Ghost me likes to blame.

Ghost me likes to blame.

Yesterday I joined the gym I have been talking about for months, and I went for the first time today. It was nice to have a buddy to go with, I will say that. I get awkward in any situations where I’m not entirely sure what to do next. Once I get my footing, and I have a system worked out, it will be easier to go alone. For now, buddies are fun. I got on the elliptical trainer, because that’s where my friend went. (also because there were other people on the treadmills, and eff walking next to a stranger that is uh-runnang, ya heard?) I have been on them before. I have spent no more than 35 minutes on one, however. Those things are no joke. The first minute or so, I spent fiddling with the buttons, while still riding my invisible bike. Once I had entered all that I cared to, I set to work. After about two and a half minutes, I was already looking at my friend to see if he appeared worried(he is not a small man). He didn’t. I peddled away. At three minutes I looked again. He was hooking up his earphones rather nonchalantly. I swear to you, I broke into a real, and intense sweat at about four minutes. I wanted to give up at two, frankly. I made a deal with myself in those very long minutes. “You can get off at five, but you have to do eight tomorrow.” I made it to five and a half. I stepped lightly off the machine, with my friend giving me sideways glances, and made my way towards the vending machine with water bottles in it.

I’m not kidding when I say that I thought I was going to die. I legitimately wondered if I had waited too long, and now, during my first go at exercise, I would keel over, and my friend would have to explain to my family what had happened. And then Ghost Me would point fingers at society for the death of Life Me. I thought that all of my friends would feel really badly for being supportive, and I also thought that they would deserve it. “I wasn’t meant for this! Why couldn’t you let me be what I was meant to be!?” Angry Ghost Me would scream at them. But they wouldn’t hear me. No. They would all be crying into their beers(oh, and they will cry), talking about how they tried to get me to lose weight on more than one occasion, and how sad that I was actually trying for once, and that’s what did me in. And one of them will chime in with a story about how I almost burned the house down while drinking and making a ham reduction on the stove.(tip: don’t leave a ham reduction on the stove to reduce while you and your friends take an impromptu trip to the bar for shots. you will come home to a pot that is destroyed, and a house full of smoke.) Another friend will tell the story of the time we ordered Jimmy Johns from the bar, and I made him tell the people to “lube it up” with mayonnaise. Then they will all laugh, and take a drink for me. One will pour a little on the ground. Ghost Me will sigh a disheartened sigh and kick a ghost rock.

Meanwhile, back at the watering hole, it took me six tries to get the first dollar bill in, and three for the second. My hands were shaking. Even when I was this fat before, I remember having more energy. Is this what getting old is? Or is this just being fat for too long? Both, I can only assume. I sipped at the water, regained a little bit of my equilibrium, and made my way to the weight machines. I did the sets and reps thing on a bunch of the machines, but not the ones that make you look like a dillhole. I’ll save the bending over a red leather pad with my ass in the air for my sekrit-times, thankyouverymuch. My idiot trooper of a friend was still on the elliptical. Uhm. Just ellipticalling. Like it was nothing. Jerk.

When my friend was done, he came over to the machine next to mine. Turns out, he ellipticallasizes at least once a week. This was not his first go ’round. It made me feel better, but it also made me plan for the future on how to get faster. Stronger. Overall, it was a good thing(tm, that b martha. love you!).

Though I rarely get serious hunger pangs anymore, I’m still enamored with food. I hate the word “foodie,” but as layman’s terms go, it shall do. I am one of those. I love to hear about it, talk about it, look at it, smell it, touch it.. Taste it. It’s really fantastic. It’s really art, is what it is. The possibilities are endless. I have recently discussed catching june bugs this year with a friend and frying them up. Two weeks ago, I ate veal brains. Sweetbreads. Not the first time, either. I see things on Bizzare Foods with Andrew Zimmern all the time that I long to try. One in particular I think about frequently. In Chile, someone slit a lamb’s throat, drained it’s blood into a tub, added onion, cilantro, and lemon juice, and ate it warm. It was like.. Fresh blood pudding. It sounds fascinating. On the other hand, you give me a mealy tomato, and I will spit it in your mother’s eye.

I’ve found that after cooking all day, I’m not particularly interested in ingesting the thing I have prepared. That works for me. Because I live with my brother and my niece, I can search for recipes, and come up with ideas, and cook for them. My brother is a vegetarian, so this is a new challenge for me. I need to find recipes that he can eat, while still supplying a decent amount of protein for the wee one. She will try anything, though, which is nice for a five(soon to be six) year old. My brother.. Let’s call him “Juan.” Juan likes to eat hummus and Saltines for dinner. Sometimes just cheese and crackers. Falafel is another favorite. Spinach pie. Spanakopita. I decided to tackle this one first. (i have an unnatural fear of making what I like to call “ball food.” meatballs. falafel. sweet potatoes stuffed with marshmallow. they spell disaster. and “ball food.”) I even made Tzatziki sauce from scratch. My niece, we’ll call her.. “Brad.” Brad told me tonight that she had never tried spinach, and she was interested. When she took her first bite, she smiled.. And said, “It tastes like cat…” We waited. “Cat..” I asked, “Can you not think of the word? Maybe give us some clues?” “It’s the stuff you give to cats.” Oh, thank goodness. I definitely thought it reminded her of something that came from cats, which would beg the question, “Why does that girl know what feline urine tastes like?”
The answer was “catnip,” in case you were wondering. Though.. Whatever. I’m sure she’s fine.
We’ve decided to name our family’s spanakopita, “Catnip Pie.”

Last weekend, I decided that though we should all try and eat healthy, I think we deserve at least one decadent meal a week. Last week it was breakfast. It’s my favorite meal to make, because I get to get up and creep around before everyone else, and surprise them with goodies. This time around, I grilled peanut butter, banana, and Nutella sandwiches, and sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar. They went over like gangbusters. Duh. Check ’em!

Brad has a bit of an issue with getting her hands dirty. Oddly enough, so does Juan. This is the reason Juan doesn’t use moisturizer. It drives him insane. This information comes in handy with things like peanut butter, banana, and Nutella sandwiches because though it looks like she’s not enjoying them, it’s just that the cinnamon and sugar on her hands is too much for her constitution. Supplying her with a knife and fork is key in these situations.

After dinner tonight, Brad and I made tuna salad for her bag lunch on her field trip to the farm. She’s turning out to be quite the little helper. We turned in reading the first part of Roald Dahl’s “The Minpins.” I like her. I really like her a lot. I’m interested in not meeting Ghost Me so soon so Life Me can hang around Brad a bunch more. Feline Urine Pie and all.