Lest I forget

Its ANZAC Day here in Australia (Australian New Zealand Army Corps) and ANZAC Day means hot, chewy ANZAC cookies to me now I'm a frumpy old mother chained to the kitchen. It used to mean drunken gambling around a two up ring following my dead grandfathers system and winning bucket loads from punters more drunk than me who couldn't remember whether they'd bet on heads or tails. If you stand still long enough after each throw you would have drunken bozo's stumble up and throw cash at you even though A. You never bet against them B. You would never have chosen the winning outcome and C. You have never laid eyes on them before in your life. Easiest cash you'll ever make.

My grandfather fought in World War 2 and my grandmother "entertained the troops" I'm still wondering what that entailed but I'm pretty sure it goes a long way to explaining much of my behaviour (who would have thought skankiness was hereditary???). So, my grandfather was severely blown up in World War 2 and left for dead by some water way somewhere (PNG I'm pretty sure). This one soldier decided that he couldnt just leave him there to die alone and insisted they take him with them. My grandfather was taken to a hospital where he spent 12 months recovering from major shrapnel injuries. After 12 months he was put before a board and asked how he was doing - he being a stoical Aussie - of course, was doing well so back they sent him (WW2 went for like 6 years or so). And who was the training officer he was sent to to be retrained - yep, the soldier who saved his life. So he fought out the rest of the war and came back to marry my grandmother (who was actually not a ho but a very funny lady). They bought a house and land package in Beverly Hills NSW for $6000 pounds (a fortune) and paid $2.45 a week on a special soldiers mortgage situation until the day my grandmother died in 2005. 

And who lived around the corner from them? Yep the soldier who saved his life. 

In 1998 I went to visit this soldier on death's door in a nursing home and everyone knew he was suffering from dementia and was really very far gone. I actually think he just couldnt hear very well so I got right up close to him and thanked him for fighting in the war and saving my grandfather cause if it wasnt for him I wouldnt be here now blogging and complaining about too much food and lap banding. He looked up at me and with clear understanding and total lucidity looked me in the eye and said thank you to me because no one had ever thanked him before and he really appreciated it.

Sometime after the war my grandfather was instructed to go for a War Veterans type of compensation and the law system being the way it was - everyone was knocked back first time. My grandfather comes from a long line of hard working we-dont-beg-from-anyone kinda people so he walked away. He died the year before I was born and I wish I had known him although I know he has helped me out many times in my life in ways a living grandfather just isnt capable of doing.

Many many years later about 3 years before my grandmother died the Department of Veterans Affairs contacted her and told her that she was actually eligible for the Veterans Pension my grandfather should have received 30 odd years before. She was back paid for about 5 years and given some very nice special treatment before she died (the house was fitted out with handy bits and pieces for an older lady as well as pedicures, special chairs and preferencial medical treatment). I like to think it was my grandfather looking after her in her final years. 

Oh and by the way, the house was still being paid off at $2.45 a week until about 1995!

I am 100% against war and fighting but I think the bravery and courage of ordinary people who (either voluntarily or compulsorily) go into terrifying situations and risk their lives for what they believe in should not go unnoticed.

Restriction - the love that dare not speak its name

OK so I really wish I wasnt writing this post but here goes. I have been pretty non plussed and numb to this whole situation but its starting to creep in now and I'm getting concerned. I went for my 2nd fill in Tuesday, all went well doctor very pleasant etc etc.

I guess I just dont feel like blogging right now and right now is when I should really. Just wanted to say (and make it real) that I have gained about 2 kilos over the past week and yes it is shitting me today and I am really not very happy about it. I want to have faith in this system and believe that the week will bring me restriction and that loss will come my way and I'm sure if I looked back over last month this exact same thing happened then. But really, the loss has slowed right down (and is it any wonder with the way I've been eating!). The doctor wont let me get filled any sooner than a month away and this past month gave me one step forward for a week and then 3 steps back and 2 kilos over. I cant do this for another month. He assures me this fill will be easier than last fill and the restriction will last longer but I'm very sceptical. The last couple of days since the fill has been completely quiet no restriction - no pain - nothing. Like I dont have a band. Less than the day before I was filled even!!!??? God I'm hoping that my next post will be me ranting about how wrong I was and how restricted I am!

I have eaten a chiko roll, a meat pie, chips and alcohol up the kazoo, sandwiches, burgers you name it and I barely feel it go down let alone get stuck at all. Can you all hear me complaining about gaining weight after a week of eating shit like that? I feel shitty at myself but then I think - hey, I've done the hard yards! I went through the hideous pain after surgery, the opti, the sad nursing home liquids, all that money!, discomfort, immobility, gas pain, port pain, jeans pain, bend over pain etc etc this freaking thing should not ALLOW ME to even contemplate those foods! I know the love of restriction and that love would not hurt you by letting you eat a chiko roll and follow up with calamari and chips. Restriction wont let you hate yourself. I love who I am when I am restricted - I dont even CONSIDER the food. I want it back! I want to be restricted.  I want to feel that hideous despondency when you cant eat what you want or how much you want. I want to feel that hopelessness, that emptiness when food cannot be used to spakfill a giant, gaping emotional hole. I want to wander around the house lost and forlorn not glued to the kitchen planning, buying, cooking and concocting the most fabulous foods. I want to miss grazing. I want to hurt like my hearts going to break in two and not glue it back together with ANOTHER chocolate easter egg. I want to feel the pain! I dont want to be gorged and numb and unable to feel.

I so didnt want to write this post I wanted to write and make you all laugh with my "boob in the drawer" antics but I just had to let this out. And I'm going to post my weight for this week. You will all freak. But I just cant update my ticker. I'm not that strong. There will have to be a missing week. I'm going to see how long this calm before the storm (or lack thereof) lasts and if I still have no relief by next Tuesday (one week after fill) I'm ringing to complain. I cant hack this slipping back into "I hate myself" mode.

Well, I havent eaten for two hours now so it must be time for a lil somethin' somethin'. Gotta keep this pain at bay somehow!

Love in the times of good and evil

You all know it kills me to write a "Happy Go Lucky" post and how un-entertaining they are so please switch over now cause here comes some love.

Kicking back with a pineapple cruiser, watching the sun set, fresh from a swim at the beach (yes its mid April and Autum here in sunny Sydney), showered, "seen to" (Shaggs by name Shaggsalot by nature), hair straightened and all is right in my world. Feeling tip top! And why is this so extraordinary to me? Well, its that time of the month here in Shaggsville (ie: ovulation - the actual time of the month is a complete anti climax compared to the roller coaster ride that is ovualtion) and it accounts for sooooo much here in my world.

First - weight gain. Yes I've gained a few hundred grams which in real terms means I've lost 1.5kg but that wont show til next week and thats ok too cause:

Second - next week is International Surgeons Visit here in Shaggsville. I should register a loss with Pretty Surgeon of the Year which slightly eases the discomfort of discussing obesity and lifting my top (not in a drunk pole dancing kind of way) for a man I should be having a drink with not being injected (not hot beef) by.

Third - my not so pretty moods. Enough said.

Fourth - my ability to eat a chiko roll and give "I'm going to stab you if you eat another calamari ring" look to my children as they go for my last calamari ring. Still not eating like I used to but still not eating like a bander.

So everything here is incredibly sparkly and pretty (could be the Cruisers (not Tomkat)). Husband has landed a job for an obscene amount of money (why is my life always great when everyone elses is always shite? Only we could land a massive career opportunity in the middle of a financial crisis and be broke during a market bloat) More on that later.

So I'm going to drink in the love (AKA alcohol) and enjoy this lovely time. Once again, very sorry for the lack of entertaining whinge fest but I'll be back more bitter than ever tomorrow and I think its time to tell you all about my boobs and the time I got my nipple stuck in a drawer. Fun times.

Soothing the poor sad dieter

So, I've eaten enough chocolate to sink a ship and there's three times more in the cupboard. My only saving grace is that I am so sick of it I dont think I'll eat it for another 3 years. Although, everyone here likes plain old cadburys plain old and I really would kill for a carmello or some sickly creamy number...... never happy. On weight watchers with no chocolate I would have licked parts of sweaty footballer in the middle of summer just to smell an easter egg but today, I want fantastical variety!

And I wonder why I've been skirting around 92kg for the past month! I just dont really give a shit too much about what's going in.  I have to think about quantity all the time and the no drinking thing is crap so what's going in is kind of last priority.  Didnt everyone say to forget about dieting after the band? That you are no longer on a diet? To be honest, I love being 92kg and although I do miss the "losing" feeling I really dont care too much - I'm not disappointed at all and thats kind of the problem. I could be doing SOOOOO much better than this. I dont think twice about having the most unnecessary pointless high calorie bits and pieces. Things that make the little weight watcher in me just shrivel up and die. Full sugar soft drinks, chocolate up the kazoo, cream, full cream milk, wine and nibblies anything and everything - all in very moderate amounts - and now do you understand why I am loving being 92kg? The scales may not be going down but they're not going up either. 

And when, I would like to ask, is my band going to pull a little more weight? Once again I am starting to have bread again and meals rather larger than a side plate. Banders around me cant eat bread or meat or this and that. Chew properly, I say, and you can get concrete down! I'm even having ever growing larger sips of diet coke after I eat - no sweat. I know the feeling in my stomach when the food starts to shift and I can risk a little sip without blocking up the pipes. I get sooooo bloody thirsty! One of my friends gave me the worst piece of advice - eat something sweet and the thirst goes away. Thanks for that little gem! I am starting to think I am now earning the official title of "Sweet Tooth". Thats a first! Never had a sweet tooth before!

I know all this whingeing is actually about me being out of control. I thought I would be on a diet and the band would help but I have to say, my mentality is so far removed from that of a dieter that its a wonder I havent digested the band as well. I'm eating far too many carbs and not enough protein. Too much grazing. Too much liquids (eg alcohol) not enough rules or just a little bit of inhibition would be great right now. My husband made a comment about my band not working anymore and I could have cried with protectiveness for my poor little friend who is doing the best it can. Just because I'm ignoring it its no reason to give it a rough rap. And I do ignore it. I have always been one to push the limits and tolerances of any given person/situation/rules to see just how far you can go before you pay a price. Most times I am a very savvy, knowledgable little fountain of reason but sometimes it does backfire but not very often. I have never been one to stick religiously to what I am told cause quite frankly, why is anyone else's information or rules more valid than my tried and true experiences? I am not a fervently conscientious, salt of the earth, pillar of strength, rule keeping for the sake of it, happy little follower of society. I have almost always gone against the grain almost purely because everyone else is going with it. I do not err on the side of caution, I tangle with danger to figure out just what I can get away with before pain and/or regret sinks in. Truly though, I almost always come out with a more efficient and less painful way of getting through life while still reaping the rewards without killing yourself on rules and parameters that really are not necessary or even very practical.

And so I have done the same with the band. It seems I get some restriction, I enjoy it and go with it and then I start to test it which by its very nature starts to undo it. Why play with it? Why not just go with it and let it take me to weight loss wonder land? I am not smarter or more practical for doing this. I may not be suffering but I'm not experiencing the exhilerating highs of losing either. Or am I doing the right thing? I'm not doing the extreme dieting situation and burning out and gorging. I'm having faith in the band and life in general and letting the loss just come. I'm soothing the poor sad dieter in me who has suffered and slaved over diets most her life, agonising over every sip, suck, taste, lick and nibble. I'm sure I'm doing the right thing - just enjoying food and life in some kind of moderation. Will being properly filled take this power away from me completely? Will that be a good thing? I kinda like where I'm at but how long will this work for? What is next week going to be like when I'm on an ovulation binge? What is the meaning of life? How many more questions remain unanswered?

So, lets also keep things in proportion - its easter - there's an inordinate amount of shit and food around, long weekends with no routine, school holidays with no routine, we're coming up to some form of menstrual cycle hormonal intolerance (lets face it, every week has its challenges hormonally) and it has only been just two months and lets remember - I've lost over 10kgs in that time!!! Thats a world f^&*)ing record for me!!!!!! Yay! Talk about Easter bringing new life! Still, some control on my part wouldnt go astray and I have just received an offer in the mail to rejoin the gym for free with the first month also free??!!! Or I could just continue to wallow in holiday mode, after all, its school holidays for another two weeks yet.

Two Month Bandiversary, Groucho Marx and The Punisher

OK so I actually had my massage, nearly backed out a hundred times. You see, in order to have this massage I have to go into the gym where I was once a star pupil, come face to face with the trainers (suck in the air of bitter disappointment and failure), strip down and get massaged by a masseuse who last saw me another 10kilos lighter than this. Not easy - and yes, that was my reward. Once again, I am a walking train crash on a hell bent mission to destroy myself slowly but surely. This all had to be done because they are the best massages EVER! Totally worth the soul destroying walk of shame through the gym. Would have been more enjoyable if the masseuse didnt talk to me the whole time. I really like to zone out but we chitchatted right through every pressure point so I really dont remember much of the massage or how great it was but I am sore still so I suppose it was great.

I have more pics to post but I'm rethinking them honestly. For a few reasons - number one being - My eyebrows. Yes, my eyebrows have seen better days - the name groucho has been thrown around more than once this week and I know people are staring. You see I have very pale eyebrows which, under down lights are completely non existent and make me look like a chemo patient. I get sympathetic stares wherever I go (or maybe its my huge fat arse that attracts all the sympathy? Well this week its my eyebrows). Every once in a while instead of getting my arse up to the beauticians (theres a reason why I dont go to the beautician but we'll get to that later) I dye my own eyebrows and I ALWAYS look like Groucho Marx for a day or two but this time I looked like John Howard (AKA Snuffaluffagus) for a whole week. My mother mixed the dye and I just dont know why I thought that was OK? I still cant understand why I partook of anything my mother was involved in creating????? Anyhow,the dye made my eyebrows go completely black and my hair is completely blonde and no, I do not look all cool and edgy like Gwen Stefani or even slightly interesting ah lah Marilyn Monroe. Just shit really. The kids think I look permenantly cranky. My husband still shudders when I walk around the corner or open the front door to him. My sister is still laughing and my mother thinks they look nice. That says it all. I have learnt that if something looks good to my mother then the rest of the universe will reject it like a runt puppy with a manky leg. I can feel people talking to my eyebrows and not to me (nice change from talking to the DD cup twins). I bought hair bleach and applied it 4 times and it toned it down just enough so my sister only dampened her knickers - not completely soaked them although my husband still wants the lights off if he has to kiss me. So all my pics of the two month bandiversary are headless and look ridiculous and I also noticed, only about 1 - 2 kilos different from the one month anniversary so no different at all really! Interesting and confronting. Still, I'm happy. Technically the band isnt working yet so any loss is a bonus. I go to a support group and there are actually real living, breathing people out there who have had a band for a year and have no restriction and have not lost a gram. All in all, I'm doing ok. If you dont count the eyebrows.

So I hear you ask, why I dont I go to the beautician and get them to fix the said eyebrows? My first and last brazillian is the reason why. This story is, in part, inspired by Forever Fat Girl's waxing story but the eyebrows create the greatest post traumatic stress and bring up the repressed memories. You see my big, fat, roly-poly jutse turned out to be very hard to wax (not to mention painful). I took the 7 year old with me, she was only one at the time (put the phone down and lets leave DOCS out of this). She was always so good at sitting in the pram and looking cute but for some reason her mothers cries for mercy unsettled her and she ended up sitting on my chest and pulling at my already contorted face. The beautician was slapping on that wax and tearing it off and I swear she was going to take a labia with it. If I told her once the wax was too hot I told her 100 times but I'd never had a brazillian before so I thought the pain was all part of the fun.

The poor beautician, lets call her The Punisher, was having a terrible time holding back the various folds and flip flaps and flap jacks to create a smooth and svelte labia and boy was it taking its toll on the girl. What started out as a 20 minute job was turning into a beauticians working bee as another beautician, hearing my daughters cries and sensing fear in her own kind whacked the door open exposing my most vital love muscle to the world and asking through popped chewy if The Punisher needed any help? And boy were we running late by this time! The first daughter had to be collected from kindy or they were going to call DOCS (maybe I should just have a link to them on my blog) and the The Punisher was moving ever faster, the wax was getting ever hotter and the one year old was now straddling my throat with sharp little nails and a squeal that could crack concrete. Fun.

Before I knew it (no less than one hour) the pain was over and I was high tailing it to kindy with a strangely sticky and, oddly enough, a not so smooth pair of labs. Of course as luck would have it, I got pulled over by the cops for speeding but seeing me crying my eyes out and hearing the words "kindy, DOCS, wax and labia" they let me off and we were on our way again. Later that night with all kids in bed and The Punisher just a distant memory we decide to partake of the freshly manicured love lawn and oh what a sight to behold! The words "plucked chook" come to mind but really, you would have to put "sunburnt" and "leprosy" in there somewhere for it to be truly accurate. The wax was in fact on the hot side and my parts were, effectively, sunburnt. The difficulty of the job meant that it was, of course, not done properly so there was an array of varying length hair left behind in a "chemo - esque" patchy, male pattern baldness kind of fashion. There was a hot red landing strip on the extra sensitive bits and on the REALLY sensitive bits, skin was beginning to wrinkle and peel. Mmmm, come and get me boys! My poor husband still goes limp at the thought of it. What started out as an adventurous, lets-surprise-the-hubby kind of long weekend dabble in the kinky side of life ended up as a week of abstinence, skin peeling sessions and a phobia of beauticians and wax. The most pain my poor little jutse cops these days is non sensitive Nair and let me tell you, THAT stuff gets it smooth, every time, no tears, no fuss.

So The Punisher was the best eyebrower in these parts and I dont have enough eyebrow left to take the chance on any other beautician. I still cannot look The Punisher in the eye and I do see her on the street. I can feel my labia spasm long before I actually see her so most times I get enough warning and can cross the street so we dont have to share that uncomfortable moment where I know she's thinking I have the most gruesome, over sized, roly poly jutse she's ever laid eyes on. I just know she's cringing and thinking of my husband slapping my thigh and catching a sunburnt, peeling, patchy wave in.