So the Unislim Food Maximising diet may be one of the most complicated I have ever come across in my whole entire life. Don't get me wrong. I can certainly understand the practicalities of it and see how, in theory, it could work and will report back any successes and failures, but so far I am kinda baffled. I suspect I'll be spending the first week or so of this in a permanent state of confusion and hunger for fear of eating something I'm not supposed to. Or else there will be many moments of throwing the hands up in the air and just eating something that's handy. But I shall do my best to avoid such indiscretions.
Then again, at least there's exercise. The only thing that will ever keep me from turning into a full blown fattie again. Marathon training has (sort of) started. 3 miles tonight along with my long overdue return to boxing. Although the running has yet to fill me with enthusiasm, I'm quite looking forward to some punch-bag time. There are one or two faces I could easily picture while throwing some sissy punches. Fingers crossed, both Unislim and exercise will get me back on some sort of a path to svelteness. Final straw came on Saturday when I ripped my jeans trying to yank them up over a roll of fat. How depressing. Especially considering they are relatively new and how much I love them.
I wonder are my sewing skills on a par with my weight gaining abilities?
Tuesday 7 June 2011
Wednesday 1 June 2011
The sad case of Wheelie-Case
So I'm at the point where I'm beginning to doubt whether I'll ever see my little case again. Ten days on and the "search" continues, though I'm ultra cynical about the fervour of said search by the good folks at Aer Lingus and have no faith whatsoever in the useless shower at Gatwick airport who failed to get the case onto the plane in the first place.
For those of you who are unaware of my predicament, about ten days ago, on returning from the "hen to beat all hens" (broken ankles, hospital visits and the like) I boarded flight EI233 from Gatwick to Dublin, little wheelie case in hand and proceeded to search for a suitable spot in the overhead bins in which to store it. Space in aforementioned bins was unfortunately at a premium that day, so Air Hostess Man suggested I hand wheelie case over to him, where he would ensure it would be placed in the hold, safe and sound, for retrieval at the baggage carousel in Dublin. I duly handed wheelie case over and haven't seen the damn thing since. Grrr.
At this point I have spoken to pretty much every baggage handler that works for Aer Lingus, twice. My cause has been elevated to higher powers (David the duty manager) but with no discernible results. I have filled out a 7 page long document listing the contents and value of everything wheelie case contained and have described these contents ad nauseum to anybody in Dublin Airport who will pick up the phone. Makeup, Camera, Book, Toiletries, Shoes, a whole host of 80s dress up gear, my new denim jacket etc etc...
What makes matters worse is that the photos contained on lost camera are quite simply irreplaceable. Not only did I document pretty much every minute of the Hen festivities. I have also chronicled, in both photo and video format, poor Orna's night. From ankle break to (what turned out to be) premature release from hospital. I have it all. And let me tell you, it's bloody hilarious.
So I am sad. I am wheelie caseless and wheelie case contentsless. Apparently I'm too nice and had I spent the past week shouting and cursing relentlessly down the phone I would have been reunited with wheelie case by now. But this is not the (ahem) "case" and the wait continues.
Boo hiss to Aer Lingus and Gatwick Airport. You suck balls.
For those of you who are unaware of my predicament, about ten days ago, on returning from the "hen to beat all hens" (broken ankles, hospital visits and the like) I boarded flight EI233 from Gatwick to Dublin, little wheelie case in hand and proceeded to search for a suitable spot in the overhead bins in which to store it. Space in aforementioned bins was unfortunately at a premium that day, so Air Hostess Man suggested I hand wheelie case over to him, where he would ensure it would be placed in the hold, safe and sound, for retrieval at the baggage carousel in Dublin. I duly handed wheelie case over and haven't seen the damn thing since. Grrr.
At this point I have spoken to pretty much every baggage handler that works for Aer Lingus, twice. My cause has been elevated to higher powers (David the duty manager) but with no discernible results. I have filled out a 7 page long document listing the contents and value of everything wheelie case contained and have described these contents ad nauseum to anybody in Dublin Airport who will pick up the phone. Makeup, Camera, Book, Toiletries, Shoes, a whole host of 80s dress up gear, my new denim jacket etc etc...
What makes matters worse is that the photos contained on lost camera are quite simply irreplaceable. Not only did I document pretty much every minute of the Hen festivities. I have also chronicled, in both photo and video format, poor Orna's night. From ankle break to (what turned out to be) premature release from hospital. I have it all. And let me tell you, it's bloody hilarious.
So I am sad. I am wheelie caseless and wheelie case contentsless. Apparently I'm too nice and had I spent the past week shouting and cursing relentlessly down the phone I would have been reunited with wheelie case by now. But this is not the (ahem) "case" and the wait continues.
Boo hiss to Aer Lingus and Gatwick Airport. You suck balls.
Sunday 29 May 2011
Dating - could I be arsed?
I wonder should we get fussier about who we date as we get older or simply throw caution to the wind and grant a meetup to anyone who has the conviction to go ahead and ask for our number?
This afternoon fell into column B for me. Knowing I wasn't attracted to my date, I had nevertheless given him my number last week because, well, he asked for it. I then very quickly found myself in a situation where I had a date pending that for most of the week, I was less than enthused about and after waking up with a hangover this morning, these mediocre enthusiasm levels had dropped to record lows. In fairness to my date, he was perfectly nice and normal and we had a fine time. Decent chats and the like and no awkwardness. But 2 hours of my life was enough and home I went after lunch.
So the afternoon went pretty much as I expected it to. No great surprises. No thunderbolt moment where I felt that my initial opinion of the guy was way off and that actually, he could be the love of my life. And at this point, after 33 years on this planet and lets face it, all 33 of them spent sussing out men, my initial evaluation of them tends not to change very much. Give me less than half an hour with a guy and I will have formed an opinion that, rightly or wrongly, 99% of the time is likely to stick.
So hence my question. Should I just put myself out there and go on all sorts of dates with randomers when my gut tells me that after an hour I'll be looking at my watch and fabricating an excuse to leave? Or should I just be a little more discerning in my quest for Mr. Right and not waste my time with a man that can't even stir a modicum of excitement in me at the prospect of meeting up?
Any experts out there care to share a thought or 2? Because I honestly just don't know the answer.
This afternoon fell into column B for me. Knowing I wasn't attracted to my date, I had nevertheless given him my number last week because, well, he asked for it. I then very quickly found myself in a situation where I had a date pending that for most of the week, I was less than enthused about and after waking up with a hangover this morning, these mediocre enthusiasm levels had dropped to record lows. In fairness to my date, he was perfectly nice and normal and we had a fine time. Decent chats and the like and no awkwardness. But 2 hours of my life was enough and home I went after lunch.
So the afternoon went pretty much as I expected it to. No great surprises. No thunderbolt moment where I felt that my initial opinion of the guy was way off and that actually, he could be the love of my life. And at this point, after 33 years on this planet and lets face it, all 33 of them spent sussing out men, my initial evaluation of them tends not to change very much. Give me less than half an hour with a guy and I will have formed an opinion that, rightly or wrongly, 99% of the time is likely to stick.
So hence my question. Should I just put myself out there and go on all sorts of dates with randomers when my gut tells me that after an hour I'll be looking at my watch and fabricating an excuse to leave? Or should I just be a little more discerning in my quest for Mr. Right and not waste my time with a man that can't even stir a modicum of excitement in me at the prospect of meeting up?
Any experts out there care to share a thought or 2? Because I honestly just don't know the answer.
Tuesday 10 May 2011
Marathons and Baked Delights
I feel like Mr Blobby. The assumption that I won't be able to eat a bite of food for at least a week after getting the teeth out on Friday better hold true, otherwise I'm in quite the lardy pickle.
I was in trouble from the start today. Breakfast had barely settled, then cut to me, sitting in my office staring down a box of Ferero Rocher. A slice of Lemon cake sat next to it, lovingly baked by Carolin and wrapped in tin foil. Also tin foiled was some banana bread from last week's baking endeavours and a slice of choccie cake that I brought in for Eric as he missed out on last night's food fest. Eric was AWOL and I was getting peckish. It could have all gone horribly wrong and it kinda did. Granted most of the bingeing happened when I got home and to the best of my knowledge there are still tin foil clad cakes in the office but no Fererro Rocher. It was unfortunately, one of those days. When you come home early and start watching YouTube videos instructing the viewer in the art of making Pulpo, Calamari and Tortilla de Patatas, followed by Jamie Oliver shaking a few pans containing Chorizo and other Spanish Delights, things can only go downhill. Or in my case, in the direction of the fridge. I'm so full of chocolate and cheese I may puke. The upside is that I'm ready for Spanish Night and all the cooking that it will entail. Olé!
At least by then I will have started Dublin Marathon preparation 2011! My program is typed up and ready for printing and sticking to the fridge. Am quite looking forward to ticking off the miles and getting stuck in to some proper training again. Lord knows I need it. May 23rd is D-day. I will be minus 3 wisdom teeth and (hopefully) will have made it through the 2 hens the month has on offer. Nothing for it then but to get running and think about fitting into some pretty dresses at all these upcoming weddings - and running the Marathon in October - but pretty dresses come first.
I was in trouble from the start today. Breakfast had barely settled, then cut to me, sitting in my office staring down a box of Ferero Rocher. A slice of Lemon cake sat next to it, lovingly baked by Carolin and wrapped in tin foil. Also tin foiled was some banana bread from last week's baking endeavours and a slice of choccie cake that I brought in for Eric as he missed out on last night's food fest. Eric was AWOL and I was getting peckish. It could have all gone horribly wrong and it kinda did. Granted most of the bingeing happened when I got home and to the best of my knowledge there are still tin foil clad cakes in the office but no Fererro Rocher. It was unfortunately, one of those days. When you come home early and start watching YouTube videos instructing the viewer in the art of making Pulpo, Calamari and Tortilla de Patatas, followed by Jamie Oliver shaking a few pans containing Chorizo and other Spanish Delights, things can only go downhill. Or in my case, in the direction of the fridge. I'm so full of chocolate and cheese I may puke. The upside is that I'm ready for Spanish Night and all the cooking that it will entail. Olé!
At least by then I will have started Dublin Marathon preparation 2011! My program is typed up and ready for printing and sticking to the fridge. Am quite looking forward to ticking off the miles and getting stuck in to some proper training again. Lord knows I need it. May 23rd is D-day. I will be minus 3 wisdom teeth and (hopefully) will have made it through the 2 hens the month has on offer. Nothing for it then but to get running and think about fitting into some pretty dresses at all these upcoming weddings - and running the Marathon in October - but pretty dresses come first.
Friday 6 May 2011
Stupid Wisdom
So, I'm just back from visiting the man charged with extracting my troublesome wisdom teeth. It's on for next week. Friday 7.30am. I don't mind revealing that I'm more than a little nervous, not least because I went in there expecting to discuss the two teeth that were coming out. But no, apparently I just have far too much wisdom and he's going in for a third. Yeiks!
The quite delightful oral surgeon enthusiastically explained, that although, to date, the tooth hadn't actually broken the gum and was therefore not yet causing me trouble, it surely would. So I would either be back in a year or two or he could do the whole job lot next week. I can categorically confirm that I won't be inflicting a second tooth surgery on myself in the not too distant future so with a sense of resignation I told him to just take the lot.
Then came the matter of my general health. "Good" enthused I, "though I woke up with a bit of a cold this morning", I added through blocked nose and sniffles. This seems to be a problem. So now I'm on penicillin from Tuesday so I'll be in tip top condition for the horrors of the surgery. If I have a sore throat, cough or temperature, it's not happening.
I believe however, that the lovely man is less concerned about the current state of my health than he is about the fact I plan to hop on a plane to London a week after the extraction and hen it up again - roller-disco style! This worries him - to the point that he suggested whipping the teeth out on Monday instead. But then he remembered the cold and we were once again back to Friday.
Oh the trials and tribulations. At least his lovely secretary told me I looked far younger than I am. One positive to take away from the morning.
God I'm shitting myself...
The quite delightful oral surgeon enthusiastically explained, that although, to date, the tooth hadn't actually broken the gum and was therefore not yet causing me trouble, it surely would. So I would either be back in a year or two or he could do the whole job lot next week. I can categorically confirm that I won't be inflicting a second tooth surgery on myself in the not too distant future so with a sense of resignation I told him to just take the lot.
Then came the matter of my general health. "Good" enthused I, "though I woke up with a bit of a cold this morning", I added through blocked nose and sniffles. This seems to be a problem. So now I'm on penicillin from Tuesday so I'll be in tip top condition for the horrors of the surgery. If I have a sore throat, cough or temperature, it's not happening.
I believe however, that the lovely man is less concerned about the current state of my health than he is about the fact I plan to hop on a plane to London a week after the extraction and hen it up again - roller-disco style! This worries him - to the point that he suggested whipping the teeth out on Monday instead. But then he remembered the cold and we were once again back to Friday.
Oh the trials and tribulations. At least his lovely secretary told me I looked far younger than I am. One positive to take away from the morning.
God I'm shitting myself...
Thursday 5 May 2011
Chubster Dating
So I've just been on Fatbook, logging the mountains of food I've eaten today and all the exercise I subsequently had to do to burn it all off and I saw an interesting question posted in the forum.
I have to say, that question made me a little sad. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to argue that in my more porky days I had much more confidence than the elephant man, I most certainly didn't. More often than not my confidence levels still verge on the shitty, but I can't imagine that I'd postpone dating because I wasn't yet thin enough. After all, the likelihood is that I may never be.
"Are any of you currently single & holding off on dating until you lose more weight? I am. Some of my friends & family keep encouraging me to go out on dates & I've had some offers from guys on online dating sites. But...I just haven't "dared" to yet because I'm just not feeling very attractive right now. I think I might continue holding off on dating until I lose at least a little more weight first. Anyone else in the same boat?"
I have to say, that question made me a little sad. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to argue that in my more porky days I had much more confidence than the elephant man, I most certainly didn't. More often than not my confidence levels still verge on the shitty, but I can't imagine that I'd postpone dating because I wasn't yet thin enough. After all, the likelihood is that I may never be.
It's like this, life is really bloody short. And the more I aimlessly wander through it with no sense of the future, the more I realise it. So why on earth would we want to be putting such a short life on hold just because we still have a few lbs to lose?
All I know is that if guys were going around asking me out I certainly wouldn't let a my wobbly bits put me off. It's hard enough to find someone without taking a little break from it all because we're feeling like a bit of a chubster. Besides, if I waited till I was 100% happy with "project Cathy" before going out and living my life, I'd find myself in a big box, being lowered into the ground wondering where it had all gone and what I missed out on.
Hens and Cakes and a bit of Bile...
I'm actually so tired I'm practically drooling on my laptop. Not sure this will make for a great post as I'd like to touch upon my weeks worth of news with some sense of coherence...
I'm already disturbed by two words I've just written - drooling and coherence. To rehash my weekend will certainly lead to further use of such words (insert "in" before coherence) and the disturbing fact that I have yet to wear my new blue dress out and come home with it not covered in puke. Shameful Cathy, truly shameful. Without going into too much detail, I can confirm that I love an auld hen. Seriously good times. The only problem arises when one realises that what had been threatening for a long long time finally hit. And hit with a vengeance. A full blown, toilet bowl hugging, bile retching, night long case of alcohol poisoning. God I thought I was actually going to die. At one particularly dark moment, when I thought I would never stop hurling, I genuinely contemplated calling an ambulance on myself. However, remembering my tendency towards the dramatic and knowing that there really wasn't much they could do to stem the bile tide I settled for hugging the toilet bowl some more and praying for an end, which thankfully eventually came. Now I'm simply left with the dilemma of whether or not the lessons learned preclude me from drinking this weekend or not. Surely a couple of coronas or a few glasses of red can't hurt?
On the upside, after the night spent emptying the contents of my stomach, I felt decidedly slim, a sensation I have not enjoyed since prior to my sojourn Spain. I'm still trying to get back into some sort of exercise/food routine. There seems to be an issue here however. The thing about exercise is this: It lulls you into a false sense of food security. So after a bit of a run and 20 minutes with Jillian Michaels it suddenly seems perfectly acceptable to eat the entire contents of one's fridge, reasoning that it's already been pre-exercised off the hips or belly or wherever it chooses to sit. I must constantly remind myself that this is not the case and reign myself in. Fatbook (My Fitness Pal) is supposed to help with this. And to a point it does. But then there's all the cake baking...
It's charity time in our house. Annual alzheimers cake sale/coffee morning is upon us and there is a finely tuned operation at work in the kitchen. Mum's got a crumble conveyor on the go and I'm getting busy with a banana bread, with which I plan to extort some cash out of my college peeps. I just pray it's up to scratch. I get very nervous when I bake for others, even though I know I'm perfectly well capable of throwing a few bananas and walnuts together. At least it seems to be rising so that's always a good start. Must now ensure that all this baking does not lead to a similar amount of eating. That would not be good at all.
Fingers crossed and Bon Appetit! Julia Child eat your heart out!
I'm already disturbed by two words I've just written - drooling and coherence. To rehash my weekend will certainly lead to further use of such words (insert "in" before coherence) and the disturbing fact that I have yet to wear my new blue dress out and come home with it not covered in puke. Shameful Cathy, truly shameful. Without going into too much detail, I can confirm that I love an auld hen. Seriously good times. The only problem arises when one realises that what had been threatening for a long long time finally hit. And hit with a vengeance. A full blown, toilet bowl hugging, bile retching, night long case of alcohol poisoning. God I thought I was actually going to die. At one particularly dark moment, when I thought I would never stop hurling, I genuinely contemplated calling an ambulance on myself. However, remembering my tendency towards the dramatic and knowing that there really wasn't much they could do to stem the bile tide I settled for hugging the toilet bowl some more and praying for an end, which thankfully eventually came. Now I'm simply left with the dilemma of whether or not the lessons learned preclude me from drinking this weekend or not. Surely a couple of coronas or a few glasses of red can't hurt?
On the upside, after the night spent emptying the contents of my stomach, I felt decidedly slim, a sensation I have not enjoyed since prior to my sojourn Spain. I'm still trying to get back into some sort of exercise/food routine. There seems to be an issue here however. The thing about exercise is this: It lulls you into a false sense of food security. So after a bit of a run and 20 minutes with Jillian Michaels it suddenly seems perfectly acceptable to eat the entire contents of one's fridge, reasoning that it's already been pre-exercised off the hips or belly or wherever it chooses to sit. I must constantly remind myself that this is not the case and reign myself in. Fatbook (My Fitness Pal) is supposed to help with this. And to a point it does. But then there's all the cake baking...
It's charity time in our house. Annual alzheimers cake sale/coffee morning is upon us and there is a finely tuned operation at work in the kitchen. Mum's got a crumble conveyor on the go and I'm getting busy with a banana bread, with which I plan to extort some cash out of my college peeps. I just pray it's up to scratch. I get very nervous when I bake for others, even though I know I'm perfectly well capable of throwing a few bananas and walnuts together. At least it seems to be rising so that's always a good start. Must now ensure that all this baking does not lead to a similar amount of eating. That would not be good at all.
Fingers crossed and Bon Appetit! Julia Child eat your heart out!
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