Wanda Says…Losing weight is hard.

October 11, 2014 / Wanda / Leave a comment

In a recent post (Move your ass, sister!) I talked about some of my challenges with physical fitness and weight loss over the years. I also discussed how in recent months I’ve overcome some of my motivational barriers and begun working out regularly.

I’m still working out six days a week and surprisingly, I’m enjoying it. I like the way I look after a workout, all covered in sweat and red in the face. It’s validation that I worked hard. I feel my body getting stronger in some ways, especially through my arms, and I am definitely less fatigued throughout the day and have more energy. However, I’m losing weight at a snail’s pace, and it’s incredibly frustrating.

When I first started increasing my workouts, in the first two weeks I gained four pounds. Four fucking pounds! Everyone said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’re probably just gaining muscle. This happens.” Despite the fact that I was calorie counting and working out daily, these four pounds just sat there, shaming me every time I got on the scale. After a couple of weeks the scale began to slowly eek its way down, a half-pound at a time. To date, I’ve lost those four pounds, but only those four pounds over a nine week period. At this pace, I need to change Operation Hot by 40 to Operation-Hot-By-The- Time-You-Stop-Giving-A- Fuck-About-Being-Hot.

I talked to my doctor and she didn’t have answers for me. I’m very healthy and my bloodwork is always great. The logical answer is for me to look at my diet, and admittedly, I could be making some better choices. But I will never be that girl who can survive on salad and lemon water. I enjoy food, and while I understand calorie counting and calorie quality is important, I believe in moderation versus elimination. I know from experience that if I’m too extreme in my diet or calorie reduction, it will just set me up for failure. I start to feel sick and lethargic for days, and then ultimately throw the diet out the window out of frustration and physical misery.

More importantly, I get cranky and snappish when I’m hungry. Have you spent time with super thin people who don’t eat? They’re assholes! And they should be crabby because they’re starving! Living in LA, you hear about this stuff all the time. It’s really popular for people to take appetite suppressants or other drugs to help control their weight, because God forbid, if your thigh is wider than your arm, California may just kick you out for not conforming to the standard. If there’s some actress or model throwing a fit on set because her imported bottled water isn’t the right temperature, I guarantee you she probably isn’t really a bitch as much as she just needs a sandwich.

I know liquid diets are really popular these days, too. That’s one thing I will never be able to wrap my head around. I don’t know about you, but when I’m hungry I want to feel like I really ate something. I want to chew my food. I love the flavor and texture and aroma of good food. I can’t just choke down a green shake made from ten kinds of lettuce that tastes like horse piss and feel even remotely satisfied. Can you?

A girlfriend of mine tried this diet where she had a list of all these different drinks she had to rotate through in a day. It was so complicated everything had to be written down to keep track, and there was a different mix or shake you had to take every hour or two. And then for dinner she could have a small salad with an ounce of chicken. An ounce of chicken! That’s like two bites! But I would call her to offer support and encouragement because that’s what friends do. She can usually make it to day three or four before she goes crazy and eats an entire pizza by herself out of desperation, and honestly, who could blame her?

I just can’t live like that, but I know that I have to find a balance between my diet and exercise if I’m going to make this work, and I feel like if I don’t get this right, all the hard work I’ve done so far will be for nothing. I’ve recently started a new diet I found floating around Facebook. It requires me to eat five small meals a day with a lot of protein, vegetables and whole foods only. I’m on day four and so far I’m not starving and I don’t have the urge to kill people. In my book, that’s a win!

PS–If it goes well, I’ll do a follow up post to share the details of the program. 🙂

Wanda Says…What happens on the island, stays on the island. Mostly.

October 9, 2014 / Wanda / 5 Comments

Last weekend my husband and I went to Catalina Island for a wedding. Yeah, it wasn’t rough.

One of Dan’s fraternity brothers from college was getting married, and although it was a small wedding, the list of people invited ensured that the weekend would involve three days of organized hilarity and madness, which is just what this newly-turned 40 year old, sometimes depressed stay-home mom needed.

The weekend was fantastic! You have to take a boat or helicopter from one of the ports in and around southern California to reach the island. It’s about an hour and twenty minute trip by boat. On our trip out there, our boat was escorted by a large school of dolphins. It was incredible! The dolphins played and danced in the waves alongside the boat, and stayed with us for several miles. There were baby dolphins as well, and my husband was hanging off the side of the boat to capture these pictures.

The island is very small, so cars are a rarity and you either walk everywhere or rent golf carts. We stayed at a beautiful hotel located on the main street, ate fresh seafood at restaurants overlooking the bay, and the Catalina Air Show provided some very exciting entertainment. Planes of all varieties were swooping and diving, skimming the water as the pilots showed off their mad skills. The most exciting moments though were when an F-18 fighter jet practiced maneuvers over the island as part of the show. I can honestly tell you, that was some sexy shit. When that jet flew overhead, the noise was deafening, the walls of the restaurant rattled and every cell in my body jumped to attention. I kept looking around, waiting for Maverick and Goose to stroll into the bar so I could buy them a beer.

It was a Sunday wedding, and Mimosas were served on the lawn overlooking the bay with palm trees and blue skies as far as the eye could see. It was truly an incredible place to get married.

I had planned to write a very detailed blog post, sharing all the bad behavior and drama that ensued over the weekend. Then I realized some of our friends might not appreciate that, because you know, what happens on the island….

So out of respect for our friends, I will refrain from posting any embarrassing stories or moments that could be traced back to the not-so-innocent. But I will share this one tiny little bit of detail…while partying at the bar after the wedding, SOMEONE licked the chest, and chest hair, of the guy who officiated the wedding. After observing this icky display of drunken madness, I looked at my husband and said, “That dude is not a man of God.”

Wanda Says…Waiting for Superman.

September 20, 2014 / Wanda / 12 Comments

It’s here. I couldn’t stop it from happening. For some reason that I don’t fully understand, I’ve been dreading this milestone birthday, and Superman didn’t show up to gallantly circle the earth at inhuman speed backwards to reverse time so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I am now 40. Fuck you, Superman.

I woke up this morning and found myself continuously fighting back tears, despite the kisses and hugs and shouts of ‘Happy Birthday’ from my family. I didn’t want to appear sad or ungrateful in front of them, so I smiled and thanked them for their love. My son was so excited, and he dragged me by the hand downstairs because he wanted to present me with my birthday balloons. (My husband and I always set up balloons and decorations after the kids go to bed the night before their birthday, so when they wake up it’s like the birthday fairies visited to surprise them). But there were no balloons. Bryce looked confused. He stood there looking around the empty living room and said, “Mommy, where are your balloons?” He doesn’t understand that these things don’t just magically happen. All I could say was, “I don’t know, buddy.”

My husband could tell I was emotional and asked if everything was ok. I told him it was fine. He had this look on his face like he was disappointed that I wasn’t more excited to face the day. I know it sounds terrible, but I don’t feel like this birthday is any more special or different than any other, and the truth is that I wanted this birthday to be special. I’m 40. I suppose I was hoping for something out of the ordinary to help ease the transition. I didn’t get to do anything exciting for my 30^th birthday. While all my friends were throwing themselves big, elaborate parties to celebrate entering their 30’s, on my 30^th I was 9 months pregnant and having contractions. So I spent my birthday lying on the couch enjoying a celebratory pizza. I gave birth to my daughter four days later.

A group of my college friends and I had been planning a 40^th birthday trip to Mexico. Since we all turn 40 this year, we picked a weekend to celebrate all of our birthdays together. Unfortunately, I had to cancel the trip for myself due to some financial constraints. The trip is coming up next month and I’m disappointed and sad that I’m not going. Most of my close friends live in other parts of the country, so I tend to feel isolated out here in LA. I’ve also been missing my family and the support and unity that come from living close to people who have known you your whole life. This is a big part of the depression I’ve been experiencing. I miss my people.

So this morning, as I faced the fact that I am now a member of the 40 club, I allowed myself to have a few minutes of privacy so that I could host my own little pity party. I cried and processed through my feelings. I cried for missing my best friends. I cried for missing my family. I cried for all the safe choices I’ve made and the risks I didn’t take in the last 40 years that have prevented me from doing much of anything that I could look back on and say, “Wow, that was so amazing and I can’t believe I did that!”

When I was finished feeling sorry for myself, I dried my tears and reminded myself that attitude is everything, and I have always been a badass, take charge kind of girl. I reminded myself that I am responsible for my own happiness, and it’s up to me, and only me, to change my attitude and embrace this new chapter in my life. Sometimes you have to be your own Superman. Sometimes the people who love you are so busy taking care of you in other ways, that they can’t foresee and anticipate all of your emotional needs. Sometimes you have to save your own day.

When I accepted this and embraced my new attitude, so many wonderful things happened. I had an amazing lunch with my dear friend and neighbor. She took me to a fantastic seafood restaurant down by the beach and we enjoyed several gourmet small plates, all made from fresh caught seafood. (One of the benefits of living alongside the Pacific Ocean). When I arrived home, there was a vase filled with beautiful multi-colored roses waiting for me, and my husband went to my favorite bakery to get a sampling of all my favorite cupcake flavors. The day was starting to look up.

That evening, my husband made dinner reservations for us at our favorite sushi restaurant. At first I was a little surprised that he chose this particular restaurant because we go there frequently. It’s sort of our go-to sushi spot and part of our ordinary routine. I thought to myself, “What’s special about that?” But my new attitude prevented me from suggesting we go someplace else. He made the effort to arrange our dinner and make the reservation, so I would appreciate his thoughtfulness and enjoy our date.

When we got to the front doors of the restaurant I started to slow my walk and hang back a little so he could go in first, but he was holding my hand and started to sling-shot me forward, sort of gently pushing me through the doorway. I started to turn around to tell him to stop shoving me, when out of the corner of my eye I saw several balloon bouquets…and a wall of our friends and family. I was sort of struck dumb as I stood there processing the room and looking at the excited faces of several people that I know and love. Some of my husband’s fraternity brothers were there with their wives and girlfriends. All of these men I love like big brothers, and their wives are amazing, too. My neighbor and friend who had taken me to lunch (and led me to believe she had other plans that night), was standing there with her husband, smiling radiantly. My godmother and her wonderful husband were there. Another very good friend that I hardly ever get to see because of her crazy work schedule came as well.

I was overwhelmed. I wanted to cry. Again. But this time the tears weren’t for self-pity, but for this amazing realization that all of these wonderful people were willing to go out of their way and come together to help make my day special. Some of them drove from over an hour away. I moved through the room, hugging and laughing and kissing all of these lovely people, and feeling happier than I can describe.

When I managed to make my way back to my husband, his face revealed so many emotions. I could tell he was happy, relieved, and proud. I hugged and kissed him fiercely, and thanked him for everything he had done to make my day so special.

Superman came after all. He may not have been able to reverse time and prevent me from turning 40, but he went out of his way to not only plan this party, but keep it so secret that he had to allow me to wallow in my self-pity in order not to spoil the surprise. He filled my day with my favorite flowers, desserts, friends, and love. And he didn’t forget the balloons, which were my favorite color, red.

Wanda Says…Let’s talk about something fun, like zombies!

September 11, 2014January 11, 2026 / Wanda / 9 Comments

It’s been a rough week for me. I’ve been battling a bout of the stay-home-mommy-blues and I’m depressed about my upcoming birthday. I’ve started and deleted about four different posts this week that were a bit ranty, but I don’t want to get in the habit of that because it really doesn’t make me feel better. So, just for shits and giggles, let’s talk about something fun, like zombies!

Like many people, I am obsessed with zombie fiction. I read and watch entirely too much science-fiction and post-apocalyptic literature. It stresses me out and entertains me at the same time. I love stories about humanity’s ability to rise above chaos and disaster when the world goes dark and monsters are lurking around every corner. However, my love of these genres does have an unfortunate tendency to make me a little paranoid, and that spills over into my real life where I imagine all sorts of crazy scenarios that require me to protect my family at all costs.

For example, a few months ago we had to take my son to the emergency room on a Saturday night. If you’ve ever spent a weekend evening in the emergency room at any major urban hospital, you will totally understand where I’m going with this.

In the waiting room, there’s an air of desperation that surrounds you and permeates your pores in a way that makes your skin crawl. While we were there, one guy sat for several hours waiting with a broken arm. Several people sick with the stomach flu were given emesis buckets and sat amongst everyone else while they waited to see a doctor. More than a few people traded seats for the other side of the room when the pukers sat down. The man sitting across from me had a partially severed finger and was bleeding steadily, yet still he waited with everyone else. Everyone had these terrible expressions of pain and suffering on their faces.

At one point, I looked around the room, and could clearly imagine that if a zombie apocalypse was going to happen, an emergency room in the middle of the night was the perfect origination point for such a disaster. Although it sounds very dramatic, I would be lying if I said I didn’t scope out the exits in case I needed to make a break for it with my family. I could clearly picture the woman sitting across the room, staring blankly into space while clutching her throw-up bucket, morphing into some half-dead creature of the night who wanted to eat my brains. At 2am, anything seemed possible.

And don’t even get me started on the crazy thoughts running through my head after watching the movie World War Z. Afterwards, I told my husband two things. Number one, we needed to go on diets, because we were too chubby and out of shape to outrun any zombies if they really attacked. And two, I needed to go to a shooting range and learn how to accurately fire a gun so that one of us would be able to wield a weapon and protect us during the invasion. Without those two major lifestyle changes, our ass was grass if the worst should happen.

I know it’s silly, but to preserve my image as a mostly sane and reasonable person, let’s pretend that I’m not paranoid about zombie invasions, and I’m really just referring to emergency preparedness for your typical Southern California earthquake disaster. That’s more palatable to the average person (and to my neighbors). People tend to think you’re a freak when you admit your Costco shopping run was due to the fact that you were up all night having nightmares after watching an episode of the Walking Dead.

I go through these little stages of feeling like I need to have supplies on hand in case there’s a natural disaster, like an earthquake (or a chemical spill that causes all life forms to mutate into horrible creatures), and our utilities or local services are shut down. Since I live in Southern California, this only makes good sense. And plus, I live in Los Angeles, and everyone knows that all the alien and zombie invasions will happen in either LA or New York first, because all the film makers say so. So my husband and I have prepared a stash of water and food supplies for emergency purposes. He calls it my zombie stash, because he totally gets me and sees it for what it truly is, no matter what I tell our neighbors.

I try not to let myself get too carried away though. I have to draw the line when I start thinking about the potential benefits of going to survival wilderness camps, or going to Home Depot to buy large sheets of plywood boards that could be used to board up the windows of my home to prevent looters (or the soul-sucking undead) from raiding my house.

But if the worst should happen, you can bet your ass I won’t be going anywhere near a hospital emergency room.

If you ask me what I do all day, I will punch you in the throat.

August 18, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 9 Comments

I became a stay home mom almost four years ago after the birth of my second child. Prior to that I was a working mom, and at one time in my life I was a single working mom. So having experienced the parenting challenges inherent in those situations, you can imagine how thrilled I was to have the opportunity to be able to stay home with my kids. I thought it would be fun and I imagined all sorts of scenarios involving playdates, an immaculately clean house and home-cooked, healthy meals I would make for my family every night. I mean, how difficult could that be? I would be home…with my own kids…ALL…DAY…LONG.

Cue the hysterical laughter.

The reality for many of us, or at least for me, is that being a stay home parent is a lot like being stuck in Groundhog Day hell. You tend to repeat the same activities over, and over, and over. My life often feels like an endless loop of housework, laundry, toddler drama, managing school drama, homework, cooking and hygiene. And the hygiene management isn’t even for me. It’s amazing how difficult it is to get a school age child to care about showering or brushing their teeth, or teaching a potty training toddler how to wipe without creating a disaster area that requires a hazmat team to clean up.

Sometimes, when I’m doing housework, I imagine that old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial where the old man goes through his morning routine, saying in a dreary voice, “It’s time to make the donuts.” Here’s my rant about housework, so bear with me…If I spend an hour cleaning my hardwood floors, in another hour they look like shit again. I do the dishes so that we continue to have more clean dishes to dirty. Laundry is an endless cycle of wash, dry, fold and repeat. Nobody likes a dirty bathroom, and with young, potty-training children in the house, I could clean the toilets daily and they may still look and smell like gas station toilets, which is just gross. And the toys…oh, dear God, the toys. I can pick them up, but the second I put one away, three more magically appear out of thin air. Is it me, or do crayons and Legos have the ability to multiply on their own?

Now let’s talk about caring for young children and running household errands. For the sake of providing a brief, yet complete picture, let’s just say that taking care of young kids is a lot like what I imagine it would be like working for a bi-polar, incontinent dictator(s), except without the threat of death or having your fingers cut off. “I want milk! No, I want orange juice. Give me some orange juice! No, I want milk! I have to have milk! Now I have to poop! Mommy, wipe my butt!” So demanding! And grocery shopping with toddlers is like willingly entering the seventh circle of hell.

In my first year as a stay home mom, I was a raving lunatic about the house. It was my job to take care of the house, and how could I do that if everyone keeps wrecking it?! One day I said to my husband, “Imagine you went to work and finished a big project. And then someone comes into your office and destroys your project and tells you to start over. I bet you’d be pretty pissed about that, huh? That’s what every day is like for me.” My husband suggested we hire a housekeeper to help me out. I got upset (over-reacted), and said absolutely not because if I’m home there’s no reason to pay someone money for something I can do myself. (Again, cue the hysterical laughter.)

I did actually have several emotional breakdowns. A couple of times I just started crying in the middle of folding laundry. I began to resent the dust on the floors and the animals for constantly shedding their hair. I was short-tempered and impatient every time someone got out a toy or dripped something on the floor that I just cleaned. I wanted to scream over spilled milk. I felt isolated, spending up to ten hours a day alone with my kids and the only person I had to talk to was more interested in playing with his toe jam than in having a conversation with his Mommy. In short, I was a hot mess.

I was depressed. I thought what the hell? Is this my life? When did I become this person? I used to have a career! I used to feel respected and like I was a valuable member of a team. Now I feel like I’m just here to cook, clean, chase kids and make everyone else’s life easier. I worried that my value would be diminished in my husband’s eyes because I no longer had interesting and intelligent news to contribute over our dinner conversation. It’s hard to feel valuable when the extent of your daily news is how many times our son went pee-pee on the potty, how many loads of laundry I did, or how I struggled to help our daughter with her fourth grade math homework. (And fourth graders do hard math these days, so don’t judge me.)

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There are some women who seem to be able to do it all. They can keep a nice house, go to the gym every day, cook homemade meals with organic, unprocessed ingredients, grow their own vegetables in a garden, volunteer at their kid’s schools, and also volunteer at church every week. They make it look effortless. I’m convinced that these women take drugs, or they’re just really good liars, but that’s pure speculation on my part. Regardless, I’m not one of these women, and I’ve learned to be perfectly fucking okay with that.

I have now allowed myself to try and let go of most of my self-imposed expectations, and I accept having a not-so-perfect house. I understand and accept that my sanity and my family’s overall happiness is more important than clean floors and picked up toys. I understand that playing games with my son and reading books with my daughter is more important than trying to live up to an impossible standard of perfection. I’m learning that sometimes doing less really does equate to more.

What changed? First of all, my Wanda reminded me that depression is an asshole, and we don’t choose to be friends with assholes. Second, I reminded myself that attitude is everything. The outcome of any given situation is largely dependent on the attitude you adopt while dealing with it. And up until that point my attitude sucked. I also realized that I have to take advantage of this gift of time I’ve been given with my kids and my family and stop stressing about unimportant things. Now, when my son walks up to me at 10am on a Wednesday and says, “Mommy, can we just snuggle?” instead of thinking about the dishes in the sink or the laundry in the dryer, I just embrace that time with him. In those moments, I feel like I have the best job ever.

Sure, I look around my house and see stuff that needs to get done. Some days I tackle those things and some days I don’t. Some days I get a small amount of time to myself, but most days I don’t. Some days, I want to walk outside and beg a stranger to have an adult conversation with me, but I never follow-through on that impulse because that’s just weird and I don’t want to be the neighborhood weirdo.

I’ve learned to embrace yoga pants and pony tails. I’ve accepted that I will not wear make-up every day, and some days I just feel fortunate to get a shower alone and my teeth brushed before noon. I still battle with the stay-home-mommy-blues, but I take what good things I can get, where I can get them. I’m trying to find a balance between making myself happy and doing what I need to do for my family. This is difficult, but I keep trying.

And the most incredible validation comes when my husband walks over to me, usually after spending a weekend taking care of the kids, kisses me and says, “I don’t know how you do this every day, but I’m so thankful that you do, and I appreciate you so much.” That makes me feel respected and like an important member of our family’s team. And I thank God every day that I have a supportive and understanding partner, because if he walked in after work, looked around the house and asked me what the hell I did all day, I swear to God, I would punch him in the throat.