Tag Archives: asshole logic

Spending What I’ve Earned *Cough*


So, I was telling you about my holiday…we got as far as Tuesday, and the first sign of wobbly wheels if I recall. It was fine, I mean nothing disastrous. I’d climbed the steps which would have counteracted some of the naughtiness at dinner that evening. Just not all of it. It might have brought me safely over the line of three courses. Maybe. But not five, and definitely not the cheese board.

That said, I enjoyed every mouthful, and the Asshole voice talked me into being okay about it with a fine selection of reasons why…the steps, the walking, you’re on holiday, everybody deserves a treat, you can’t expect your friend to eat alone, you’re doing a big hike tomorrow, you’ve deprived yourself for a whole fucking year and you deserve this…

And it’s true, I was doing a big hike the next day. Which seemed to offset a whole host of eating opportunities, in fact it would be fair to say there was definitely a bit of creative accounting going on. Let’s count them…you’d better have a good breakfast, you’ll need the energy. (Number 1) – Cue full English breakfast, on account of the fact that we were meeting for the hike at 12.20pm and wouldn’t be eating lunch. That’s plausible, right? Most important meal of the day and all that.

And after that big breakfast we had a busy morning…Wednesday was Geirangerfjord, a stunning village at the foot of the enormous mountain I was going to hike up in the afternoon on an organised excursion. My friend and I walked a fair distance as we explored, climbing at least as many steps as I’d done the day before only this time it was up the side of a waterfall. It was so pretty I forgot to notice how much effort it took to get up there you know?

When we got back down to the village there was a little cafe selling ice-cream, and Asshole logic suggested that a small snack might be in order whilst I waited for my tour group, seeing as I’d used up quite a lot of energy climbing the waterfall. I’m not sure three scoops in a cone the size of a small hat was absolutely necessary but hey, I was hiking up a mountain, so I’d burn that off in no time, right? (Number 2).

And then the hike…man that was hardcore. We walked about three and a half miles, to a height of around 650m and it was challenging walking, with a guide who must have been some distant relative of Usain Bolt. At one point I thought perhaps my lungs were going to explode, but I just pushed through it, and powered as I was by mint choc-chip, pistachio and rum and raisin ice cream I made it to the top, and the waterfall we’d gone to see was spectacular.

I’ve got to be honest, it was worth the climb. We were looking down on the clouds as they blew in and out, and when they cleared the views were breathtaking. And I felt genuinely on top of the world, it was certainly the most physically challenging thing I’ve done to date but I did it, and what’s more there were younger fitter folk who took longer to get up there than I did. It seems I have some grit when it’s needed…who knew? Coming down was tough on the knees and I was glad to get back to the valley, but all in all it was an awesome experience.

Before we went back to the ship they took us to a little farm nestled against the hillside where they served us coffee and big fat waffles loaded with jam and cream. I was going to say no thanks, but before I had chance, yes please came out. Fuck. But it was okay, because I’d just climbed a mountain, right? I’d earned that waffle. (Number 3)

When I finally got back on the ship, my friend had bagged a table in the pool bar out on deck at the very back of the ship so we could enjoy the sail-away from the best seat in the house, and we ordered a bottle of wine, which to be honest barely touched the sides as it went down. Shall we have another..? Oh go on then…be rude not to…things got a little jumbled after that.

I remember us deciding that since the scenery was so stunning we’d forget about dressing for dinner and we’d stay up on deck, grabbing something from the buffet to eat where we were sitting. Never a good idea when you’ve got a couple of bottles of wine under your belt, especially when you fancy everything on the buffet and you can keep going back for more. And double especially when you’ve climbed a mountain and feel like you’ve earned a bit of what you fancy, having conveniently forgotten that you’ve already spent anything you’ve earned twice over, on the full English, the whopper ice-cream, the fully loaded waffle and two bottles of wine.

And best not get me started on the rocky road dessert. I had at least one whilst we were up on deck and I seem to remember taking one down to the cabin with me when we made our way to bed much, much later that night. Actually that’s not strictly true, I don’t remember doing that per se but the empty dish was there when I woke up and there was a spoon in bed with me.

I shall complete my holiday memoir in the next post. For now, let’s just say I’m in the process of dealing with the aftermath..  🙂

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Limping Across The Finish Line…

finish line

Crikey I’ll tell you what, I know I was leaning towards feeling mardy about the fact that I was only going on holiday for a week this year instead of two, but as it turns out that’s probably a good thing. I reckon one more day and caution may well have been well and truly thrown to the wind. We’ve had a great holiday but staying on the straight and narrow was much much harder than I thought it was going to be.

I’d love to be able to tell you that I didn’t put a foot wrong whilst I’ve been away. I mean, I talked a really good game before I left, didn’t I..? I was a woman with a plan, and I was going to stick to it. And I did on day one, and mostly on day two but then as the week’s gone on, I’ve fallen out of the naughty tree and hit quite a few branches on the way down. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being really disciplined and focused and one completely flipping the bird to anything resembling self-control, I started the week around an eight or nine and probably limped across the finish line scraping a three. Dammit.

Pretty much as soon as we got on the ship I headed up to go check out the gym and all the fitness facilities. My head was full of all the things I was going to do. But then I met the fitness woman and she managed to talk me through all the classes that were available whilst at the same time giving me that look…you know the one I mean, where someone’s eyes contradict what’s coming out of their mouth?

You’d be very welcome in the spinning class are the words I heard, but the eyes said don’t even fucking think about it, my gym isn’t for people like you, in fact we’re way out of your league, now run along…go and be fat and old somewhere else.

And I let it get to me, which in hindsight was more than a bit stupid. But it put me right off, you know? I did still intend to go the next day, but I got the times wrong due to switching off mobile data on my phone which then didn’t update the time change on my watch overnight – duh – so I missed the first class, which made me then feel even more awkward about going to the next one…the Asshole voice definitely had a hand in all that because whatever was going on was one hundred percent in my head.

So anyway, to cut a long story short, I decided to stop stressing about it and walk instead. Whenever we cruise, my friend starts her day off with three miles around the promenade deck, and I joined her this year for the first time…hell, I even jogged a little bit of it. At pretty much first light we could be found outside on deck seven, with the wind in our hair and fresh air in our lungs which to be fair was much nicer than the stupid gym anyway. Three times around was one mile, and we just carried on walking until we’d hit our three miles target.

Most days by the time we went to bed we’d walked seven or eight miles, and especially on days where we’d walked around our ports of call we’d done even more. In Alesund there was a viewing platform on top of the tallest peak in town, which was reached by a little tourist train that buzzed up and down the hairpin bends snaking their way to the top, or by four hundred and forty four steps cut into the hillside.

My friend and I went up together on the little train, intending to leave it at the top and walk down the steps but my friend wanted to stay on for the rest of the tour so that’s what we did. Once it dropped us off having shown us all the sights we had a good walk around the town, poking about in little shops and doing our holiday thing, which was lovely. The fact that I’d not even walked down the steps was bugging me though. It kind of felt like a missed opportunity.

So, when we went back to the ship I got changed into my exercise gear and went back on shore, and I walked those steps on my own, every one of them, right up to the top . I swear the views were better second time around, after I’d earned the right to sit and enjoy them. It was steep and tough but I loved it, and more than that, I loved knowing I could do it, you know? Without actually dying. If you’ve been following the Facebook page you might have seen the pictures.

Thing is, knowing I’d done it somehow made me feel like I had license to take my foot off the gas where my food was concerned as we went down to dinner that night. And that wasn’t a good move…if it wasn’t nailed down, I ate it. I’d been fairly sensible up to that point but I’d just walked the steps so in my head that meant I’d earned enough brownie points to take care of however many fucking calories chef could throw at me. Appetiser, soup, main, dessert…cheese board? Hell yeah bring it on…I climbed the steps.

And that’s the point at which I sort of lost the plot…we were halfway though the holiday at this point, it was Tuesday and the wheels were starting to wobble.

I’d carry on telling the tale right now if I wasn’t now in full damage limitation mode, however my walking boots are waiting along with my enthusiastic fur-baby who’s reaping the benefits of me trying to make amends to myself for not quite pulling off the plan…don’t worry, I’ll pick up where I left off next time. You know me, I have to ‘fess up and cleanse my soul to you lot, it’s part of the deal 🙂

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Bending The Budget

budget deficit - recession 3d conceptSo I’ve got to hold my hands up and say that I’ve never been really good at budgeting. Cue hysterical laughter from anyone who knows me – I’m the ultimate ‘champagne lifestyle on a prosecco income’ kind of girl. Always have been. My mum was exactly the same…I always remember the twinkle she’d have in her eye when she showed off a new purchase, usually accompanied by the words, ah I was just looking but the devil got behind me and pushed! So I’m very familiar with that feeling, you know when there’s just too much month left at the end of the money..? But then hey, that’s what credit cards are for, right?

I’ve never gotten myself into a situation I haven’t been able to unpick, but lets just say my bank manager lives on his nerves, and I’ve probably contributed more than most to his permanently furrowed brow and sweaty disposition.

I get it though. I understand why I love to spend. When my boy was small and I scratched a living as a single mum, money was really tight and I had no choice but to be really careful. He never went without, although I often did, but that’s almost beside the point – I became really good at creative accounting. Robbing Peter to pay Paul…borrowing from the fuel budget to buy food, paying for fuel from the Christmas fund and reallocating everything back to square the circle as soon as my work bonus dropped in.

Somehow I always got by, but I never felt like I had it all figured out, I was just good at juggling that’s all. I got away with it. In more recent times, money hasn’t been quite so tight and my splurges have grown in tandem with my income but somehow I’ve continued to sail close to the wind and get away with it,  often by the skin of my teeth before every now and again getting a reality check and properly pulling my belt in, spending virtually nothing until I’ve stepped back from the edge and got my financial ducks back in a row.

Thing is, my attitude towards my food budget has often followed a similar path. When I say food budget, I mean the amount of points or calories or whatever I’m counting on my diet of choice. Let me give you an example…lets imagine I’ve got 1200 calories a day…that’s what, 8400 a week? Woohoo!! Monday Tuesday Wednesday is open season, going great. Thursday and Friday there’s looking like a bit too much week left at the end of the calories but it’ll be ok, I can cut back a bit. Saturday and Sunday I can manage on a few leaves of spinach and half a walnut, it’s all good.

Tell you what, I’ll just borrow a few from next week’s calorie budget, if I even it out across the week I’ll hardly notice…Monday Tuesday go ok, Wednesday and Thursday it’s looking a bit sparse but it’s ok…I’ve still got half a bag of spinach and a slice of ham to see me over the weekend…and repeat. It doesn’t compute you know? It appears that I have to be stricter, more disciplined…more in control of my food budget than I’m used to being with my spending of anything else, ever.

Marry that with my food addiction issues, a tendency to binge and my asshole diet logic, and that boys and girls is called the perfect storm. Even now, from my pole position within the sweet spot, wholly committed to the cause and with the posse shoring up my backbone, faced with a buffet at work yesterday I was acutely conscious of the asshole’s twisted calculations going on in my head. How much of it could I get down my neck, if I just ring fenced a couple of points for supper…if I eat fifteen sausage rolls now I probably won’t be hungry later on anyway, right?

I overloaded on the buffet, and scraped through the rest of the day without blowing my points budget but I could have eaten a scabby donkey by the time my head hit the pillow last night…within plan, just, but not a sensible balanced disciplined choice of food spread throughout the day. Far the opposite…feast, then famine. So…where to spend, where to save and how to budget remains work in progress.

Unless it involves blowing my budget on a new handbag obviously…then the gloves are off 🙂

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Man Marking the Muffins


So it occurred to me that being a food hoover is far more complex when you’re a human being than it is when you belong to some other species. Bit of a random thought, but it popped into my head last night when I was cooking tea, having narrowly avoided tripping over the dog for about the tenth time.

Had anyone been observing the two of us as we moved about the kitchen, it must have looked a bit like a sort of clumsy ballet. Whenever there’s food, or the smell of food, or even the hope of food, my four legged fur baby welds himself to my side and develops eyes in the back of his head so he’s in exactly the right place at the right time to take advantage of anything which might come his way, either by accident or design. I take a step, he takes a step. I turn around, he turns around (unless the food is actually visible in which case he removes all risk of missing anything by walking backwards).

Even as a puppy he was solely motivated by food – within 3 days of coming home he’d pee on the puppy pad and then go wait expectantly by the fridge, and his love affair with chicken and sausage in particular continues to this day. Incidentally so does mine, but as a fat girl I’d die before being quite so obvious. As a skinny girl, you can get away with knocking people out of the way like skittles to get to the cake…people will smile and tease you about how you can love cake so much and stay so trim.  “You must have a worm inside you, ha ha ha”... As a fat girl, no chance. Those same people wouldn’t tease you at all, they’d probably just shake their heads sadly and think “No wonder…”

I’m convinced that’s why a lot of fat folk eat in secret, as though it’s something to be ashamed of. Or maybe it’s because we think people won’t notice that we’re fat if they never actually see us put anything in our mouths…that’s asshole logic if ever I saw it. But I for one have lived it! Eating publicly can be difficult when you’re bigger than the average bear – imagine two people walking away from a fast food counter with overloaded trays, one fat girl and one skinny girl…only one of them is going to feel self conscious, judged, ashamed that she’s not about to eat salad. Am I right?

So how come a slavish devotion to food is cute in a dog but shocking when you’re just a fat girl who can’t get it under control? Why does one provoke smiles where the other provokes scorn and judgement from the world in general? I’d hazard a guess that it’s because we’re supposed to be the ones with a fully formed thought process and a sense of reason – don’t get me wrong, dogs are bright but they’re not likely to think things through in a ‘better not have another bonio if I want to wear my favourite collar at the weekend’ kind of way. But we are, we’re supposed to have it all figured out.

But what if your thought process is broken? What if you have an asshole who lives inside your head and relentlessly kicks all reason into the long grass till you can’t get to it..? What then.

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Asshole Logic


I like to think I’m a fairly intelligent person. I mean not in an academic kind of way – I’ve got a handful of smarts but I was thinking more along the lines of plain old common sense logic. Give me a problem and I’ll usually figure out a way to solve it. Make it a complex problem and that really gets my grey matter working – I love a challenge. Thing is, when it comes to dieting, logic deserts me before I’ve even counted a single calorie.

I suspect it’s the asshole factor if I’m being honest. I’ve thought about this a lot and you know that way where someone from the I.T. service desk can dial into your computer and move your mouse? Well I reckon as soon as I talk myself into another diet, the asshole gets hold of my mouse and moves it around the bit of my head that controls logic.  I can provide examples.

I’ve never ever started a diet on any other day but a Monday. Why is that? Even the mandatoryJanuary diet – obviously you can’t start a diet on New Year’s day because of the hangover munchies. But unless the 2nd of January is a Monday, I can’t start it then either…it would have to be the first Monday after that.

And say for example I decide on a Thursday that I’m starting a diet on Monday, the next bit of asshole logic means that I have four days left to eat my bodyweight in all the naughty food I won’t be able to eat once I’m on the diet. That exact thing happened before I started this one – I got back from holiday on the Saturday having basically spent the previous 2 weeks eating my way through Northern Europe, in fact I don’t think my jaws stopped moving for two straight weeks. But between Saturday night and Monday morning I still managed to fit in a chinese takeaway, fish and chips and an Indian meal. Because asshole logic told me that I wouldn’t be able to eat them ever again, so it was now or never.

Of course had the asshole not been controlling my mouse, I would have realised that the more I ate pre-diet, the more I’d have to lose on the diet.  And god forbid I put a foot wrong – let’s say someone’s passing a bag of Maltesers around at work, and I take one. They’re like 8 calories each, but well that’s the day ruined isn’t it. I’ve cheated now so I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

So as the asshole jumps up and down with glee I’ll ignore the rabbit food I brought for lunch, and have a cheese and ham toastie from the deli up the road oh and a piece of battenburg cake whilst I’m there. I’ll start again tomorrow. Except tomorrow’s not Monday. I’ll start Monday.

Real logic would tell me that’s like walking 500 steps forward, stumbling back 2 steps and feeling like I’m back to square one. Of course I’m not – I’m 498 bloody impressive steps from the starting blocks and despite the stumble I’m still facing forward. But for as long as the asshole has his hands on my mouse, I’m afraid I’m shafted.

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