There's a program starting at work and since I could drop at least 30 pounds and not miss it, I'm thinking of joining. I really don't know anything about it, but I'll spend some time today on the Weight Watchers website and read FAQs or whatever.
But please talk to me about it a bit in the comments here. What did you like, what did you hate, did you lose weight and were you able to maintain that loss, etc.
I'll be starting a thread on Sk8, over on the Vhive, as well, so if you're onboard there and would rather post in that venue, please do.
Okay. Our desktop computer died this week, and we replaced it with a Toshiba laptop/notebook. But! We have three cats, and I don't know what to expect from cat + laptop.
Let me 'splain....
I have an iBook that I've carted around since about 2000 or 2001. It hasn't been our main computer for a long time, but we do use it when other computers die or we just need something supplemental.
One cold winter day, a couple of years ago, I had the iBook plugged in and turned on, but with the lid down. It was cold in the apartment, and Dubby, our big orange tabby, was crashed out on the iBook, absorbing its heat. But, obviously, he was also radiating heat back to the iBook, and I couldn't get the thing to work for hours after he vacated. I assume it overheated.
When we're not using the iBook, we tuck it on to a bookshelf where no kitty can bed up on it.
Should I do the same with the Toshiba, or was my iBook problem a fluke?
You know those drop boxes like the Salvation Army or Goodwill operate, where you can donate used clothing? I was heading to the laundromat this morning and as I approached the corner by the nearest drop box, I saw that it looked a little...charred. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner, I saw that the drop box was open and a bunch of burned, water-logged clothing was sitting in pools of water on the sidewalk. Looked fresh, like the fire had happened overnight.
So basically, someone torched a clothing drop. Charming.
Man, I hate it when people bring bikes onto crowded trains at rush hour.
This morning, when the J stopped at Marcy Avenue, a man was there with a bike. Doors open and he says, "Everyone! Move into the center of the train!" Dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and a muscle shirt, he gets on and uses his bike as a battering ram to push people out of the way. He pushes in and stands next to one of the stripper poles and wraps himself around it, the doors close, and the train leaves the station.
A guy behind him, standing at the door, says, "Yo, son. You think you could move your bike offa my foot?" Muscle Shirt glares at him, shoves the bike into the ass of a woman standing in front of it, and wraps himself back around the pole.
A woman's standing at the pole, though, trying to hang on. She's only about 5'2"--too short to use the overhead, horizontal railings. She says, "Excuse me. I need to use this pole. Could you move off of it, please?" He ignores her, so she repeats herself. He says to her, "Yeah, just move over and use the other one." To this, she replies, "No, I can't. I can't reach it. I need to use this one." He ignores her. She replies, "You're crushing my hand, please move." He ignores her again. "You're crushing my hand!"
At this, he turns around and glares at her, not saying a word. The anger, hatred, and menace in his eyes were palpable. To her credit, she stood her ground, stared back at him, and didn't move away. Finally, he dropped his gaze and turned around.
I didn't really know what to do. I mean, if a girl who's 5'2" can stand up to a guy who's 14 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier than her, then I probably should have said something. But like everyone else, I stood there passively. Now, I was watching the guy closely, and I will say that if he had moved against her, I'd have stepped in. And to be fair, I think other people would have too.
To take a bike onto a crowded subway car is one thing, but to have an attitude about it, like everyone needs to vacate the train so you can fuck your bike in solitude or whatever, that's infuriating.
Thirty-three years ago today, Virgil Martin Dietsch, my father, died of pancreatic cancer. If I'm doing the math correctly, he has now been dead for longer than he was ever alive.
My picture's finally up on the staff directory. It's even worse than I thought. Apparently, it really would hurt me to smile once in a while.
Also, I have a full goatee now, and not just a line of fur on my chin.
Have I mentioned how much I like having co-workers who aren't back-stabbing cretins? I had a co-worker at the old job who took up the lively art of name-calling. One of her cubical-neighbors was Skeletor; I was Elephant. Oooh, weight jokes! (This co-worker wasn't exactly Kate Moss herself, mind you.)
She also suffered from vocal diarrhea; she'd start talking and you could never guess what she'd say next. One day she told "Skeletor" and me that she was "feral." We both gave her this weird look--like, shut up, dammit, stop saying weird shit, and get back to work. But she misinterpreted it as confusion, so she proceeded to explain what she meant by "feral":
"It's not like I was nursed by wolves, it's just that I'm not very social."
Gotcha.
Anyway, no one like that here, at least not so far as I can tell.
It's Opening Day at Yankee Stadium. Yer thinkin', "Dietsch! I never knew you to care about baseball! What gives?"
Well, I don't give a shit, really. But day games at Yankee always start at like 1:00 or something, and they end a little after 4. My old job let out at 4:15, dumping me into the Yankee Stadium subway stations at the same goddamn time as 57,000 motherfuckers.
Every day game carried the same hope--extra innings, extra innings, extra innings.
Even now, slacking at the desk of the new job, posting to a blogging system that was blocked at the old job, I'm feeling some of the old apoplexy as I remember the clogs of pinstriped morons blocking mezzanines, turnstiles, and platforms. Ah, how fun it is to have a drunk from Long Island rocking left and right in the seat beside you, calming himself only upon feeling your elbow in his ribs.
Watching dudes throwing up or starting fights--so classy. Hearing the fans loudly recap the same goddamn game they all just watched. Fun!
How fondly I remember the day some dingbat chick and her friends were goofing around on the platform. She stepped backward directly into my path while I was walking to the end of the platform--since of course the fans all thronged the middle section. I had a wall to the left of me, a crowd to the right, fifty people on my heels, and suddenly a feathered-hair bimbo directly in front of me. What do you do? I said, "Excuse me, please," while I reached up, placed my left hand on the back of her shoulder, and nudged her to the right. She got the hint and apologized.
Happy Opening Day, Yankees. You won your opener, but I hope you finish
at the bottom of your division. You're just one more thing I don't miss
about the old job.
In the new job, there's a woman named Chuck and another woman named Marijana.
You can't make this stuff up!
