. One friend or another checks on me every day and several have offered to do bodily harm to Slim’s person. (I’m secretly tickled that people feel so strongly for me but I understand that those lovely gestures must be declined.) What I’m saying is, you are very sweet to worry about me, but I’m not going to be screeching obscenities to anyone at the Dollar General this go round. I’m alright. I’m tougher than I was four years ago.

You know what else is alright? My car. It only took every penny I had and a three and a half months for it to be alright but my car runs right all the time now, and I got a new BFF out of it. Kwame, of the Hyundai dealership, has walked me through every step of this repair process even though I really didn’t want him to, and in doing so has given me knowledge I never wanted. He called me every day that he had my car to tell me what they looked at and what didn’t work. After his first three minute monologue I said, “Kwame, I have no idea what you just said. I’ve been in my happy place for the last two minutes and 45 seconds. What I did hear is that you have no idea what is wrong with my car, correct?”

“Correct,” he said, and then launched off into another monologue about my car’s engine.

This went on for over a week. Every day. I finally resigned myself to the fact that Kwame was going to tell me everything he could about my car, and at the first ring from the dealership, I’d drape my elbow over the back of my chair, kick my feet out under my desk and lay there like a wet noodle until he got done with the lesson. I know more about actuators and starters and batteries and bolts and catalytic convertors than you do, I bet. Overall, though, this has not been that bad. Pee-tah let me use his car whilst he went on a luxury vacation and after that, one of my lovely new co-workers whom I shall call Serena lent me her spare car. Also, because Kwame and I are so close, he knocked a whole chunk off my bill when I asked questions about it. See, not bad?

I’ve got one more fight in me right now, and I’m hoping it goes the same way as the others. I’ve started a new eating program. For those of you in the know, it’s called Whole 30 and for those of you not in the know, I’ve cut out all processed foods, all dairy, all legumes, all grains and all sugar for 30 days. I figured that while everything still tastes like sawdust and while I’m still carrying injured feelings, I can do some good for myself with regards to what I eat. Plus, the jeans I bought after the last break up don’t fit quite right and since this is the only thing I can fully control, I’d like to get back in those jeans.

I’m on day five of this cleanse (that’s what I’m calling it – a cleanse, not a diet), and so far I’ve done well. If you can count the fact that I was victorious with myself after a 16-hour fight over whether or not White Castle would be consumed, that is. This is how bad my thinking is, you guys. Seriously? White Castle? That’s the arm pit of all food and that is where I focus my craving? I’m in bad shape. I have never wanted White Castle in my whole life and I internally war for 16 hours over it? Bad, I tell you.

There’s a timeline for this 30 days, and in it is the explanation of how I should feel during each phase. Currently I’m in the “I Want to Kill All Things” phase. Since I skated through the “Sugar Hangover” phase with relative ease, I’m hopeful that I don’t actively fantasize about mowing down anyone with my fully functioning vehicle. I haven’t wanted to yet and after the 16-Hour White Castle War, I feel like I can accomplish anything. (For the record, next up is the “I Want A Nap” phase and I’m here to tell you that that phase is one I’d be willing to embrace.)

I look at all this glorious mess in my life and I see myself becoming my mother. I see myself toughening up and taking all this on and winning, even if by the tiniest of margins. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not saying I enjoy it. I’m only saying that if I’m going to have to fight this hard for anything, a car, a boy, a badass pair of jeans, I damn well better win. My momma did. She won her fights. I know I can too.

Welcome To The Masses, Jimmie – Part Deux

23 Dec 2013 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Health, Uncategorized, Unemployed Tags: Humor, Job Searching

So want to guess what I’ve been doing the last month? I mean, aside from Christmas shopping and eating cookies, of course. Here, I’ll give you some choices:

Modeling underwear for Vicky’s Secret
Reading romance novels which feature on the cover men with long flowing locks and pecs like ropes of steel
Making out with Dwayne Johnson
Looking for a job

If you were a lucky recipient of my Christmas letter, you already know the answer to this. Ding, ding, ding, the answer is D!

My brand new shiny employment that I worked so hard to get last year is coming to an end. I’m not happy about it because the people I’ve met at my current job have quite literally changed my life and also, I finally got to sit in an office with a closing door and not a cube farm with no door and barely a wall. This loss was no fault of my own – our company was purchased by another company and that company already has a corporate department and so all of us corporate people will be without jobs soon. It sucks.

However. I have already secured other new shiny employment. There will be no crying, no long, dramatic posts about how I’m mad and how my glitter eyeliner was ruined and how Boss left me behind. I had one interview for which I slicked down my hair into a straight, boring, non-sexy bob and wore pearls and caked on acceptable makeup. I repeated that process for a second interview and that fabulous company realized my fabulousness and offered me a position right away. Evidently it was meant to be.

Now I want you to remember, it wasn’t that long ago that I was promoted to a recruiting position with my current company. Recruiting, I learned, consists of a lot of phone calls and internet searching and background screenings so it would be safe to assume that I am familiar with the entire prescreen process. And it wasn’t that long ago that I decided baking cookies on a Tuesday night was a great idea. Baking cookies on a Tuesday night, I learned, can often result in a devastating paper cut from the non-stick aluminum foil, so bad that it requires some super glue to close the skin so that I don’t bleed to death in my kitchen. These lessons are important. Bear with me.

Before I can begin my shiny new job, I had to pass a criminal background screen and get fingerprinted. I turned in all of my pertinent information to the appropriate parties and scheduled my appointment to get my fingerprints done, something that I regularly ask my potential candidates to do. Having never had it done personally, however, I was completely surprised to find that it is all done digitally now. Technologically advanced is what I am. Anyway, I showed up for my appointment with clean, super-glued hands and turned my fingertips over to the clerk. She printed my whole left hand and my whole right hand and then every finger individually on both hands. When she reached my paper cut finger, she seemed puzzled and kept smashing my finger over and over onto the scanner, which, you know, didn’t feel great.

Finally in exasperation she said, “Why does this look all white?! Why is my scanner not working?!”

I looked at her screen and with a sudden and sheepish awakening said, “Oh.”

She whipped around to glare at me and said, “What?” in a rather aggressive manner.

“Heh,” I wheezed. “Heh. See, I got a paper cut last night and so that I wouldn’t bleed to death in my kitchen, I had to super glue my skin together. Look, you can tell, right here.” And I showed her my massive, massive cut that was all covered in a gob of glue. She was void of a personality and was not amused.

Once the gob of glue was revealed, we both then made a concerted effort to really smash the very guts out of my finger onto that scanner in order to get a clear print and after some time and some pain, we did. And I passed. And I now have a new job which I will begin right after the first of the year.

Clearly the lesson we learned here has nothing to do with sexy vs. non-sexy hair nor does it have anything to do with pearls. The true lesson is that you never bake cookies on a Tuesday night before a fingerprinting session. Y’all remember that when you do any job searching. No cookies.

P.S. I will be taking a week off in between jobs to visit with some family and some friends. I’m going to Woney’s house, and again, if you were a lucky recipient of my Christmas letter, you would know that I got cheated out of a recent visit to her so I have to make up for lost time. I know I’ve been absent for a month so I wanted to update you all as to why. If any of you need to have lunch with me in that week, though, to catch up, give me a holler. I’m down for some lunch.

Update

22 Mar 2013 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health, Weight Loss

Poppa is home! I am so happy to be able to type that sentence. On Tuesday I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to and on Thursday they began the discharge process. Poppa wanted to give the teams of specialists at Vanderbilt a challenge, I think, because he tested all of them: heart, lung, head, gastro, ortho, circulation, janitorial, nutrition, laundry, medical supplies, etc. It was a scary time but God is good, and while Poppa is tired and sore and weak, he’s sleeping in his own bed now. All the nurses loved him, by the way. He is a charmer even if he looks and feels like death.

Brother Bear flew in for our hospital party last Friday and while he was here, I remembered why I hate his very guts. I’ve been working hard these last few weeks to get rid of the fat that likes to embrace my body in a giant bear hug. I’ve lost something like 13 pounds overall (the exact same weight Poppa lost in two weeks when he started feeling poorly), and it’s because I’m picky about the food I eat and because I go to the gym a lot. Brother Bear waltzed in off the plane with his lithe, thin whippet body and during the three days he visited, he ate the following:

Donuts
Poptarts
10 piece Chicken McNuggets
Some bready, cheesy, saucy, fat-filled sandwich from Au Bon Pain
Some floury, cheesy, saucy, fat-filled wrap from Au Bon Pain
A footlong Subway something or other
Mountain Dew
Chocolate
And this monstrosity

Do you know that that is? It’s a Monte Cristo which means it has the fat content of four sandwiches and that it has ham and turkey and lots of bread and two kinds cheese and then some more cheese and then some batter and then it is DEEP FRIED and then it has powdered sugar AND JAM. Are you kidding me? He ate it all. I had some grilled chicken and green beans and broccoli. And then I got bloated and he lost a pound.

Brother Bear, I don’t even want to talk to you right now.

Another update: Woney moved. Remember, she lived all the way across the country in CALlFORNIA while I live all way on the other side of the country in TENNESSEE and that makes gossiping with her face to face very difficult. However, Woney has now moved to MISSISSIPPI. Yes, I know. I don’t understand it either. The culture shock may kill her so we all need to think good thoughts for her as now she has to learn how to say “y’all” and “bless her heart” and also how to make tea with four cups of sugar per gallon. I really wanted to ask you guys to remember her in your prayers and whatnot before she left as she was driving across the country by herself but since she did it quicker than I was expecting, she’s already there. It won’t be long until she begins complaining of the heat and the humidity and I’ll feel compelled to buy her a box fan which I will totally do and then personally hand deliver it because now she is no longer a $400 plane ride away. Now I can go visit her on the weekends. Do you know how happy this makes me? Oh, we are going to get into so much trouble.

I have some other requests for you. Loads of my friends are in transition now, so while you are lifting up Poppa and Woney, I’d also like for you to remember Lynnette, Freddie, Kindle, Quan and a new-to-you friend I shall call Happy. And then throw Madre on the list because life with Poppa will be a bit different now. Madre will take that on as she does everything else: fiercely and with great vigor, but still, transition is hard.

As for me, I turned in my book proposal. Yay, me. I would be far more enthusiastic about that but my family and I just spent eight days being terrified and so it is enough for me to type all this up tonight. I really am proud and once I get my house in order and my laundry done, I’ll write with much more finesse and with many more exclamation points.

Thanks, all, who were supportive in any way. Prayers, good thoughts, hugs, phone calls, offers of assistance, emails. Thank you for all of it. I’m proud to call you mine.

These Hands

16 Mar 2013 8 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health Tags: Bittersweet

See these hands? I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “What in the world happened to that guy? Why do his hands look like that? What are you doing, showing us a picture like that?” Hang on with me here.

Those are Poppa’s hands. Yes, they are gnarled and they look beat all to hell. They look weak and sick and like they can’t do much, I know. I’m here to tell you that that isn’t true. Those hands have done amazing things over the course of his lifetime.

See this eagle? Poppa made that for me. Carved it with his own two hands.

See this knife? Poppa made it. He carved every single curve in that handle by hand.

See these gun stocks? Poppa made them. All of that shaping was done by hand, with a tool and some sandpaper.

Poppa’s hands have always looked like knots of inflammation and bone, and they curl inward more with every year that passes. They hurt him but mostly you never know it. Give him a glass with no handle and instead of asking for another that is easier for him to lift, he hooks his thumb and forefinger onto to lip instead. Give him some jeans that are too large and instead of fighting to run a belt through the loops, he attaches a pair of suspenders and hitches them over his shoulders. Give him a cheek and he will reach up to touch it, soft and gentle.

Poppa needs your prayers again. Please. My brother calls him the Man on the Mountain. It is accurate. Our Man on the Mountain is giving us another scare, and we truly are afraid. Please think of him. Wish him peace. We need that.

Love, Jimmie

13.1. Yeah, I Did It.

A Walk In The Woods

I Know You Want To See Me Naked, But Why?

Naw

Tuesday, 6:00 A.M.

My Word, I’m Boring

I’m A Tough Cookie

Welcome To The Masses, Jimmie – Part Deux

Update

These Hands

Jimmie

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