Water Logged: A cautionary tale

As part of an ongoing, uphill battle in the care and feeding of my lazy, pizza-loving bones, last week I made a serious commitment to drinking more water.  I bought a pitcher and a boat load of fruit, and started dressing up the tap with orange and grapefruit slices.  Because I am frequently guilty of acting first and thinking later, I decided to set a water goal of 3 pitchers full. 

Day One, I drank 3 pitchers full of water, and I did not feel great.  On the plus side, I also did not want any pizza.  Or anything else, for that matter. 

Day Two, I drank 2.5 pitchers full of water, and I did not feel great.  I also had a massive headache.

Day Three, I drank 2 pitchers full of water and then started wondering exactly how much water I was drinking.  There was no measurement information on the bottom of the pitcher, so I guesstimated that I was putting about 2.5 bottles of water into the pitcher, and I thought those bottles had about 12 ounces in them.  I decided 2 pitchers was probably the most I should drink.

Days Four and Five I drank about 2 pitchers, and ate Tylenol because my head was so hurty!

I skipped the pitcher over the weekend and just drank normally, and felt better.  Hmm.

So, today I actually measured.  My pitcher holds, including the fruit slices, 3.5 bottles of water, and those bottles of water hold 16.9 ounces each.  I’ve been filling this thing to the brim, meaning on Day One, I drank 177.5 ounces of water PLUS a few cups of coffee.  No wonder my head started feeling like a cement balloon.

The Mayo Clinic would like you to know that while the amount of water a person should drink varies, most women do well with 1.9 to 2.2 liters of fluid per day–water or other liquids.  More than that is overkill.

If you don’t count the coffee, on Day One I drank 5.25 liters of water.

Days 2–5, I drank somewhere between 3.5 and 4.375 liters of water.

Go big, or go home.

I think I’ll be dialing it back a few notches.  Like 2 notches.  1 pitcher of water a day is plenty enough.  I’d hate for you to have to wring out my sodden corpse after I collapse from Water Intoxication.  Although, it does explain the headaches.

4 Way Chicken

Start with your crock pot.  On the bottom, layer half a large onion and 2 minced cloves of garlic.  Cover those with salt, pepper, cilantro, and parsley, and whatever else you like.  Nestle 3 large chicken breasts (skin on, bone in) on top.  Layer the other half of the onion and about 1/2 lb of carrots on top.  Season again.  Turn it on high for an hour or two, then turn it down to low and go to bed.

Get up a little early and turn off your crock pot.  Remove the carrots and set aside to cool.  Remove the chicken and set aside to cool.  Pour the broth through a strainer to catch all the grody bits, and set broth aside to cool.  Go put on your makeup, fix your hair, and wake up your kid.  While he is looking for his socks (they are in the bottom drawer, where they are every day) dish your cooled carrots, chicken, and broth into separate containers and refrigerate.  Tell your child if he can’t find his socks, he can never play Wii again.  He will find them instantly.

Take the boy to school, go to work, go to the grocery store and pick up 2 squash, 2 zucchini, more onions, red grapes, pecan halves, chicken broth (15 oz or so), 2 cans of white kidney beans, 1 can of corn, 1 can of diced tomatoes, some light sour cream, and some Peeps for the boy’s Easter basket.  And a giant, stuffed duck that you thought was a chicken.  You will realize your mistake when you sit down to write a blog entry.

Go home, unload and put away groceries, and help the boy with his homework, do laundry.  Fold the boy’s clothes and put them away (remember that you left your own clothes in the dryer when you are partway through a blog entry. Curse having thought you were finished for the night.)  Accidentally rewash husband’s clean clothes because they are sitting on top of the washer and you are feeling helpful.  When your mother says, “You look tired,” do not snarl.  Send mother home with hugs and kisses (no snarling), then move living room, dining room, and patio furniture around to be able to drag old sofa to the curb (with aid of husband) to accommodate new, improved sofa which will be delivered tomorrow.  Discover that the time the boy barfed on the sofa Christmas day, the reason you thought the volume seemed light compared to the sounds he was making is because all of it had run down the side crack of the leather seat, to congeal in a disgusting disc on the carpet beneath is.  Run the sweeper.

Return to kitchen and wash hands, find cutting board and proceed to slicing a large onion.  Use the finger guard on the mandolin slicer so that you don’t slice through your thumb and bleed into the onion.  Or, ignore that advice, and find band-aids.  Utilize.  Return to slicing.

In a large stock pot, warm 1 Tbs of olive oil.  Toss in your diced onions and 2 cloves of minced garlic.  While that gets going, open all your cans.  This will be difficult to do while bleeding profusely, but you will manage.  Once onion is translucent, pour in your drained cans of beans (both cans) and corn, and your whole can of tomatoes.  Add your chicken broth and simmer.  Salt and pepper to taste, then dump in about 1Tbs of chili powder.  Accidentally.  Or serendipitously.  Depends on how spicy you like your chili.

Remove cold chicken, carrots and stock from the refrigerator and grab a grocery bag.  Debone a breast of chicken, tossing grody bits into bag.  Remove skin and any remotely inedible yarf and discard into bag.  Dice chicken and shred, then add to pot.  Bring to a boil.  Taste broth and season as needed.  Decide to toss in some cinnamon–about 1tsp.  Mmm!  This will yield you about 5, 2-cup containers of chili, worth about 6 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

While that is going–simmering about 20 minutes after the boil, add another stock pot to your stovetop and empty out the refrigerated chicken broth.  Use your mandolin slicer (properly this time, you learned) to slice the squash and zucchini directly into the pot.  Add the carrots, then prep another chicken breast, this time only dicing it.  Drop all that into the pot, add 2 chicken bouillon cubes, bring to a boil, then cover and simmer 15 minutes.  This will yield you about 4, 2-cup containers of soup, worth about 2 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

Finally, prep your last chicken breast and halve the meat.  Chop up about 1/2 a cup of red grapes, crush up about 1/4 cup of pecan halves, add 1TBS each of mayo, dijon mustard, and light sour cream, then stir half the chicken meat into that.  Season to taste.  Refrigerate and serve on top of greens as a salad, or in pita bread as a sandwich.  Yield is 2 large servings a 6 WWPPV each, or 4 small servings at around 3 points each–you could make it lower with low fat mayo, but that stuff is more disgusting than the 4 month old vomit you found under the sofa, so why bother?

With the last half of the meat, make chicken quesadillas with diced jalapenos, about 1/4 cup of cheese (your choice, I like Jack) each, and some Bacon Bits if you’re fancy.  Serve those for dinner.  Screw the WWPPV–you’ve worked them all off already.

Put boy to bed.  Put boy back to bed.  Put boy back to bed a final time.  Let dog out.  Let dog back in.  Wonder vaguely where husband got off to almost 2 hours prior.

Sit down and enjoy a bowl of soup.  Write a blog entry as a means of avoiding the dishes still needing to be done.

Get up.  Get your laundry.  Put it away.  Take a bath.  Go to bed, secure in the knowledge that at least you don’t have to cook tomorrow.

2011-11-19 21.59.40


Waisting Away Again

I just came from the scale, where I weighed in.  206.9.  That’s how much I weigh today.  My favorite jeans are a size 16.  My favorite work trousers are a size 14.  I wear a size L shirt, but prefer an XL because…I do.  I like baggy tops.  Why am I telling you this?  Because it’s not a secret.

I look like this.  Only, usually I am not wearing a apron.  Usually, I am the one taking the pictures, so I have precious few full-body shots of myself.
I look like this sitting down. Only, usually I am not wearing a apron. Usually, I am the one taking the pictures, so I have precious few full-body shots of myself.

Yes, it’s time for another one of those posts about size because I was made acutely aware of mine once again tonight.  I am one secure woman, so if I was made to feel unsure about myself, it’s time for a reminder that weight only determines size, not worth.

Just to get health issues out of the way: My most recent blood work (2012) shows that I am exceptionally healthy.  I am nowhere near diabetes, and my cholesterol was even decent.  I am well within all the proper ranges for my age group, and at my last work-required physical, which included a mini stress test, I surprised the nurse with my stamina and strong heart.

Actually, I surprised her with my weight.  I stepped on the scale and she gasped, and said, “Oh!  You don’t look like you weigh that much!”  Recently, I had someone tell me I might be attractive, except for all “this”, and that person waved a hand up and down my torso.  Say what–did I even ask?  Tonight, a woman checked me out–actually walked a circle around me–and sneered at my stomach.  I want people like that to understand that their actions don’t say anything about me–I’m already all out there.  I own a mirror.  I own a scale.  I know what size I wear and exactly how I look in my clothes.  They aren’t saying anything about me that you don’t see when I’m crossing the street.  They aren’t adding anything to the conversation, save to inform their characters.

This is what 206.9lbs looks like wearing a fitted, size 16 suit.  And save for the dorky pose, objectively I can say to you that it looks pretty darn good.
This is what 206.9lbs looks like wearing a fitted, size 16 suit. And save for the dorky pose, objectively, I can say to you that it looks pretty darn good.

I weigh what I do for several reasons, none of them genetic or medical:

  1. I love tacos.  And nachos.  And bacon sandwiches.  And Coca-Cola.  And chicken fried steak.  And I fully intend to eat food I like, along with fruits and vegetables, which I also love to eat.  Weight Watchers was great for a while, then it made me sad.  I would rather be fat than sad, and as long as Rosa’s is serving up their lard coated love, I will eat there.
  2. I have had a very sedentary job for the past year, meaning I put back on the 25lbs I dropped walking stairs on my lunch breaks.  (My new office has stairs and a lot of great places to walk, and an hour lunch.  I expect my weight will fluctuate accordingly.)
  3. I am not going to get up an hour earlier than I already do (I get up at 5:45 most mornings) to go jogging.  I’m just not.  And, I’m not going to go jogging in the dark.
  4. I am also not going to take one of the precious 3 hours I get each night with Thor, and spend it on a treadmill.  Vogue can suck it.  I only have him for short years before he is off to college.  I have the rest of my life to do sit ups.
  5. I am over 40, and it’s harder to lose weight now.  It used to be that I cut out Cokes and I’d lose 15lbs in 3 months–and that was all I needed to lose.  Now?  I cut out Cokes and I’m just thirsty.

I do not like weighing 206.9lbs.  I don’t.  That’s too much for me.  But I know that weight is a temporal thing, and subject to change, so I don’t get too fussed about it.  I work on myself in spurts.  While I am moving toward more activity (and am excited about that!), I don’t kick myself for my choices.

I don’t apologize for how I look.  I don’t need any outside validation.  I am awesome–just ask anyone who knows me.  Awesome.  And overweight.  And those two things have absolutely nothing to do with each other.


You Look Fat in That Body

I’ve written many, many posts about size and weight. I’ve written many, many posts about diets and fitness.  I’ve gone up and down between 3 sizes for the past four years, seemingly unable to break through the barrier to get down to the Lane Ideal.  Pfft.  Who am I kidding.  I lose interest in it and quit eating according to The Plan(s) and Fitnessing (when they say it is a lifestyle change, they mean it.)  If I stuck to it, I could do it.  I just don’t have the desire.  I know Kate Moss thinks nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she’s probably never had a Reuben from Schlotzky’s, Paneer Tikka Masala from Hot Breads, or Tacos al Carbon from Rosa’s either.  Those, my friends, those all taste better than a size 2 could ever make me feel.

Last night, I was at an event, standing with a group of people, wearing my new JLo dress with a smart shrug and fantastic jewelry, feeling pretty good if you discount the beads of sweat rolling down my spine in the Texas heat.  My hair was working.  My makeup was working.  I was feeling 100% pulled together.  As I was talking with several of my colleagues, a newcomer sharing in the conversation suddenly halted.  He put his hand on his chest and said, “From the first time I saw you [a month ago at another event], I thought you looked like that singer, Adele.”

I happen to think Adele is really beautiful, so I was opening my mouth to thank him so much, when he put both hands up, kind of moved them up and down indicating my torso and said, “But not because you’re… Uh… I mean to say… I hope that doesn’t offend you!  I don’t want to offend you!”

And then I was confused for a split second until I realized he meant he didn’t want to offend me by saying I reminded him of Adele because we are both blonde, blue-eyed and fat.

Adele at the Grammy’s in 2012. If you put me in those dresses, I would probably fill them out almost exactly as she does.

Of course I wasn’t offended at being compared to Adele, but the looks on the faces around me, and his hand flapping was a little embarrassing.  Was I supposed to have been offended?  Were my hips the elephant in the room?  I know what size I wear (my dress was a 14/16, by the way) and I know what my measurements are.  It isn’t surprising to me that no one confuses me for Katy Perry, who has the hottest body in music right now.

Katy Perry, who, when she is blonde, could be Adele’s conventionally hot sister. She has an amazing figure!

I am not ashamed of how I look.  I also don’t expect anyone to pretend I look like something I’m not.  The other day, I was asked whether I would attend a pool party if invited.  Well, sure!  I love pool parties.  But, the next question came, would you be willing to get into the pool?  Because some girls won’t wear swimsuits in public, you know.

That set me off laughing.  You can look at me in my day clothes and know I’m not going to peel off a fat suit down into a string bikini.  All I’m going to do is put on my old faithful Esther Williams suit and look like a slice of luscious cherry cheesecake, with some dimpled thighs for good measure.

Old faithful. My Esther Williams swimsuit. Photo taken a few years back–same size as I am today, though.

We put way too much weight on size.  Be who you are.  Be proud of who you are.  Don’t wait until you look a certain way to love how you look–or you never will.  Don’t wait until you look a certain way to be proud of yourself–or you never will be.

I’m pretty chuffed to be compared to Adele.  Now, if someone would just tell me my voice was as brilliant!



I wrote the 206 post on my phone, while I was waiting for Thor at the dentist’s office. I would have written more, but The Lion King came on, and no matter what I am doing, I have to stop and watch the monkey present Simba. Every. Time. Also, the opening number is just too catchy. Everyone in the waiting room should just be glad I didn’t start warbling along.

I walked in a show to Circle of Life. I was the gigantic bridal gown finale, and it was very, very difficult not to twirl my way down the catwalk to that song. That song was made for twirling. So was the Glinda the Good Witch dress I had on. (Modeling bridal wear is a great way to suss out what you’d like to have for your own wedding. Glinda was swiftly off the list. As was Compound Bride, Country Bride, Slutty Bride, and 80s Hairbride.)


So I weigh 206 lbs. Do I want to weigh 206 lbs? No! That’s one of the reasons I’ve been seeing all these doctors. Something isn’t working properly, or I’d weigh a lot less. I think I’m not digesting my food properly–I’m lacking some enzyme or other.

Am I ashamed of weighing 206 lbs? No! And there’s the thing. No one should be ashamed of what they weigh. You weigh what you weigh. If you like it, fab! It’s no one else’s business. If you don’t like, okay. Work on it. It’s still no one else’s business.

You can’t judge someone’s health by their size. You also can’t judge their personality, their intellect, their respectability, their humanity, or their potential. You may think that you can infer some things. You might think that you could infer that I dine on ho-hos and swill soda by the 2 liter. You would be wrong. You might think that you could infer that I am lazy and never get up off the sofa. You would be wrong.

I have been very, very thin. At my heaviest, my wedding (because I can’t be like anyone else and lose weight for the big day–oof), I weighed 220. I got up to 235 while I was pregnant. A couple of years ago, I worked my way down to 178, then I went to visit Irene and gained 8lbs eating Redneck Benedicts, and I crested at 211 two months ago. I’m working it back down again.

My ideal weight, my personal ideal is 165. The BMI suggests that my personal ideal is 140, on the high end. The BMI can suck it.

I’m just saying that whether I am 220, or 105, I’m still Lane. My flab doesn’t affect my Me-ness. My hips have nothing to do with who I am, other than how well they work to get me from one place to another. I am okay with Lane.

I hope you are okay with You.