Let me eat "cake."

I still have nothing to say.  So here's more nothing.

It's my b-day month.  And in honor of my birth (and I guess my continued existence), I baked myself a gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, chocolate free (mostly) German Chocolate cake!  Kind of reediculous.  Kind of dense.  And kind of...I don't know, but it aged well -- the icing soaked into the cake, so after a few days it was all one dense mass of sweet sticky coconut and sugar with pecans.  Not bad, for a "cake" missing wheat, butter, and eggs!  And, really, the whole point was to create a vehicle for carrying the icing to the mouth.  So MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

The only downside to my sweet hypo-allergenic "cake," was that my vanishing act was slowed a bit by all the sugar.  I got a touch of "icing butt," or maybe "icing gut."  I even rocketed back up to 105 lbs for a day or two there.  But the giant, gooey, two-layered hockey puck is gone now, and I'm back in light and flabby form. 

Did I mention my light and flabby form required new bras?  Yes, I've lost so much fat, I mean weight, that I had to go look for new bras.  As any woman knows, this SUCKS ROCKS.  But after an hour or so in the Nordstrom's dressing room with the nicest-possible fluorescent lights, three-way mirrors, and continual interruptions from the sales lady ("How's that one working?"  I don't know, because I haven't had a chance to try on the last three frickin' bras you brought me.  Is it just me?  Am I slow?  Or is the sales lady expecting a bra-changing speed that no mortal woman who can't reach those adjusters on the back straps can deliver?), I found two bras.  One even got to come home with me (the other had to be ordered from their Cal. store, but hey, if it fits....).  These bra manufacturers seem to think we're all sporting a couple of cupcakes right in the center of our chests like sports car headlamps.  Or Madonna in the 90s (I think it was the 90s).  Personally, I've got some squidge that suishes out the sides in a way that even I don't want to see.  But Nordstrom Sales Lady and I worked it out and my squidge is now controlled by a lovely Natori contraption.  With an On Gossamer back up on its way.  And, of course, I let myself be talked into a couple pair of unjustifiably-expensive panties.  (I'm wearing them now, so that I can wring every penny's worth out of them.)

Muscles?  No thanks, I'm fine.  But I'm working on them.  Kathy/Sis/Doc and I Skyped yoga last night.  And I even did some strength training a couple of times this week.  (Watch out D.R. Ena -- I might be in shape by the time you get back from Spudsville, Idaho!   Oops, now I want a tater tot.)  Am still only drinking on Sunday nights.  Or birthday nights.  Or special nights, like Tuesdays.  Okay, just kidding.  Still pretty much only on Sunday, and that's because I found myself stressed and cranky from prepping for potluck, so that everyone, and I mean everyone, benefits from my alcohol-based attitude adjustment on Sunday nights. 

Hmmm.  Guess I had more nothing to say than I thought. 

Dear Diary:

I am boring myself.  Yes, all this infection, infestation, and cleaning B.S. is even boring to ME, and I'm living/writing it!  Not exactly la vida loca.  Since I've lost the 10 pounds of mid-life squidge, I have nothing amusing to write about!  I picked 10 pounds as my goal, because I thought it was reasonable/achievable.  I also didn't realize how much I really weighed -- a teeny bit of intentional ignorance going on.  But I've lost almost twice that now.  The New Digital put me at 103.2 this morning, so that's 19 pounds down from my original 122!  No more brown smoothies, no more walks with birds pooping on my head.  Just healthy (boring) eating and cleaning up dog disasters.  I'm hardly even drinking any more.  I can only post about the wonders of Vegan + meat and how I lost those 19 pounds, so many times.  And then even I'm sick of my own preaching.

So what now?  I'm thinking a new blog (which I can't start until 2012, so I can print out the 2011 blogs in one book): "So Far So Flabby: adding two pounds of mid-life muscle."  (Two WHOLE pounds -- I know, it's crazy.)  Now that I'm not carrying the extra squidge, I need to change my flaccid Old Lady arms and legs into something more acceptable.  Oh!  How about: "No longer placid about the flaccid!"  Yes?  No?  I see a blog about facial exercises.   I wonder what I did with those CDs?

Dream big.

The Sleeper Has Awakened.

O. M. G.  Now I'm quoting from Lord of the Rings.  But I don't know what else to say.  No, I'm not working out and getting fit.  Although that may happen eventually.  I imagine that at some point, I'll get down to a layer of house shit that is acceptable and feels like an improvement, so that I can, once again, focus on LIVING my life in my house.  Meanwhile, however, I am prowling the house one room, no, one cabinet/bookcase/closet at a time, cleaning out year and YEARS of "stuff" that I have been keeping.  And for some reason, I can look at this stuff now, and just think, "WTH?  Why was I keeping this?"  Now that I'm not sick and tired all the time, I seem to have more time and energy to just get this stuff done.  And I'm much more motivated than I have been for years.  The piles of "stuff" were just getting to me to the point where I was starting to feel like a hoarder, and I am determined to get it all cleaned up and put away and have room to spare for more junk.  That's the plan anyway.  Plus then everything will be easier to clean, so I'll have less dust, thus making my life and health betterer.  Bonus.

Last weekend I cleaned out half the kitchen and dining room cabinets.  This week, I am improving my office with new, grown-up storage (a secretary and a nice wooden lateral file cabinet).  After that, I'm going to refinish the vintage oak office furniture in a nice ebony finish, and, voila, new and improved office.  It's about frickin' time.  And did I mention I just bought new office and home phones?  That was long overdue as well.

Lest anyone get the impression that I'm going to be really clean and organized in short order, I'm looking at a serious pile of camping crappola taking up half my guest room.  And there's more in the car.  So that will need to be sorted and stored.  (I was hoping to camp again, but after Connor passed out on my last trip, the vet says he has pulmonary arterial hypertension, and shouldn't go to altitude.  So camping is out for the immediate future.  Dang it.  I had a birthday yoga retreat and literary fest planned for next week.  Canceled.   But maybe I can do something on a smaller scale at home.)  And don't get me started on the backyard -- I'd clean that all up, but first I have to sort through the shed and the art studio out back.  Both of them are a total mess, but I can't touch them until the weather cools off again, so we're looking at October, probably.  So I won't be done soon.

BUT, when I AM done, there will be scads of room to breathe and yoga, and strength train, and....

Well, Hell, now I'm wondering if I'm just cleaning/organizing to avoid working out.