I’m Not Kidding

Taking my cue from the many other Twolia bloggers who are saying goodbye due to a bit of a policy and structural change at Twolia, I reluctantly wave my hand into the air and say farewell to this blog.

The path I took when I agreed to write for Twolia was one that held lots of excitement for me. I was honored to be asked to blog here, and the promise of being paid for my work while being part of a growing community of creative women truly gave me hope during a time of my life when I needed it most.

But sometimes hopes fade, and promises of what should be simply are not and time marches on. As we verge off one path in search of another, the one thing we have is what we have accumulated along the way. For me, in this process, I made a couple really great new friends. And I also had a ball with Catherinette and the ladies who participated in Operation Muffin Top(ple) — our little dietary challenge. I also came to the realization that my style of writing is very specific and somewhere along the way I stopped crafting my essays and started trying to journal on a daily basis. Instead of continuing my path and putting all my focus into what was working, I tried to change it–or tried to do “more” at any rate. Heck, I just wanted to get paid for writing…anything! But I know my style, and I know the stories I have to tell. I know what makes me happy to write, what makes me comfortable to write. And now I know what I have to do. I need to go back to basics.

I also found that I DO like writing about body image and weight and fitness issues and in respects to journaling–for lack of a better term–I do like to focus on that particular journey. That wasn’t really what “I’m Not Kidding” was supposed to be, I think I continued to pretty much have an identity crisis when it came to this blog and what I wanted the voice to be…so I felt like I couldn’t JUST write about my fitness ups and downs.  But maybe at some point in the near future…a more diet specific personal blog is something I might start. I’ll have my essays, and I’ll have that.  I’m thinking about it. We’ll see!

But for sure, I’ll be absolutely focusing again on my essays. I think I’ll be moving Flibbertigibbet to a Wordpress account, but in the meantime, I can still be found at http://kikiwalter.blogspot.com.

And that’s about it!  Many thanks to those of you who have been regular readers. If you don’t already, please follow me at Flibbertigibbet!

xo - KiKi

So, on the exterior I try to exude this fun loving, crazy, daffy, fly by night, roller derby and classic rock lovin’ persona but, on the inside, I am just like any other out-of-work single mom–totally obsessed with my diet, way behind in my housework, and probably just a little too heavy handed on the number of times a week I may serve frozen pizza for supper dinner.

Even more indicative of my status of “just another typical dame floating down the sea of life” are the many ways I choose to wallow in the choice moments of despair that grip us all a time or two week after week, month after month, year after year. High up there on the Greatest Hits of Living With Depression and Self Pity would be:

• Hankering for that glass of wine or three. Opening said bottle that was saved for a rainy day. Rinse. Repeat.
• Sleeping. Or not sleeping. Trying to sleep. Lying wide awake in bed at 2 in the morning–though completely zombified–watching The Facts of Life.
• Writing about or talking about to anyone who will listen (before they are able to run away–far, far away) about my diet, my obsession with food, my self-medication with food, all the ways I’m trying to control my diet.
• Working out. Nonstop.
• Screwing the aforementioned diet and binging on 8 snack packs of chips, half a box of Oreos, a box of cereal, a helping of ice cream, and left over Halloween candy.
• Blindly sending out a thousand resumes only to receive even more spam email back in return. Craigslist can kiss my ass.
• Daydreaming about how to go about finally writing my book, and then feeling so scattered I fall back on the diet talk, working out, or sleeping–or not sleeping.
• Daydreaming about how to get my life together, and then feeling so scattered I fall back on the diet talk, working out, or sleeping–or not sleeping.
• Lists. Making lots of lists. I have so many lists it’s crazy. Crazy, I tell you. Lists–grocery lists, wish lists, to do lists, writing project lists, day job search planning lists, getting life in order lists, mom lists, crap around the house that needs to be fixed lists, housekeeping lists.

(Speaking of lists, I’ve totally lost my focus here in writing that list.)

Today was like any other day in the life. I looked at the list. And today was the day I was going to go get 1) cat food and 2) light bulbs to replace the bulbs that have gone out in the refrigerator and various lamps around the house over the past like, year. Ahem.

Target, ah, Target. Seemingly stoic and innocent–but she is depression’s wicked mistress. I know, I know that I am not the only person in the world that wanders into Target with the definitive plan to accomplish one or two things on his or her to do list only to find myself in the check out line two hours later–not quite knowing what has transpired–with a good $200 worth of household CRAP in my cart. Useful crap, sure. But approximately $182 more than I had intended to spend. And this is not the first time Target, that dirty retail whore, has lured me into the loins of her existence. I mean, what is one to do? One needs to buy sneakers for their child, and dish detergent, and zit cream and hair spray and batteries and toilet paper and ziplock bags and…I friggin’ forgot to buy deodorant. I forgot deodorant!! I don’t think I’ve ever gone into that store with the intention to buy just one or two things and have been successful in that plan. Ever. I love Target. And I hate it. Broads like that suck the life outta me.

I felt so bad when I got home, I poured myself a glass of wine and polished off a mondo bag of tortilla chips.

Fanfriggintabulous. Now I have to go make a list about how I’m going to get control of my life again. After I go lovingly admire my household purchases from Target, of course.

“You and your diet were meant to be…”

No truer words could have been spoken.

It is no secret I’m obsessed. It’s no secret that I can’t stop talking about my weight or what I eat or what my “new plan” is. But what it comes down to really is…I have control issues. I have issues with others controlling me, and I have issues with myself being a control freak as well. I obsess about my weight and fitness for the most cliche reason in the world…I feel it is the only area of my life I CAN control right now. I talk about my weight and fitness incessantly because…well, I feel as if it makes me more accountable. Dieting 101, right?

I realize talking about food habits until you’re blue in the face can be somewhat boring to others and, in some cases, discomforting. For me…it is comforting. It gives me strength. It gives me strength in one place to focus. If I can make one step in one area, I know that I can make the next step in another.

I’ve said it before — for my age, for my height, and by all outward appearances…my weight falls right within the realm of normal and healthy. And I am questioned–from time to time–why I seek to better myself in this area, or why I obsess. Control. Control on one hand. Health on another. Because what the questioning public fails to see is a woman fraught with compulsive eating issues and a woman plagued with migraines, depression, body aches and sleeping problems.

I’ve worked hard. With many slip ups. But I’ve worked hard, and I’ve been religious about my time in the gym and eating healthier. The payoff? Less headaches. Less depression. Less body aches. Slow–yet steady weight loss….and I feel strong.

My diet…public and otherwise has given me a certain strength to face demons and devils in my life that are currently Goliath to my David.

It’s no secret that my creativity has suffered this past year. I have had a difficult time devoting time to writing any essays or putting any humor into my words. But it’s through pain that we eventually find laughter, and I’ll take that step again sooner than later.

Stronger. Healthier. Wiser.

Dear Diet,

I am soooooo sorry. I don’t know what I can do to make you forgive me. Please come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll do that extra 30 minutes of cardio a day. I’ll live on lettuce and grilled chicken every single day of my life, I’ll count my calories and not bitch about it.  Just please come back to me.

I was wrong. What else can I say? I know it’s a horrible excuse, but I had PMS. Dude, you have no idea how crazy nutty PMS makes me. I cannot be held accountable for my actions. And now…now I find myself flailing about, a fish out of water, surrounded by pounds of Halloween snack sized candy — and it’s grinning at me, the devil has found my home and the devil’s name is Kit Kat. And the devil–also known as Kit Kat–has brought his friends Twix, Reeses, M&Ms, Snickers, Milky Way, and those bastards the Three Musketeers. Even my friends Butt Dimples and Tummy Bloat–who originally encouraged me to leave your sorry ass–are telling me that I should find my way back to you. If you’ll take me back. If you’ll only take me back.

Oh God, I’m so confused. Tell me what I have to do. Do things need to be different? Should we try things a different way? It can be a whole new relationship between us, Diet. I don’t think you’re deluded. I don’t think you’re evil. It’s not you, it’s me. I think you’re good for me. I think if we work together we can conquer the world.

Please, Diet. Take me back. Take me back and let’s work together.

Eternally yours,

Obsessed with my Diet

Dear Diet,

You suck.

You suck and I hate you.

Now, I realize that hate is an awfully strong term–but see, I’m sorry, I just do. I hate you. I hate everything about you. You make me just want to smash your face in.

This has nothing to do with my being fickle. I’ve stuck with this for ages and, let’s face it, it’s been over for a long time now. I’ve been working so hard at this…frankly, I’m giving all I’ve got into this thing and I’m not getting anything in return. Why? Because you suck ass.

I’m not going to sugar coat this with terms like “change of lifestyle” or “healthier living” — lets just call a spade a spade, shall we? You are nothing but a sorry, lying, good for nothing diet.

I’ve supported you through thick and desire-to-be-thin. I’ve spent hours at the gym trying to look good for you. I’ve counted every last calorie. I’ve endured your monthly teasing and taunting to join the party and partake in indulgences that you know so very well that I can’t control myself with during those weeks of hormonal duress. And the holidays? Yeah. Well, those are right around the corner and you and your elitist attitude make life sort of like, you know, hell for me with my family. Is that what you want? Is that what you want is for me to end up a crying sack of useless melted pudding pop under my heaps of blankets like last year? Surely, you jest. (And don’t call me Shirley.)

I’ve been talking with my friends–Tummy Bloat and Butt Dimples–and we kind of all agree that you totally need to get a grip, man. I’d like to say it’s me and not you, but it is definitely you. You have a lot to work on, my friend. You have issues, dude. You need to get a quarter and buy a clue because I’m not taking any of your deluded crap anymore.

Diet, you can take your devil horns and shove them. I’ll have you know that the girls and me…we are still going to work out and we’re still going to resist temptation–and I can honestly say that now…now…now I’ll be doing it for me and not for you.

Best Regards,

Suck it

Spinning is the exercise of the devil–of that, I am convinced.

I had never been to a spinning class until today. It is evil. Yet, I will go back. Even after two hours of kickboxing and running I do not sweat that much, and I didn’t even throw myself as deeply into it as I think my body could have gone–what with not being sure what the hell I was doing and all. But, slap me on the ass and call me Betty, I’ll tell ya — all those ups and downs with the resistance levels, standing, sitting, and sprinting — I am a puddle of sweat and stench.

The music was perfection — 80s rock. There is nothing like cursing the chafing of that blasted seat on your hoo-haw whilest bee-bopping along to a little J. Geils and Guns n’ Roses, you know what I’m sayin’?

I don’t think I’ll ever love it, I think I’ll always think spinning class belongs in the gym of the devil–but I think I’ll keep it up.

Kickboxing–that’s my thing. Cardio-kickboxing at any rate. There is nothing like the kicking and punching to me, and it’s the perfect blend of movement and dance and aggression. I don’t get bored, I get pumped up and I’m sad when that class ends, and miss it horribly on days that I don’t have it. Weight training I don’t like so much, but I’ve been doing it, and it’s getting easier. I used to run a lot, but my knees have been bothering me, and that gets a bit mundane after a while.

I am really quite obsessive about my workouts lately, and have been quite ninja about the whole process. I am sticking to about a 1200 calorie diet right now…still, even with all this–those blasted 20 pounds aren’t moving quite as fast as I would like them too–or probably as they should be, considering my regimen. But at least I could kick some hard core butt should some hard core butt kicking be needed!

One last thought to share. The spinning instructor made a great Halloween candy suggestion today–it is so common sense, I’m not sure why it never occurred to me:

The best way to avoid mindlessly snacking on that Halloween candy you buy for trick or treaters? Purchase something you don’t like.

I mean, duh! But it’s true! I always stock up on my favorites to pass out, and then eat half of it. This year–I’m only buying candy that has coconut in it! I detest coconut…and that way, I can be sure my grimy little paws stay out of the damn candy bowl!

I learned to roller skate during the heart of its hey day, when I was a pig-tailed, bright-eyed child of the 1970s.

The rink was one of those nondescript brick warehouse-like structures, which sat just near the edge of Saranac Lake. You couldn’t miss it, it was where the railroad tracks crossed, the tracks–like so many small towns–no longer used and have long since been covered many times over by years of pavement.

During summers of my elementary school youth, I would spend many weekends with my cousin Deanna. Two years my senior, she was funny, gregarious, smart, and seemed to have a world of sophistication in my 8, 9, 10 year old eyes. She was the one who brought me to that rink and taught me how to skate, and taught me about the thrill of speed, the fun of competition on wheels. I’m not good at sports, but on four wheels–on four wheels, I was an athlete. Quads were more natural to me than shoes; on foot I was clumsy, on wheels I was air. The day Deanna taught me to roller skate was one of the most memorable of my childhood. We laughed, we discoed, we played games, we raced, we drank lots of soda and we skated our little hearts out. It was a great way to end the summer, especially since when school started, we wouldn’t be able to see each other as often, we didn’t live in the same town.

I will never forget the day my mother told me that Deanna had been killed. A 12-year-old girl of beguiling charm, and the closest thing to a sister I had at the time, the innocent victim of a drunk driver as she crossed the street with her bike.

I’m not quite sure if it was her death and the lasting memory of our time skating together that drove my obsession, or if it was the timely release of the ever-beloved (if I must say so myself) movie Xanadu, or if it was merely a circumstance of trend. But I loved everything about it. My Grandparents had given us each a necklace with a roller skate charm the previous Christmas, and it was my most prized possession. When I would skate, it was social–but if a favorite song came on, I would touch the charm and shut out the world, building up as much speed as I could finesse–and during those moments of solitude, I would talk to Deanna in my head and tell her this skate was for her. In fact, I talked to Deanna quite often in my head, when I was feeling down, or confused…and I did this for a number of years. What can I say–I missed her, and her ghost made me feel strong.

I tend to keep my emotions to myself quite often, and I’m not sure that anyone ever knew how deeply I mourned for the loss of my cousin and friend in my youth, or how much I think the event of her passing influenced the woman I grew into.  Here it is, 30 years later–and I still think about her. And I still hold her dear to my heart. And I even look to her for strength when I need it. 30 years later, and I still remember her laugh.

And 30 years later, the thought of roller skating still gives me a sense of freedom and joy. The thought of it still provides an escape, an outlet, entertainment, and a glimmer of competition.

Again, although I’ve written about it, I’ve spoken about it–I’m not quite sure anyone in my life completely and truly realizes how much roller skating had an impact on me. It is a strange thing, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone knew that I spent much of my childhood and teen years fantasizing about being a derby girl. Strapping on some bitchin’ quads and knocking some she-ass out of the way. Not thinking about anything, just feeling the air slap me across the face as I skate. And I don’t think anyone really knows how I *still* think about it. If I was 20 years younger, you bet that I would be in a rink right now doing that very thing. But life happens, and I think–no, I know–perhaps at this point in my life, the fantasy of it is best left a fantasy–I’m not very slick on wheels anymore, or fast, and I’m kind of protective over my teeth. A single mom with many dreams in the stable–some I’ve pursued, some I reach towards now, some I save for the future, and some I internalize as fantasy and call on for that inner strength, the kind only an angel or ghost can provide.

I needed a little internal strength today, some cheering up–if you will. So, I went to see “Whip It.”  It brought every memory back to me. Every feeling of strength, every feeling of accomplishment, every feeling of relishing the drive. And it brought Deanna back to me too.

I may be a stone’s throw away from 40, but just as I did when I was a pre-teen–I was able to get lost for a little while and not just feel, but truly know with a pitbull’s certainty that I can do it myself. I can do it all myself. I can be strong. I can be independent. I can be free. I can be happy. I can do anything I want and anything I damn well please. I can move through life with grace and I can feel the air kiss me on the face as I proverbially skate.

I can be my own hero.

It has now been a week since I returned from gallivanting around New England.  I am proud to say that yesterday I finally unpacked my bags. I strive for accomplishment, see.

So, upon returning back to California, I had a meaty freelance project that needed finishing, an ant problem in the kitchen to tackle (seems they did not take my eviction notices seriously before I left on my trip), and–most importantly–a little boy to give lots of love and attention to after a couple weeks away. I leave out the general bills, money, errands, and other personal hoo-haw bullshit here…as it is normally a given, right?

One other thing kept me occupied. I officially became a “crazy cat lady.”

I have a precious baby of a cat — Bela Lugosi — an 8 year old Burmese, who has been my sidekick since he was just an itty bitty kitty, not to mention–my only cat child. Lately, especially with the traveling I’ve been doing between coasts, I’ve noticed that Bela has seemed, well…lonely. I did a lot of reading, research, and I kept coming back to one thing–Bela needed a kitty of his own.

Well, at first I thought of a dog–only because neither my son nor I have ever had a dog, and we would love one. But…common sense kind of kept telling me that with my travel schedule it probably wouldn’t be best right now. And, if the goal was to get a friend for Bela, then perhaps the cat route would be best. That’s not to say that I didn’t fear–deeply–that bringing a new cat into the house would backfire and be very upsetting to Bela (aka “The Donger”).

So, we went to the local animal shelter, just to check out the options.  I’ve never been to a shelter before–and it was devastatingly sad. I wanted to bring all the kitties home. The old ones broke my heart. I wanted to save them all. And I’ll tell you this, once I walked in there, I knew that I could not — NOT bring home an animal from this shelter.  The key was finding the right one that would fit in best with our family, and with Bela. I was looking for a younger female. Everything I read said it would be easier with an older male cat. When my son and I first walked in, we saw caged two kittens–two little sweet puffballs that were gentle and playful and happy. My son instantly fell in love with the boy. I reminded him that we needed a girl, and–besides–there was a big sign on the cage saying they were to be adopted together. As much as I would have LOVED to take them both home with us, there is just no way. My boyfriend has two cats as well–sometimes you just have to draw the line at the number of cats you have unless you have a great big ranch house or farm or something. I did ask if there came a time that they had to be separated if I could be put on a list for the girl and was told no. So, we moved on. We found another little girl that we fell in love with, but someone else fell in love with her as well and put their names first on the list (she wasn’t ready to go for a few days). Just for the heck of it, we put our names second–just in case they changed their minds.

I went back to the shelter every other day for a few days. Just to see the animals. It was sick! I think I was hormonal because I was so emotionally touched by it all.  So, Friday, I walked in…and looked in “the twins” cage–and…the girl was gone. As was the sign saying they were to be adopted together. She had been adopted (so much for they wouldn’t separate them!). And there was the boy…just lying there looking as sad and lonely as can be.  A huge difference from when he was bouncing around just a few days earlier.  And I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t see that little guy like that…it was such a huge change in his personality and he was so sweet. So, he became ours and we named him “Ollie.”  So, he wasn’t a female — and he wasn’t a baby kitten…more like four or five months…and still about as big as my full grown Burmese (which are fairly tiny cats by nature of the breed)–Ollie is going to be huge–but, he was the first one we fell in love with, and there was just something special about him. He was the right one to join our family.

The first day or so, I feared I made a big mistake. Ollie — cute as can be. Fearless, not at all shy, made himself right at home. And full of love. He can’t be away from us. Bela was not as happy about the situation. And yes, we kept them separated–best I could given my tiny townhouse–and did all the suggested checklist items in terms of introducing a new cat into the household. It literally was like hearing the devil hiss. I have NEVER heard Bela hiss like that, he hissed at me, at the new cat, at the world. It broke my heart that I had upset him so much, especially since the idea was actually initially put in place to help him. I kept reading it may take days, weeks, months…or never until they get used to each other. The weekend was very stressful, having to take turns who had run of the house, having little introductory periods, and all that, and having to listen to Bela actually growling.

But Bela started growling less every day. Stopped hissing less. And started to become–curious. Following the new younger cat around wherever he went. Watching Ollie steal bags of peas from the pantry and bury them under the sofa. Watching Ollie play with his toys. Watching Ollie run around exploring.

And last night, after only five days, the unthinkable happened…they slept together.

There is still some adjustment going on here…and a little bit of fighting over who gets to walk on Mom’s MacBook when she’s trying to write–and Bela kind of getting downright annoyed when Ollie sits on my shoulders or climbs up on my head when I’m typing…

But I think we are all going to be just fine!

Ollie

Ollie & Bela Getting to Know Each Other ("Who the Hell ARE you?")

Bela

There sits in front of me a very cute glass coffee table with delicious smelling candles lit and a big ass bowl of “Zesty Taco” Doritos, the love children of Football Sunday.

While I would love to nurture and give a home to these aforementioned chips, I don’t. I refuse them. I turn away. Their existence does not compute in the story of my life. And I don’t even care. Oh sure, perhaps there is a curiosity — or even a small hint of recognition, like remembering a random event while looking through faded family photos. I smell them, they tease me, and I do not let them control me.

Kickboxing, hours at the gym, and weeks of calorie counting have begun to show the promise of change. Suddenly, I am more aware about the types of foods and products that I eat or use. I’ve been reading as much as I can about nutrition–and also holistic health. I hunger for information about metabolism and how the body processes food, and how our muscles work and what they respond to. This new fangled wellness kick has begun to consume me, yet I figure it is better than my daily consumption of boxes of Fruity Pebbles half a year ago. It took about a year of no exercise and eating pure crap for me to begin to lose sight of what was a fairly fit body; some might have even said very thin. I wouldn’t have, because–well, you know. But some might have. I estimate it will be six months of keeping up with this very aggressive regime to find my way back. I feel great. The weight loss isn’t monstrous yet. But I am getting tone. And I have lost a lot of bloat. And I feel really, really good. I feel better than those Doritos will taste. That I know.

My mind, my body–we’re getting stronger and the hair is getting blonder.

And this is how it should be!

I’m still waiting for these changes to take shape and magically change life as I know it lining candy paths with gum drops and an ABBA soundtrack.  I’m still on my quest to become the kickboxingqueen of asskicking–and still loving it, and even most recently added a ballet barre workout once a week. The butterfly has yet to emerge from the cocoon, but she will come my dears. She will come.

Step 2 in my list came the hair. You can read all about how I returned back to my beloved blonde but a few weeks ago over at my other blog Flibbertigibbet.  Such a silly thing, but it is amazing how a hair color can put a bounce of step in me, a feeling of completeness, the comfort of old shoe identity, an insane drive.

But the blogs, boy. Yes, they are suffering from the step 3 quest, now to come, of why it is that I have just not been able to write quite like usual lately. Where has the inspiration gone? The desire? It’s swirling around my head, have no doubt, just caught in between bubbles of how to make money, how to deal with certain personal issues going on at the moment, and all that jazz. The essays I put on Flibbertigibbet are more to me than the random daily posting. They are written as essays, and I just happen to publish them online. As far as the essays are concerned, I suppose I needed some time to re-energize the thoughts and recollections and new experiences gained and  sit down to focus on a new batch.  And here…well, this blog was started as my daily blog — thoughts on pop culture, lifestyle, a hodgepodge of what-have-yous…and my intent was to post daily. A lifestyle pop culture blog of sorts I guess, with a nostalgic twist. I think perhaps I got myself confused for a while what with posting in a few different places what tone I wanted to take with this, what voice I would speak, what exactly “I’m Not Kidding” would be defined as in the grand scheme of things. Do I talk about my journey as a single mom? Do I write up little bits remembering and honoring items from the past such as the Barbie Stylin’ Head and Odes to ABBA? (Which was my original thought process)  Do I dedicate this space more towards the journey I have found myself on of late…the path I am trying to hop onto — without falling — leading me towards wellness, fitness and perhaps where that may even lead me in my career…not to mention physically? Because honestly, aside from personal matters, which needed to be tended to this summer, the reason I’ve stalled in a more consistent writing pattern here was because I felt unsure of what path to take with this blog. I wanted it to be clearly defined. I wanted it to have a nostalgic vibe to it–but unlike my essays–have a current, blog-style voice.  What happened is, my personal life has taken me to a place where my will and desire to claim control of my physical and mental well-being is far dominant over every thing else I am thinking about at this moment. And does that seem funny or interesting to anyone else but me? Well, I’m not sure. Does anyone care about that stuff?  I don’t know.

Well, I don’t intend on stopping, and with this fall now here, I do intend to adapt a more regular writing schedule once again (which equally is beneficial for ME)  — I just need to take these next couple weeks to think seriously on what I want my Twolia blog to be, what it is I want to say and speak and share, and perhaps find out what some of you might like to read.

Flibbertigibbet has recently had a number of regular followers leave, as has my Twitter account. Losing readership doesn’t make one feel all that great in the grand scheme of things, yet, I also don’t want to post things for the sake of making sure something is there on Thursday. I want what I have to say to either have substance or strike a chord of a fond memory or fun blast from the past, or share with a humorous touch my journey towards wellness and fitness, including all the trips I make along the way.

Oy vey. Color me confused.