March 3, 2011
In less than 24 hours, I will finish teaching my last class before the March Break.
The March part is correct.
The Break part. . .that is open for interpretation.
We plan, at this moment depending on the weather, to travel to Montreal for a couple of days.
Sans enfants, chiens et chats.
The enfants all have to work.
Empire has re-instated the March Break toonie matinee, so my kidlets will be busy, busy, busy keeping the masses entertained.
The chiens et chats are, for the most part, not amenable to public consumption.
Especially consumption that requires an eight hour car drive in a car that resembles a life size dinky car.
Eight hours with Stephen, in the car, listening to the 70s on 7.
Pray for me.
A lot.
More importantly, pray for Stephen.
And if you see him on the side of the Jean Lesage Highway, please feel free to pick him up.
But don't let him near your satellite radio.
We'll only be away from Sunday to Wednesday, so it isn't as if we're leaving the kids and the critters alone for an extended period of time.
Cab fare to get back and forth to work and enough milk, granola bars, boneless, skinless chicken breast, baby carrots and french fries, and they won't even know we're gone.
Plus the unlimited texting at no extra charge provides some cushion.
The only sad part is that we're not leaving until Sunday, which means I won't have an opportunity during this visit to go to St. Sophie's Ukrainian Orthodox church.
But I will be going to Adonis: http://www.adonisproducts.com/pages/accueil_en.asp.
Let the shopping commence!
We'll stock up on jumbo sized containers of herb de provence and boxes of petit fours for the kids.
Perhaps a new purse or two or four. . .
A visit to the multi-storied HMV and Chapters.
The kids have placed their orders for egg bread.
Meaning we'll be the silver Ford Fiesta barrelling down the highway towards New Brunswick with a back seat full of egg bread.
Stephen has put his mother to task looking for tickets to a matinee performance of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra.
And most importantly, we'll get to spend some time with Stephen's parents and his Aunt Irene.
Plus, Stephen's mum will get to see me 50 pounds lighter than the last time she saw me.
The little things, remember.
Not that there won't be any work happening during this mini-vacation.
In fact, there will be a lot of work happening.
Marking, funding applications, data coding, book reading. . . .
All must happen during these few days away from teaching.
Hence the fuzziness regarding the definition of "break."
Because this week away from teaching will be the only teaching break I'll have until June.
Intersession begins at the beginning of May.
And I am teaching two courses: one in the morning, one in the afternoon.
Intro to Qualitative Methods and of course, Crime and Popular Film.
So I must enjoy this break while I can.
Because there won't be another one for a while.
Ultimately, this visit represents the challenge that Stephen and I face on a daily basis.
The fears and concerns regarding what is going on with our parents.
Only with mine it is a little bit easier, because they are close.
I can hop into the car, and in just a few minutes be with them and be able to assess how they are doing, see if there is anything I can do for them, or try and fix any problems they are having.
Provided the fixing is within my power.
And because my parents and my brother are close it is easy to take that closeness for granted.
Stephen's parents live a reasonable drive away.
Eight hours isn't anything we can't do in a day.
But it does require some planning.
We just can't get up and leave.
And as his parents get older, his father is 80 and his mother is in her late 70s, Stephen worries more and more about them.
Increasing number of medical appointments and procedures.
Mobility.
All the things that you worry about as your parents become older.
There have been times when Stephen gets upset because he isn't closer to his parents, and I can see mine essentially whenever I want.
I know he isn't angry with me.
Rather he is angry at not being closer to his parents.
I often feel helpless at these times.
A feeling I do not like.
And because we live in Canada, where winter reigns supreme 6 months out of the year, planning a trip from November to April can be challenging.
We wanted to go the week after Christmas.
Snowstorms.
The weather isn't perfect this coming week, but we are hoping as the weekend comes closer, we'll have a better sense of what the weather will be like while we're away.
Cause it isn't just the getting there, it's the getting back that we have to think about.
Because I don't know how long the kids could manage the dogs on their own.
Or more accurately, how willing they would be to look after the dogs on their own.
I could come home to the dogs chained up outside because the kids have had enough.
Or, perhaps, vice versa.
Now THAT would be interesting!
Title Lyric: Roadtrip by Wendy Bucklew
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I think that I am sassy. . .I know that I am. . . .
March 2, 2011
Something happened this morning.
I have no idea what.
But it was a sh** storm from the time I got into the car until I was standing in my intro crim class ready, finally, to give them their midterm.
Sitting down, with a few minutes to pull myself together, I am trying to figure out what I did to deserve such a crappy morning.
To begin, Em doesn't get into the car until 8.20.
I wanted to leave at 7.50. . .8.00 at the latest.
And I know I should have left her to fend for herself.
However, all that would have happened was she would have gone back into the house, donned her comfy clothes, collected Reilley and returned to the warmth and relaxation of her bed.
It seems to me that making her get into the car and taking her to school was a far better punishment.
The only person who was punished, however, was me.
When Em gives attitude and "sass" as she likes to call it, she does it well.
I asked her if she wanted to be picked up afterschool to be taken home, or, if she wanted to walk to my office.
She said she needed time to think about it.
She'd let me know later.
Consequently, Em is walking afterschool to my office whether she wants to or not.
Car drives are a privilege, not a right.
That's why there are school buses.
Em in backseat, I am getting ready to pull out of the driveway when the bully-from-up-the-street-who-doesn't-work-but-allows-his-wife-to-support-him-and-therefore-had-oodles-of-time-to-watch-what-the-neighbours-do decided he was going to police me to see if I drove out of our U-shaped court in the manner he has deemed appropriate.
I've had enough of his bullying.
And this was not the morning to push me.
But he did.
So I informed him that perhaps he should find something better to do with his time.
There will be more.
Today, if I have my way.
I just don't have any more time to deal with little men and their petty issues.
I will complete my mission.
Just to keep things on an even keel, this had to be the morning when the Tim Horton's drive through line up had spilled out onto Prospect Street, leaving a string of angry non-Tim Horton's drinking commuters in their wake.
Can't go over them.
Can't go under them.
Can't get around them because the traffic in the next lane, those commuters not stupid enough to find themselves trapped in the line of Timmie's addicts, were not willing to let anyone else in.
If there was ever a morning when I seriously contemplated getting out of the car in the middle of the road for a good, cathartic scream that would have lead to my inevitable arrest, this morning would have been it.
But I didn't.
I'll save that for another day.
At 9.00 am I had an exam to give.
One that I hadn't copied yet.
Nor collected the exam booklets.
And of course because I was in a hurry, and late, when we arrived at the parking lot next to our building, there were no parking spots to be had.
Because students had decided to park in the faculty lot.
Stephen, sensing my stress and perhaps feeling somewhat guilty for his part in making me stressed. . .
. . . because Stephen doesn't necessarily deal with sass and attitude in the same way I do. . .
offered to drop me off and locate an alternative parking spot, across the street, allowing me to dash into the building with my 25 pounds worth of stuff I carry with me on a daily basis, hop into the elevator, and get to the fourth floor, collect some exam booklets, make copies of the exam and arrive at my class on time.
Far too optimistic for this morning, I'm afraid.
The elevator was out of order.
In my winter boots, winter coat, carrying my 25 pounds worth of stuff, I begin my ascent to the fourth floor.
Arriving sweaty, I collect the things I need and head back downstairs to make the copies and then further downstairs, because of course my class is on the bottom floor, my office on the top floor.
It wasn't until everyone had their exam and was writing that I was able to take a couple of minutes and catch my breath.
Pull myself together.
And start sorting out sassy children.
I am crossing my fingers, eyes and anything else that can be crossed that the remainder of the day improves.
Bookclub tonight, so there is something to look forward to.
Provided no more catastrophic events occur between now and then.
Title Lyric: Sassy by Katerina Graham
Something happened this morning.
I have no idea what.
But it was a sh** storm from the time I got into the car until I was standing in my intro crim class ready, finally, to give them their midterm.
Sitting down, with a few minutes to pull myself together, I am trying to figure out what I did to deserve such a crappy morning.
To begin, Em doesn't get into the car until 8.20.
I wanted to leave at 7.50. . .8.00 at the latest.
And I know I should have left her to fend for herself.
However, all that would have happened was she would have gone back into the house, donned her comfy clothes, collected Reilley and returned to the warmth and relaxation of her bed.
It seems to me that making her get into the car and taking her to school was a far better punishment.
The only person who was punished, however, was me.
When Em gives attitude and "sass" as she likes to call it, she does it well.
I asked her if she wanted to be picked up afterschool to be taken home, or, if she wanted to walk to my office.
She said she needed time to think about it.
She'd let me know later.
Consequently, Em is walking afterschool to my office whether she wants to or not.
Car drives are a privilege, not a right.
That's why there are school buses.
Em in backseat, I am getting ready to pull out of the driveway when the bully-from-up-the-street-who-doesn't-work-but-allows-his-wife-to-support-him-and-therefore-had-oodles-of-time-to-watch-what-the-neighbours-do decided he was going to police me to see if I drove out of our U-shaped court in the manner he has deemed appropriate.
I've had enough of his bullying.
And this was not the morning to push me.
But he did.
So I informed him that perhaps he should find something better to do with his time.
There will be more.
Today, if I have my way.
I just don't have any more time to deal with little men and their petty issues.
I will complete my mission.
Just to keep things on an even keel, this had to be the morning when the Tim Horton's drive through line up had spilled out onto Prospect Street, leaving a string of angry non-Tim Horton's drinking commuters in their wake.
Can't go over them.
Can't go under them.
Can't get around them because the traffic in the next lane, those commuters not stupid enough to find themselves trapped in the line of Timmie's addicts, were not willing to let anyone else in.
If there was ever a morning when I seriously contemplated getting out of the car in the middle of the road for a good, cathartic scream that would have lead to my inevitable arrest, this morning would have been it.
But I didn't.
I'll save that for another day.
At 9.00 am I had an exam to give.
One that I hadn't copied yet.
Nor collected the exam booklets.
And of course because I was in a hurry, and late, when we arrived at the parking lot next to our building, there were no parking spots to be had.
Because students had decided to park in the faculty lot.
Stephen, sensing my stress and perhaps feeling somewhat guilty for his part in making me stressed. . .
. . . because Stephen doesn't necessarily deal with sass and attitude in the same way I do. . .
offered to drop me off and locate an alternative parking spot, across the street, allowing me to dash into the building with my 25 pounds worth of stuff I carry with me on a daily basis, hop into the elevator, and get to the fourth floor, collect some exam booklets, make copies of the exam and arrive at my class on time.
Far too optimistic for this morning, I'm afraid.
The elevator was out of order.
In my winter boots, winter coat, carrying my 25 pounds worth of stuff, I begin my ascent to the fourth floor.
Arriving sweaty, I collect the things I need and head back downstairs to make the copies and then further downstairs, because of course my class is on the bottom floor, my office on the top floor.
It wasn't until everyone had their exam and was writing that I was able to take a couple of minutes and catch my breath.
Pull myself together.
And start sorting out sassy children.
I am crossing my fingers, eyes and anything else that can be crossed that the remainder of the day improves.
Bookclub tonight, so there is something to look forward to.
Provided no more catastrophic events occur between now and then.
Title Lyric: Sassy by Katerina Graham
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Stuck in my car, nothing I can do. . .
March 1, 2011
What is it about men, machines and snowstorms?
How come the most logical and easiest understood principles of common sense elude men when blizzards bring monumental snowfall, fiercely howling winds, outside is fit for neither man nor beast, and the snow plows operate on a schedule only the truly insane could comprehend?
I ask this question every time there is a snowstorm. . .
. . .when, yet again, Stephen's testosterone overrides his common sense.
We agreed, on our drive home yesterday during the storm, that once the car was parked it was going to stay parked.
Because a storm had begun and there wasn't anywhere we needed to go, so keeping the car parked in the driveway was the adult and responsible thing to do.
Adult and responsible are also overridden during snowstorms, or so it would seem.
And yet Stephen ventures out around 3.45 to retrieve Keith from the university.
No big deal, he says.
Gone and back in the same day, he says.
Rental car with NO SNOW TIRES, I remind him.
Foolish enough to think he had gotten his deep seeded desire to drive recklessly amid a blizzard, I went about my business.
Marking papers while Em prepared dinner. . .Greek fried chicken and stir fried veggies with wild rice for me and Stephen, mashed potatoes for her and Keith.
Had supper, did the dinner dishes, back to marking.
And then I found myself in Keith's room for some unexpected conversation.
While comfortably ensconced in Keith's room, rocking back and forth in his desk chair and talking about the state of the world, Stephen snuck out of the house like a thief in the night.
I come downstairs to watch Man v. Food with Em, look out the front door to see what's going on weather wise, and notice there's no car in the driveway.
I inquire of Em, "where's Stephen?"
"I don't know," she replies. "He's been gone awhile."
Ummmmmm.
Just as Em and I are getting into our hour of bonding over food neither one of us can eat, Stephen walks through the front door.
"I NEED HELP! Can you please come outside! The car is stuck at the corner."
Oh really?
How come the car is stuck?
Would it be because you took it out during a snowstorm?
When the car has no snow tires?
Could this perhaps be the reason for the situation you currently find yourself in?
In my pjs, I shove my feet into my boots, put on my scarf and coat, and begin my trek through the snow to the car, sitting resolutely in the middle of the road, lights blinking, strangers milling around it.
And in this middle of this madcap snow circus, my husband, the ringmaster.
The well meaning strangers divide themselves: one behind the wheel, one behind the car with Stephen and the pushing commences.
Until they reach our driveway, where Stephen thanks them for their efforts and assures them we can manage on our own.
Ummmmmmmm.
Em happily puts herself behind the wheel to steer while Stephen and I, in my zebra striped pjs, start pushing.
Em steers right into the snow drift at the end of the driveway.
Moving to the front of the car, lights glaring in our eyes, we push the car back out onto the street, and with as much patience as I can muster under the circumstances, I gently assist Em in turning the wheels away from the snow drift toward the middle of the driveway.
And resume my position behind the car.
Because the only way it's going to get into the driveway is if its pushed.
Ford Fiestas are low to the ground.
Just a little bit of snow can make getting said car into the driveway a challenge.
Finally, finally, we get the car far enough into the driveway to ensure that the plow won't pick up more than a little snow on it's way by.
But the sounds of stuck car in driveway permeated our little hamlet.
And provided much entertainment for our neighbours.
Hat passing should be a given in such situations.
We get back into the house and Stephen cheerily comments, "That wasn't so bad, was it."
I remove my clothes, turn toward him, look him in the eye, and make it crystal clear what I thought of his sneaking out of the house like an errant teenager up to no good.
Crystal clear.
I ask him how many more times he has to get stuck during a storm before the synapse fire enough to put up red flags when he is thinking of such asinine activities.
It was a rhetorical question.
So, what lead Stephen out into the middle of a snowstorm in a car so low to the ground he could propel it with his feet, Flintstone style if he so chose?
There was no medical emergency.
No one was bleeding profusely, or threatened with loss of limb.
Milk enough to last a couple of days was in the fridge.
We had ample pet food.
You know what lead Stephen to sneak out of the house?
Nothing.
Nothing that could not have waited until today.
A book.
There was, however, some good to come out of our evening's entertainment.
Our nextdoor neighbour plowed our driveway for us.
Out of pity.
Meaning I didn't have to rouse the troops at 6.00 am for another family shovel time.
And all I had to do while waiting for Em to get herself to the car this morning, was shovel the steps and walkway to the front door while in a dress.
After pushing a car while wearing zebra striped pjs, shoveling while wearing a dress was nothing.
Title Lyric: Stuck in my Car
What is it about men, machines and snowstorms?
How come the most logical and easiest understood principles of common sense elude men when blizzards bring monumental snowfall, fiercely howling winds, outside is fit for neither man nor beast, and the snow plows operate on a schedule only the truly insane could comprehend?
I ask this question every time there is a snowstorm. . .
. . .when, yet again, Stephen's testosterone overrides his common sense.
We agreed, on our drive home yesterday during the storm, that once the car was parked it was going to stay parked.
Because a storm had begun and there wasn't anywhere we needed to go, so keeping the car parked in the driveway was the adult and responsible thing to do.
Adult and responsible are also overridden during snowstorms, or so it would seem.
And yet Stephen ventures out around 3.45 to retrieve Keith from the university.
No big deal, he says.
Gone and back in the same day, he says.
Rental car with NO SNOW TIRES, I remind him.
Foolish enough to think he had gotten his deep seeded desire to drive recklessly amid a blizzard, I went about my business.
Marking papers while Em prepared dinner. . .Greek fried chicken and stir fried veggies with wild rice for me and Stephen, mashed potatoes for her and Keith.
Had supper, did the dinner dishes, back to marking.
And then I found myself in Keith's room for some unexpected conversation.
While comfortably ensconced in Keith's room, rocking back and forth in his desk chair and talking about the state of the world, Stephen snuck out of the house like a thief in the night.
I come downstairs to watch Man v. Food with Em, look out the front door to see what's going on weather wise, and notice there's no car in the driveway.
I inquire of Em, "where's Stephen?"
"I don't know," she replies. "He's been gone awhile."
Ummmmmm.
Just as Em and I are getting into our hour of bonding over food neither one of us can eat, Stephen walks through the front door.
"I NEED HELP! Can you please come outside! The car is stuck at the corner."
Oh really?
How come the car is stuck?
Would it be because you took it out during a snowstorm?
When the car has no snow tires?
Could this perhaps be the reason for the situation you currently find yourself in?
In my pjs, I shove my feet into my boots, put on my scarf and coat, and begin my trek through the snow to the car, sitting resolutely in the middle of the road, lights blinking, strangers milling around it.
And in this middle of this madcap snow circus, my husband, the ringmaster.
The well meaning strangers divide themselves: one behind the wheel, one behind the car with Stephen and the pushing commences.
Until they reach our driveway, where Stephen thanks them for their efforts and assures them we can manage on our own.
Ummmmmmmm.
Em happily puts herself behind the wheel to steer while Stephen and I, in my zebra striped pjs, start pushing.
Em steers right into the snow drift at the end of the driveway.
Moving to the front of the car, lights glaring in our eyes, we push the car back out onto the street, and with as much patience as I can muster under the circumstances, I gently assist Em in turning the wheels away from the snow drift toward the middle of the driveway.
And resume my position behind the car.
Because the only way it's going to get into the driveway is if its pushed.
Ford Fiestas are low to the ground.
Just a little bit of snow can make getting said car into the driveway a challenge.
Finally, finally, we get the car far enough into the driveway to ensure that the plow won't pick up more than a little snow on it's way by.
But the sounds of stuck car in driveway permeated our little hamlet.
And provided much entertainment for our neighbours.
Hat passing should be a given in such situations.
We get back into the house and Stephen cheerily comments, "That wasn't so bad, was it."
I remove my clothes, turn toward him, look him in the eye, and make it crystal clear what I thought of his sneaking out of the house like an errant teenager up to no good.
Crystal clear.
I ask him how many more times he has to get stuck during a storm before the synapse fire enough to put up red flags when he is thinking of such asinine activities.
It was a rhetorical question.
So, what lead Stephen out into the middle of a snowstorm in a car so low to the ground he could propel it with his feet, Flintstone style if he so chose?
There was no medical emergency.
No one was bleeding profusely, or threatened with loss of limb.
Milk enough to last a couple of days was in the fridge.
We had ample pet food.
You know what lead Stephen to sneak out of the house?
Nothing.
Nothing that could not have waited until today.
A book.
There was, however, some good to come out of our evening's entertainment.
Our nextdoor neighbour plowed our driveway for us.
Out of pity.
Meaning I didn't have to rouse the troops at 6.00 am for another family shovel time.
And all I had to do while waiting for Em to get herself to the car this morning, was shovel the steps and walkway to the front door while in a dress.
After pushing a car while wearing zebra striped pjs, shoveling while wearing a dress was nothing.
Title Lyric: Stuck in my Car
Monday, February 28, 2011
And there is a dinner party right across the hall. . .
February 28, 2011
Officially the last day of February!
As my least favourite month, I am happy to see the end of February.
March isn't much better.
But at least it contains the March Break.
And it isn't February.
This Friday, 10.30 am, March Break officially begins.
Hallelujah!
I was very deviant yesterday afternoon.
Stephen and I ducked out of the real world for a momentary reprieve.
We saw the Oscar winning film, The King's Speech.
What an extraordinary film!
Funny, touching, heartwrenching. . .it had it all.
Colin Firth was phenomenal and certainly deserved the Best Actor award last evening.
One I was unable to stay up and see.
The only one I really wanted to see, too.
Geoffrey Rush should have won Actor in a Supporting Role.
Any other year, I would have been first in line cheering on Christian Bale.
I do love his work.
Equilibrium was a far better film than Minority Report.
But up against Geoffrey Rush, I can only have one allegiance.
Imagine my disappointment when the Academy passed over the man who, with Firth, make The King's Speech an absolutely brilliant film.
And Helena Bonham Carter was astounding.
And also should have won an Oscar.
So overall, I was somewhat disappointed.
I get that way when I think an injustice has occurred.
Friday's snowstorm of epic proportions provided a lot of snow.
Some reports our pre-weekend dumping at 50 cms.
It would appear Mother Nature is having a bit of a hissy fit about something, because she's decided that another school-closing-shutting-the-university-down-at-5.30-storm was necessary.
All it means is a little bit of down time in the house that will translate into a lot of family shoveling time tomorrow morning before we leave the house for school and work.
Oh. joy.
Saturday evening's dinner was lovely.
You just can't go wrong serving Ukrainian food.
In my humble opinion, anyway.
Borscht. Pampouska. . .a filled biscuit/dumpling. Ukrainian stew. Blini with ricotta cheese and peach jam.
Very, very good.
But not so good today when I had my weekly weigh in at Simply for Life.
I knew it wasn't going to be good. . .I could feel it all weekend.
Because before the Saturday dinner out was our second week of Stephen's Friday night pizza treat.
A medium Domino's Pizza with feta, provolone, green olives, mushrooms.
Very tasty.
But it stayed with me all weekend, leaving me feeling bloated and yucky.
I still feel bloated today.
Thus, I lost less than a pound this week. . .a direct result of my body's difficulty getting rid of the sodium from the pizza.
I promptly informed Stephen that Friday pizza-treat was out for me, unless we made it at home with low fat, low sodium ingredients.
I've worked too hard to lose this 50 pounds and I am NOT about to fall off the wagon because Stephen feels he needs a weekly treat to keep motivated.
I love him, but I love me, too, and clearly I am just not ready for take out pizza.
Now, a homemade pizza, with a pita for the crust, low sodium sauce, a little bit of low sodium cheese, veggies and chicken breast. . .that I am ready for.
Small steps.
Willpower.
Determination.
And ignoring my husband.
All needed for my continued success.
Title Lyric: Dinner Party by White Rabbits
Officially the last day of February!
As my least favourite month, I am happy to see the end of February.
March isn't much better.
But at least it contains the March Break.
And it isn't February.
This Friday, 10.30 am, March Break officially begins.
Hallelujah!
I was very deviant yesterday afternoon.
Stephen and I ducked out of the real world for a momentary reprieve.
We saw the Oscar winning film, The King's Speech.
What an extraordinary film!
Funny, touching, heartwrenching. . .it had it all.
Colin Firth was phenomenal and certainly deserved the Best Actor award last evening.
One I was unable to stay up and see.
The only one I really wanted to see, too.
Geoffrey Rush should have won Actor in a Supporting Role.
Any other year, I would have been first in line cheering on Christian Bale.
I do love his work.
Equilibrium was a far better film than Minority Report.
But up against Geoffrey Rush, I can only have one allegiance.
Imagine my disappointment when the Academy passed over the man who, with Firth, make The King's Speech an absolutely brilliant film.
And Helena Bonham Carter was astounding.
And also should have won an Oscar.
So overall, I was somewhat disappointed.
I get that way when I think an injustice has occurred.
Friday's snowstorm of epic proportions provided a lot of snow.
Some reports our pre-weekend dumping at 50 cms.
It would appear Mother Nature is having a bit of a hissy fit about something, because she's decided that another school-closing-shutting-the-university-down-at-5.30-storm was necessary.
All it means is a little bit of down time in the house that will translate into a lot of family shoveling time tomorrow morning before we leave the house for school and work.
Oh. joy.
Saturday evening's dinner was lovely.
You just can't go wrong serving Ukrainian food.
In my humble opinion, anyway.
Borscht. Pampouska. . .a filled biscuit/dumpling. Ukrainian stew. Blini with ricotta cheese and peach jam.
Very, very good.
But not so good today when I had my weekly weigh in at Simply for Life.
I knew it wasn't going to be good. . .I could feel it all weekend.
Because before the Saturday dinner out was our second week of Stephen's Friday night pizza treat.
A medium Domino's Pizza with feta, provolone, green olives, mushrooms.
Very tasty.
But it stayed with me all weekend, leaving me feeling bloated and yucky.
I still feel bloated today.
Thus, I lost less than a pound this week. . .a direct result of my body's difficulty getting rid of the sodium from the pizza.
I promptly informed Stephen that Friday pizza-treat was out for me, unless we made it at home with low fat, low sodium ingredients.
I've worked too hard to lose this 50 pounds and I am NOT about to fall off the wagon because Stephen feels he needs a weekly treat to keep motivated.
I love him, but I love me, too, and clearly I am just not ready for take out pizza.
Now, a homemade pizza, with a pita for the crust, low sodium sauce, a little bit of low sodium cheese, veggies and chicken breast. . .that I am ready for.
Small steps.
Willpower.
Determination.
And ignoring my husband.
All needed for my continued success.
Title Lyric: Dinner Party by White Rabbits
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