It's Like Thunder... Lightening...

The first good Monsoon storm is in progress as I type this. It has been hotter than Satan's ball sack the last few days. Hot, hot, hot. Sunny. Heat wave hot.

Then the clouds built up, the thunder began to boom, the lightening began to flash and then... Miracle of miracles! Rain! Beautiful rain! Drenching, life giving, air cooling, sweet smelling, pattering on every surface, rain. It's still raining, right now. I am reveling in it as long as it lasts. All too soon, it will end, the sun will come back out and it will be boiling hot, again.

My neighbor. I am going to fucking kill him if his cigarettes don't, I swear I will. I had my windows open, enjoying the rain, the cool, the wind. Then my house was flooded. Fucking flooded with his fucking cigarette smoke. I started bitching about it, William the Wimp Asses Pussy Boy closed the windows and turned the A/C back on.

I am pissed. I was enjoying my storm but thanks to my nasty, yukky, cigarette addicted neighbor, apparently I am not allowed to have my windows open and have fresh air. HE gets to fucking smoke, smoke, smoke and pollute the air, stink it up and flood my house with his gross smoke but I can't say anything about it. I just want to:

Sometimes.

Really.

I think that this storm pretty much did in the Doce fire. I doubt that bad boy is still burning or if it is, the hotshots should be able to snuff it, now.

Zits? What The? And Revealing Something Major to Me...

Really?

At my age?

I'm forty-frakking-eight and in the last week I have had no fewer than three huge, juicy zits. I don't break out anymore. I just don't, And well I shouldn't. I mean, I am dealing with the early signs of Crone; fine lines, a few wrinkles popping up, a little saggy action here and there, hooded eyes... It happens, I accept it and I am okay with it. I lied, I'm not but yeah, whateves. I don't think that I should be forced to put up with zits, too. I just don't. I think it should be zits or wrinkles. 

Not both. 

Oh no. 

Not both. Not fair. Not acceptable. 

So, the last couple of days were good. I ate well, got my water. I am planning to start walking again, soon. Once I get over the initial goofy-ness. I always go through a phase where I feel a bit light headed, weak and strange and unwell-ish as I get on track and my bod adjusts. I go through it, every time. I know that I need to get past it then I am good. 

I'm not flawless... I munched a couple of handfuls of nasty store brand potato chips, yesterday and killed a single serving bag of Doritos, today. I logged the calories. I am not beating myself up. I am human. I am flawed. And so it goes. 

I am not doing this on my own, this time. I am getting help. 

Big help. I made a momentous decision and have decided to go forward with having WLS. I had my first appointment at True Results in Scottsdale, last week to see about getting a Lap Band. The appointment was a good one, I qualify, (duh!) my insurance covers it. I have a documented history, co-morbidities, a frightening family history and a terrible personal history at weight loss attempts. I have some hoops to jump through before my insurance will approve; actually, it is my husband's company. go figure. Whatever. If they want to me to jump, I'll jump. I have to do four months of supervised by the center dieting, have a psych eval, (that should be fun, I've never done that, before) have a consult with a nutritionist. True Results is in network and everything is covered. Yay!

I am not going into this lightly. I have done my research, time and again. My eyes are wide open. I understand the benefits, the risks, the statistics. I have gone over this six ways from back and forth. Debated it, debated it, again. I tried on my own. Tried so hard and I thought, I really thought I had it beat. But I didn't. I just didn't. I need help. And I am not too proud to admit it and I am not too proud to reach out and take it. So that is where I am with that. I have officially begun my four month hoop-jump.

I don't expect everyone to agree with my decision and that is just fine. I know what some people will think:

 I haven't. Trust me. I know that in the past I was outspoken that I could do this on my own. I thought that I could. I really thought that I could. But I also said that I wasn't opposed to WLS, that I fully respected anyone who made that decision for themselves. I still feel that way. I feel that everyone needs to do what is right for them, make the decisions, choices that are right for them, that work for them. I don't dictate, I don't judge. I am not living in someone else's body or life, I am not going to tell them how to care for that body or live that life.

I feel very good about this decision. I have no nervous feeling about this decision, no doubts, no second thoughts. I am calm, steady, this is right.

My cat is bugging me for treats. Greedy little orange fuzzbutt anyway. 

Going Along Well Then...

Chips and Salsa

I was indulging in my new addiction. Sherlock, the British version and I was unthinking and did not stop with the chips and salsa. Otherwise my day wasn't too bad. I ate so many chips and salsa, William ate so many, Patrick at so may that there are no more chips left so I can't get myself into anymore trouble with crunchy, salty, white corn goodness.

Sadly, there are no more delicious Sherlock episodes on YouTube for me to goggle for free. Guess it is time for me to break down and get Netflix 'cause Mama needs more Sherlock. Mama needs all of the Sherlock.

In other entertainment news, we are Die Hard fans in this house. All of the movies have been watched time and again. Enjoyed, time and again. A Good Day to Die Hard, the fifth offering was junk. Garbage. Terrible. It had a few okay moments but overall it was a big fat fail. I think it is safe to say that the Die Hard Franchise has jumped the shark.

There's clouds out there! Woot! I don't think that they will actually dump anything on us but they give me hope.

Summertime... And the Living is...

It just is.

Over a month. Yeah. I have sucked as a blogger, here. Again. I think about things I want to talk about, think that they aren't worth talking about and I don't. Or I figure that I am so nattery on Facebook why bother or whatever. But what the fuck? This is my blog. I'll write what I want, when I want.

Duh!

That was kind of liberating.

Speaking of which...

I got on the scale at a doctor's office last week and:

 

 Yeah, I know. What I didn't know, because I was too chicken shit to get on my scale was just how much... 

I am back up to 371.

Needless to say, I am madder than a wet hen at myself. I am doing something about it. Hence having been at a doctor's. More deets to come, as things progress. What I will say is I am back on track eating better. I am going to get back out walking next week. This shit has got to stop. It is going to stop. I am not getting any younger and I can't expect to keep dodging a bullet as far as my health is concerned, forever. Especially with my frightening family history!

We are still in the condo. I don't understand William's malfunction. I mean, seriously. He doesn't even seem interested in house hunting. Not even interested. WHY????????????????? I am so. Fucking. Over this place. Over it like a cat is over a bath. Over it. I am sick of opening my windows to enjoy the cool evening breeze and getting a face full of my neighbor's cigarette smoke. I am sick of not being able to sleep with an open bedroom window for the same reason. I am tired of being cramped into this small place. I need more room. I want one level. I would like all hard surface floors. We had the broadloom shampooed which has made this place more pleasant and a lot cleaner but still...

Broadloom is disgusting. And I am over it, too. 

Bitch, bitch, bitch. 

But seriously. I can't figure the hubbs out. I just can't. Why is he so in love with staying here? I mention hunting and he rolls his head, gets that muleish look, changes the subject. I am sick of his bullshit. Really. Sick of it. I am ready to throw something at his head. Something heavy and covered in spikes. 

With my luck I'd miss. I throw like a girl. 

Not an athletic girl. A wimpy, weak armed, mall crawler girl. 

So, Topmax. Or the generic,Topiramate. My cheap-ass insurance. It likes generic. Same shit, Whatever. Anywhoozle, it worked great for a couple of weeks. I only had a couple of auras and minimal, Cat. 1-2 pain. Now, not so much. But it helps me sleep which is good, my sleep rhythms go to hell in the Summer, for some reason and I sleep like shit, this time of year, and I don't want to stop taking it until I see my doc, again so I keep on, hoping it will magically start working, again. Ha! Fat chance. Migraines blow. They suck ass.

I can't wait until next Saturday. I have an appointment to have my hair done. I have roots out to here and my fringe needs trimmed.