Tag Archives: bitch in the bathroom

Scraping A Two.


So this last week was going to be my super-clean eating week, right? As I gazed at the week ahead last Sunday, clearly I overlooked the night-in-with-gin and the day trip to London (which, by the way was all kinds of awesome) which had the potential to make the wheels come off my plan. Keeping my shit together requires me to call out stuff like that with a big red warning triangle in my head.

I’d probably have emerged from underneath last week clutching a gold star if I hadn’t returned to the Kingdom of Pain on Thursday, to be greeted by the stern-faced man mountain inviting me to hop on the scales. I’m here to tell you there was no hopping going on…as I hoisted myself up, I felt like everything was going in slow motion, you know? I reckon it was the weight of impending doom that slowed everything right down. I’d been inactive and armchair-ridden for more than a week so the prospect of a weigh-in didn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Surprisingly, I’d worried for nothing. Between Sunday morning when I drew my line in the sand, and Thursday evening, I’d somehow shaken three unwelcome pounds off my arse and that was enough to dodge the bullet which God of Pain reserves specially for folk who aren’t achieving greatness in the weight-loss stakes. Phew.

Except, in my head that gave me licence to get up to devilment this weekend. The Asshole inside my head put forward a very convincing argument that I was unlikely to be subjected to the bitch in God of Pain’s office again for at least two weeks, so I could take my foot off a little, just for my birthday celebrations and maybe the day trip to London.

Come on Dee, really where’s the harm? There’s no fire to put out…there’s no mountain looming which requires you to be a certain weight is there? So it’ll take you a week longer to get in those size twelve skinny jeans, I mean big deal…you’re at least a fucking year away from wearing them anyway so what’s another week? You can take this at your own pace, come on lighten up, it’s your birthday…

So I did. Take it at my own pace I mean. Depending on which way you look at it, I managed to be both quick and slow at the same time, like some kind of dieting foxtrot. The only thing I slowed down was my progress, and everything else speeded right up…the speed at which I said yes please to a banana and maple syrup muffin on the train for example was lightening-quick.

And once I’d got a taste for it, the speed at which I pinched my mum’s banana and maple syrup muffin bordered on indecent once I’d established she didn’t want it. There was no cooling off period where the muffin sat untouched on the tray table whilst she decided…all it took was one almost-curl of her nose and I was all over that muffin faster than she could form the words to turn it down.

The fresh fruit option got ignored in favour of strawberry yoghurt and granola as a pre-cursor to the muffin and given how good that yoghurt tasted, trust me when I say it hadn’t come out of the low-fat corner of the kitchen. So between Leeds and London I fell off the wagon. And once we were in London, I went under the wheels completely.

I ate a burger. And I don’t mean a skinny little mass-produced plastic burger, oh no…this was the real deal…a burger that knew how to be a burger, with all the trimmings. Like the fries for example.

I didn’t just order fries, I ordered fries covered in cheese and bacon bits. I’ve never tasted anything so divine in my whole entire life…do you know how long it is since I ate cheese..? Shit the bed, it was awesome. This was our pre-matinee theatre lunch. Mum’s Cobb salad looked really good, I would have been more than happy with that myself on any other day. Just not this day. This day, the Asshole voice totally knocked it out of the park.

I didn’t even leave it with the burger. I had honey and ginger ice-cream in the theatre between acts one and two, and then a sandwich and two more muffins on the train journey home.

Yesterday was Sunday. Weigh day. And oh look, I appear to have reloaded one of those pounds…what a fucking surprise, said nobody at all.

Ah well…it is what it is. I had a ball, and my net position is okay. We’re back on track and this week there are no days out or catered meals. It’s just a normal week, with no warning triangles on my calendar and I’m on it. Please God I’m on it…cross my heart 🙂


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It’s Going To Be A Beaut


So it was a great weekend at Foxy Lodge, all things considered. I got there late and proceeded to cough and splutter my way through the weekend with a bit of a dodgy chest, in fact right now I sound like I’ve been smoking forty Capstan full-strength on a daily basis for the last twenty years. One of the gang almost didn’t make it at all due to a whoopsie on the stairs a few days ago which resulted in blue flashing lights and a broken bone, but even though we were a bit battle-scarred we’ve still pretty much laughed our way through the last couple of days. I love my girlies to the moon and back again.

Most importantly, I’m not emerging from the other side of my weekend with any bruises on my conscience as a result of me being really naughty. I had some drinks, I had some nibbles and I didn’t smart-point my meals, but we’ve eaten plenty of healthy stuff and I didn’t go mad. Well, I went mad on grapes actually, but not on anything bad. I walked a bit, and I found a balance that I was happy with and it just felt normal.

And yesterday, well I was right back to counting points and I’m happy to do it. I’ve got a good run at this now, come on lets make a dint in those regained pounds this week. There were six of the unwelcome little fuckers re-glued to my arse by the time I drew a line in the sand last week, did I mention that? No, *coughs* I didn’t think I had. Well there we go then…their ass belongs to me in the month of November, and by the time December gets here they’ll be toast. Six pounds on is what one bad month looks like in my world…now allow me to demonstrate what a good month is all about. November you’re going to be a beaut.

I’ve got a couple of fairly tough days coming up this week…I’m working until mid afternoon tomorrow and then I’ll be on a train for around seven hours followed by an overnight stay, and one meeting the following morning before I have to do the whole thing again in reverse. Two days when my sustenance will need to come from the best that the buffet car can offer…unless.

I need a plan. There’s an M&S Simply Food in the station, so here’s what I’ll do. I’m going to stock up on the snacky things I love to eat and can easily count as part of my food budget. I’ll get some fruit and a table picnic for my journey and that way I know I’ll be able to steer clear of the chocolate muffins and Haribo and ten-fingered kit-lats which usually seduce me as they go past on the catering trolley.

That sounds simple doesn’t it? Plus, I’ll have you lot to keep me company – well, on the way down at least….you’re my secret weapon. On Wednesday as I’m heading home I’ll be working pretty much all the way, but on the way down it’ll be evening all bar a couple of hours so I can chat to you guys and draft Wednesday’s blog post which will keep my hands from feeding my face with anything on the banned substance list, right? Don’t you just love a plan.

Apart from feeling a bit grim with my ropey old chest, I’m happy and optimistic going into this week…it’s the first one in a while where I’ve got a number in mind for my encounter with the bitch in the bathroom next week, and I’m going for it, big time. I’m not allowed to work out until my chest infection has gone, so right now it’s all about managing what goes in my mouth.

Come on, I can do this…let the dog see the rabbit 🙂


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Nothing Happened Here

happy dance

So I’ve got to be honest, waking up with the rocky road spoon in my bed made me laugh out loud, but it also served as a reminder of the way things used to be with me. And along with the spoon came not a small amount of regret for allowing myself to get carried away in the moment, well several moments if we’re being honest. I did some quick mental calculations as to exactly how badly I’d fubar’d and it was a wake-up call…enough now.

The last two days I was fairly sensible. I had to go see the ship’s doctor on Thursday after a miserable day walking around Bergen with earache – well, miserable until 1) I walked into a clothes shop in the town and came out with four off-the-peg garments which fit me 🙂 and 2) I met the ship’s doctor who looked like he’d just stepped off a movie set. When I shook his hand and said hello I was practically leering. I reminded myself of Sid James clocking Barbara Windsor’s chesticles, which is a bit embarrassing given that he probably wasn’t much older than my boy.

Anyway, being loaded up with antibiotics along with the earache made me feel a bit crappy so on our last day at sea I was very lethargic and the exercise thing just didn’t happen…I think the most energetic thing I did was turn the pages of my book.

Reflecting on the awesome week and chatting it all through with my friend as we waited to disembark, I estimated that the likely outcome of the week I’d had would see the bitch in the bathroom serve me up a two pound gain the following day. Two pounds sounded fair, you know? Deserved…I’d worked hard but I’d played hard too, and I was ready to embrace two pounds as being totally worth that exquisite Chateaubriand, and the incomparable jaffa cake desert, and the customary poke about the cheese board which by the end of the week had become a regular thing…the ice creams and the waffle and all my other little indiscretions…two pounds sounded about right.

Eight pounds on the other hand, did not. I must have spent at least half an hour on Sunday morning nudging that fucking scale around every tile on the bathroom floor trying to source at least one favourable reading, but no…eight pounds, I mean come on. No way did I consume nearly thirty thousand extra calories over the course of the week and anything I did eat was offset against a ton of active stuff…I was beyond pissed off.

It was still showing that unwelcome number by Tuesday, despite me hitting Sunday head on with as strong a resolve as ever, getting straight back onto my regular food plan and walking Charlie for at least five miles every day since I’ve been back. The first session back in the Kingdom of Pain was horrendous. It was like going right back to my first ever session, I felt so sluggish and everything was hard. And then suddenly, (forgive me being indelicate) it occurred to me that it might have been four or five days since I’d been…you know, for a visit.

Now, I don’t know about you and your ablutionary habits, but me, I’m a bit vague. I don’t really give it much thought…not like some folk I’ve known, who want to call a press conference if nothing’s happened daily by 10am. Me, well pardon the pun, shit just happens. Except since probably Thursday last week in my case it hadn’t. Oh my God I can’t even believe I’m talking about this in here…there’s honest, and then there’s too much information, right?

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’d felt the full force of God of Pain’s disapproval after his scale revealed the same number as mine, but he dispensed some words of wisdom relating to prunes when I filled him in on what was emerging in my mind as the front runner culprit for the outrageous weight gain and feeling of being bloated. And having followed his advice, lets just say over the last couple of days mother nature did her thing.

I hopped on God of Pain’s scales again last night before my fat furnace session and I’m very happy to report that I’m now just one pound heavier than I was before my holiday, and that’ll be gone by Sunday. Nothing happened here. I went, I had a ball, and I earned most of my treats as I went along. I enjoyed every single one of them, and now I’m on it like a car bonnet.

As soon as I got home I went right back to my own new normal, and contrary to any worries I might have had, I’ve done it without a fight. I swear, I could do my happy dance for twenty four hours straight up. And I can honestly say that I am just as determined as I was last year when I got back from holiday and started my diet…it’s all good.

So…next stop Cuba. Five weeks today we fly out for what will without doubt be the most physically challenging five days of my life, so it’s all systems go here for the final push. I’d like to take off at least another ten pounds before we leave so there’s hard work to be done…let’s get to it 🙂

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Not Even Close


Well…where do I start. I think I mentioned didn’t I that I was anticipating the odd challenge towards the back end of last week, but I had a plan, right? I was working away Thursday and Friday, but I had it all figured out. The hotel I was staying in had a gym, blah blah blah…sadly I was accompanied on my trip by the fuck-up fairy, and it’s safe to say things didn’t go according to plan. Not even close.

But let me rewind. The week was going great, right up until Thursday morning when I left for my two-day trip. I’d completed all my planned sessions in the Kingdom of Pain, and I’d walked pretty much every day…I was on track food wise, in fact it was shaping up to be another textbook week.

The two-day meeting was a big conference-type get-together for a sixty strong team that I support and there were a few things which I knew straight off the bat I was going to struggle with. For example, there was an outdoor hog roast planned for dinner on the Thursday evening, and no word of a lie, I’d dreamed more than once in the early part of the week about that crispy salty pork crackling, and how many kinds of awesome it was going to be.

I knew how much I’d struggle to say no. I thought about how many different ways I could avoid even being within sniffing distance and I couldn’t quite figure it out so I set off knowing it was going to test me. What I hadn’t anticipated was all the other stuff.

I got to the hotel well before nine on the first morning after a couple of hours in the car, to be greeted by a massive tray of hot bacon sandwiches in the coffee area. I went through the motions of saying no, before driving myself bat shit crazy for ten minutes walking around the room chatting to colleagues, all the time furiously calculating and re-calculating the effect a bacon sandwich might have on my daily food budget. I came to the conclusion that it would make a big hole in it, as I caved in and helped myself to a plate. I estimated about twelve points out of my thirty five point daily budget. Ouch.

As soon as I walked into the conference room, my Asshole voice started doing his happy dance. There were goodies on every table…dishes of bite-size chocolate bars, chocolate-covered raisins and even bags of candy-floss to support the seaside theme. Whichever seat I’d taken I would’ve been within touching distance of all things naughty. So, did I sit and ignore it all because I’d just eaten a third of my daily food budget and I shouldn’t be even thinking about chocolate..? No, of course I fucking didn’t. I dived right in.

I started off with the intention of counting the points for everything I ate. I made a deal with the fuck-up fairy, brokered of course by the Asshole voice which meant I could take my foot off a little and have a few treats on the basis that I had some exercise points I could dip into, you know? I even wrote down what I ate so I could tot it up later on. Shall I share the list..? One toffee. Then two malteser chocolates, closely followed by two mini galaxy caramels. Then one more of those, one mini mars bar and a handful of chocolate raisins followed by seven mint humbugs.

At the first coffee break there were giant cookies on offer so of course I had one of those, followed by three mini bounties and a jaffa cake. I’d already run out of my food budget by this point although for some bizarre reason I carried on writing things down. Lunch was a buffet and trust me when I say…well, I don’t need to say it do I..? I was out of control. The hog roast didn’t live up to expectations but to be fair I felt so sick by the time  evening came, even if it had I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. But I ate it anyway. Followed by a dirty great piece of chocolate fudge cake.

I laid in bed on Thursday evening and felt like shit. I’d taken my iPad so I could write Friday’s blog post but you know what, I simply couldn’t summon any words…I was transported right back to those dark dark days of binge/food coma/self-loathing/guilt/remorse and repeat. I’d almost forgotten what it was like but hell’s teeth that was a sharp reminder.

I’d love to say that Friday was better, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t as bad but I was way off track. I ate things I shouldn’t, and I didn’t even write them down. I got home and finished the day off by eating chow mein and prawn toast from the Chinese takeaway. I mean, I’d already blown it, right?

Saturday…Saturday was better. But not brilliant. I still made some dodgy food choices but I exercised. I walked with some friends and it felt good. The Asshole voice was busy screaming start again Monday of course but actually, my weigh day is Sunday. So I picked myself up and started again Sunday.

I’ve written the last three days of my last dieting week off, and the bitch served up a three pound gain with a smile yesterday morning. I could weep, but I did it to myself, and I take responsibility for it. I deserve those three pounds.

So I’m a bit shaken if I’m honest, about how quickly I descended into anarchy. I thought I’d cracked it but clearly not. And it remains as ever incredibly hard to climb back on the wagon when I’ve taken a tumble and gone under the wheels…this morning I feel stronger, with a very good day under my belt yesterday…today it almost feels like the binge never happened. With a headwind behind me and the Gods of Skinny on my side I’ve somehow managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and I’m back on track.

This week, I’m not going to step a toe out of line. I’ve got three pounds to lose, right?


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Choosing My Reaction


So yesterday morning I leapt out of bed, barely resisting the temptation to rub my hands together in glee as I manoeuvred the bitch in the bathroom onto her usual tile for the weekly weigh-in. Over the last week, my input has been outstanding. I finished the week knowing that my eating had been completely clean, and I’d accrued fifty five extra exercise points that I hadn’t even dipped into, I mean that’s hardcore, right? I was able to look myself square in the eye and know I couldn’t have done more.

One pound off. All that, and I lost one measly poxy pound. How is that even possible? Despite the usual routine of multiple step-ons on different tiles the bitch failed to yield so much as an extra ounce, and after twenty four hours’ reflection it still feels spectacularly unfair that a body that is still carrying so much blubber can only offer up one solitary fucking pound.

And breathe…I refuse to get down about it because don’t we all know how fast that makes the wheels come off? I’m trying to be philosophical, so I’m choosing my reaction carefully and after a lot of thought I have chosen to focus on the positives instead. Of which there are many, actually.

My shoulder is feeling better…God of Pain is slowly reintroducing kettle bells into my circuit training. (Asshole voice just spat out his morning coffee – you’re looking for positives and THAT comes out of your mouth first??? We HATE kettle bells, they’re a THING.) Well yes, I know I hate the blasted things but every time I feel the burn I know they’re working stuff that needs to be worked so I don’t need to enjoy them, I just need to embrace the discomfort and appreciate what they can do for me.

My shape is changing, so although the pounds are clinging like shit to a stick I’m prepared to concede that the the way I look continues to go in the right direction. People are noticing, you know? If my weight was dropping more quickly but I couldn’t see much of a difference in the way I looked I’d be even more pissed off, so on balance I’d rather have it this way around. I’m choosing to believe that I’ve got the whole muscle weighs heavier than fat thing going on under the surface, which feels more like a reason than an excuse.

My biggest victory of all this week? One chocolate biscuit and a cup of tea for supper on Saturday. Uhuh *nods* yes you really did hear me say one chocolate biscuit. And it wasn’t the last one either, you know like accidental self-control which doesn’t really count? There’s a whole packet in the cupboard, and I just had one. With fifty-five untouched exercise points on the table which were due to expire at midnight, I still just had one.

Go on, admit it…I am a rockstar 🙂

This week is going to take some careful thought. I’m working away the last two days of the week, so controlling my diet is going to be more of a challenge, and I’ll also have to miss three of the classes I normally go to. I’ve substituted them for different ones so I’m good with it. I can adapt. Plus, there’s a gym at the hotel we’re staying in so I’m all over that. And after a cracking walk yesterday with some of my Kingdom of Pain buddies, we’ve lined another one up for next Saturday…there won’t be a day where I don’t do something.

Onwards, right? Let’s see what the bitch can throw at me next week 🙂


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