Author: Robyn

wanted to like, because it was on 6.5 acres, 4 of which were cleared. But I just didn’t like the inside at all, not one bit of it. And there were several signs that the ceiling leaked. We still have 13 houses we want to see – which we’re going to do Friday, just check them all out in one fell swoop – some of which, at least on paper, look really nice. I think at this point we’re considering house #2 from yesterday as a possible fall-back house, but I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. I’m hoping we can find a house we both love. The realtor’s assistant who took us around – we’ll call her Lynn – was horrified when I said to Fred “We’re going to end up divorced ’cause we can’t agree on a house, aren’t we?” Hey, wanna see something neat? You can search my site now, ain’t that cool? Just go over there in the sidebar and whatever you enter in the search engine will search only my site. I searched on “shelf ass” and was surprised to find how many times I’ve talked about my ass in the past. Ass in the Past will be the name of my 14th novel.]]>

We call them the Naysayers.

When Fred and I began our weight loss journeys, we – for the first few months, at least – got only supportive "You’re doing so well!" – emails. And for the most part, that has continued, emails from readers or people who have just stumbled upon our sites, people who tell us that we inspire them, that they love watching our progress. I’d say 98% of my email consists of such email.

But in the last few months, since I’ve crossed the 100-pound (gone) mark, that has changed. Now about 2% of the email I receive is from people who, on the surface, are congratulating me, but underneath – not buried deep, mind you – there is the sense that they not only think I’ll fail, but hope that I do. The unspoken "I can’t wait until you put it all back on and more" is there.

Honestly, I just don’t understand that. Even before I began losing weight, I’d read the weight loss journals of others. I’d be thrilled when they lost weight, be sad if they didn’t, and I just hated it when, after a few months and 20, 30, 40 pounds, they stopped updating. I think that most people want to see others succeed, because if they can succeed, we can too.

It used to hurt my feelings, the emails from people who want me to fail, want me not to reach my goal and stay there. But you know what? I’ve managed to step back and realize it’s not really about me, it’s about them.

Fuck ’em.

You’ll realize that losing the weight is the easy part, keeping it off is the hard part, goes the majority of those emails.

Really? Huh. Well damn, I didn’t realize that this was the easy part.

I didn’t know that getting out of bed 6 days a week when I’d much prefer to stay in bed and sleep for another hour, was easy.

I didn’t know that loading myself down with water, grapes, and orange juice two days a week so that I can walk 9 miles over 3 hours was easy.

Silly me, I didn’t know that slogging through ankle-deep mud so I could cross the main road at the end of my street and continue on for another 8 miles was easy.

I didn’t know that watching what I eat the majority of the week was easy, and that eating a peach or an apple when what I’d much prefer was a 2-pound bag of peanut m&ms was easy.

I didn’t know that getting up and fighting with the devil on my shoulder 3 mornings out of 4 (and winning) was easy.

What I find myself wanting to say is that when I wake up and want to go back to sleep, I think of the Naysayers, of the people who say Losing is the easy part and Just between us, Fred, I don’t think Robyn has what it takes, and I think Fuck you, and I get out of bed and get my ass in gear.

But the truth is that I don’t really think of the Naysayers much at all. They’re barely a blip on my screen, and the reason I roll out of bed and get my ass in gear is because I must.

I’ll tell you a secret about myself that I don’t think comes across to the average reader, but my husband can certainly tell you that it’s so.

I am tenacious. When I want something, I get it, and that is the flat-out truth. I may give up from time to time, but if I truly want something, I will go back and go back and chip away at what’s holding me back, until I get what I want.

Can you look at the results, that I’ve lost 122.5 pounds in 11 months, and believe that I’ll ever give up? That I’ll throw my hands in the air and say Fuck it? Could you ever possibly believe that?

Because if you could, you really don’t know me at all.

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So, according to Entertainment Weekly‘s May 11th issue (I’m a bit behind in my magazine reading, as in everything else in life), Senator Orrin Hatch has asked William Petersen, the star of CSI (and hottie extraordinaire) to speak to Congress about allocating money for the advancement of forensic science. That just puts a big cartoon question mark over my head, y’know? I’m thinking – and I know that this is way out there – wouldn’t it be better to have, oh I dunno, an ACTUAL forensic scientist speak to Congress, one who spends all day BEING a forensic scientist?

I know, silly idea.

Fred reminded me this morning that I hadn’t told y’all about something that happened while we were on vacation. Since it was the week before my period was due to begin, the hormones were a-hoppin’, and I had a rather, uh, involved dream about – this is so embarrassing! – McSweeney from Boot Camp.

I told Fred about it the next morning and he thought it was funny as hell.

Later, when we were… uh, how do I say it? Oh yeah. Later, when we were having hot monkey sex, he yelled "Get out of my face!" and then "Move it, move it!", which are both McSweeneyisms. God, it was funny.

I promptly had a sex dream about Recruit Moretti that night.

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faucet mounted water filter. The one that cost less than $40 at Wal-Mart. When we heard that one, Fred and I turned and looked at each other, with big cartoonish question marks over our heads. I mean, what the fuck? All I can guess is that they think it’s some big, elaborate filter system, instead of the cheapie faucet-mounted thing that it is. Fred was seriously tempted to counter their counter-offer by saying they couldn’t have the water filter. Wouldn’t it be funny if a $40 water filter was the reason the deal fell through? Expect to hear a lot of boring house stuff over the next two months. Oh, that’s the other thing. They don’t want to close until July 31st – I think they’re renting somewhere in the neighborhood, and that must be when their lease is up. On the one hand, I’m glad it’s so far away because that gives us plenty of time to find a new house. But on the other hand, I’m supposed to be leaving for Maine on August 1st, the day after closing! I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with that. I took the spud to get her hair cut today. We specified a chin-length, layered cut, and got one that was a tad longer than we – I – would have liked, but it looks cute, all curly. The hairdresser/beautician/hairchick blew it dry whilst scrunching it, so it was a lot curlier than usual. I don’t expect that the spud – who is just like her mother – will be bothered to "do" her hair every day. I would put up a picture, but as soon as we got home, she ran a brush through it, and all the curl went away, leaving her with triangle-head. Let’s see… boring house stuff and a blurb about my day. Yep, I think that about covers it! —–]]>

Edited: Sorry, they’ve been removed.) ]]>

Becky‘s, Saundra‘s, and Kristin‘s takes on the situation. But I’m sure y’all were already reading them, anyway. While I’m linking things, you must must MUST read A Girl Named Zippy. It’s got some hilarious fucking parts in it, and I found myself laughing out loud many, many times. Go buy it now! I’d lend you my copy, but in the rush of running around trying to de-crapify the house, I stuck it in a box of books to my sister, who will promise to save it for me if I ask, and then we’ll both forget about it for 43 years until she calls me at the nursing home and asks "What book was it you wanted me to save and give back to you after I read it?" And I’ll say "When?" And she’ll say "1999? 2000? Maybe 2001." And I’ll say "P is for Peril?" "No." "Dreamcatcher?" "No." And so on until it’s lunchtime and I’m so excited at the thought of Lime Jello for dessert (it being Tuesday and all) that I hang up on her and go hobbling out to the lunchroom with all the other old people. So go buy it. Yesterday, after spending 2 1/2 hours scrubbing out the litter box area next to the washer and dryer, and then pulling the washer and dryer apart to clean the floor between them (and finding $1.38 – SCORE!) – an experience I do not care to ever ever ever repeat, thanks so very much – and then after loading all the trash in the garage we needed to get rid of, and sweeping the floor of the garage – and what a difference it makes! – and showering, etc., I went shopping. That’s right, shopping. And not at Wal-Mart. No, I went shopping at the mall, for something like the 4th time in the almost 5 years I’ve lived here, because we’re going on vacation to Gatlinburg today, and I had no decent clothes to bring. Everything I already owned consisted of a few pairs of black pants, and a ton of t-shirts. And since we plan on going out to a nice restaurant one night while we’re there, I’m thinking that a pair of black cotton pants, a The Lotion and the Basket t-shirt, and my muddy sneakers isn’t exactly the fashion statement to make. So I hit the mall. After an hour and a half of shopping, I left with 6 shirts, 3 pairs of pants, new underwear, and a new pair of shoes. Oh, and a new purse. The clothes I bought at Lane Bryant, which has an unfortunate habit of putting all their ugly clothes in the windows and on display, but hiding the decent stuff in corners so that you really have to search for it. I hit the dressing room three different times, carrying in armloads of clothes with me each time. Once, while trying on a pair of shorts, I got sidetracked looking at the muscles in my calves. We don’t have a full-length mirror at home, so I’d never seen my legs from that angle before. I mean, I have HUGE calves, but there’s a lot of muscle there. Any body part that carries around a few hundred extra pounds for 10 years or more is going to develop a little muscle whether you like it or not. The pants I bought are NOT stretchy pants, and I was actually a size smaller than I thought I’d be, which is cool. The dressy shirts I bought (the same shirt, in two different colors) are actually kind of fitted. And they fit. And they make it look like I might actually have a waist. I’ve never been much of a shopper, but this particular shopping excursion was so relaxing and I ended up with such nice stuff that I can see myself becoming an occasional power shopper. Okay, I need to go make sure that the house is ship-shape before Fred gets home (he’s picking up the spud at school on his way home at 10:00; can you believe that even though it’s the last day of school, they’re having a full-length day?), and be sure that I’ve packed everything and the kitchen sink, make sure the cats have enough food, yadda yadda yadda. I’m still about a week behind in my email, and perhaps I’ll get caught up when I get back from Gatlinburg – especially with those 3,003 emails I owe YOU, Divine Mizz M – and perhaps I will not, but one thing is sure. There will be pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. Pictures of mountains, pictures of the spud with mountains in the background, and perhaps I’ll get lucky this time and get that waterfall picture I want so desperately. See you then! —–]]>

For May’s collaboration, each participant chose a song that meant something to her. The songs were burned onto a cd, and each participant created cover art for another participants’ cd. The Playlist – I can see clearly now You can sleep while I drive No one but you Life Where is my mind Tonight and the rest of my life Wonder Bitch Little Light of Love Why can’t it be me Angel Standing By Boys of Summer The Lamenter’s Lament Babylon How You’ve Grown Sand and Water

This cover art was created by Kristal. Nobody on the road Nobody on the beach I feel it in the air The summer’s out of reach Empty lake, empty streets The sun goes down alone I’m drivin’ by your house Though I know you’re not home Summer, 1986. I was 18 years old and though I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up (and in fact still don’t), I was young and carefree and hadn’t a worry in the world. At least, that’s how I remember it. But I can see you, your brown skin shinin’ in the sun You got your hair combed back and your sunglasses on, baby And I can tell you my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer have gone My best friend Liz and I spent that summer, that humid, sticky, hot summer, cruising around. We went to Old Orchard Beach, the biggest tourist trap around. We yelled at cute guys from our windows, and upon occasion, whoever wasn’t driving would drink. I never will forget those nights I wonder if it was a dream Remember how you made me crazy Remember how I made you scream Now I don’t understand what happened to our love But babe, I’m gonna get you back I’m gonna show you what I’m made of With no air conditioning in either of our cars – it was Maine, for crying out loud. Summer lasts twenty minutes. Who the hell needs air conditioning? – we drove around with the windows wide open and the music blasting. Most of the time we listened to the radio, and Don Henley’s Boys of Summer was all over the airwaves that July, August, September. I can see you, your brown skin shinin’ in the sun I see you walkin’ real slow and you’re smilin’ at everyone I can tell you my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer have gone In Lewiston we drove up Lisbon Street, took a right onto Maple, a left onto Knox, a right on Spruce, a left on Bates, a left on Ash – where The Cage, a hopping bar, or so we believed, was located – back on to Lisbon Street again, a hop on to Canal Street back to the beginning, and around and around and around we went. We called it "The Area". "Ready to go home?" one of us would say when the night had been relatively calm. The other would stare out the window and then suggest "One more drive around The Area, and then we’ll go home." Something invariably happened on that one last drive. Out on the road today, I saw a Dead-head sticker on a Cadillac A little voice inside my head said Don’t look back, you can never look back I thought I knew what love was What did I know Those days are gone forever I should just let them go but On one of those one last drives, we passed two guys hitchhiking. Like the dumbasses we were, we stopped and picked them up, and then went back to their house. We were 18, they were in their mid-twenties. They were pretty drunk. We sat in their living room and talked, then one of them – Steve? – leaned in and kissed me. In my naivete, I thought he tasted and smelled like apple wine, but in my later years I realized it was beer. Steve tried to talk me into going into his room, and I wouldn’t. After hearing enough of his begging and whining, Liz got up and dragged me out of the house. I can see you, your brown skin shinin’ in the sun You got that top pulled down and that radio on, baby And I can tell you my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer have gone On another of those last drives, we were approached by some pissed-off rednecks (yes, the northeast has it’s share of rednecks) with baseball bats. They’d been unhappy with my yelled "Oh, I’m so impressed!" when they sat beside us at a red light as they revved the engine of the crappy old car they were driving. When they jumped out of their car with bats in hand, we gaped at them for an eternity before I slammed my car in reverse and sped down the street away from them. Most of the time, though, our cruises were fairly uneventful. We’d often run into our friend from work at McDonald’s, Tuna, and his friends, and we’d follow each other around, park and talk for a while, then drive around some more. One night, Tuna rearranged the letters on the sign at Burger King – remember when they were doing that lame "Where’s Herb?" campaign? – to read "Herb Gots Aids." It took the people at Burger King well into the next day to change the sign back. I can see you, your brown skin shinin’ in the sun You got that hair slicked back and those Wayfarers on, baby I can tell you my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer have gone We were young and carefree, and we did silly things and stupid things, and we laughed until we howled most nights. It’s been almost 16 years since that summer, but all it takes to bring me back are the first few seconds of Boys of Summer. In an instant, I’m transported back to the night in early September when the air held the slightest chill of the coming Fall. Liz turned to me, and with the memories of the summer still in our minds and Don Henley blasting on the radio, she smiled. "This is our song, Robbie," she said. And it is. —–

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never existed. I’m not stunned or disheartened, because I was only aware of her supposed existence in the most general of ways. I followed links to her page from time to time, but was never drawn in by the writing, and thus never stuck around. Nicole said it all much better than I could, anyway. Go read her entry about the whole deal. If you belong to my notify list (and if you don’t, I’d like to know why the hell not!) you already know that we signed the papers with the realtor on Sunday, got our bright, shiny "For Sale" sign in the yard, and spent much of Sunday and most of Monday cleaning frantically. The realtor told Fred yesterday afternoon that someone had already called and wanted to see the house. We were excited until we discovered that the supposed "Potential Buyers" were people who already lived in our neighborhood. Last time we put the house on the market, two years ago, these same (we suspect) neighbors went through the house, telling the realtor that they were interested in our house because they wanted a basement. The people who went through the house last night told him that they wanted a basement and a pool. They had to be the same people. It pisses me off, because we spent two hours rushing around, touching up the paint (Fred), vacuuming, scrubbing the kitchen, yelling at Fred to vacuum the couch and chairs downstairs (me), and only because some assholes who live in our neighborhood wanted to see what the house looked like. If they had simply knocked on the front door and asked for a tour, I would have let them look to their heart’s content. They told the realtor, after looking through the house last night, that they weren’t interested because they "Wanted bigger rooms." I don’t know where they think they’re going to find bigger rooms, because we have one of the biggest floorplans in this subdivision. Our bedroom is 15×16, the family room is 16×17, the rec room (what we use for the gym) 13×23. Those are some nice fucking room sizes, people. Assholes. So while they were going through our house, we were checking out another house, one that Fred found on ValleyMLS. We drove by it on Saturday, liked what we saw, and asked the realtor (whom I shall call Jeff, which is not his real name, because if I tell y’all his real name, you will figure out who he is, find out where our house is located, and come kill me in my sleep) to take us through it. It was a cute little house, with a nice big porch (a plus in my eyes), on around an acre of land (remember, we’re looking for more than the less than 1/4 acre we already have), and in the country, but not so far in the country we couldn’t drive to the grocery store in 10 minutes. Unfortunately, there were some structural problems – a window was rotting away on the outside, and the basement was obviously prone to flooding, which the current owners tried to disguise by painting the floor. Speaking of the basement, we were all standing in the basement discussing the flooding problems, when I heard a long, low sound coming from Jeff’s direction. To be blunt, it was the sound of a long, long fart. My eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open in amazement, I stared at Jeff, who just stood there, smiling, his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. No one said anything, and then Jeff pointed out a scary door near the stairs that led to the ground under the rest of the house. We all peeked in, Fred mentioned that "There could be a BODY buried in there!", and we went to check out the rest of the house. From the second floor, there was a gorgeous view of horses running in a nearby field. It was everything you’d want in country living – nice lot, pretty view, not too close to the neighbors – so it’s too bad that the house kinda sucked. But as I said on the way out, "One down, 150 to go!" Our search is just beginning, and we don’t want to get too excited yet, anyway, because we can’t really do anything until our house is sold, though Jeff thinks it’ll be sold by August. We dropped Jeff off at his office, and it was then that I found out – to my relief – that the long, low farting sound I’d heard was the scary door opening by itself.]]>