Movin' and Shakin' and Jigglin'

That same summer when Lauren sent my fat ass running home, thighs rubbing together, my family moved.  Ahh a new start.  And stress.  And gaining weight.   When I started fourth grade, I thought I was hot stuff.  (I even wore a fire engine red skirt and matching striped shirt to school on the first day.  The look was completed with slouch socks and Keds.  Not to mention the fact that I slept with curlers in my bangs for the perfect poof.  Hot.)  Until this giant boy started referring to me as the Goodyear Blimp.  I didn't even know what that was, but I knew "blimp" was not a flattering term.  He said it a lot.  I hated it. But, then I got boobs later that year, and started wearing a training bra, so his opinion didn't matter so much anymore. But, I was definitely still fat. 

During that time my brother was way too skinny.  He's three years younger than me and was a string bean.   So, my dad would make him egg nog every night.  With whole raw eggs, milk, ice cream, peanut butter, bananas and chocolate syrup all blended up.  And you bet your ass Fatty Cee always gulped down a glass.  You'd think maybe Pops might have thought to encourage the fat kid to abstain.

Over the next two years, I got eight teeth pulled, leaving my four front top and bottom teeth in a partially-toothed smile.  Sexy.  Oh, and poofy bangs.  One year, for Christmas, I asked for jeans from one of my favorite shops in the mall.  I wanted green jeans, and purple jeans and red jeans and yellow jeans, and of course white jeans.  It was 1993.  I told my mom over and over again that I was a size 5.  I don't where the idea that I was a size 5 came from, but I was sure of it.  I'd probably heard Brenda Walsh ask for a size 5 or something.  I'd never tried on a pair of jeans before that. 

I was sorely disappointed come Christmas morning when not one of the rad new jeans zipped up.   I cried.

A few days later, my mom took me to the mall to exchange my jeans.  The 7's didn't fit, nor the 9's.  And I remember telling my mother that I would NOT be wearing any size larger than that.  This was just the first in a long history of fitting-room-provoked-tantrums.  I left the mall without anything but a receipt for returned items.

And I began wearing my mom's hand-me-down acid washed stretch jeans.  Cesca fondly reminds me that they had no pockets, and had lace up the side.  I really was sexy. 

one of the many reasons I will never raise children in manhattan

I’m sitting at a nail salon on the Upper East Side in NYC ($50 mani/pedi btw.  Ridiculous).  There’s a mom in her forties sitting next to at the pedi station.  She’s yelling across the room to her six year old daughter who is receiving a massage.  Because six year olds are stressed, you know.  The mother tells me to look over, saying that, at six, she had never even heard of a massage.  I laugh - you know, because she sees who ridiculous this is as well, or so I thought.  I said something about how my mom wouldn’t have allowed nail polish in the house (mess!)  Mom goes, “ahhhhh, but it’s all part of the New York City lifestyle.”

After I vomited, she tells me about the woes of having to bring her daughter with her for her weekly mani/pedi/massage appointment.  Gross.  Later, she’s yelling “precious baby, don’t smudge your nails!  Oh goodness!”  Remember, she’s six.  Later she’s advising the child to start a weekly blog (six) about the different nail polish colors she’s tried.

It’s all very magical until I’m interrupted by “YOU PAY NOW” and I scrounge around in my purse with wet hands for an outrageous sum of money.  Have I mentioned that I hate the city.  Not that the interpersonal skills at nail salons are any better in the burbs.

Anyway.  As I’m leaving, I hear the mom telling the manicurist that her daughter’s prink finger is smudged and it should be fixed.  Immediately.  She has alot of errands to run, after all.  Because it’s important that your nails are pristine when you’re playing in the sandbox.

Fat Kid

Backing up a bit. I remember having weight issues as young as 8 or 9. I lived on the kind of block where all the kids ran wild until our respective mom's screamed "DINNNNNNNNER!!" and we disbursed.

Dinner usually consisted of some meat, breaded, and cooked in oil with a heaping side dish of cheese or butter drenched veggies. Nutrition wasn't a focus in my fam.

There was always a mixed bag of children of various ages around. I was in the second tier. There were a few of us around the same age in that 8-10 range. Then some younger kids and some older almost-junior-high-age kids.

I remember one girl, Lauren. She was heavy. So was her twin brother. And they were probably three or four years older than me. That instantly made them the coolest people in the world. Looking back, they were obnoxious. But in our kingdom, they reigned.

We played this game. I don't know why. Basically it was "See Who Can Push Someone The Furthest." As the pushee, you'd stand with your back to the pusher. They'd then see how far they could lunge you ahead. I still have a scar on my left elbow from when Lauren sent me flying to the blacktop. I remember her asking me "How much do you weigh? That was hard!" I answered with "65 pounds." That was untrue. I don't recall my actual weight, but it was probably closer to 90. She scoffed and called me a liar. I ran home and have no memory of seeing her again.

And so it began... I was aware. I was a fat kid and I knew it.

By The lbs

I always fancied myself "athletic." But, really, that's a lie. Sure, I played softball as a kid. On the town rec team. In left center field. Until I was 13. I sucked. I played field hockey too. But I was cut from that team before hitting Varsity. I made my basketball debut on the freshman team - when they were actively recruiting enough players to make having a team justifiable. I don't even know the names of the positions. Our uniforms were cute though.

I went to my college's state-of-the-art gym about 10 times in my four years as a co-ed. And I've been a member of various gyms since entering the real world. I'm still paying for a membership to a gym I've seen twice. I don't even know where the locker rooms are.

And needless to say, I've steadily gained weight since the days of field hockey pre-season ended.

I was 121 at my lowest. I was 14 then. And I had just spent the summer between middle school and high school starving myself. My hip bones stuck out, and I loved it. In the morning, I could weigh around 119. Ohhh the teens. How I loved them.

I sucked at sports, but I played. Then I stopped. Then I got fat. Then I stopped eating and got skinny. Then I started drinking. Then I graduated college and sat on my ass for 8-10 hours a day in front of a computer screen. Then I weighed 200 lbs.

Can't Find a Betta Man

That year or two after college is a time for nothing more than trouble. You don't quite know how to be an adult. You're not quite supposed to be out partying every night. You don't really know what to do at all. But, what you do know is that you can A) still hold your liquor, and B) afford way more of it than you could in college.

My girlfriends had fun after college. And during that time we came across an array of interesting young "men" while living and partying in NYC. From 5pm Friday night through the wee hours of Sunday morning, we let loose on NYC. After several months - and several "$3 deals" (a Pabst and a shot of tequila only available after 2AM) we decided it would be well worth our effort to document the series of guys we encountered.

And so, sometime during the summer of 2005, the Can't Find a Betta Man book was born. Its little black book-sized pages were quickly filled with the nicknames of men we dated, danced with, made out with, and ran back to tell each other about.

And, for your reading enjoyment, here's taste, with some commentary on what I can remember about these guys:

Indian Nelly
We ran into this gem in DC. He wore a Band-Aid on his cheek around the time that Nelly was rocking that look. Oh, and he was from India.

Doodle
During a party, Doodle was munching on some Cheese Doodles. After his tasty treat, he strolled over to one of my girls and tried to hit on her. He had orange crumbs all over himself. Including in his eyelashes. Somethings you just can't get past. Clearly, the relationship was destined for failure. For, he would never love her as much as he loved his Doodles.

Batman
Sometimes we went to the South. Sometimes we went to bars in the South. Sometimes these bars had Country Music Karaoke. Sometimes men dressed up as Batman performed renditions of Garth Brooks songs. Sometimes, we fell in love.

Stay tuned for more...

Cee In Training

I've been working out. I'm not really seeing the results I want, but hell… I gotta do it. Monday and Friday mornings I work with a trainer. She's good. She makes me feel sore for the next 24 hours. We do a lot of work on my arms, butt and trunk/abs. It's like the total chick-needs workout. We do some cardio, like the treadmill or the bike or jumping on that half ball thing.

Wednesday I'm with a guy I don't know to well, but he seems like he knows what he's doing. It's better when the trainer knows you better. I think my morning trainer has a better feel for my capabilities and needs. Thursday, I work with the owner of the gym. He's good. You can just tell. He pushes me. Maybe it's a little too much because my body gives up. But is that what he's supposed to do? I really have no clue.

My cousin, J (from our poor attempt at bootcamp) entered us in a radio contest. Now, I have satellite radio, so apart from Opie & Anthony and Cosmo Radio (nice combo, huh?) I don't really delve much into the on-air world. Needless to say, I had never heard of the station, let alone the competition that J was interested in. Basically, it's a take on 'The Biggest Loser' where three teams of four are each assigned to local gyms, given trainers and compete against each other. Six weeks of free personal training, after two years of eating out of a vending machine during nursing school? Uh, yes. Sign me up.

I still don't know what the prize is. And I don't care. I have six weeks (I'm in week 5 now) of training for free. Final weigh-in and measurements are next week. The scale isn't making me happy, but I do feel toned. The fact that I'm not losing weight sucks because I had zero problem putting on 19lbs since Aug 2009. Hi, I'm fat.

On nursing school and adult diapers

As a girl growing up in the suburbs with a stable family and never really going without, there are certain inevitabilities in life. You expect you'll go to college, you'll get too drunk and throw up. You'll clean up after a roommate. You'll have kids and change diapers. You'll get a dog who will poop on your carpet. Maybe you'll be a bartender and have to clean up after your college lacrosse team after a "fundraiser" gone awry.

I've recently completed my first full year of nursing school (by the skin of my teeth, but nonetheless), and finally have a minute (when I'm not studying for Pharmacology) to reflect on what I've been through so far.  Nursing school is hard.  And it kinda sucks.  I've never worked harder at anything in my life.  It makes me feel stupid.  But, everyone feels the same way.  So, we push on through.  Clinical rotations, however, are amazing.  For 8 hours a week, I play nurse in bright white (increasingly tighter) scrubs.

One thing that former-marketing-major-I-want-to-wear-a-power-suit chick would never have expected to be doing at 8AM on a Sunday morning - changing the adult diaper in a nursing home of a man I've never met before.

In theory, yes, it's kinda gross. In practice, however, it's much, much worse. Poop smells. Plus, you have to figure that someone who is incontinent and cannot clean himself, may have some other physical difficulties. Like, laying on his side. It took three of us to perform a bed bath on this man. Two to hold and one to clean. He wasn't a large man, but he was very stiff. He has osteoporosis and some other issues that make it painful and difficult to remain in that position.

And, while it is a shock - physically - to have to provide such a steep level of care for someone, it's really the emotion of it that's gotten to me. I can't imagine what it must be like to see a crew of 20-somethings in scrubs swarm in to wipe my butt.... To know that my whole life has already happened.

I guess this is why they start us in a long-term care facility. We're seeing people who have contributed so much for so many years. They deserve the best care.

I have finished my nursing home rotation, but each session was a challenge. The first two times, I was paired up with total-care patients who could do very little for themselves. The first week, the man I was caring for could barely speak. He was very weak, had a rough night's sleep and was fighting a pneumonia infection. The next time, I was caring for a man in a similar physical state, who was mentally aware. That was more difficult. He was so aware of what was going on and the fact that he couldn't help. He was also the man who needed the assistance of three nursing students.

In my third shift, I was assigned to a woman. She is in her mid 90's and has been diagnosed with dimentia. Physically, she's awesome, considering her age. And, she's a little hard of hearing, but mentally, she really seemed to be totally with it. She required some assistance. I had to wash her.... only after she stripped naked in the bathroom...without warning.. Which was a shock, since I had no clothes or towels ready for her... But, she was totally lucid and able to do much of her hygiene care herself. It wasn't until she said, while adjusting her bra "help me lift 'em in there" that I snapped back into the situation...

What keeps some people bed-ridden and others stripping in the bathroom? It's an incredible learning experience. In the lab, you get the techniques down. But in practice, you're not dealing with steps, you're dealing with people. I think some of the CNAs forget that sometimes. I know I'm green here, but I hope not to forget that. And, while we're at it, I hope no one ever has to "lift 'em in there" for me... whether I'm able to ask for it or not.