Swiss cheese brain

I'm embarrassed to admit that my brain is made of Swiss cheese. I've forgotten more things in the past week than I remember about my entire life. And as a result of that, I've spent hours on the phone to no less than five different customer service departments, trying to get passwords reset so I can log into the myriad web sites I use to keep our business going. At last count, I have to log on to about 350,000different web sites to track account balances, issue payments, receive payments, input invoices, shop for office supplies, book Tony's facials, and the list goes on.

Over the past five business days, I've had to call for passwords from the bank, my student loan provider, a third-party payment site and Office Depot. In fact, I just got off the phone with a lovely young lady who is in the customer service department for our credit card processing company who informed me that not only was I entering the wrong information, but I was ON THE WRONG WEB SITE. I could hear her gesticulating wildly for her fellow call-center employees to click over and listen to the nutter who just called in and didn't even know which web site she was supposed to use. Awesome.

I have no idea at what point in my life my brain died, but I know it was recently. Part of the problem is that I have a lot to do every day now for the first time in nearly a year. I suppose there is some mental muscle atrophy after an extensive period of disuse. Watching Tabatha's Salon Takeover all day can only use so many brain cells, and it probably kills about three times that many. Working back up to full mental capacity must take some time. I'm guessing that by the time I retire, I'll have my faculties back.

The other problem is that every site has different password requirements. Here you have to enter a password with letters and numbers. Over here, a password has to have capital AND lowercase letters and numbers. At this third place, capital, lowercase, numbers AND be longer than 12 characters. Another place, capital, lowercase, numbers, umlauts, Cyrillic characters, punctuation and a hat. It becomes impossible to come up with something that anyone could remember. Let alone a woman with mush for a brain.

So, I make embarrassing phone calls to bored CSRs in foreign countries and throw myself on their mercy. Only one has had the bad form to laugh at me, and he laughed for what seemed like 15 minutes at my admission of being unable to log into a web site I hadn't used in three months. (He was from the South, so at least his laughing had a pleasing, gentle accent.) Everyone else has just seemed mildly irritated with my ineptitude.

But I've started solving the problem. I'm using miniature Post-It notes (Hey, I thought they were adult-sized when I ordered them from Office Depot. How was I supposed to know they were Lilliputian?) and sticking them in a secret place on my desk with all my user names and passwords written down.

The only problem now is finding a secret place in my desk large enough for 450 tiny Post-its.

Spinning Class

Yesterday, Tony and I took our first Spinning class together. I'm a veteran of Spinning (not to look at me, but I swear I've gone to Spinning before) but Tony was a rookie. I managed to talk him into it with promises of burning more than 1,000 calories in an hour and that there would be other men in this class, unlike Zumba. (Don't worry, I've never tried to talk Tony into Zumba. I understand and respect the limits of our relationship.)

Everything was going great, too. We woke up on time, ate our breakfast and were to the gym in plenty of time to claim a bike and start warming up. Then, our instructor arrived. Let's call her Chesty LaRue. (Keep in mind, I've only ever had male instructors for my Spinning classes. Cleavage wasn't really an issue.)

Chesty was dressed modestly enough when she arrived (late). Long-sleeved shirt, cropped sweatpants (a trend I'll never understand - if it is cold enough for sweatpants, don't you want your shins warm, too?), Ugg boots. I was willing to forgive her for the Uggs if she was a good instructor. Then, moments before we started riding in earnest, she whipped off the outer layer to reveal hotpants and a bikini top. I've never seen a sports bra that small. For a moment, I thought we'd wandered into Stripperobics instead of Group Cycle.

Tony looked at me with bug eyes. I'm sure he was thinking this was the best fitness class he would ever attend. I didn't have the heart to tell him they were going to shut the lights off in a minute and unless Busty McGee's breast implants glowed under the black lights, he wouldn't get the show he was anticipating. His disappointment was palpable.

However, like many women who wear bikini tops and hot pants indoors, Boobs McClanahan's personality didn't improve when the lights were off. (I realize that makes me sound like I've been in the dark with a lot of scantily clad women. I'm not above pandering to increase my readership, people.) For the next hour, we were subjected to her shouting motivational-poster aphorisms:

"It's up to you to decide what your personal best is!" (Mine is not falling off the bike and yarfing on myself.)

"Everyone's feeling alive now!" (If by alive, you mean half dead, I've never felt this alive!)

"What if I told you that you were stronger now than when you walked in here? Scientific fact!" (I'm just wondering where she got her biology degree? Hooters U?)

And my personal favorite, "Dance on that bike - everything's a dance party to me!" Shocking.

Somewhat worse than the shouting was the flat, off-key singing. Every time a new song would come on the sound system, Tatas O'Shea would pick out several key phrases to shout-sing along with. It was kind of like being at a church service where the choir sings and the pastor shouts out their lines about a half-beat too late. "Knockers McGillicutty's 9:15 Bon Jovi Worship service!"

All that being said, she put together a good workout. I fell off that bike at the end of the hour with wobbly legs, a red face and sheets of sweat running off me. Tony crawled off to the locker room in even worse shape. Hours later, I asked if he would ever come back to another class and he said he would.

I'm just not sure if it would be for the workout or the boobs.

Carrots....

I hate carrots. Really despise them. They make me want to scrub my tongue with a washcloth after I eat them.

Why am I telling you this? Frankly, I'm out of good ideas for blogs this week. I've spent the entire week glued to my computer, working, and not that many funny stories arise out of that. Aside from the fact that I've had to blockade my desk with empty boxes and trash cans to keep Big Smelly Dog from wiping his wet beard on my back, there hasn't been a lot of breaking news in here.

I haven't even been to the gym this week because of, in this order, a stomach bug, a fax toner cartridge emergency (it's a long story) and the sheer exhaustion that results from adjusting to a lower-calorie diet. (I'm barely keeping my eyes open while I type this. If I doze off, don't take it personally.)

Which brings us back to the carrots. I really like the food I'm eating right now - it's tasty and the portions aren't even too controlled. I filled a whole plate with lunch today. And last night I got a chocolate square. (I really know how to live it up!) However, the chefs who create these meals LOVE carrots. I've had to eat the orange horsemen of the apocalypse in every non-breakfast meal I've had so far. Raw, cooked, cooked and cold, in slaw, baby ones for crunch, you name it. And I've hated every weirdly bittersweet bite. I don't like the texture, the taste, or even the look of them.

Upon reflection, I think carrots are the only vegetable I really hate. (I'm not a huge artichoke fan, but I'm not even sure that's a serious vegetable.) I eat peas and broccoli and even brussels sprouts. But if I could go the rest of my life without eating carrots, I'd be a happy woman. (And Mom, I know if Tony and I have kids, I'm going to have to eat everything and not complain because I want them to eat everything and not complain. Right now I don't have to be mature about it because I'm the only person who cares what I eat.)

However, if I'm going to keep eating my delivery food, I need to just suck it up and learn to deal with the disgusting little things. No matter how they make the inside of my mouth feel. (Like I've been eating shampoo-flavored sandpaper.) It will all be worth it when I'm as thin as (and, because of the carrots, the same color as) Victoria Beckham.

TV Dinners

Tony and I are, as usual, trying to watch what we eat. We're trying something new this month, though - eating meals from a delivery service. The food is all-natural, never frozen, has no preservatives or artificial flavors and lasts for a week in the fridge. All the portions are strictly controlled and we get three meals and two snacks a day, five days a week. (We like to leave the house occasionally, so we chose to have some days off the plan to allow for that.)

It has made life much easier in that I don't have to plan, shop and cook for meals during the week when my workday starts at 8 in the morning and ends at about 7:30 in the evening. I can just hop into the kitchen, plate some food, heat it up and blam! we have a meal. And the food is super tasty, so that makes it easier. (It certainly doesn't taste like a Lean Cuisine, thank God.) The only thing that remains to be seen is how many pounds I'm going to lose. Tony and I were laughing this morning that the weight was going to just drop off. We'll get on the scale in the morning (because we like to torture ourselves and weigh in every day.) and 10 pounds will be magically gone from our bodies. My clothes will start fitting and his will stop. It will be magical. Kind of like a unicorn who knows karate.

The biggest problem with this system is that with portion control, you sometimes get hungry. (Like, four times a day, max.) And that typically happens late at night, especially if you get hungry and eat dinner at 5 and bedtime isn't until 11. Adding to that is the glut (pun intended) of food commercials on TV, most pointedly during my favorite shows, which all revolve around food. (Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, Last Restaurant Standing, Biggest Loser, Top Chef, etc.) Last night, with my tummy grumbling, I had to sit through at least 4,000 commercials for Red Lobster, Taco Bell (Who's taking on that Drive-Thru Diet?), Kentucky Fried Chicken (and you know how I feel about that), and every other kind of restaurant you can imagine. The entire time, I was salivating.

It gets better when you DVR something (I like to watch the two-hour Biggest Loser in super-fast-forward, stopping only when someone falls down or they get on the big scale. I can only watch so many sweaty people cry before I become immune to their issues. And I want to swat Jillian Michaels like the tiny gnat she is.) but you still have to deal with the pictures of clam chowder, cake and fried chicken flashing on the screen, tempting you.

I think the only solution is to stop watching TV. Which would also benefit me in the long run. However, the two warmest (read: tolerably warm) rooms in the house both have TVs in them. The rest of the house is an icebox of death. You could hang meat in here, all part of our bill-reduction program. After the December gas bill, we had to turn the thermostat down another five degrees and put on yet another layer of socks and scarves. We both look like that little kid in "A Christmas Story." I'm typing with fingerless gloves right now.

The moral of this story? Don't diet and watch TV. And don't diet, stop watching TV and hang out in an ice-cold house. Go to the gym and sit in the dry sauna for 15 minutes. You'll sweat out the fat AND be warm for a little while. The 55-degree living room will feel refreshing after that. And you'll be so hot you won't want to eat for at least 15 minutes.

Exclamatory sentences

I use too many exclamation points. This came to my attention last week when I was sending out an invoice for some air freight that we'd sent to Jakarta. Here's the actual body of that email:

"Hi Frank!

Hope all is well with you and the family! We're buried under some serious snow here, but I'm sure you are too!

I'm attaching the invoice for your Jakarta load. It finally delivered this morning. (Yay!) Please let me know if you have any questions."


That's four exclamation points in two paragraphs and a salutation. IN A BUSINESS EMAIL. I've run amok. I'm out of control. Everything I say in emails or on Facebook or IM is said with breathless excitement, according to my punctuation. I think I have an addiction. TO EXCLAMATION!

The root of the problem is that in an email, there is no context. You have no idea if the person is happy, sad, excited, etc. Beyond using the dreaded emoticon, how can you convey that you are in fact, cheerfully anticipating payment on an invoice or really happy to hear about someone's children? (I won't put smiley faces in my emails. That's just unprofessional.)

Another issue is that, in general, I'm a pretty over-the-top person. I like hyperbole, I am easily excited, I gesticulate wildly and I laugh way too much and too loudly. Basically, I'm a walking, talking exclamation point. With an unusual hourglass shape.

But I realize that some people regard the exclamation point as childish or unprofessional. So I can take one of two stances - either bend to their will and stop using them, or try to break new ground in the world of corporate communication where exclamation points are not only accepted, but embraced. Soon masters of industry like Bill Gates and Kim Kardashian will be using exclamation points in all their memos, emails and presentations. (Come to think of it, Kim Kardashian probably already does. Replace her with Donald Trump and you'll get my point.) The world will be rife with exclamatory statements. Annual reports will suddenly be filled with a joy and urgency they currently lack. (Earnings down 3%! Corporate bonuses increased by 10% year over year!) PowerPoint presentations will be jazzy, packed start to finish with joie de vivre and je ne sais quoi!

Or, I'll just continue along my lonely (but excited!) path, dropping exclama-bombs like so much napalm over my emails and online communication. No one ever accused me of being the consummate professional, anyhow. (As I type this, I'm on company time, wearing giant fuzzy slippers and trying to figure out how to shop online without Tony seeing my computer screen.) I suppose my punctuation is the least of my sins.

Coutsoftides out!!!!!

Tonglish

Communication is a big issue in any relationship. Even if both people speak the same language, there can still be miscommunication, hurt feelings, etc. In my marriage, that is multiplied by 300 because I speak English and Tony speaks his own language. Let's call it Tonglish.

To meet him, you'd never guess that he was born outside the United States. He has no accent, his English is (ostensibly) perfect and most people assume he was born and raised here. (Actually, he was born in Cyprus and raised in Saudi Arabia and Singapore before moving to the States when he was 17. Fun facts for everyone!) The only time he has a little bit of an accent is when he talks to his family and he picks up on theirs and that's more of a speech syncopation than an actual accent.

However, there are still times when I have to rifle through my mental Rolodex to understand what the heck he's talking about. For the most part, it isn't because he's using words improperly, it's because he's not using words AT ALL. Or the words that he's using are so imprecise, he could be talking about anything. For instance, here is a conversation we have daily in the office:

Tony: Did you get that guy the stuff he needed?

Me: What guy? What stuff?

Tony: *Silence because he's working on an email or something else on his computer.*

Me: What guy? What stuff?

Tony: *More silence* The guy. Who needed the stuff.

Me: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHAT FRIGGING GUY? WHAT FRIGGING STUFF?

Tony: I told you. Todd. He needed the credit app.

Me: *Head explodes*

Another great example is when Tony has been having a 20 minute conversation with himself about something and then brings me in for the big finish:

Tony: So, what do you think about getting that stuff done? I think it really needs to be done if we are going to be profitable.

Me: What stuff?

Tony: *Silence while he types on the computer*

Me: Tony, use your words. What stuff? (At this point, I'm wracking my brain to think if he's mentioned anything in the last five hours that could apply to our business. The phones? New toner cartridges? Another salesperson? WHAT IS IT?)

Tony: Oh, you know, getting a new phone system. I didn't say that?

Me: *Head explodes*

I will admit that 85% of the time, I can figure out what he's talking about, because we are together 20000 hours a day and we've reached some kind of eerie symbiosis (That doesn't go both ways, trust me. He never has any idea what I'm talking about, even if I draw a chart and show him pictures.) that allows me to know what he's talking about even if he doesn't. Which happens more than I care to admit.

But the other 15% of the time is killing me. I can't just automatically assume I know, because I've agreed to some really expensive and stupid things in the last two months thinking I was agreeing to something else. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose so he can get away with spending money he knows I wouldn't give him under normal circumstances.

So, until further notice, I'm making him fill out requests in writing for anything financial. And to stop, think, and use his full vocabulary when he's talking to me. Because I can't deal with this stuff any more.

Lean "Cuisine"

Throughout my middle 20's - around the time I met Tony - I ate a lot of Lean Cuisine frozen meals. A typical trip to the grocery store for me would consist of a box of Eggo waffles, a 12-pack of Diet Coke with lime and 10 Lean Cuisines. I lived alone, I worked a lot of hours and I didn't really have the utensils to cook much beyond scrambled eggs or grilled cheese (basically, a spatula and a frying pan).

Life lesson: This is what happens when you give up all your worldly goods in back-to-back divorces. You end up living in a two-bedroom apartment with no furniture, no television and no way to cook food. And the legal fees leave you unable to purchase new things for yourself. I spent six months sitting on the floor, listening to my radio. Not kidding.

When I moved in with Tony, I started cooking all the time and only ate frozen meals at lunch sometimes at work. Then, when I quit my job, I stopped eating them altogether. And now I remember why.

As things have gotten busier at work, the time for me to create a three-course lunch has disappeared. And though I broke down last week and had Dominos deliver lunch, we can't afford to do that more than once a month. (From both a budgetary and a dietary perspective.) So at the grocery store yesterday, Tony and I selected a variety of Lean Cuisines to have at lunchtime every day. This way, we can dine at different times, cleanup is a breeze and the portions are controlled.

The only problem is that they taste terrible. Honestly, today I would have rather eaten the cardboard box my Chicken Enchiladas Suiza came in than choke down the bizarrely flavored cat food-filled "enchiladas." That's not Suiza, people. And the rice had enough sodium to spike my blood pressure 100 points. Tony's Salisbury Steak and Macaroni and Cheese was a little better, but still nothing I'd eat again. (Honestly, I wouldn't have chosen Salisbury Steak in the first place, but he was in the Army, so he eats all sorts of stuff I wouldn't touch.)

What happened? Have they changed the formula? Did I get a bad batch? Were they on super-sale at Kroger because they were laced with inedible compounds? Am I going to die of food poisoning? Because I honestly used to eat at least five of these things a week and thought they were just fine. I never thought they were a culinary revelation, but they didn't make me want to yarf as soon as I smelled one, which was the reaction I had today. I'm furiously chewing a piece of Big Red right now to get rid of the taste and it's not working. The suiza won't go away.

Maybe I'm just too old to eat this way. I've always thought of the Lean Cuisine as a young woman's dish. Food for the single life. Something you eat when you have better things to do than cook, like go to the gym non-stop and fit into your clothes (That's what I did when I was dating Tony. I ate Lean Cuisines, worked and went to the gym. I cooked once every other week, on Friday, when he came rolling in to town.) I think that cooking for three straight years (because that's how long I've been in Cincy now, if you can believe it) has ruined my palate for frozen diet dinners. I can still put down some Stouffers mac'n'cheese, but the Lean Cuisine stuff tastes like rubber bands in yellow Elmer's glue.

You'd think with all the advances they've made in flash-freezing food that they could create a frozen meal that doesn't taste like astronaut food. Instead, I think they have just brainwashed all of us to believe that diet food is supposed to be punishment and that we should just pinch our noses and consume our 300 calorie meals in silence.

Well I for one refuse to go silently. I'll eat my Lean Cuisines, but I'll do it with a maximum of gagging and tongue-scrubbing. Because I'm not going to let the 15 in my freezer go to waste, no matter how awful they taste. My budget is stronger than my taste buds in this case.

Ode to chicken, Kentucky Fried

Last night, on our way home from the gym (Yes, we joined a gym last weekend. They made us an offer we couldn't refuse. They have a dry sauna AND free tanning. I'll look like a raisin in no time.) Tony and I realized we were really, really hungry. And that the only food at home was frozen vegetables and spaghetti noodles, which didn't sound great alone or together. We had what you might call a situation.

We drive past every imaginable fast-food joint on the way home from the gym. Everything from gyros to tacos to burgers. Lots of burgers. But nothing quite hits the spot the same way a giant bucket of fried chicken does. Tony and I are huge Kentucky Fried Chicken fans. We can kill most of an eight piece extra-crispy bucket in about 10 minutes and then roll around on the floor in greasy ecstasy, licking our fingers and clutching our distended bellies.

I think part of the appeal is that we can tell ourselves that it isn't as bad as other fast food because you can easily identify the part of the animal you are eating. With a McNugget, there is a great deal of ambivalence. Same with a Whopper. With KFC, though, you have easily labeled parts - breasts, wings, drummies, etc. And there is no way they chopped up other parts of the bird and re-formed them into some sort of drummette or breastie. (This is getting weird, isn't it?)

The other part of the appeal is that it tastes so frickin' awesome. I mean, is there any other fast food that tastes equally good hot OR cold? I just ate a leftover wing for lunch, straight from the fridge (and over the sink like a bachelor) and it tasted just as good as last night, but in a wonderfully different way. Can you imagine reaching into the fridge to grab last night's Big Mac and munching away over the sink? I can imagine grabbing it and then yarfing over the sink, but that's something entirely different.

Tony and I can also divide and conquer with KFC. When we order pizza, he likes different toppings than I do, but eats more of the pie. If we split the pizza in half by toppings, he'll have to eat at least one piece that he hates. But, with chicken, he likes white meat and I like my KFC like I like my men - dark and crunchy. (Just look at Tony and you'll know what I mean.) So he eats the wings and breasts and I eat the drumsticks and thighs. No arguing, and no elbowing in the nose over the bucket.

In fact, I don't know why we don't eat more KFC. I think we've honestly eaten it about three times in the past year, whereas we've eaten Taco Bell at least once a week (they have dairy-free chicken tacos now for the T-man). I mean, my cardiologist is glad we don't eat there more often, but my taste buds are sad.

I don't think we'll make a habit of it, though. I have a feeling eating KFC at nine at night will be bad for my weight-loss plan. And my sleep patterns. I had such bad nightmares last night I aggravated my groin pull trying to get away from the bad man standing on my bed. (I still suspect it might have been Tony, but he denies any involvement in my dream.) In any case, there was a lot of screaming.

The leftovers today made up for that, though. Sweet, sweet leftover chicken. I shall miss you.

Eye of the Tiger

According to the Chinese Zodiac, it's the year of the Tiger.

I know, very exciting. Normally, I don't care about these things, but Tony found out and because he was born in the year of the Tiger, this is big news. He's decided that 2010 is going to be his year. Which is a real downer, because I was hoping 2010 would finally be MY year. But I guess I'll have to wait until 2011.

In his enthusiasm for this wonderful news, he's taken to shouting - at random intervals and at the top of his lungs - "IT'S MY YEAR, BABY!"

It's like working at a spa here. So relaxing.

He's also changed the screen saver on his Blackberry to a picture of a tiger, played "Eye of the Tiger" 42,000 times on the sound system and started growling at odd times. I'm beginning to think he's taking this a little too seriously.

But, I have to admit I was bored this weekend and decided to look up MY Chinese zodiac symbol, so I don't miss when it's MY year. And I found out I'm a metal monkey. Awesome. I hate monkeys.

Even better, Monkeys are least compatible with....TIGERS! In fact, the one site said that Monkeys have "turbulent relationships" with Tigers and Snakes. You have no idea, sister.

And Metal Monkeys were described as "sturdy," which I find both true and insulting at this stage in my life. The worst news is that the next year of the Monkey isn't until 2016. I missed the last one in 2004 because I was too busy getting divorced and starting a job I hated. Obviously, it was totally MY YEAR!

On the plus side, I found out that the year of the Tiger technically starts on February 14th, so I've declared my house a Tiger-free zone until then. It's the small victories that make up an awesome year, people. THIS IS MY MONTH, BABY!

New Description!

My first act of 2010 (Well, my first blogging act of 2010. My REAL first act of 2010 was showering, but that's not interesting. Most days.) is to re-write the description of this blog. Really, I'm just putting off another act of 2010 that is waiting for me - organizing the office closet.

Right now, the blog description is still the one I came up with in March, when as an unemployed former cosmetics maven, I started blogging as a way to fill my day that didn't involve lunching or shopping. Here it is, in case you haven't read it lately:

"Tales from the day-to-day life of that dying breed, the American House Wife. Not a stay-at-home mom, not someone who works from home or has a part time job, just a woman with the sole responsibility of taking care of house and home. Oh, and her husband. "

Yeah, even then it sounded kind of smarmy or facetious. I guess I was trying to push some buttons. I WAS a house wife for about six months, but that came to an abrupt end when Tony and I opened our business. He was a house husband with me for four of those months, and let me tell you that nothing tries a marriage like constant togetherness. There are actually books being written about "companionate" marriages, where the husband and wife live and work together. Sometimes it is awesome. Sometimes you want to murder each other. Often within the same five minute period.

Anyhow, now that I'm a high-rolling (powerless) President of a major (tiny) company, I thought I needed a new description for my blog, but I'm stumped as to what to say. I mean, the title of my blog doesn't even mean that much anymore, other than that I'm a wife who lives in a house, but we all kind of do that, don't we? I guess I could be The Tent Wife or The Bunker Wife, but the meaning is the same. And the intention of the blog is different, too. It was meant to be hilarious anecdotes about my life of leisure. Now it's mildly amusing or downright depressing anecdotes about my life of companionate marriage or my dogs or my weight loss struggles. So how does one describe that? What genre of blog is this? And how do I explain my neuroses to the casual reader, one who just pops on from time to time for a laugh or to feel better about herself in comparison to me?

I guess I'll have to keep it simple, like my company's mission statement. I honestly write this blog because writing and cooking are the only two creative outlets in my life and I can do this at my desk while pretending to work. I write because I feel compelled to get some of the thoughts rattling around in my head on paper (or screen) because otherwise, I lie awake at night composing blogs instead of getting my beauty sleep. I write because I believe that I am good at it. Because I think some of you are amused by my ramblings. Because I am sometimes amused by my ramblings. I write about what happens to me day-to-day because I don't know enough about anything else to write about it. And I can't do fiction. I write because I want so badly to be a published author, even if that means self-publishing the same way Lindsay Lohan does. And this is the result. Seventy-four entries, and counting, from the bowels of my brain and the detritus of my life.

I guess that's as good a description as anyone will get out of me today. That closet isn't going to clean itself.