Category: Life

O Brother, Where Art Thou? last night, and found that it was pretty damn funny. Those Coen brothers, it’s all or nothing with them. When they’re good, they’re very very good (Fargo, O Brother, Raising Arizona), but when they’re bad, they just suck (The Big Lebowski, Blood Simple). My favorite line from any movie ever would be Holly Hunter’s “I’ve said my piece and counted to three.” I’m going to use the hell out of that line, especially when Fred’s being difficult, as he so often is. “Vis-a-vis, my progeny!” cracked me up too. I awoke this morning with a gritty-feeling eye. That’s right, children, I have pinkeye ONCE AGAIN. But since I knew the doctor would be telling me not to wear contacts for a week, I did my 10-miler first. I went to the optometrist this time for a diagnosis and medicine, and I must say, he certainly took more time with me than the doctor at the clinic. He actually asked QUESTIONS and made NOTES. At the clinic, the doctor – once he hears “conjunctivitis” takes half a step in the door, peers across the room at my red eye and then runs and disinfects himself before writing the prescription. The optometrist actually shined the little light in my eye and made me look up, down, and all around. I finally had to jerk my head back ’cause my eye was starting to really ache from being open for so long. The diagnosis? Conjunctivitis. Who’d’ve thunk it?]]>

We even liked it more than the house we found last Friday. The downside, of course, is that we’re still waiting around to see if the buyers are still in fact buyers. After Fred told the realtor yesterday that we weren’t going to make any repairs to the house, he was informed that we’re actually required because of the contract we signed to do the plumbing and electrical stuff. The item on the list that was neither of those was the concrete under the pool’s pump, so that’s where Fred made his stand, calling Lynn first thing this morning and telling her. We’re waiting to hear whether or not they’re still going to buy. I hate to yammer and run, but I DID walk 10 miles this morning on my training walk (10.4, to be exact) and I need a little rest and relaxation before I start dinner. See y’all tomorrow.]]>

Well, I got the shirt today (it’s ash gray), and the “A site to soothe the savage beast” text doesn’t show up well at all. I should have done it with white letters, I guess, or put it up top underneath the url. But look at that little face. How can you not see it and just grin like a fool? We finally got the list of demands back from the buyers, as a result of Thursday’s home inspection. They were fairly small and reasonable, but we (I guess I should say Fred) stretched enough when they made their counteroffer to our counteroffer at the beginning, that we (Fred) have decided to refuse to make any repairs. The list consisted of things like, the spud’s bathtub drains slowly, one of the fans in the attic doesn’t work, the concrete under the pump for the pool needs to be replaced, and a couple of other things. But, as Fred pointed out, they’re getting a hell of a bargain on this house already, and they’re trying to nickel and dime us to death. If they think they can get a house this size WITH a sprinkler system, pool, fence, and security system for a better price elsewhere, they should go for it. You can guess how much I’m looking forward to having the house back on the market (though it’s not officially off the market yet), and having to leave the house for an hour at a time whenever anyone wants to see it. Bleh. We’re about to go look at 4 or 5 houses in the Hazel Green area, including a yellow one that sounds absolutely kick-ass. Wish me luck!]]>

In Friday’s entry, when I said The third, we liked the house but to get to it, we had to drive past a bunch of rusted-out crappy-looking trailers, one reader apparently took offense. In part, this reader emailed the following: think you are to good for everything don’t you? must be nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch! seems like everything isn’t good enough for u! Finally, FINALLY, someone truly understands me! Just the other day, as I was lunching with my pal Muffy Worthington in the cafe at that department store – what’s it called? Oh yes, Wal-Mart. We prefer to lunch there, because they have FABulous hot dogs, and we like to eat and watch the poor people who HAVE to shop at Wal-Mart, it amuses us so. Why, once I saw a woman with THREE children who were barely old enough to walk, and they were so obviously hers. That’s how you know you’re amongst poor folks, you know – they actually RAISE their own children. How uncivilized. How ::shudder:: gauche. I, of course, after giving birth to my own child – what the hell’s her name again? Starts with a D, I think. A D, or an S, one – handed her over to the nanny. I don’t expect to see the child again – what IS her name? I just can’t recall – except at Christmas and on my birthday (she likes to give me presents and sometimes I allow her to kiss me on the cheek if I’m feeling especially magnanimous) until she’s graduated from college. Oh, I got off the subject. Where was I? Yes, lunching with Muffy. Anyway, I said to Muffy, I turned to her and said, “You know, Muffy – ” Only I wasn’t able to finish the sentence that first time, because Muffy spilled coffee down the front of her mink coat and said “Oh fiddlesticks!”. When I pointed out that she should just give the coat to a poor person, she calmed down. Sending an assistant to the cleaners with a mink coat is just a pain, and since they’re only $78,000, it’s just easier to get rid of the coat and buy a new one. “You,” she said, snapping her fingers at a girl who worked at the cafe. “Here, take this!” The girl – a snippy young thing – glared at Muffy. “We don’t have a coat check, lady,” she snarled. “Well goodness NO,” Muffy rolled her eyes at me as if to say poor people! I nodded in agreement. “I don’t want to check my coat, silly thing. I want you to have it.” The girl stared at Muffy, and then at the coat. “What is it?” she asked. “Rabbit?” Well, of course we couldn’t help but giggle at that, and finally the girl got mad and stomped off. Muffy handed the coat to her assistant and ordered her to be sure the girl took it and put it to good use. “You know, Muffy,” I began. But again, Muffy interrupted me. “Thing,” she said to another of her assistants. She calls them all “Thing” because she can’t be bothered to remember their names, and who could blame her? I, personally, call my assistants “Hon”, because it adds that personal feel and makes them believe I care about them. Poor people are so funny, aren’t they? Anyway, “Thing,” Muffy said. “Call and see if the workers are through with the foyer yet.” She turned and smiled at me. “Did I mention that the diamonds we floored the foyer with were cutting my feet?” “Yes,” I said. “You’re redoing the foyer floor with black pearls, didn’t you say?” “That’s right,” Muffy nodded. “And it’s taking them forEVer to get it done. I mean really, how long does it take to floor a 3,000 square foot foyer with black pearls, for goshsakes?” I didn’t say anything about it to Muffy, but that’s awfully small for a foyer, don’t you think? Well, to each her own, I guess. “Muffy,” I began for the third time, “I simply MUST ask you something.” “What, darling?” she replied. I leaned across the table toward her. “Muffy, isn’t it just WONderful to be a stuck-up rich bitch?” She smiled at me and tilted her head. The sun glinted off her tiara and shone in my eyes. She patted my hand with hers, inadvertently cutting her hand on my Hope diamond ring. “Robyn,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke the simple truth. “It’s not only wonderful. It’s nice. It’s very, very nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch. Not only is it nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch, but it’s also fabulous that nothing is good enough for u.” With that agreed upon, we had our assistants carry us on their shoulders out the door to our waiting Rolls.

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Do you see what happens when you don’t read carefully, people? Someone read “crappy, rusted-out trailers”, didn’t pay attention to the “rusted-out” part, and in their mind 2+2=7. Robyn must think she’s too GOOD to live in a trailer! Robyn must think she’s too GOOD to look at trailers as she drives by! I better go send that stuck-up rich bitch an email! I do not, in fact, think I’m too good to live in a trailer. In fact, I spent quite some time at the beginning of our house search trying to convince Fred that we should buy a big piece of land and buy a double-wide to put down on said land, and use the money we’d save so he could retire when he’s 40. Seeing as we live in Tornado Alley, and tornadoes are attracted to trailers, he didn’t go for it. These trailers we passed, these "crappy rusted-out trailers" I mentioned? They were crappy. And they were rusted-out. And in the yard were cars up on blocks and garbage all over the place, half-naked children running around, feral dogs snapping at each other, and men picking banjos. The very worst of backwoods Alabama, in other words. Am I too "good" to live in a trailer? Of course not. Am I too "good" to live in a trailer surrounded by garbage, scary animals, cars on blocks, and men who would exhort me to squeal like a pig? Yes. Yes, I am. ]]>

Loved the inside, loved the outside, loved the yard, loved it, loved it, loved it. But. It. Was. Too. Far. From. Huntsville. Someone, you see, has gotten spoiled with his current 10-minute drive to and from work, and the thought of having to drive any longer than that gives him the willies. Grrr. Fortunately, we have 7 or 8 houses in the Hazel Green area to check out, so keep your fingers crossed for us. Lest I surely kill someone. Oh, and we’ve heard nothing of the results from the home inspection, the freakin’ bastards. And since they have THREE BUSINESS DAYS to bother getting back to us, it could be Tuesday or so before we hear. I don’t need this stress, people. ]]>

Fred grinned at me. “Isn’t it great?!” he almost shouted. “Isn’t it the most perfect house ever?” He held his arms out to his side and turned around, eyes glowing. I stared at him. “You’re… serious?” I glanced around the tiny room. “Come on baby, you’re not funny!” He frowned at me. “You don’t like it?” he said heartbrokenly. “It’s a fucking SHACK!” I yelled. “It’s a fucking SHOTGUN SHACK, and it’s in fucking Minna Green!” (A shotgun house, for those of you not in the know, is a house with the rooms in a straight line. You could stand at the front door and fire a shotgun; the bullet would pass through all the rooms in a shotgun house before exiting through the back door). “What’s wrong with Minna Green?” Fred asked. “You don’t like it?” “It’s three hours from Huntsville! And they’re asking almost $200,000 for this piece of shit! The schools consist of a one-room schoolhouse!” I was in an apoplectic rage. “Oh pleeeease, Bessie!" Fred said frantically. “I just LOVE it, it’s perfect for us, I don’t care HOW far I’d have to drive!” And then I woke up. The number one thought in my mind was I’ll die before I live in fucking Minna Green! Of course, if there IS a Minna Green in Alabama, I have no idea where it is. My very first House Anxiety dream! Oh, and it’s only just begun, how fun this looking for a house thing will be. Speaking of house-related stuff, today at 1:00 was the house inspection, wherein a house inspector (duh!) comes and looks the house over, searching for hidden flaws and structural problems. According to Lynn, the realtor assistant, it was to take about 2 hours. I decided to take the spud to see Shrek. We arrived at the theater with half an hour to spare, and found thousands of children milling about the lobby of the theater, running and screaming and throwing things at each other. I looked at the spud. She looked back. “I don’t think so,” I said. So we went to the other theater – the GOOD theater with Digital Theater Sound and large, plush seats – to see what was playing. This was at 1:25. We had the option of seeing Driven or Moulin Rouge, both of which started at 1:15. Or, I saw, we could go see A Knight’s Tale, which started at 2:00. We opted for A Knight’s Tale. I bought small sodas for the spud and I, and a small popcorn for the spud. $8.55, it was. “You can buy the super-duper extra-special combo, which is a large popcorn, large soda, and a candy for $8.50!” the concession chick said brightly. I looked at her, looked at the spud, who had the light of hope – candy! – in her eyes, and promptly squashed said hope. “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “The soda and popcorn are refillable!” said concession chick. Of COURSE the large soda and large popcorn are refillable. NO ONE ever goes back for the refill, for crying out loud. “NO. THANK. YOU.” I all but snarled. Your loss, concession chick shrugged and threw our sodas and popcorn at us. Being that we were 35 minutes early, we were the first ones in the theater. Until about 10 minutes before showtime, we continued to be the only ones in the theater, leading me to hope no one else would show up. So wrong, I was. Suddenly, people started showing up, and settling in. Right around us, apparently responding to our personal magnetism. It was about two seconds into the first trailer that I knew the hell I would be in for. The trailer was for The Animal, which is mildly amusing. HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW! screamed the woman sitting directly behind me. HOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO! bellowed the man sitting three seats to my left. “How YOU doin’?” Rob Schneider said onscreen to the goat he was approaching. HAWHAWHAWHAW! HOHOHOHOHOHOHO! Every fucking thing that was the slightest bit reminiscent of humor throughout each and every trailer was subjected to hysterical laughter from both of the idiotic fucking dumbasses. I was subjected to idiocy in stereo, I tell you! The entire “We will rock you” scene at the very beginning of the movie? I swear to god, they were WIPING TEARS AWAY, they were laughing so fucking hard. I was on the verge of getting up and moving seats in hopes of preserving my hearing, when the woman’s companion – I have to assume he was some special companion, I refuse to believe any husband would have stuck around for more than half a movie – finally leaned over to her and said “SHHHH!” At the same time, the man’s teenage daughter said “Dad, be QUIET!”, and for the rest of the movie there were isolated incidents of dumbassery, but it was (mostly) tolerable. On the up side, I liked the movie a lot, and didn’t realize it had been 2 1/2 hours until I saw the clock in the car. Oh, and the home inspection deal that was supposed to take two hours? It took three, and Fred ended up sitting in his Jeep down the street, because – according to our realtor – it’s best if the owner isn’t home during the inspection. We’re afraid they found something really bad! And now we’re waiting to find out. Jeff doesn’t answer his cellphone, and Lynn’s not at the office. Grrr.]]>

wanted to like, because it was on 6.5 acres, 4 of which were cleared. But I just didn’t like the inside at all, not one bit of it. And there were several signs that the ceiling leaked. We still have 13 houses we want to see – which we’re going to do Friday, just check them all out in one fell swoop – some of which, at least on paper, look really nice. I think at this point we’re considering house #2 from yesterday as a possible fall-back house, but I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. I’m hoping we can find a house we both love. The realtor’s assistant who took us around – we’ll call her Lynn – was horrified when I said to Fred “We’re going to end up divorced ’cause we can’t agree on a house, aren’t we?” Hey, wanna see something neat? You can search my site now, ain’t that cool? Just go over there in the sidebar and whatever you enter in the search engine will search only my site. I searched on “shelf ass” and was surprised to find how many times I’ve talked about my ass in the past. Ass in the Past will be the name of my 14th novel.]]>

We call them the Naysayers.

When Fred and I began our weight loss journeys, we – for the first few months, at least – got only supportive "You’re doing so well!" – emails. And for the most part, that has continued, emails from readers or people who have just stumbled upon our sites, people who tell us that we inspire them, that they love watching our progress. I’d say 98% of my email consists of such email.

But in the last few months, since I’ve crossed the 100-pound (gone) mark, that has changed. Now about 2% of the email I receive is from people who, on the surface, are congratulating me, but underneath – not buried deep, mind you – there is the sense that they not only think I’ll fail, but hope that I do. The unspoken "I can’t wait until you put it all back on and more" is there.

Honestly, I just don’t understand that. Even before I began losing weight, I’d read the weight loss journals of others. I’d be thrilled when they lost weight, be sad if they didn’t, and I just hated it when, after a few months and 20, 30, 40 pounds, they stopped updating. I think that most people want to see others succeed, because if they can succeed, we can too.

It used to hurt my feelings, the emails from people who want me to fail, want me not to reach my goal and stay there. But you know what? I’ve managed to step back and realize it’s not really about me, it’s about them.

Fuck ’em.

You’ll realize that losing the weight is the easy part, keeping it off is the hard part, goes the majority of those emails.

Really? Huh. Well damn, I didn’t realize that this was the easy part.

I didn’t know that getting out of bed 6 days a week when I’d much prefer to stay in bed and sleep for another hour, was easy.

I didn’t know that loading myself down with water, grapes, and orange juice two days a week so that I can walk 9 miles over 3 hours was easy.

Silly me, I didn’t know that slogging through ankle-deep mud so I could cross the main road at the end of my street and continue on for another 8 miles was easy.

I didn’t know that watching what I eat the majority of the week was easy, and that eating a peach or an apple when what I’d much prefer was a 2-pound bag of peanut m&ms was easy.

I didn’t know that getting up and fighting with the devil on my shoulder 3 mornings out of 4 (and winning) was easy.

What I find myself wanting to say is that when I wake up and want to go back to sleep, I think of the Naysayers, of the people who say Losing is the easy part and Just between us, Fred, I don’t think Robyn has what it takes, and I think Fuck you, and I get out of bed and get my ass in gear.

But the truth is that I don’t really think of the Naysayers much at all. They’re barely a blip on my screen, and the reason I roll out of bed and get my ass in gear is because I must.

I’ll tell you a secret about myself that I don’t think comes across to the average reader, but my husband can certainly tell you that it’s so.

I am tenacious. When I want something, I get it, and that is the flat-out truth. I may give up from time to time, but if I truly want something, I will go back and go back and chip away at what’s holding me back, until I get what I want.

Can you look at the results, that I’ve lost 122.5 pounds in 11 months, and believe that I’ll ever give up? That I’ll throw my hands in the air and say Fuck it? Could you ever possibly believe that?

Because if you could, you really don’t know me at all.

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So, according to Entertainment Weekly‘s May 11th issue (I’m a bit behind in my magazine reading, as in everything else in life), Senator Orrin Hatch has asked William Petersen, the star of CSI (and hottie extraordinaire) to speak to Congress about allocating money for the advancement of forensic science. That just puts a big cartoon question mark over my head, y’know? I’m thinking – and I know that this is way out there – wouldn’t it be better to have, oh I dunno, an ACTUAL forensic scientist speak to Congress, one who spends all day BEING a forensic scientist?

I know, silly idea.

Fred reminded me this morning that I hadn’t told y’all about something that happened while we were on vacation. Since it was the week before my period was due to begin, the hormones were a-hoppin’, and I had a rather, uh, involved dream about – this is so embarrassing! – McSweeney from Boot Camp.

I told Fred about it the next morning and he thought it was funny as hell.

Later, when we were… uh, how do I say it? Oh yeah. Later, when we were having hot monkey sex, he yelled "Get out of my face!" and then "Move it, move it!", which are both McSweeneyisms. God, it was funny.

I promptly had a sex dream about Recruit Moretti that night.

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