After a three-ish year hiatus, shit is about to get real again. PsychoDad is gearing up for another season of mayhem.
You remember the guy...the Man...the Myth...the Legend? Yes him. The dad every guy wants to be and every lady wants to be with (unless you're in a certain grade school's administration) has come out of seclusion.
Stay tuned to see read about what kind of trouble he finds himself in this year.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Daddy needs a new pair of shoes
Not really, but it's time for a real job. I had an interview last week with a CPA firm trying to screen candidates for a local retailer who desperately needs a financial person. The retailer has been around for a million years, but the top dog died a few years ago and now the son-in-law is trying to run things. 2012 wasn't a good year and they're stuck in a rut of not knowing exactly how they want to proceed.
Over the past few years, they've gone from having a financial person to getting rid of him/her to save costs to deciding they need one to not knowing if they need one. As of last week, they've decided they need someone. So, I interviewed with the accounting firm trying to help them out.
In a perfect world, it's a match made in heaven. They have no one to manage their cash and expenses and need someone to question the way they do things and I am good at managing cash and expenses and giving my opinion of how shitty things are done. The accounting firm guy admitted my background was a perfect fit and I admitted the company really needed what I could offer.
My job is to wait to hear from them about actually interviewing with the CEO. As it stands, we're a bit off on money, though I think we could agree to something that makes both of us happy, and there is the question of them deciding next month if they still want a controller, and/or if they'll even be around in 6 months.
I'm in a win-win situation because a job that pays more than a dollar is more than I'm making now, so whatever it pays is an increase. However, I've been saving for a few years to buy a condo or for when I'm unemployed, so I don't have to take a shitty job just because it's offered. So, I wait to hear back from them.
Today though, I had an interview with another place. It's a mining company located in Evansville that's owned by an Australian company. I met with the CEO and the Company Secretary. Both guys are Aussies. The CEO is stationed here in the States, while the Company Secretary (that's what his card said, I'm not sure how that job position translates here) is from Perth. I shook hands with both to introduce myself and received a "G'day" from the guy who lives in Perth.
They thanked me for coming in on such a cold day. I said it was no problem and mentioned it's starting to warm up. The CEO looked at me and said, "Do you ever really get used to the cold?" I assured him we did and then we started talking about the job and what I might be able to bring to the table.
This company has been buying up mineral rights in the Illinois basin, which extends into Kentucky and Indiana. They're in the process of getting the appropriate permits and hope to break ground on the mining operation within the next 18-24 months.
They really don't need a financial guy for 40 hours a week since there's not that much stuff going on right now. The opportunity for part-time was offered, but I mentioned I desired full-time. They then asked if I was interested in doing some things outside the accounting field like helping organize their complete financial system, as well as maintain their database of mineral and land leases. Basically, help the CEO with reading reports on the land, making sure shit gets paid on time, and making sure there is enough money in the cash accounts.
I initially hesitated because I didn't know what I was getting myself into, but once I realized they didn't balk at my salary requirements, I tried to ease back into the "I'll help do anything" mode. They admitted they aren't 'anal' like a lot of companies, so I can get away without a tie and maybe eventually I could get them used to sweats and t-shirts...a total plus for me. Also, I made the mistake of mentioning my golf trip in May, then immediately backtracked to cover that remark when the CEO said, "Let me stop you right there. We don't care if you go on vacation in May. We don't care if you leave early because you have something to do. Obviously there will be times when we have deadlines and things, but as long as you get the job done, we don't care."
He had me at, "...don't care." I wanted to reach my hand and say, "I accept," but I played it cooler and let him continue talking.
Eventually I stopped entertaining them and the interview ended. They still wanted to talk with a couple more candidates and they should know more in the next couple weeks. As we exchanged our thank yous for the meeting, the guy from Perth said, "Cheers" as I walked out the door. Very cool.
During the 10 minute drive home, I decided I wanted to give this place a shot. I really don't mind doing shit other than accounting, which can be boring at times. There's no staff to supervise so I don't have to deal with employee problems, just the occasional sexual harassment case from the lady in the office who likely hasn't heard f-bombs at the rate I can spit them out.
Once home, I ripped off that damned jacket and tie and got into something more comfortable and went right to our computer room to write a thank you letter. I reiterated how I was the bomb and explained how much they needed me. Instead of saying 'sincerely' at the end of the letter before my signature, I wanted to say 'cheers,' but decided against it, not sure they'd find it as funny as I did.
Hopefully I've found my new place of employment, though by looking at the picture I posted earlier today they may have already ripped my resume to pieces. Wish me luck.
Over the past few years, they've gone from having a financial person to getting rid of him/her to save costs to deciding they need one to not knowing if they need one. As of last week, they've decided they need someone. So, I interviewed with the accounting firm trying to help them out.
In a perfect world, it's a match made in heaven. They have no one to manage their cash and expenses and need someone to question the way they do things and I am good at managing cash and expenses and giving my opinion of how shitty things are done. The accounting firm guy admitted my background was a perfect fit and I admitted the company really needed what I could offer.
My job is to wait to hear from them about actually interviewing with the CEO. As it stands, we're a bit off on money, though I think we could agree to something that makes both of us happy, and there is the question of them deciding next month if they still want a controller, and/or if they'll even be around in 6 months.
I'm in a win-win situation because a job that pays more than a dollar is more than I'm making now, so whatever it pays is an increase. However, I've been saving for a few years to buy a condo or for when I'm unemployed, so I don't have to take a shitty job just because it's offered. So, I wait to hear back from them.
Today though, I had an interview with another place. It's a mining company located in Evansville that's owned by an Australian company. I met with the CEO and the Company Secretary. Both guys are Aussies. The CEO is stationed here in the States, while the Company Secretary (that's what his card said, I'm not sure how that job position translates here) is from Perth. I shook hands with both to introduce myself and received a "G'day" from the guy who lives in Perth.
They thanked me for coming in on such a cold day. I said it was no problem and mentioned it's starting to warm up. The CEO looked at me and said, "Do you ever really get used to the cold?" I assured him we did and then we started talking about the job and what I might be able to bring to the table.
This company has been buying up mineral rights in the Illinois basin, which extends into Kentucky and Indiana. They're in the process of getting the appropriate permits and hope to break ground on the mining operation within the next 18-24 months.
They really don't need a financial guy for 40 hours a week since there's not that much stuff going on right now. The opportunity for part-time was offered, but I mentioned I desired full-time. They then asked if I was interested in doing some things outside the accounting field like helping organize their complete financial system, as well as maintain their database of mineral and land leases. Basically, help the CEO with reading reports on the land, making sure shit gets paid on time, and making sure there is enough money in the cash accounts.
I initially hesitated because I didn't know what I was getting myself into, but once I realized they didn't balk at my salary requirements, I tried to ease back into the "I'll help do anything" mode. They admitted they aren't 'anal' like a lot of companies, so I can get away without a tie and maybe eventually I could get them used to sweats and t-shirts...a total plus for me. Also, I made the mistake of mentioning my golf trip in May, then immediately backtracked to cover that remark when the CEO said, "Let me stop you right there. We don't care if you go on vacation in May. We don't care if you leave early because you have something to do. Obviously there will be times when we have deadlines and things, but as long as you get the job done, we don't care."
He had me at, "...don't care." I wanted to reach my hand and say, "I accept," but I played it cooler and let him continue talking.
Eventually I stopped entertaining them and the interview ended. They still wanted to talk with a couple more candidates and they should know more in the next couple weeks. As we exchanged our thank yous for the meeting, the guy from Perth said, "Cheers" as I walked out the door. Very cool.
During the 10 minute drive home, I decided I wanted to give this place a shot. I really don't mind doing shit other than accounting, which can be boring at times. There's no staff to supervise so I don't have to deal with employee problems, just the occasional sexual harassment case from the lady in the office who likely hasn't heard f-bombs at the rate I can spit them out.
Once home, I ripped off that damned jacket and tie and got into something more comfortable and went right to our computer room to write a thank you letter. I reiterated how I was the bomb and explained how much they needed me. Instead of saying 'sincerely' at the end of the letter before my signature, I wanted to say 'cheers,' but decided against it, not sure they'd find it as funny as I did.
Hopefully I've found my new place of employment, though by looking at the picture I posted earlier today they may have already ripped my resume to pieces. Wish me luck.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The first step is admitting you have a problem
I have a problem. Well, I have many, many problems, so I guess I have a new problem. I haven't been to a doctor so it hasn't been diagnosed, but I have an eating disorder. I don't know what it's called, but it's the opposite of anorexia...I eat shit all night long.
Part of the blame goes to my work. For the past couple years I've only been working part-time, so I sleep later than normal and I go to bed later than normal. I've always been a bit of a night owl, put simply, I enjoy staying up late. I rarely go overboard and stay up til 3 or 4, but during the week I'm lucky to get to bed by 1 AM and on the weekends by 2 AM. So, during the evening prime time hours when the best TV is on, I'm sitting in the recliner in the mancave watching shit I've TiVoed. Even when watching something I'm interested in, I get bored and want to snack. So I do.
During the week it's not too bad. A handful of chips or a couple pieces of candy and I'm good for a while. The weekends are when all hell breaks loose.
On the weekends, I crack open a rich, yummy beer at about 9:30. Not just any beer, but usually something that's highly alcoholic in a 22- or 25.4-ounce bottle. The first half of the beer, I savor and cherish while I'm reviewing it online at BeerAdvocate.com. The more reviews I do, the higher my "beer karma" goes. I'm not sure what exactly that gets me, but I'm sure it makes me cool somehow. Or should I say, cooler.
Anyway, I nurse and revere the first half of the beer, then I grab a bag of Honey Wheat pretzels. There's no fat, but it still got calories and salt. As I empty the bottle of yumminess, I grow bored with the pretzels and start on a bag of chips or a box of White Cheddar Cheez Its.
By now, I'm typically get very full, but the new switch in flavors from pretzels to Cheez Its gives my palate and stomach their collective second winds and I grab a 12-ounce bottle of beer, whatever I happen to have upstairs at the time. By now it doesn't much matter, I'm just looking for something to wash down the snacks.
It could be 11 or 12 at night when that bottle is gone and I close the snack package. I make my way downstairs to take my medley of drugs for all my illnesses and disorders. As I'm walking down the stairs, I realize my mouth and throat are a bit warm from all the beer. I fix this by dragging out the tub of ice cream in the freezer. With spoon in hand, I don't bother with a bowl as I eat directly from the tub while reading up on the latest from any of the three car magazines sitting on the kitchen table.
Before I even begin with the ice cream, I'm miserable because I'm so full. But...it's ice cream. Chocolate even. I've never had to be hungry to eat ice cream, so for 10 or 15 minutes I sit at the table and do teaspoon curls. I don't stop til I've embarrassed even myself, or I feel I'm about to blow chunks.
Back when I was a bit healthier and more active and arthritis hadn't taken one of my hobbies, I maintained an even weight each week by losing 5-7 pounds during the week and putting them back on during the weekend. It was a beautiful cycle. But no more. Now, I gain 7 pounds during the weekend, but only lose 3 during the week.
Yesterday was when I realized I had a problem and I had an intervention with myself while shopping at Wally World. I was in the frozen fruit section buying more fruit for my daily protein shake. Those Wal-Mart bastards intentionally put the frozen pies right next to the frozen fruit, so weak people like me stand at the door to the freezer and think, "Hmm, frozen fruit or pie? Frozen fruit or pie? Fuck it, I'm getting pie."
I can't tell you how close I was to throwing a Key Lime pie into the cart. That's when I had the intervention with myself. After a few minutes of staring blindly into the freezer, I put the pie back and went with the fruit. It was then I decided no pie until I get below 190 pounds. It was a small step, but it was a step nonetheless.
Further, when I got home, I decided since I didn't do anything on the dreadmill on Saturday, I couldn't miss Sunday. I changed into my running britches and shoes and then stretched. And I stretched and I stretched. And then I stretched a little more. And then I played with the dogs. And then I talked with Hayden. And then I stretched some more. I told Jennifer that I was hoping I could keep stretching and completely avoid the dreadmill, but it never worked.
So I got on the dreadmill, and again, I had an intervention with myself. For the past couple weeks, I've done lots of walking and a little bit of jogging on the dreadmill. Mostly, I'm going through the motions, just killing time in hopes that I can lose two pounds in 5 or 6 minutes. But that hasn't happened.
I decided I was going to stop walking on the damned thing and start jogging. I weighed 195 pounds and it was time to stop being a pussy and actually burn some calories. I didn't care how long it took, I was going to jog for a whole mile without walking.
As the seconds slid by, I noticed my shin stopped splinting and the only pain was from my good knee. I said, "suck it up" and continued. As I approached the end of the mile, I thought I'd walk a bit after that first mile and then continue jogging for a second mile. I managed a ridiculously slow 12 minute mile, then walked for a quarter mile, then jogged the remaining 3/4 of a mile to finish 2 miles in 24 minutes and some change. It's sad, but it's a start.
My legs never hurt, but were a bit tired most of the night. It's hard carrying around an extra 15 pounds (or 20) every day. I considered giving them a rest today, but nixed that idea. So, another mile before heading into the office, with no walking allowed, stopping the clock at a staggering 11:36. Still glacier-slow, but an improvement.
My goal is to hop on for another mile tonight when Hayden and I get done with homework. Another small step, but at least it's a step forward.
Part of the blame goes to my work. For the past couple years I've only been working part-time, so I sleep later than normal and I go to bed later than normal. I've always been a bit of a night owl, put simply, I enjoy staying up late. I rarely go overboard and stay up til 3 or 4, but during the week I'm lucky to get to bed by 1 AM and on the weekends by 2 AM. So, during the evening prime time hours when the best TV is on, I'm sitting in the recliner in the mancave watching shit I've TiVoed. Even when watching something I'm interested in, I get bored and want to snack. So I do.
During the week it's not too bad. A handful of chips or a couple pieces of candy and I'm good for a while. The weekends are when all hell breaks loose.
On the weekends, I crack open a rich, yummy beer at about 9:30. Not just any beer, but usually something that's highly alcoholic in a 22- or 25.4-ounce bottle. The first half of the beer, I savor and cherish while I'm reviewing it online at BeerAdvocate.com. The more reviews I do, the higher my "beer karma" goes. I'm not sure what exactly that gets me, but I'm sure it makes me cool somehow. Or should I say, cooler.
Anyway, I nurse and revere the first half of the beer, then I grab a bag of Honey Wheat pretzels. There's no fat, but it still got calories and salt. As I empty the bottle of yumminess, I grow bored with the pretzels and start on a bag of chips or a box of White Cheddar Cheez Its.
By now, I'm typically get very full, but the new switch in flavors from pretzels to Cheez Its gives my palate and stomach their collective second winds and I grab a 12-ounce bottle of beer, whatever I happen to have upstairs at the time. By now it doesn't much matter, I'm just looking for something to wash down the snacks.
It could be 11 or 12 at night when that bottle is gone and I close the snack package. I make my way downstairs to take my medley of drugs for all my illnesses and disorders. As I'm walking down the stairs, I realize my mouth and throat are a bit warm from all the beer. I fix this by dragging out the tub of ice cream in the freezer. With spoon in hand, I don't bother with a bowl as I eat directly from the tub while reading up on the latest from any of the three car magazines sitting on the kitchen table.
Before I even begin with the ice cream, I'm miserable because I'm so full. But...it's ice cream. Chocolate even. I've never had to be hungry to eat ice cream, so for 10 or 15 minutes I sit at the table and do teaspoon curls. I don't stop til I've embarrassed even myself, or I feel I'm about to blow chunks.
Back when I was a bit healthier and more active and arthritis hadn't taken one of my hobbies, I maintained an even weight each week by losing 5-7 pounds during the week and putting them back on during the weekend. It was a beautiful cycle. But no more. Now, I gain 7 pounds during the weekend, but only lose 3 during the week.
Yesterday was when I realized I had a problem and I had an intervention with myself while shopping at Wally World. I was in the frozen fruit section buying more fruit for my daily protein shake. Those Wal-Mart bastards intentionally put the frozen pies right next to the frozen fruit, so weak people like me stand at the door to the freezer and think, "Hmm, frozen fruit or pie? Frozen fruit or pie? Fuck it, I'm getting pie."
I can't tell you how close I was to throwing a Key Lime pie into the cart. That's when I had the intervention with myself. After a few minutes of staring blindly into the freezer, I put the pie back and went with the fruit. It was then I decided no pie until I get below 190 pounds. It was a small step, but it was a step nonetheless.
Further, when I got home, I decided since I didn't do anything on the dreadmill on Saturday, I couldn't miss Sunday. I changed into my running britches and shoes and then stretched. And I stretched and I stretched. And then I stretched a little more. And then I played with the dogs. And then I talked with Hayden. And then I stretched some more. I told Jennifer that I was hoping I could keep stretching and completely avoid the dreadmill, but it never worked.
So I got on the dreadmill, and again, I had an intervention with myself. For the past couple weeks, I've done lots of walking and a little bit of jogging on the dreadmill. Mostly, I'm going through the motions, just killing time in hopes that I can lose two pounds in 5 or 6 minutes. But that hasn't happened.
I decided I was going to stop walking on the damned thing and start jogging. I weighed 195 pounds and it was time to stop being a pussy and actually burn some calories. I didn't care how long it took, I was going to jog for a whole mile without walking.
As the seconds slid by, I noticed my shin stopped splinting and the only pain was from my good knee. I said, "suck it up" and continued. As I approached the end of the mile, I thought I'd walk a bit after that first mile and then continue jogging for a second mile. I managed a ridiculously slow 12 minute mile, then walked for a quarter mile, then jogged the remaining 3/4 of a mile to finish 2 miles in 24 minutes and some change. It's sad, but it's a start.
My legs never hurt, but were a bit tired most of the night. It's hard carrying around an extra 15 pounds (or 20) every day. I considered giving them a rest today, but nixed that idea. So, another mile before heading into the office, with no walking allowed, stopping the clock at a staggering 11:36. Still glacier-slow, but an improvement.
My goal is to hop on for another mile tonight when Hayden and I get done with homework. Another small step, but at least it's a step forward.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
No more Bad Grandpa
My attack on unwanted poundage isn't going quite as swimmingly as I'd hoped. Last week, Pyscho Mom was out of town so I was pulling double duty on the parenting front. I weathered that storm, but my forward march was slightly stalled.
This week, I'm back, but only slightly with a vengeance. Because I'm really fat and even more out of shape, I've been walking to get my body used to the beating its in for. Walking is so lame though, that I feel like I'm not doing anything. Even after a couple miles, my feet are hot and my legs tired, but I'm barely sweating.
Today was the day to sew up the vag and start getting air born. I was ready to break out of Bad Grandpa mode and start pushing the treadmill to spin a little faster. A look on the scale was all the motivation I needed. Somehow, I'm up 1.4 pounds this week.
I walked for a couple minutes to get my parts warm. Then, I went air born. Cranked that dreamill up to a sizzling 5.2 MPH and started to jog. Yeah, 5.2 is pretty puss but it's a start. I knew my lungs would be the first casualty of the day so I figured a combination of walking and jogging would make for a good routine where I could spend a decent amount of time in motion and burn some calories.
Amazingly, my lungs were hanging in there. Instead, it was my knees that waved the white flag. Initially, some sort of shin splinty kind of thing started acting up on the left leg, but that pain was soon overpowered by the fire in my right knee. Sadly, my right knee is the good knee, a virgin of scalpels and big needles. The left knee is a bit of a mess. It's got three little marks where the scope went in some years ago and it's been drained more times than I can remember. According to the doctor, 'it's fine,' but I know better. It's still my bum knee, but now it seems it's the better of the two.
While the left knee was making a noble effort at accepting this new chore of running, the right knee grimaced and whined and cried the whole time. After a combination of walking and jogging produced an embarrassing 13:44 mile, I called it a day and headed to the debriefing room to discuss the issue with the knees.
Me: Knees, what's the problem?
Knees: The problem? Have you looked in the mirror? That's the problem.
Me: Sure, I'm carrying a couple extra pounds, but that's no excuse.
Knees: A couple extra? Try a dozen.
Me: Ok, a dozen. But we've done this before, why suddenly is there a problem?
Knees: Dude, we're old. We're older than we've ever been. We're just about as fat as we've ever been. And that shit you feed us isn't exactly Jenny Jones approved.
Me: Come on, grow a pair. I have a beer a night on the weekend.
Knees: Yes, one beer in a 22-ounce bottle.
Me: So! It's not that unusual.
Knees: The one beer in the 22-ounce bottle isn't the problem. The problem, Einstein, is the one beer in the 22-ounce bottle is enjoyed with a half a bag of pretzels, a few handfuls of Cheez Its, another bottle of beer and then some ice cream, eaten right out of the container that you think no one knows about. And then a couple pieces of candy just so you don't have to walk back up the stairs all alone. And just for a nightcap, you get into the fridge-type thing that's upstairs and grab another bottle, just because you're tipsy by then and think that calories consumed when you're tipsy don't count.
Me: Point taken.
We seem to be near a mutiny. I'm getting little cooperation from the troops. This is a problem because in addition to wanting to be cougar-bait on my golf trip in May, I was hoping to participate in some 5K thing my wife's company is throwing. I call it the Ten Toes for Kiddoes because the thing benefits kiddoes in some way, but the higher ups had already named it something far less cool. Anyway, I think that's in April so I have to start making some headway.
The past two weeks have not been a good start as I'm already up a pound and a half.
This week, I'm back, but only slightly with a vengeance. Because I'm really fat and even more out of shape, I've been walking to get my body used to the beating its in for. Walking is so lame though, that I feel like I'm not doing anything. Even after a couple miles, my feet are hot and my legs tired, but I'm barely sweating.
Today was the day to sew up the vag and start getting air born. I was ready to break out of Bad Grandpa mode and start pushing the treadmill to spin a little faster. A look on the scale was all the motivation I needed. Somehow, I'm up 1.4 pounds this week.
I walked for a couple minutes to get my parts warm. Then, I went air born. Cranked that dreamill up to a sizzling 5.2 MPH and started to jog. Yeah, 5.2 is pretty puss but it's a start. I knew my lungs would be the first casualty of the day so I figured a combination of walking and jogging would make for a good routine where I could spend a decent amount of time in motion and burn some calories.
Amazingly, my lungs were hanging in there. Instead, it was my knees that waved the white flag. Initially, some sort of shin splinty kind of thing started acting up on the left leg, but that pain was soon overpowered by the fire in my right knee. Sadly, my right knee is the good knee, a virgin of scalpels and big needles. The left knee is a bit of a mess. It's got three little marks where the scope went in some years ago and it's been drained more times than I can remember. According to the doctor, 'it's fine,' but I know better. It's still my bum knee, but now it seems it's the better of the two.
While the left knee was making a noble effort at accepting this new chore of running, the right knee grimaced and whined and cried the whole time. After a combination of walking and jogging produced an embarrassing 13:44 mile, I called it a day and headed to the debriefing room to discuss the issue with the knees.
Me: Knees, what's the problem?
Knees: The problem? Have you looked in the mirror? That's the problem.
Me: Sure, I'm carrying a couple extra pounds, but that's no excuse.
Knees: A couple extra? Try a dozen.
Me: Ok, a dozen. But we've done this before, why suddenly is there a problem?
Knees: Dude, we're old. We're older than we've ever been. We're just about as fat as we've ever been. And that shit you feed us isn't exactly Jenny Jones approved.
Me: Come on, grow a pair. I have a beer a night on the weekend.
Knees: Yes, one beer in a 22-ounce bottle.
Me: So! It's not that unusual.
Knees: The one beer in the 22-ounce bottle isn't the problem. The problem, Einstein, is the one beer in the 22-ounce bottle is enjoyed with a half a bag of pretzels, a few handfuls of Cheez Its, another bottle of beer and then some ice cream, eaten right out of the container that you think no one knows about. And then a couple pieces of candy just so you don't have to walk back up the stairs all alone. And just for a nightcap, you get into the fridge-type thing that's upstairs and grab another bottle, just because you're tipsy by then and think that calories consumed when you're tipsy don't count.
Me: Point taken.
We seem to be near a mutiny. I'm getting little cooperation from the troops. This is a problem because in addition to wanting to be cougar-bait on my golf trip in May, I was hoping to participate in some 5K thing my wife's company is throwing. I call it the Ten Toes for Kiddoes because the thing benefits kiddoes in some way, but the higher ups had already named it something far less cool. Anyway, I think that's in April so I have to start making some headway.
The past two weeks have not been a good start as I'm already up a pound and a half.
Monday, January 20, 2014
What a great day to be alive
Due to my football team's lack of skills, football season for me is now over. No more entire weekends of watching TV the whole day. No more Monday nights of doing nothing. It's time to bring the troops back in and start progressing on our march.
Currently, I sit at a staggering 192.6 (I was surprised it was that low). I'm now wearing a B-cup and I keep getting phone calls from the local OB/GYNs trying to drum up my business. I'll have no more of it. I'm lazy and I look like shit. Well, I look as bad as a hot guy can look.
So, the troops have been brought in to discuss the latest iteration of Operation: Fat Bastard, which we're considering calling Operation: Fatter Bastard. I always like to give the guys not only a goal, but a deadline in which to accomplish the goal.
Despite being off any and all payrolls, I'm still going on my golf trip this year. Jennifer and I are leaving just past midnight on the morning of May 9. That gives me just shy of four months to drop some pounds. As is normally the case, the goal is for the scale to start with a 1 proceeded by a 7. After that, I don't care what it says.
I gave the troops their orders today and away I went on the dreadmill. It's been over two months since I'd turned the thing on and I was happy I remember which buttons to push to make it do things. Sadly, just programming the time, my weight, and the speed and incline, I worked up a bit of a sweat. But because I'm a warrior, I continued.
My intent was not to jog today, but simply make sure my shoes still fit and to get my body accustomed to the beating it was going to take. I thought a couple miles of walking would be a good start.
Slowly (3.9 MPH), and with a gentle incline (3.0) I began with left foot in front of right foot, then right foot in front of left foot. Nothing to it, I thought. I was listening to The Promise by When In Rome and kind of lost track of what was going on. The song ended and the aching in my knees suggested I'd been on the dreadmill for quite some time. Yep, one minute and 20 seconds to be precise. Two minutes later the little shin splinty things started to act up.
Fortunately, about that time, Monty walked into the mancave. This was odd because I clearly remembered letting both dogs outside before I went upstairs. I paused the forward march and ran downstairs. Yep, the back door was standing wide open. I'd yell at Hayden for this, but since it was me, I'm going to let it slide.
Back up to the dreadmill, Monty followed and was dying to get on. She'd put one paw on and then watch in horror as that paw slid towards the back. It took her about four attempts before she decided to lay on the floor next to me and keep and eye out for insurgents.
I stopped at 2 miles for a variety of reasons. First, it's a nice round number. But mostly it was because my feet were burning hot. I'd lost feeling in both knees around 1.3 miles so I was able to continue, but my feet were on fire and judging by the smokey scent in the air, they might have been.
Two miles and about 355 calories burned in the books.
Currently, I sit at a staggering 192.6 (I was surprised it was that low). I'm now wearing a B-cup and I keep getting phone calls from the local OB/GYNs trying to drum up my business. I'll have no more of it. I'm lazy and I look like shit. Well, I look as bad as a hot guy can look.
So, the troops have been brought in to discuss the latest iteration of Operation: Fat Bastard, which we're considering calling Operation: Fatter Bastard. I always like to give the guys not only a goal, but a deadline in which to accomplish the goal.
Despite being off any and all payrolls, I'm still going on my golf trip this year. Jennifer and I are leaving just past midnight on the morning of May 9. That gives me just shy of four months to drop some pounds. As is normally the case, the goal is for the scale to start with a 1 proceeded by a 7. After that, I don't care what it says.
I gave the troops their orders today and away I went on the dreadmill. It's been over two months since I'd turned the thing on and I was happy I remember which buttons to push to make it do things. Sadly, just programming the time, my weight, and the speed and incline, I worked up a bit of a sweat. But because I'm a warrior, I continued.
My intent was not to jog today, but simply make sure my shoes still fit and to get my body accustomed to the beating it was going to take. I thought a couple miles of walking would be a good start.
Slowly (3.9 MPH), and with a gentle incline (3.0) I began with left foot in front of right foot, then right foot in front of left foot. Nothing to it, I thought. I was listening to The Promise by When In Rome and kind of lost track of what was going on. The song ended and the aching in my knees suggested I'd been on the dreadmill for quite some time. Yep, one minute and 20 seconds to be precise. Two minutes later the little shin splinty things started to act up.
Fortunately, about that time, Monty walked into the mancave. This was odd because I clearly remembered letting both dogs outside before I went upstairs. I paused the forward march and ran downstairs. Yep, the back door was standing wide open. I'd yell at Hayden for this, but since it was me, I'm going to let it slide.
Back up to the dreadmill, Monty followed and was dying to get on. She'd put one paw on and then watch in horror as that paw slid towards the back. It took her about four attempts before she decided to lay on the floor next to me and keep and eye out for insurgents.
I stopped at 2 miles for a variety of reasons. First, it's a nice round number. But mostly it was because my feet were burning hot. I'd lost feeling in both knees around 1.3 miles so I was able to continue, but my feet were on fire and judging by the smokey scent in the air, they might have been.
Two miles and about 355 calories burned in the books.
Friday, January 17, 2014
I'm the parent of 'that child' and 'that dog'
Last night was the first night of puppy school for Monty. I'd been waiting for this for 5 or 6 weeks now and had purposely not worked with her in the interim because I didn't want to start teaching her one way of doing things and then confuse her with a different method.
Despite being a German Shepherd, Monty is a fraidy-cat at home. When she hears the neighbor's dogs bark, she immediately runs and hides behind me. While I really wanted an attack dog, I was somewhat happy with her submissiveness, thinking that she'd be quiet at school.
EPIC fail. Epic is in caps for a reason, it was the mother of all fails.
We arrived a few minutes late which really set the tone. Before we left, I checked my little duffel bag to make sure we had everything we needed. Sadly, I forgot to put everything back in, so as we were driving to school, I realized the mistake and headed back home.
So, as mentioned, we arrived a couple minutes late. We walked into a group of people, all holding the leases of their little pups. Monty immediately started barking at them. And barking. And barking. And barking.
Despite what some may think, I don't normally like to draw attention to myself. Sure, once in a while I do, but most of the time I'm quiet and try to keep to myself. That didn't happen last night. Everyone was making sure to see who the deadbeat dad was who couldn't control their dog.
After a few minutes, the assistant to the instructor, and old bag of a lady, walked over to me and said, "I wouldn't let him get away with that." (By the way, Monty is a girl) My first reaction was complete shock. It totally caught me off guard. My second reaction was to tell the old bag of a lady to get out of my business. However, I'm now on happy pills and far more mature than I used to be so I went with my third reaction..."Well, I'm hoping you guys will teach me how."
Another minute or two of barking ensued before the bag lady came by with a spray bottle. She gave Monty a quick spray and it shut her up. The bag lady smiled a horribly, ugly smile and turned around. Monty realized she was ok and proceeded to continue barking. The bag lady came at Monty one more time and zapped her. This time Monty snapped at the water bottle. While it probably wasn't the proper thing for Monty to do, I was very proud of her for letting the bag lady know what's what.
A couple more minutes went by before the lead instructor mentioned, "Maybe you should take her outside and walk her around the yard." Seven or eight minutes in and we'd already been relegated to time out. This wasn't the start I'd hope for.
Hayden and I walked the puppy outside for a few minutes, then went back inside. At this point, Monty was settling down and getting tired of barking. She only barked when another puppy made eye contact or got too close. The class went into introductions and when it came to me, I mentioned who Hayden and I were and said, "You've already met Monty." There were smiles, except from the bag lady, and the introductions continued.
The whole time, the bag lady was staring at Monty. And then at me. And then at Monty. And then at me again. Bitch.
For the rest of the night, Monty did fairly well. She only tried to eat a couple of the dogs and for the most part only barked when she felt another dog was staring at her or tried to invade her space.
I'm already not looking forward to next week because I'm afraid they're going to give me my money back and ask that I leave Monty at home. However, I'm very proud of Monty for both snapping at the water bottle and for trying to fend off the bad puppies, even though the other puppies weren't bad (the little Great Dane puppy might have been as cute as Monty).
I don't know if she'll ever learn to sit, stay, and not jump on people, but at least the house will be protected.
Despite being a German Shepherd, Monty is a fraidy-cat at home. When she hears the neighbor's dogs bark, she immediately runs and hides behind me. While I really wanted an attack dog, I was somewhat happy with her submissiveness, thinking that she'd be quiet at school.
EPIC fail. Epic is in caps for a reason, it was the mother of all fails.
We arrived a few minutes late which really set the tone. Before we left, I checked my little duffel bag to make sure we had everything we needed. Sadly, I forgot to put everything back in, so as we were driving to school, I realized the mistake and headed back home.
So, as mentioned, we arrived a couple minutes late. We walked into a group of people, all holding the leases of their little pups. Monty immediately started barking at them. And barking. And barking. And barking.
Despite what some may think, I don't normally like to draw attention to myself. Sure, once in a while I do, but most of the time I'm quiet and try to keep to myself. That didn't happen last night. Everyone was making sure to see who the deadbeat dad was who couldn't control their dog.
After a few minutes, the assistant to the instructor, and old bag of a lady, walked over to me and said, "I wouldn't let him get away with that." (By the way, Monty is a girl) My first reaction was complete shock. It totally caught me off guard. My second reaction was to tell the old bag of a lady to get out of my business. However, I'm now on happy pills and far more mature than I used to be so I went with my third reaction..."Well, I'm hoping you guys will teach me how."
Another minute or two of barking ensued before the bag lady came by with a spray bottle. She gave Monty a quick spray and it shut her up. The bag lady smiled a horribly, ugly smile and turned around. Monty realized she was ok and proceeded to continue barking. The bag lady came at Monty one more time and zapped her. This time Monty snapped at the water bottle. While it probably wasn't the proper thing for Monty to do, I was very proud of her for letting the bag lady know what's what.
A couple more minutes went by before the lead instructor mentioned, "Maybe you should take her outside and walk her around the yard." Seven or eight minutes in and we'd already been relegated to time out. This wasn't the start I'd hope for.
Hayden and I walked the puppy outside for a few minutes, then went back inside. At this point, Monty was settling down and getting tired of barking. She only barked when another puppy made eye contact or got too close. The class went into introductions and when it came to me, I mentioned who Hayden and I were and said, "You've already met Monty." There were smiles, except from the bag lady, and the introductions continued.
The whole time, the bag lady was staring at Monty. And then at me. And then at Monty. And then at me again. Bitch.
For the rest of the night, Monty did fairly well. She only tried to eat a couple of the dogs and for the most part only barked when she felt another dog was staring at her or tried to invade her space.
I'm already not looking forward to next week because I'm afraid they're going to give me my money back and ask that I leave Monty at home. However, I'm very proud of Monty for both snapping at the water bottle and for trying to fend off the bad puppies, even though the other puppies weren't bad (the little Great Dane puppy might have been as cute as Monty).
I don't know if she'll ever learn to sit, stay, and not jump on people, but at least the house will be protected.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Oh yeah, it's still on.
I don't have a lot of time because I'm stuck in the trenches and the internet reception isn't great in times of war. That said, I wanted everyone to know that Operation: Fat Bastard is still a go. Lately, we've gone dark, avoiding communications of all sorts, but in the background, the guys have been working some covert operations. Like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop II, we've gone deep undercover...like Double Secret Probation-type deep undercover.
The recent Fall Festival was but a flesh wound of a set back in our desire to shed some lbs. Dr. Thickfinger doubling my happy pill intake hasn't exactly helped the lbs drop either. With these two recent set backs, I hit a rotund 195 pounds on October 21. Yes, it was impressive, borderline spectacular. But that was the final straw.
As a unit, our guys regrouped and planned a different method of attack. We decided the best course of action was to continue moving forward with baby steps on the dreadmill, but we also decided on some counter measures reserved for just this sort of battle.
Since the previous Monday (10/21), with the exception of the weekends, I've been on a diet. Yes, a diet. During the weekdays, I've eaten nothing but milk shakes, candy bars, pumpkin bagels with cream cheese, potato chips and mini bell peppers...with the occasional meal of spaghetti or a burger thrown in for good measure.
It's not as bad as it sounds. The milk shakes are my homemade protein drinks. The candy bars are my protein bars. The bagels are just what you'd expect, as are the chips and the peppers. Really, they're my favorite things to eat, so I look forward to it.
I start each day with a protein smoothie and a bagel. I snack on a protein bar if I get hungry. After I pick up Hayden from school, before we start on homework, he and I both wolf down some potato chips. For dinner I have another protein smoothie and another bagel. Later in the evening, I'll put a hurtin' on the mini bells peppers (those things are like candy to me) if I get hungry. Editor's note: since I picked up some Halloween candy at the store this past weekend, I've noticed I might have a few pieces to kill a sweet tooth before brushing my toofers.
This 'diet' keeps me full, and has like 1 calorie. I've been trying to jog a mile in the mornings and again in the evenings, but I've found I'm only doing it in the mornings because I'm about to fall asleep after working on homework with Hayden...fourth grade is SOOOOO boring.
Anyway, the previous Monday I almost broke the scale at 195.0 pounds. This morning, the damned thing would only go up to 189.2. Operation: Fat Bastard is in the Shock and Awe stage right now, I can't wait to see what happens next.
The recent Fall Festival was but a flesh wound of a set back in our desire to shed some lbs. Dr. Thickfinger doubling my happy pill intake hasn't exactly helped the lbs drop either. With these two recent set backs, I hit a rotund 195 pounds on October 21. Yes, it was impressive, borderline spectacular. But that was the final straw.
As a unit, our guys regrouped and planned a different method of attack. We decided the best course of action was to continue moving forward with baby steps on the dreadmill, but we also decided on some counter measures reserved for just this sort of battle.
Since the previous Monday (10/21), with the exception of the weekends, I've been on a diet. Yes, a diet. During the weekdays, I've eaten nothing but milk shakes, candy bars, pumpkin bagels with cream cheese, potato chips and mini bell peppers...with the occasional meal of spaghetti or a burger thrown in for good measure.
It's not as bad as it sounds. The milk shakes are my homemade protein drinks. The candy bars are my protein bars. The bagels are just what you'd expect, as are the chips and the peppers. Really, they're my favorite things to eat, so I look forward to it.
I start each day with a protein smoothie and a bagel. I snack on a protein bar if I get hungry. After I pick up Hayden from school, before we start on homework, he and I both wolf down some potato chips. For dinner I have another protein smoothie and another bagel. Later in the evening, I'll put a hurtin' on the mini bells peppers (those things are like candy to me) if I get hungry. Editor's note: since I picked up some Halloween candy at the store this past weekend, I've noticed I might have a few pieces to kill a sweet tooth before brushing my toofers.
This 'diet' keeps me full, and has like 1 calorie. I've been trying to jog a mile in the mornings and again in the evenings, but I've found I'm only doing it in the mornings because I'm about to fall asleep after working on homework with Hayden...fourth grade is SOOOOO boring.
Anyway, the previous Monday I almost broke the scale at 195.0 pounds. This morning, the damned thing would only go up to 189.2. Operation: Fat Bastard is in the Shock and Awe stage right now, I can't wait to see what happens next.
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