I know I’ve said this before. Weight/health out of control. It isn’t that big a deal now as I am still youngish, but I can see if I continue down this path I won’t be a happy camper.

It’s not I eat huge amounts every day but I do make really poor food choices. And I’ve been drinking Wayyyyyyyyyy too much which is an easy way to get chubby.

So back on the wagon. I am trying to think of this as not a diet, but as a life change.

One little thing I am doing to make sure I move a little bit every day is I am no longer buying a weekly travel card and taking the train to Victoria. I’m going to do pay as you go, take the tube to Vauxhall and walk to work. Unless it is raining really hard. Or I am running really late. Or I am wearing bad shoes.

So here are the scary numbers. I’ll be doing this again on Sunday and then each Sunday thereafter.

175.8 pounds (79.7 kilograms)

Measurements (sigh)

42/24/46

R. Arm 13 inches
L. Arm 13.5 inches
R Thigh 26 inches
L Thigh 26.5
R Calf 15 1/4
L Calf 15.5

There are a few things about these numbers that I find disturbing and not just how large they are.

1. My thighs are larger than my waist.
2. The left side of my body is larger than my left.

Anyhoo.

Hopping along. . .

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I found these snippets of stories saved on my computer that I have started. Not even snippets. Sentences.

It was absurd. To be here. To think she was here again. For so long, years really, she thought that she simply was not I love you compatible. She was a Mac to everyone’s PC or there wasn’t a USB cord available to connect her and now here was this man saying love to her and she wanted to do nothing more but run.

What does it mean?!? I have no memory of writing the above. I have no idea what the story is.

When I dig a bit more, I find other stories that I think are overwritten, over stylized, over wrought tripe, but then I find one blurb I think is almost not vomitous.

He hated being the focus of attention. He had over the years cultivated the gift of becoming invisible. People would accidentally knock into him on the street, and then bustle off having no idea that the bump that they had just felt was a person and not a light post.

Other beginnings in search of an ending:

Sara never thought she would ever say that she hated Elvis. Hating Elvis was like saying you hated hot dogs with spicy mustard or banana cream pie or walking barefoot along the beach. There was just something wrong with you, wrong with your soul if you didn’t like Elvis. Then she saw her husband try and squeeze himself into a white jumpsuit bursting out like an overcooked bratwurst and she gained a sudden appreciation of hating The King.

And. . .

When Max ran down the list of women he’d fucked, Maggie stuck out. She’d kept a copy of Vogue and The Communist Manifesto in the bathroom. Both were waterlogged, dog-eared, revealing their owner’s bubble bath passion for Kate Spade pocketbooks and the plight of the working man. At the time Max had told himself it was a testament to her intelligence, her holding two wildly disparate ideas in her head. Later he realized that she was much more interested in what people thought she was than in cultivating any true character for herself. Great blowjob though.

Must write a proper story. Not just a beginning.

I want to earn a The End.

It’s been a while.

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Our client facing holiday party was at Somerset House last night. You can assume that since I am alive this morning, I did not ice skate.

I decided to dress like a girl and after a bit of vino we were all really flirty with each other. Rav and I did our usual pretend to be lesbian thing for the camera.

Colm looked at the view finder, “Why do I feel I have seen this picture before.”

At one point when we were dancing, one boy who is terribly shy normally and has a partner and I know full well is not even slightly into me was dancing all close. I was surprised, “Don’t do that. Come on, I don’t want to end up on Facebook.”

Lately there have been photos on Facebook posted documenting our team’s Bacchus moments.

It ain’t pretty.

We kept dancing. Why is flirting so fun with people you have zero interest in? At one point, he did the lean in– (again. . . Sooooo not like this guy) and I don’t know why I did this. . . I leaned in too, nipped his bottom lip, pulled back, laughed, then spun away.

Even though it was totally innocent, I am mortified this morning.

The next big party I am helping organise and I think I am going to stay (mostly) sober.

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Nicole-

Next time you go away for two weeks, it is ok to wear one outfit twice. It’s silly to pack clothing that you don’t even wear. Bring two pairs of jeans, a black skirt, a few shirts that go with both, one dress and a cardie. This is enough. Do not pack your gym kit. You know you aren’t going to go.

If you ignore the above, and pack your bag to the gills, do not go shopping.

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Last year I signed up for NaNoWriMo but didn’t even try because the timing of my mom coming over to visit. You know me. My Indian name would be Many Excuses. NoNoWriMo is the snappy name for National Novel Writing Month and thousands of people sign up and try to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

This year I thought I would just do NaNoBloPo or National Blog Posting Month but a few moments ago I thought. . . oh hell. Why don’t I go for it. 50,000 words. Maybe 100 of them will be words that are part of well constructed sentences.

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Like all bad ideas, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
 
“Let’s take the bus back to the hotel,” I said. I had taken it the day before and it wasn’t a problem. My colleague from Dublin agreed. I had said I was going to leave at 5:30 but around 4 I really was starting to drag so we made an early break for it.

Time: Around 4:30

First mistake. I didn’t check the schedule. As we walked to the stop, a few busses pulled away which meant it would be approx a half hour before the next bus.

Did I mention it is really chilly here in Seattle? No? Well, it is. Much colder than London at the moment.

Mistake the 2nd. I looked at all the bus routes at the stop. I knew the bus that I had taken the day before, but this time I also noted ones that said they were going to the Bellevue Transit Center which is around the corner from the hotel.

Mistake the 3rd. Two busses approached the stop. The first was not the bus I had taken the day before but ended up at the Transit Center. The second was the bus I had taken before.
We got on the first bus.

Time: Around 5:10

Traffic is terrible. Think of the worse traffic experience of your entire life and then times it by 5,000 and imagine you are on a bus.

After 45 minutes I started to get a bit worried about my bus choice. I don’t know the east side at all, but even for me it didn’t feel like we were anywhere near the hotel.

I ask the driver how much longer until we are at BTC.

“Oh! Not for another 45 minutes.”

Fuuuck.

I went back to my seat. “So good news. The bus will take us to the hotel. Bad news it will be 45 minutes.”

I am embarrassed. When I do stupid things like this, I am usually alone and don’t inflict my idiotness onto others. My colleague is being very Zen about the whole thing although she did say that she would get me back when I come to Dublin.

We finally are where we need to be, escape the bus, walk to the hotel, I go to my room and pull off my high heels.

Time: 6:45

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Eighth grade. Burkholder Junior High. 1983-84. That’s a long time ago. It’s so long ago, Michael Jackson hadn’t become a freak yet.

Time has smoothed out most of my memories and the only thing I remember about that year, besides being generally miserable, is I didn’t have breasts yet and everyone else seemed to, I didn’t go see Van Halen in concert and everyone else seemed to and I didn’t have a Flashdance shirt and everyone else did.

I also remember getting caught changing the grades on my report card because my name wasn’t in the newspaper.

I’ve always been a lazy student and was able to get by because I still got good grades. That all changed in Eighth grade. A few weeks before the first quarter report card came out, I discovered I had three C’s. I couldn’t have C’s! I wasn’t a C student! How was I going to tell my mother?

One afternoon, I somehow got the courage to tell her about one class to gauge her reaction. Would I be killed, seriously maimed or just not spoken to for a very long time?

She was. . . shall we say. . . not pleased.

After, I knew the smart move would have been to tell her about all three C’s at the same time rather than drag out the torture. I also knew there was no way in hell I could tell her about the remaining classes.

Being a creative girl, the answer presented itself clearly. All I needed to do was to change the grades.

In those days, the report card was given to us on a flimsy bit of paper and the grades were printed with a light dot matrix. I took a pencil and lightly ran it over all of the lines on the entire report. The C’s became B’s.

My death was avoided.

How my parents didn’t see the report card wasn’t sound, I don’t know. Foolish trust? I was a ridiculously good kid. It bought me some currency.

You would imagine that I buckled down and made sure my grades went up. That would have been the smart move. The next quarter, I earned C’s in the same three classes and I decided to change all three C’s to B’s this time. The problem was if this were my actual report card, I would have been on the honor roll.

I knew my mom. She would be telling my grandparents, the neighbors and random strangers in bathrooms that I was on the honor roll. The accomplishment of your children was serious currency. This in itself would not pose a problem. The problem was where we lived.

Henderson is a small town just outside Las Vegas, Nevada. Now, Las Vegas sprawl bleeds into Henderson, but in the 1980’s city lines were much more distinct. It was like living in a small town with one Catholic Church, one high school, one junior high, one elementary school and one little local paper called The Henderson Home News. The HHN would print such note worthy articles about the turnout at the rodeo, the minutes of the American Legion and Burkholder Junior High’s Honor Roll students.

For weeks after the second forged report card, I grabbed the paper and scanned it for the honor roll. It wasn’t there. I started to breath a bit easier. I had gotten away with it.

One morning, my sister and I were running a bit late and my mom drove us to school. I was in the front passenger seat and there on the floor was the latest edition of The Henderson Home News. I thought about trying to take it with me when I got out of the car but I didn’t see how I could do it without getting caught and having to explain why I wanted it. I ran the odds in my head. What was the likelihood that the article detailing the honor roll students was in this paper?

I knew I was seven out when I was called out of my first class to go to the office. The councilor sat me in a corner. I can’t remember his name, but I remember we saw him and his family at Mass each Sunday.

“Nicole. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Your mother called this morning–”

Fuck.

“—and she wanted to know why your name wasn’t on the list of honor roll students printed in the paper. So we pulled your report card—“

Fuckidty-fuck.

“–and told her your grades and it was a complete surprise to her. Do you have any idea why that is?”

I did what any reasonable person would do. Deny, deny, deny, deny. I kept that up for a good hour until my mother showed up.

Not a good scene.

Later at home she told me what really upset her was all this time I had been taking communion while I had been living this lie. I suspect that this was the beginning of my leaving the Catholic Church, but that’s another story altogether.

The next year, my freshman year in High School when I received my first report card, I earned five A’s and one D. The D was in Math. I would be a liar if I didn’t say there was a part of me that didn’t want to try out my art skills on that D but I didn’t.

It was a good thing, because my High School Councilor called my house after seeing the report card. Five A’s and a D was a bit of a red flag and he wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem.

My mom and I told him no. I just really sucked at Math.

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Sorry for the quiet this week. Been a few days of meetings and as feared more drinking that is safe for such dangerous things as walking and having polite conversation.

I am going to inflict one of my I’m not going to drink for a month (at least)rules on myself because of it. Thursday night I had a few too many and I was loud and beyond obnoxious. The only reason why I am only embarrassed and not mortally embarrassed is that everyone else was also loud and obnoxious. (Never mind some people that pulled even though in one situation the girl is engaged and in the other he just moved in with his girlfriend. The last person sparked one of my loud and obnoxious rants. Told him he was acting like a C-word for cheating, that he was being a twat at work, no one respected him and he knew better than to behave that way. While I was right, I might have said it in a better way. Funny part is he agreed with me.)

Lille asked about Javed when we arrived. They didn’t detain him this time, but if they had it would have been okay because it took two hours for our luggage to come off the belt and I wish I was exaggerating. A flight arrived from France the same time as ours did and I think it was just too much for the little Seattle airport to deal with.

I did witness some cop behaviour which scored high on the wanker scale.

Standing at luggage with Gabe, the other token American. Here’s a picture of Gabe.

He is relatively normal looking even though he wears his trousers low and his pants high. Cop came over to us and asked Gabe to see his passport and customs card. Cop looked it over. . .

 ”You live in the UK?”

I don’t know why, but immigration officials have a really hard time understanding Americans that don’t live in America. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten the “You live in the UK?!?” along with a look that suggests that I’m nuts for not living in the best country in the world.

“How long have you lived in the UK?”

“Seven years.”

“Why are you here?”

“Work. Meetings.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Xxxxxxxxx.”

“And you moved to the UK to work for Xxxxxxxxx?”

“I moved there for school.”

“Where did you go?”

At this point I was ready to be snarky and say, “Do you also want to know what his major was?” Please remember we had already been through immigration. We’re waiting for our baggage.

“You ever been arrested? Here or in the UK?”

Gabe had the sense to lie.

The whole exchange blew my mind. Gabe said it happens to him all the time.

I hate cops.

Anyway. Tuesday I didn’t sleep on the plane and I stayed up until 1 having a few (too many) drinks with my team because it was Adam’s birthday after I had dinner with Stephanie. With my jetlag coming this way I have found the only way I can sleep is if I exhaust and drug myself. Wednesday was meetings from 9-5 then a little party on the pier. Went to dinner, went out for one drink after and was in bed by 10:30.

Thursday breakfast at the market quick bit of shopping with Al and Ross then the company meeting at Safco field. After I meet up with my new team and we had a boat cruise from Seattle over to Bainbridge Island and back and I realised that when drunk my new team has a wild side that would give HR nightmares. I’m not sure why, but at one point a few people pretended to be a pole when another person pole danced on them. I have photographic evidence.

Came back to the hotel for a party here. It was decided that we would go to a club and because I am drunk and stupid I say yes. Got in bed at 2:30.

I was really ropey yesterday. Hands shook the whole day. By 5:30 I was in my frog pjs reading stuff on the puter, ordered room service and was fast asleep by 9.

Woke up at 4:30.

Meeting Monica and Meredith in a few hours for breakfast, then I’m shopping before I am off to the airport.

Wanna know what I am really excited about? I get to fly biz class back home. . .

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Two pints of Moose Drool with lunch at Etta’s.

One pint of ale four hours later with Meredith at Lola.

Two small glasses of wine with tasty, yummy pizza at Via Tribunali.

At the bar at 611 Supreme: One long island iced tea, one dirty Grey Goose martini, one lemon drop, one drink that we asked them to just make something up and it was really amazing and was mostly different types of vodka, one other drink that we asked them to make something up which was sort of like a lemon drop only not as sweet.

I think I have exceeded my alcohol units for the year.

–UPDATE–

I was reminded that in addition to the above cocktails, I also consumed a Side Car.

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I flew from one side of the tube car to another today. Actually two days ago, but I forgot to mention it. I also fell down my stairs. Yesterday. Not today. Today I was walking a bit stiff from my misadventures- flying and falling. I wish my funny walk was due to a physical activity that didn’t involve my hurting myself, but what can you do.

The driver on the Northern Line thought he was driving a train on the Victoria Line, whipping us around the corners. I picked a bad moment to flip the page of my free evening paper for stupid people, since he decided to hit the brake—

Hard.

I reached out for the pole to catch myself but I was gone.

Fast.

Average Speed =

Distance Traveled
——————–
Time of Travel

I flew from one end of the wide doors to the other, crashing into a guy leaning against the plexi glass. I was just glad that he was there and the baby stroller nearby wasn’t. That would have been bad.

I would have been in the Metro the next day:

Baby killed by stupid American who didn’t hold on to the rail for her entire train journey.

Of course after I crushed the guy like a bug, he being English said “I’m sorry”.

No he didn’t. I’m making that up.

The stairs story or why I am walking like The Bride of Frankenstein:

I managed to think I was on the landing when I had three more steps to go and I ended up in a big whimpering heap.

I’ve said this before when I mentioned my talent for falling down, but this is how I am going to die. . .

I am once again going to fall down my stairs in the middle of winter.

My phone is dead because I forgot to plug it in.

I’m alone in the flat so no one hears me mewing. I will manage to open the latch on our door and crawl into the shared hall of the other flat but they aren’t home.

I’ll open the front door of the house and shimmy outside.

It’s snowing.

I will then freeze to death because every Londoner that walks by will ignore my cries of help.

Then foxes will chew my arms off.

It’s either that or I will manage to set myself on fire.

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