Indoors Girl meets Nature, doesn't die

I've never been ashamed of the fact that I'm an indoors kind of a girl. I like reading, knitting, and watching movies. I don't like getting dirty, being wet, or mosquitoes. So even though I live in what feels like the Camping Capital of the Universe, I never feel the urge to join in. You go carry all your provisions on your back and risk getting mauled by a bear and tempt malaria and squat to pee and sit around in your own filth for days. I'm going to make a strawberry meringue cake and watch a pithy French film.

But due to the whole not getting my contract situation last week (see previous post; update below), the gent had all sorts of time off and wanted to use it taking a trip to Crater Lake. A camping trip. Since Friday was our Negative One Anniversary, I decided, sigh, to be a good almost-wife and go with him.

Our friends Lrin and Erane were kind enough to lend us their tent and sleeping bags, and the gent purchased our provisions: marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, trail mix, bananas, beef jerky, peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I brought three changes of clothes, four pairs of socks, five books, and my neck support pillow.

We managed to snag the very last campsite-- there was a wuss family who left because they couldn't deal with the skeeters-- and we set to work building a fire so I could have what I came there for: an embarrassment of roasted marshmallows.

Some might say this didn't really count as camping, because our car was about 10 feet from our tent, and there were flush toilets a two-minute walk away. But I slept on the ground, dammit. I got really dirty foraging for wood and waited a whole half-hour before running to the bathroom to wash my hands. And when I woke up, I didn't shower. No sir. I splashed some water on my face and called it clean... eventhoughIknewIhadbugsprayinmyhairanditwasdrivingmecrazyandIfeltlikeIhadcreepycrawliesalloverme.

But it was all worth it, because I got to see stuff like this:

Contract update: Still nothing. I swallowed my fear of speaking French over the telephone and called there during my early morning/ their late afternoon. I'm pretty sure she said that everyone who could help me was on vacay for the rest of time so I was SOL. I do keep having dreams that I'll be placed in Auxerre, so there's that.

The Story of How Ice Cream Made Everything Much More Better

I had a terrible day. A rotten, no good, horrible, all-wrong day. Let me whine to you about it for a little while. You'll like it.

A couple of months ago, upon the advice of the smarties running my program in France,  I made an appointment to talk to the folks at the French Consulate in San Francisco for this Friday. The way the process works is that the school where I'll be teaching is supposed to send me an official contract (arrêté in Frenchy) saying that I'm legit to be in Franceland for an extended period of time. The contract will also finally make me privy to such apparently insignificant facts as what city I'm going to be in and how long I'm going to be there. You know, stupid stuff.

I need the contract before I can get my visa, and I need to go in person to SF to get said visa. So back in May I made that all-important appointment for this Friday, thinking I was giving myself legions of buffer time. That Guy I Live With took Thursday thru Sunday off so we could drive down there and make it a real adventure. It was all so perfectly planned.  Except: I have received exactly bubkiss from France.

Thus I couldn't keep my Friday appointment. Thus I had to make a new appointment for the last week I'm in Portlandia. Thus I had to buy a plane ticket that will take me to the Mecca of Awesome (Oakland). Thus I was very upset and may or may not have shed numerous tears in my office-cave.

In an effort to cheer me up, my buddies Do and Janielle insisted that I join them for lunch. I had a lovely time with my lovely friends until it was time to pay. I rooted through my Nina Toten Bag and could not seem to find my wallet in betwixt various other  flotsam. I figured it had to be in the vicinity of my desk, because I had just used my card to buy a ticket to the Mecca of Awesome. We got back to the office and it was exactly nowhere. My already fragile nerves got so bo-jangly that I was pretty sure I was going to simultaneously vomit everywhere and scream in a pitch only alpacas can hear. I retraced my steps with Janielle, all the while thinking about all the irreplaceable things i had in my wallet, like my high school library card, and trying so so hard not to cry.

We made it to the restaurant where we had just dined and the proprietor proffered my wallet the moment we entered the premises.

"Bless you!" I exclaimed. "Seriously. Bless you! Bless you! I mean it. Bless you!" (I don't know. It seemed like the most appropriate response.)

I forced another friend to join me for happy hour so she could tell me happy things that would distract from Woe Day. Afterward, we went to Lovely's Fifty Fifty, which has the most superior ice cream in my neighborhood. It's much nobler than that at another new scoop shop I shall not name, whose caramel salted chocolate ice cream was so saltily inedible I feel the need to defame it at every opportunity. But at Lovely's I had a dish of their coffee toffee ice cream with candied almonds and hazelnuts.

And that made my day much more better. The end.

Postscript: I was relating the day's woes whilst cuddling with That Guy and the right shoulder strap on my prettiest, pinkest summer dress snapped. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Amen.

Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat

This cat has been stalking our apartment for a good month now. He's enormously fat and whiny and wobbly. His favorite things include: sitting outside our windows/doors and meowing incessantly, scratching at our front door at all hours of the night until we open it and hiss at him, and lounging on the concrete walkway directly in front of our home. He's so fat that his stomach almost brushes the ground when he waddles from window to window to torture us. We thought he might be pregnant, but a Cat-pert took a closer gander and saw that he'd been fixed.

He's obviously never looked at my Facebook profile, because if he had he'd know that one my favorite activities is Insulting Cats Right to Their Faces. And boy, do I.

Robo wants to wish TP a happy third birthday

I got lots and lots of cool stuff for my birthday (hello! Travel Scrabble!) but this is definitely one of-- if not the-- coolest. My friend Big D KNIT this. She knit the whole entire thing and stuffed it with love. It was her first time doing fair isle! She's the coolest! She told me its name was Gilgaplex or something, but I shall call him Tyranamas Pyrgmates in honor of this very blog's third birthday.

On our birthdays my mom always likes to tell her spawn their birth stories. (Mine goes a little something like, "They put me in a terribly cold and sterile room and my doctor was MEAN!" Explains a lot, oui?)

TP, here's yours:

Recent graduates Anna and Neenuh had just spent their very first month apart whilst slaving away at their respective West Coast internships. They wanted a way to share their adventures with the world, and they thought with their powers combined they could make it so, so good. While they Gchatted away on that fateful July 5, a blog was born.

Anna: ok I need a new blog name because wonk is apparently close to a famous blogger name

  what's a good one? also, we need a blog name

  I was thinking, like, "the *something truth"

  or something

 me: truth pirates

 Anna: perf
Throughout our various outposts in California, DC, Minnesota and Oregon, we've kept her alive against (sob!) ALL THE ODDS! And when I venture to Francey in two short months, Tyranamas Pyrgmates will remind me to give TP all my amour on the reg.

Conversations from my French class, translated for your entertainment

I started taking a once-weekly intermediate French class last week in hopes of improving my dastardly speaking skills. It turns out "intermediate" can mean anything from a 15-year-old who just finished her first year of high school French, to her father, who had one year of high-school French 30 years ago, to a guy who lived in Quebec for 10 years, to a charming 20-something who has a BA in the language and is looking to dust off her skills before going to France for a year. Oh, wait. That's me!

For the past two Mondays, I have been paired with a fellow I'll call "Guy" for our designated conversation practice time. I think Guy took a few years of Spanish way back when, and he feels like those language skills were immediately applicable to French. That would at least explain why he pronounces the "s" in "dans" and pronounces the "e" at the end of words like "banane" as "ay" (/buh-NAHN-ay/).

This week we had to devise our own situations where one person is a salesperson and the other is a customer. I did my best to translate literally, for your maximum enjoyment. Our exchange went a little like this:

Guy: Hello, ma'am. What do you desire?
Me: I desire a hat for my dog.
Guy: A what?
Me: A hat for my dog, so he doesn't gain a sunburn.
Guy: Sunburn? What is this?
Me: It is when the sun makes the skin blush.
Guy: Oh. OK. We have a hat on the third floor.
Me: Where is it made? I do not support hats that are not made in France.
Guy: There is a factory in England.
Me: Oh. Can I wash this hat at my house or do I need to bring it to a dry cleaner?
Guy: A dry cleaner? What is this?
Me: The place where the professional men wash clothes.
Guy: Shampoo?
Me: No. It is a store. It is a store where people take the clothes that are delicate and say goodbye to the brown things. They wash it very gently.
Guy: I do not understand.
Me: When you wear a tuxedo, you can not wash the earth off it at your house. You must take it to a dry cleaner.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: Um. I buy it. Thank you. Goodbye.
Guy: Goodbye, ma'am.

Next we were in a restaurant, where I decided to try being funny. I'm not sure why, since I've learned time and again that my humor doesn't translate.

Guy: Hello m'am. Welcome to the restaurant. What would you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich.
Guy: Which meat do you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich of pigeons.
Guy: Pigeons? I do not understand.
Me: It is a bird. It is similar to a dove. It is gray. It is a rat that flies.
Guy: Dove? I do not understand.
Me: The dove symbolizes peace. It is white.
Guy: Oh. OK. But pigeon?
Me: It is almost the same word in English. (Enunciating really hard and jutting neck forward) Peed-zjon.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre. We do not have pigeons.
Me: I saw some on the street. You could kill them for me.
Guy: In five minutes, I do this.What would you like to drink?
Me: I would like the juice of socks.
Guy: Socks? What is this?
Me: It is the clothing you put on before you put on the shoe.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pointing at other students) Those people are wearing socks. We are not wearing socks.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pantomiming putting a sock on) One puts it on the feet. It can be made with the hair of a sheep.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre.
Me: Yes. I have desires that are bizarre.
Guy: Good appetite!

Please don't get us the Wii

Like most things having to do with wedding planning, registering for gifts is not as fun as I thought it would be. I imagined myself frolicking through the stores, scanner in hand, delightedly blipping upon anything and everything I never knew I always wanted but couldn't afford.

Instead, we had a two-hour slog through gargantuan floor of home goods at Macy's in the Clackamas Town Center. I guess I kind of forgot I wouldn't be doing it all by myselfsies, with only my own particular whims to satisfy. Our exchanges went a little something like this:

Me: "Standing mixer! Squee! I want a color that will pop. How about apple?"
Him: "I like red better."
Me: "I feel like red will clash with too many things."
Him: "And apple green won't?"
Me: "OK... why don't we just get silver then?"
Him: "I thought you wanted something that would pop. I like the red"
Me: "Thisismydreamapplianceandifyoudon'tletmegetitinthecolorIwantIwillscream."*

The sales guy had the attitude that since we weren't buying any of this stuff for ourselves, we should register for the highest quality (and thus most insanely expensive) stuff they had. I almost let myself be persuaded to get the $599 tri-ply cookware set, but Matt made the excellent point that I wouldn't notice the difference between that and the $279 bonded set. It's weird putting the really expensive stuff on there. I feel like I should put a caveat on them that says, "Um...this is kind of a pipe dream. Feel free to get us the ice cream scoop instead. I swear we're not greedy."

We still can't agree on bedding-- I like bright, fun patterns and he likes...taupe-- but we had a major coup yesterday when we finally agreed on a china pattern we could both stand to stare at for the next 70 years. It's called Noritake Platinum Wave, which sounds in equal parts exotic, luxe, and fun. Our sales dude said it was made of bone china, which you could stand on and it wouldn't break. I should have made him prove it. Next time.

Matt was pretty registered-out by the time we were done, so I created our Target registry online while he took a nap. When he woke up, he snatched my laptop off my lap and registered for his version of the standing mixer: a Wii. I grew up in a video game-free house, and the idea of having one--relatively innocuous though the Wii may be--is slightly vomitous.

*This is a dramatization. What really happened is I registered for the red and then when we got home I snuggled up to him, batted my eyelashes, and asked very sweetly if I could change it to apple online. So that's how it's gonna be...

Skylines of the Pac N-Dubs

A couple of weekends ago we were treated to a brief reprieve in the unusual soggy sogfest the past three months have been. Matt and I decided to walk downtown from our apartment and we were treated to some lovely views of this fair city from the Broadway Bridge.

The very next day I took the train up to Seattle for my cousin's graduation. It was the most beautiful day in all the woyld, and it just so happens that we had reservations at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant makes a verrrrrrrrrrry slooooooooooooow revolution (so you don't ralph), and we got to see the whole entire city before it got dark out.

Today was another long-anticipated gift from the heavens. Portland looks a whole lot better when the sun is shining...there's really nothing that compares. It made me a little sad, because we have about two months left here before I blow this popsicle stand, and I don't know if we'll be coming back. At this point it seems most likely that we'd land back in the Minne Apple post-nuptials. While being in closer proximity to many of my favorite people would be great, I'm going to miss it out here so much.

Neenuh's Rules of Matrimony

1. No gifts required. If you receive an invitation to our nuptials, it's because we want you there, not because we want to milk your bank account dry. Different rules apply to rich relatives and parental friends, of course, but only until I receive the coveted KitchenAid Standing Mixer. Once that has been checked off the registry everything else is just gravy.

2. Down with the one gift per event rule! If you decide to give me a lovely toilet brush for a bridal shower, consider your gift obligation fulfilled. You most certainly do not need to purchase a matching toilet brush holder for the wedding itself.

3. The bachelorette party will be phallus-free. I do not need to be reminded of male genitalia everywhere I look. I want a tame tea party where we play Truth or Truth and then we're safely tucked in bed by 9:30. Anna, as one of my bridesbitches, I want you to make that happen.

4. Anyone that we made out with in former lives is not invited. Sorry Prince; that means you.

5. Do not mock my creative touches. I'm going to have a brooch bouquet. Deal with it. And if I decide to paint my face like a bunny, it's because that's my power animal. And if my brothers duet on Mary Poppin's "Feed the Birds," it's because that's my favorite song. Get over it. In return, I won't mock the silver spray-painted and glittered animal pelts you had as your centerpieces.

6. Tribe it up. There will be glass breaking, chair dancing, hava nagilah-ing, and mazel tov-ing. L'chaim!

7. Go easy on the open bar. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Every drink you swizzle means one less diaper for my future progeny.

Weirdify Your Wedding

Etsy is the eclectic bride's best friend. You can find all sorts of bizarre and random things to make your special day that much more special-er-- and unique. Heaven help you if your wedding is not unique, for then no one will remember it. If no one remembers it, there's no way you're going to get that automatic paper towel dispenser you registered for. That's just the rules.

Following are a few items I found whilst browsing this weekend:

1. Button Bouquet

There are lots of things I like about buttons. Buttons never die. Buttons don't make my eyes itch or my nose run. Post-wedding, I could use the buttons to fasten things. When's the last time you used a dying flower to do ANYTHING except teach you about the process of withering?

2. Tricked-out baby hats

I don't want any bare-headed babies at my wedding. Just like men 50 years their senior, they should be embarrassed by their lack of locks. Thankfully an Etsy vendor has recognized the need and created a whole line of fancy headbands and caps to slap on sleeping but pensive babies at weddings everywhere.

3. A cartoonish cake-topper

I'm not planning on having a wedding cake (I'll take a tower of French macarons, thankyouverymuch/ mercibeaucoup), but if I did have one this is what I would want to top it. The cartoonish vibe of the piece will tell my guests that I'm not quite ready to grow up, while the tortoise bride and grooms will act as a symbolic apology for how long our ceremony was.

4. Flask Favors

What better memento of how drunk you got on our wedding night than a flask that's artfully decorated with a souvenir bottle cap from the libation that re-introduced you to your dinner? These suckers go for $11.99 a pop (the cap adds an extra $4--hey! it was crafted!), so you better treasure it. When I come over in three years I want to see it featured prominently in your curio cabinet.

Welp, I guess I'm gettin' hitched

It's on Facebook now so it must be true: the boyf will soon become the husb. By soon I mean in approximately 1.2 years, when we have returned from FranceyPants. I'm planning to do a large post that details everything you're burning, needing, or just slightly interested to know. But part of our pre-nup states that I must give the gent prior review of posts that are at least 20% about him, and he doesn't get back from Minne till Sunday.

For now, feast your eyes on this gorgeous wedding look that Anna was kind enough to design for me:

I could only DREAM to look that good on the big day.

Fuh-rahnce!

Due to some technical difficulties I haven't been able to smooch you beloved readers for a fortnight, but now I'm back. Hi! Hi. Hi hi hi hi hi hi. Or perhaps I should say... BONJOUR MES AMIES! (Picture me saying it with this face. It's at least 10 times or 30% funnier, depending on whether you use the metric system).

Brief aside: That is what I picture myself looking like had I made my first voyage to France circa 1982 and it was such a defining time for me, full of self-growth and self-realization and self-blossoming into a vraie femme, that I continued to dress like this forevermore to remind myself of those halcyon times. Not unlike a certain French professor with chunked bangs and a coiled bun I used to know...

But I digress. Dudes, I have super-hyper-mega-cool news: I'm moving to France! I've had to keep this a secret from you for so long, but now I can shout it to the world! France! France! Let's dance! Let's prance! Let's...um... eat macarons? Yes!

Almost exactly a year ago the gent casually suggested that we hop the pond for an extended stay. A good friend of mine named Sarumph had recently spent the year teaching English to adorable French school children, and that seemed as good a way to go as any. We decided to keep things very hush-hush just in case it didn't work out.

Matt quietly started taking French classes at the community college (why? because...er...he likes Proust?) and I quietly started reading books about French etiquette and the problems Americans generally encounter when they go to Cheesy Wineland (why? because...er...I like stuff? and things?). I started working on the arduous application in October and finally got it submitted around New Years. This whole time I was just bursting with this news, and I couldn't help myself from spilling the beans to select friends and family (OK...everyone) when I was home for the holidays, always cursing myself afterward because I knew I'd feel like a prize idiot if I didn't end up going.

Shortly after returning home I just had to tell my boss, because giving anything less than eight months' notice is criminal, right?

But the word finally came down on Wednesday that I have been accepted to the glorious Académie de Dijon, which was my first choice due to my great love of mustard. I could end up anywhere in that pink part of the map, from tiny Sens to Dijon proper. I'm hoping for the latter, because it's a mere hour-and-a-half train ride from Gay Pareee. And, like I said, mustard.

I'll find out where I'm going sometime this summer, as well as what age I'll be teaching. Sometimes the school is great about finding a place for their Americans to take shelter, and sometimes they're on their own. It's all very up in the air until I get that letter.

My manfriend and I had a meeting with the Consule Honoraire yesterday to discuss visa options for him to get over there. She suggested that he let me go first so I can get settled and figure out what's what, and then he can join me a month later on a visitor visa. When those three months are up he'll go home again for a month or two, and then come back for the remainder of my stay on another visitor visa.

"I see it all zee time," she said. "Zees will eezhair make you strongair, or he finds anozzer American girl while you are gone, and you find a beeg French hunk and zat's zat. Or maybe he mees you so much when he come he ask you to marry. I jus speak ze troof! I don't know!"

She also suggested that he learn as many Bob Dylan songs as he can before going because les francais ADORE him. She admitted to having translated "'undreds!" of his songs into french when she was a young filly.

Some housekeeping notes: Due the fact that I will probably have something new to blog about every hour, I'm planning to store those insights on a new blog solely dedicated to my time in France so I don't clog up TP with my transliterations and franglais. I'll let you know when it's up and running so you can decide to follow or ignore it at your pleasure.

I'll leave you with a tale of Mirelle, a woman who, like me, possesses "long, slender fingers" and "a certain fondness for poking fun." When I return from France it is my hope to have completely morphed into this modern-day Bardot.

French in Action

The Day I Sucked at Food

Not only is today St. Patrick's Day, it's my dear beloved lover boy's birthday. You know how much I cherish and respect birthdays. Today was all about making it the best day EVAH for him. I skipped my lunch so I could get done with work earlier to get home and start making this the best day. EVAH. We started off with a stop at Pix, of course, for a celebratory birthday beer float with a sparkler in it for him and a cheese plate for me.

Next, we took the bus downtown with plans to get some yummy dinner in advance of the Hitchcock play we'd gotten tickets for. We ended up at a nice brewpub a few blocks from the playhouse. I'm trying to be all healthy and shiz, so I decided to go with the porcini-crusted rock fish despite its hefty price tag. I was expecting a nice fish fillet with a big side of healthy roasted fennel. Instead, what came back was a monochrome pile of butter-soaked, salty potatoes and a tiny piece of fish.

All my eye caught on the menu was the "roasted fennel" and "porcini mushroom." I totally missed the "potato gratin" and "pale ale butter." That was my bad.

But what happened later in the night was just plain terrible. After the play we followed the sound of a bagpipe to find what we hoped would be a lively Irish pub where he could have a nightcap and I could find something to fill my tummy and make up for the mediocre fish dish. I was pleased to see that Blitz served breakfast all day and settled on a nice, healthy bowl of granola with "fresh fruit" and "seasonal berries," advertised like so:

The bartender was initially confused when I asked her for "granola and water," thinking it was an exotic mixed drink, but eventually we got things straightened out... or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when the waitress brought this to my table:

That would be a broken-up Nature Valley granola bar with a tiny pitcher of half-and-half and a side of tater tots. TATER TOTS. Your eyes do not deceive you. When I asked the bartender why it didn't come with fresh fruit, she told me I had to order that extra. So what's included on the menu is "extra," but tater tots are granola's natural companion? TATER TOTS? These weren't even good tots. They were the kind that left that film of ick in your mouth.

Tater tots. I swear to leprechauns.

Two off my Portland Bucket List

In a many-splendored town like Portland, there are more quirky and wonderful things to do than could ever be done. I started making a list of things to accomplish when I first moved here, from the outlandish (getting married at Voodoo Doughnuts) to the things I will throw a hissy fit if I don't accomplish in the next six months (if I don't go berry picking on the Fruit Loop by my birthday there will be hell to pay).

This glorious, sunny, bird-chirping, flower-blooming weekend gifted me with two things I can cross off my list.

The first something was the Beer Float at that pastry shop I can't quit, Pix Patisserie. From the first time I laid eyes on it on the menu I was intrigued. It just makes sense. If a root beer float can work, why not beer? Though the thought of Lance Armstrong's disapproving gaze kept me from ordering one, it didn't stop me from making a buddy get one and then letting me have sips.

World, I have tasted a beer float, and it was good. There's something about chocolate stout and mocha ice cream that just works.

The second item now crossed off my list is the Kennedy School Soaking Pool. There are these brilliant folks here named the McMenamins who took a number of dilapidated buildings like power stations, danky brewpubs, and schools and renovated them into movie theaters, restaurants, and hotels.

The Kennedy School, conveniently located near me, is most intriguing to me because it was always my dream in life to have a sleepover at my elementary school. I just loved school that much. Though I doubt we'll ever rent a hotel room here--our real rooms being so close and all-- the next best thing was to hang out in the outdoor, heated, saltwater soaking pool under the stars.

Tinkle Pirate

Alternative title: H20mgI'veneverhadtopeethismuchinmylife

One of the things I like about tracking my calories on Livestrong.com is that it has an incredible incentive for drinking enough water during the day. With every 8 ounces your glass fills up a bit more, and then--get this, guys--your virtual water cup will spillith over and it's as if Lance Armstrong himself is wishing you a hearty "Congratulations!" It feels like what I imagine winning a bronze medal in short track speed skating relay would: frenzied, euphoric, and delirious.

I must have been moderately to severely dehydrated for my entire life because ingesting the recommended 64 ounces has sent me to the little girls' room four times more often than usual. I'm starting to wear a track in the carpet at the office separating my desk from the bathroom. Seriously. I've never in my life relieved myself as often as I have in the past three days, and I don't care that that's an overshare.

Working on my fitness... for real this time

There was about a two week period last June when I got really serious about my health. I joined a real gym (sorry Curves) and started my patented Don't Eat Crap diet. I was working out four times a week and, well, not eating crap. I don't put much stock in the scale (ours will say I'm one weight before I take a shower and after I'm toweled off it will say I've gained 12 pounds), but I definitely trimmed up during that two weeks.

Then my birthday arrived and brought with it my extremely generous aunt and uncle, who treated me to all sorts of culinary delights. My Don't Eat Crap diet became the Why Wouldn't I Eat Crap? I Work Out diet. Lately, what with Valentine's Day and Boeuf and my sister being in town, it morphed into the I'm Going to Eat All the Crap I Want and Not Work Out So There diet.

But no more, dear readers. This time I'm going to make a concerted effort to be disciplined. I created an account on Livestrong.com to track my calories, with the goal of losing one pound per week for the next eight weeks to put me at the weight my drivers license says I am. I started yesterday and thought I was being so good-- two slices of toast for breakfast; a protein shake for a post-workout lunch; a salad with avocado, olive oil and rice vinegar for a snack; an apple turnover for a post-snack snack; and a serving of my orzo with roasted vegetables and feta for dinner.

But by the end of the day I only had 60 calories to spare! And did you know that one tbs of olive oil is 120 calories and 13.5 grams of fat?? I go crazy with olive oil! I liberally splash it on everything with abandon!

Despite that meltdown, I don't intend to become a crazed calorie counter. I'm thinking of this more like a learning experiment to see what change I can effect in myself during the next two months. I've been inspired by the likes of Sarah (whose posts spurred me to join a gym in the first place) to think I can make a big difference by treating myself well.