Water Restrictions

Weigh day is on Monday, so I'm currently on Level 2 water restrictions. Much like the sunny city that I live in, I'm suffering somewhat from a drought. In order for me to shed some last weight, and cheat my way down a further kg, I am now drinking no more than 1 litre of water a day.

On Saturday, I'll go down to half a litre (Level 3 water restrictions), and continue that until Sunday evening. On Sunday evening I will not consume anything (Level 4 water restrictions) until after my weigh-in at 7am on Monday. At this point, I will undergo a veritable flood of liquid, preferably of the alcoholic variety, along with some kind of mammoth breakfast and potentially a cigarette. Just for the fun of it.

On a semi-related note, I have just won an award at my gym! I am this month's BEST MEMBER - winning the award for being an outstanding gym member, and for losing a shit load of weight through pure guts and determination (and water restrictions). I'm the fucking greatest. Anybody wishing to see my winning physique can go down to Goodlife Chermside and see my piccie stuck on the wall, along with the following cheesy missive about my journey:

"I joined Goodlife in January 2007, weighing just over 85kg. I started work with my trainer, Angela, and then decided to sign up for the Twelve Week Challenge in February. I lost a total of 12kg in the challenge, 58.5cms and 6.4% body fat loss, taking me from a size 16 to a size 12.
Maintaining this weight loss was difficult, but I continued to go to the gym 4 or 5 times a week, working with Angela to improve my strength and fitness. I joined up for my second Twelve Week Challenge in August this year, and have lost a further 7kg so far.
I have exceeded my own expectations, and am now fit, healthy and happier than ever. I continue to come to the gym at least 5 times a week, and am hoping to compete in a triathlon next year. With nearly 20kg weight loss in total, I thank the gym and my trainer for helping me to set out on a new, healthier lifestyle."

WARNING: Cheesometer Rating: High (but oh so deserved)

Triumph

Various triumphs on the agenda today... it's all about me, and my ability to blow my own trumpet. Yay!

I hosted a dinner party last night, and prepared an Italian feast; antipasto, meatballs, Italian roasted chicken, panzanella salad, and all wound up with a tiramisu. The menu was comprised with the assistance of my good friend Nigella (hey chick! gold star for the salad recipe!) and it turned out to be one of the most balanced meals I've ever had. More often than not, a 3 course meal is too much to cope with - too heavy, too rich, too lots of stuff. But this was perfect... I am a domestic goddess.

And as if the perfect meal wasn't enough to cement my triumph, I woke up with no sign of a hangover, and I managed to clean the entire house before 9am, at which point I hauled my arse to the gym and did 1.5 hrs of cardio. I now sit back and relax and muse the perfectness of my personal scheduling, and wonder if this skill can be marketed in some way in order to provide me with a secondary revenue stream...

The final triumph of this weekend, (unless something super happens this afternoon), is the weigh in for the 12 week challenge. Turns out that my body composition has started to really change. I've put on 0.5kg of PURE MUSCLE and my body fat percentage has dropped some more. So, for the first time in my life, a weight gain is a good thing!

In conclusion, my various triumphs officially make me a super organised wonderfully muscular domestic goddess. Sweet...

The Renaissance of Food

I'm sitting on my sofa, having just eaten far too much Green & Black's 70% cocoa dark chocolate, and I'm watching Nigella cook chocolate melty pot things on the tv. I love Nigella. She's fat, she eats far too much, but she's as happy as a pig in shit. And my love for her is growing by the second...

Today I realised that I have a slight problem. I've taken this losing weight thing to a whole new level of obsessiveness - very unlike me... I went to the pub for lunch, ordered a pizza, a healthy pizza, which would probably have been completely allowed in my diet plan, but I ate one piece and stopped. Half way through my piece of pizza I had the sudden thought that everybody was watching me eat. I assumed that thoughts of me and my pizza, and the rapidity with which I must surely be gorging on it, were flying through my friend's heads, and every one of them was most definitely thinking, "That Bazza - she is a fucking fat pig. Look at her stuff her fat face with that pizza. Fat cow."

So I stopped eating the pizza; even though I was hungry I'd managed to make myself not hungry by thinking these things. Then I was in a shit mood, depressed, miserable, feeling fat.

That's just not right! Wouldn't you agree? Fucking abnormal.

But to my benefit, I have some good friends who helped me to see what I've accomplished so far. So, with the knowledge that a) I look great, b) I'm not fat, and c) I should be proud of myself, I will sit back and watch Nigella - taking notes to ensure that I too can eat shit loads of amazing food, but still be happy.

And now I'll shut the hell up about food and dieting and challenges, because I feel that I'm becoming slightly obsessed... slightly more obsessed.

The Proverbial Towel

Last night I threw an almighty tanty, shortly before getting in my car, driving to the supermarket, and buying a whole chicken. After eating two legs and two wings, I felt a bit sick, and realised that I can't do it anymore.

I don't particularly want to lose any more weight, so all this food deprivation is just fucking stupid. I'm sick of walking into starbucks, seeing a muffin, wanting the muffin, but having to say no even though I've lost 18kg so far and should be totally proud of myself, and should treat myself.

I told my trainer this morning that I can't cope - that I need to eat like a normal person - that I need to say yes to the drinks invitations and stop being a boring fuckwit. And she told me to go to Hog's Breath, order a massive steak, curly fries, and bacon, and don't stop eating until it feels like my eyes are gonna pop out.

So today, my friends, I am going to eat pie. I don't care what kind of pie - bacon pie would be ideal, but any pie will do. I'm hoping that a feast of pie will help me to complete the rest of the 12 week challenge, maybe lose a little more weight, a bit of body fat, and generally help me to not go insane.

I fear that my colleagues think I've actually lost it. I have already thrown a tanty since being in the office this morning... so yes. Pie is needed. Bring on the pie.

Maybe it's me...?

So what determines a person waking up in a shitful mood? Is there really a possibility that at some point in the night I was bitten on the arse by the grumpy fairy...? Could it be that simple? I can find no other way of explaining how I feel right now.

Yesterday I was on top of the world, and finished off my day of joy by watching a very gruesome, angry, violent movie which sent me to sleep in a haze of happiness. So, what happened in between then, my haze of happiness, and now, my cloud of doom...?

Maybe it was Colin miaowing outside my door, wondering why I wasn't up with the sunset as usual, at roughly 5:30 this morning. Are there kitty calendars that I could purchase, so I can point out to him; "Look Colin, it's Saturday tomorrow. So, how about you sleep in, cos mummy will be." How convenient.

Or perhaps it was the dream I had last night - I won't go into details, for fear of exposing the identity of a certain someone, but it wasn't pleasant. Maybe this dream was exposing inherent fears that I haven't discarded yet - perhaps I'm not completely over this guy? Or perhaps it's the realisation that this is going to be a long old process, and I was naive for thinking that it would only take a week to get rid of the hopeful misery that was my life last weekend.

Alternatively, it's possible that my first thought of the morning, after "Colin shut the fuck up miaowing at my door", is indicative of my fowl mood at present. That was, I remembered what I'm doing tomorrow. The Skydive. Yes, I had a flashing image of my own death, plummeting from the sky at god-awful speeds strapped to the front of some incompetent man with his life in my hands. It's not a pleasant thought - especially when followed by a brief flashing of my life before my eyes and a shock realisation that although I'd be physically strapped to another person, I would effectively be dying alone.

Hmmm, have I made my mood worse? Maybe. And yep, I've got exactly 1.5 hours to kill before my weigh-in for the 12 week challenge this morning, and I can't eat anything or drink too much for fear of adding on weight prior to the scales... Oh! There we have it folks! The source of my bad mood appears to be the disruption of my usual Saturday morning routine of muesli and coffee in front of Rage followed by a stint at the gym with my ipod. Damn - I forget how entrenched I am in a routine. I should really make more effort to adhere to it at all costs. And to think I was beginning to blame myself...

General Moan.

And the torture has begun. I'm officially two days into the Challenge, and my trainer has already caused me to have 3 separate muscle strains. While I'm tempted to tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, I also understand that I signed up for this, I pay her for this service, and therefore I should just shut the fuck up and stop moaning about it.

But what would my life be without a good moan every now and then??

To add to my misery, I think I'm getting sick. The 10 hours of drinking on Saturday seems to have effected my usually solid immune system, and I think a cold has lodged itself in the general area of my nasal cavity and sinuses. I've just purchased some codeine laden pills to try and ward off the germs, but I think I'm too late. It's been over 18 months since I was last sick, (since leaving the UK), so I'm highly pissed off and wondering just who I can blame for this travesty...?

The main culprit is Roy - he sits next to me and was sick last week; he made no attempt to prevent his germs from floating my way. In fact, I think he purposefully moved closer to me, in order to give me the germs.

With this in mind, I will now direct all my moaning at Roy - I give him 2 hours before he cracks and has to move seats.

...can't ... breathe...

I've eaten so much, and drunk so much water, that I am having severe difficulty breathing... My personal trainer just phoned me and told me to go to Cold Rock and purchase a take home tub of cookies and cream ice cream, mixed with turkish delight, and topped with hot chocolate fudge sauce. What she doesn't know is that I don't think I'm even capable of moving from the sofa, let alone getting changed out of my PJ's, getting into the car, and walking from the car to the shop and back again - and then there's the repeated lifting of spoon to mouth... nope. It's too much.

Oh... I just burped and I think some water might have come back up my throat. That's not pleasant.

As I sit and stare at the litre bottle of Evian waiting for me, I wonder if it's going to kill me, or if the slow but steady absorption of the water already consumed will lead ultimately to a slow and painful death, much akin to drowning... will this sofa be my last vessel of comfort? Will my feet ever see the ground again? Is my arse doomed to fuse with the cheap throw rug over my sofa, and will I forever be known as 'The woman who became her sofa, drowned in Evian water, and was eaten by her cat'?

I don't think I can carry on this way. I know I'm supposed to weigh as much as humanly possible for tomorrow morning, but I can't eat anymore - I think I've officially reached the stage of being completely and utterly full. What has shocked me most though, is the fact that my dessert stomach has apparently disappeared - I've been gorging myself on savory items, and yet, my dessert tummy says no. I can only assume that the fight for space between my internal organs reached the point where they had to start consuming each other - savory stomach ate dessert stomach, colon ate ileum, and my liver and kidneys became so cleansed that they just floated out of my arse in the night...

Give me FOOD

I have been instructed to put on weight before the first weigh-in for the Twelve Week Challenge on Saturday. So, for the last week I've been eating chocolate, chips, fried goods, baked goods, cake, creamy stuff, and lots and lots of white bread with butter. I weighed myself this morning and I've only managed to put on 0.5kg - this is an appalling effort.

So, I now have the task of eating MORE than I've ever eaten before. I have learnt that I automatically censor the cravings when I see, for example, an attractive looking cup cake in a shop window. I need to stop the censorship, and I need to just buy it and eat it like the cake that it is.

There's no stopping me - I'm going to eat everything I see. Even if I don't like it, I'll eat it. Even if it's not technically food, I'll eat it. (There's a highly tasty looking piece of paper on my desk - it's sure to have at least 50 kcals in it... couldn't hurt...)

So wish me luck - over the next 1.5 days I will be doing nothing but eating - when I'm not eating I'll be looking for food - when I'm not looking for food I'll be sitting around NOT exercising.

Upset

So I'm feeling a general sense of upset. This upset could be stemming from a slightly premature bout of PMT, or it could be from a number of things which pissed me off this morning.

Firstly, Colin decided that climbing up the inside of my dressing gown while I was straightening my hair was a good idea, until he realised that he couldn't get back down without performing a maneuver that involved twisting around and digging his little claws into my upper thigh. This pissed me off.

Secondly, I made a cup of coffee and ate my bowl of muesli - I enjoyed it wholeheartedly, until I remembered that I start the next 12 Week Challenge in exactly 4 days, and any joy that I previously obtained from the consumption of food and beverages would shortly be taken away from me. Pissed off.

Thirdly, on my drive into work I noticed a new billboard which was advertising 'Pro Life' - it had a picture of an unborn foetus and a speech bubble indicating that the 2 month old foetus was saying 'I can suck my thumb now'. This pissed me off beyond belief - so much so that I embarked on an angry lecture to the cars around me about the disgusting state of affairs in the world that indicate it's ok to force your views on other people on their drive to work. It's pure proselytising, which is illegal on most university campuses, so why is it not illegal everywhere else? Hmmm? Then I decided that I would take a stand, and instead of just saying that I am Pro Choice, I'd go as far as to buy a can of spray paint and graffiti the billboard with an Anti Life slogan of some description. Yes, I am Anti Life, and proud. And pissed off.

And fourthly, the gradual realisation that yes, I am suffering from a premature bout of PMT, has pissed me off.

Just a Phase?

This morning I signed up for the next 12 Week Challenge at my gym. That's right people, the months of torturous posts about cravings and aching muscles are about to return. Why have I decided to put myself through months of carrot sticks and protein shakes again, when last time nearly sent me over the edge? I'd like to say that it's just a phase in my life where I feel the need to constantly improve myself and eventually become Super Woman, but I am feeling more and more that this is yet another example of my tendency towards Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

I received an email from a friend in the UK the other day, saying that London wasn't the same without my OCD ways. This got me thinking - has Australia dampened my disorder? Or have I merely fallen into a group of friends that fail to notice said affliction? Is it that the sunshine of Australia hides my OCD, or maybe it's just the eternal sunshine of my obsessively spotless mind that has enabled a lessened version to emerge?

The answer is, none of the above. I have been hiding my Obsessions behind the 12 Week Challenge, and my excessive gym activity and diet regime. I fear that I am actually completely obsessed with my fitness, my weight and my measurements, and I'm about to embark upon another round of results measuring and personal abuse. It's a disturbing realisation, but it's one that leaves me with a feeling of power not unlike those felt by the super heroes of the past. My OCD therefore inherently enables me to do pretty much anything I like! With my new found, yet rediscovered, powers of obsessiveness I too can fight the evil powers of the universe! (As long as it's within the 4 walls of my gym, and doesn't involve consuming fat, sugar, salt or anything remotely tasty...)

The Rules

In the absence of a formal regime to structure my every food related thought, I will now come up with some rules. These are partly designed to assist me in maintaining my weight with my current level of physical activity, and partly to make me feel better about the copious amounts of food I have recently consumed.

Rule Number 1: If I decide to have a treat during the day, e.g. some champagne truffles from a rather posh chocolate shop, I will forgo having dinner that evening.
Note; The truffles that I saved for later are not counted as dinner as technically they are an extension of the treat. Ergo, truffles for dinner is acceptable.

Rule Number 2: I am only allowed one treat per week.
Note; a treat is defined by the feeling it arouses once completed. Therefore if one slice of pizza doesn't feel like I've treated myself, another slice or two may be necessary.

Rule Number 3: If at any point someone mentions that an item of clothing looks tight, or that my bum looks bigger than it was, I must immediately stop all treats and commence with a self-enforced regimental fat, sugar and salt free diet, as before.
Note; My exercise regime should also be upped to 6 times a week, with the addition of a severe beating of the 'someone' who told me I looked fat.

I believe that with these rules in place, I can't fail to maintain my svelte size 12 figure for a couple of months, after which I will be beginning another 12 Week Challenge.

Final Challenge Results!

That's right people, it's all over!! I have completed the Twelve Week Challenge, and my final results were:

12kg weight loss

58.5cms off my measurements

6.4% body fat loss

The most exciting bit for me is that I'm now a Size 12! For the first time since I was 13, I can finally go into normal people shops and buy normal people clothes. Understandably, my ego has shot through the roof and I'm prancing about like I'm a model or something - but i don't care! I'm allowed - I've earned it.

So, I apologise in advance to all of you who have the (mis)fortune to see me in person. I apologise for inadvertently twirling in front of you, for slapping my own arse, and for flicking my hair around like a big girl. Poor Roy has already witnessed this shockingly self-absorbed behaviour, but kindly hasn't berated me as yet. I'll give it til the end of the day; I'm sure he'll have cracked by then.

Now my mum was very proud of my results, and when she saw me exclaimed "Quick, go and visit all the relatives NOW so they can see how skinny you are!!" - I explained to her that I'm not going to eat a burger and suddenly put my 12kg back on again, and that I do have a plan in place to make sure the weight stays off. The plan is this:

Start training towards competing in a Triathlon.

How exciting!! I promise not to endlessly go on about it though. It's a long term plan, and it may take a year to complete. Therefore I will only give a monthly update on my blog. I promise.

I'm Out.

That's it. I'm out. I can't go on anymore, I can't do it any longer. My body is saying NO.

I was on the cross trainer this morning with my trainer barking "Go Faster!!" down my ear and I physically wasn't able to go any faster and I CRIED. That's right, tears of pain and sheer exhaustion. I'm fucked off because I've now only got one more day of this Challenge, and I'm not allowed to drink more than one litre of water a day, and I'm not allowed to eat any carbs and basically can only eat vegetable products and lean protein (and I'm not even allowed protein today just in case my body builds any more muscle and therefore weighs me down).

So the story is that I'm existing on ... FUCKING NOTHING. I can't eat a fucking thing and I'm truly and utterly fucked off with this fucking fuck fuck fucking challenge!!!!!

**Breathe**

But it's ok... yes, it is ok. Tomorrow, after being weighed and photographed and measured and blah, I am going to have a lovely breakfast followed by a bit of shopping followed by a bottle of champagne and a massive chicken curry with rice - WHITE rice. tee heee la la la ha ha la la!!!

I think I've lost my mind. Maybe it's the fake tan seeping into my brain... That's right, I had to get a spray tan last night, as instructed by the Challenge organisers. Apparently it makes you look more toned and my photo's will therefore look better and I will stand more of a chance of winning. I don't even want to win anymore. I've got to where I want to be, I'm over it. I just need to get back into normal eating and being a normal person. Without putting on any weight obviously. Christ. How boring have I become? Am I really so pre-occupied with my weight and appearance that I can't think of a single thing to say about the almost traumatising experience of standing naked in front of a complete stranger while she sprayed me with a coffee-like substance which was hooked up to a hose attached to a mains-powered generator?

What have I become??

Sartorius

I have strained my Sartorius muscle.

"The sartorius (sar-TOR-ee-us) is the longest muscle in the body. Extreme efforts in athletics can overcontract, overextend, or overwork the muscle. Treatment is painful, and often difficult to perform."

The text book I have quoted from [The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook] goes on to explain how one should treat a strained sartorius. It says that a deep, sharp, circular movement is required along the full extension of the muscle, to be applied for 5 minutes, at least 5 times a day until the strain subsides. The problem is that my trainer did this 'massage' this morning, and my leg is already bruised to fuck and even the slightest touch causes great pain and discomfort.

I now refer back to my post, on Thursday May 3rd, entitled "For Fuck's Sake...". Once again it seems that leading a healthy lifestyle causes pain, and going to the gym makes your muscles unable to do their daily task of walking, moving etc. Ergo, exercising makes you unfit.

In today's environment of anti-obesity and endless initiatives centred around getting our nation fitter, I think that my discovery should be made public. So, next time someone on the TV tells you to do '30 minutes a day' of exercise, or to eat '7 servings of fruit and veg' each day, please refer to this post, and previous relevant posts, for details of the empirical research that I have undertaken in the last 12 weeks. That is, bear in mind that such physical activity and healthy eating WILL make you feel like shit for the majority of the time.

Trust me people; the pain and suffering I have gone through has given me nothing except a disturbing ability to last a day on 1/4 cup of muesli, a small tin of tuna and a carrot.

Elite Athleticism

As some of you are already aware, I am now about to enter my final week of the Twelve Week Challenge. After falling off the wagon last week, with the much needed help of Miln, I am back on board and ready to kick some of my own arse.

This week I'm hitting the gym hard, and I'm on the strictest diet of all time. Absolutely no oil or fat, no salt or sugar in any form, and 7 litres of water a day. Apart from giving me a bladder like a sieve, this should serve to make me drop those last few kilo's in the next week.

On the fitness front, I have been doing beach sessions with my trainer, and doing roughly 3 hours of cardio a day, along with weights and other resistance training. This gives me roughly 21 hours of training per week - and it is this figure which officially classes me as an Elite Athlete.

That's right people, I am an Elite Athlete.

My trainer explained that anyone who does more than 10 hours of training a week is classed as such, so I'm well above the entry level. It's tough being an Elite Athlete, but hey, I'm tough; I have buns of steel and guns of titanium and I'm willing to bite my own extremely toned arm off to get to where I'm going. Obviously, I don't like to blow my own trumpet - that would be a bit boring and repetitive for you all - BUT if you do want to refer to me as 'The Weapon', well then that's your choice. Also, if you happen to tell your friends about the amazing physical capabilities of 'The Weapon', that's your prerogative too.

My oh my; it's hard being so incredibly physically capable...

Off the Wagon

Holidays are great; you treat yourself, you relax, you have fun. All dietary inhibitions go out the window and you indulge. Unfortunately, some of us are on a Twelve Week Challenge and there is no allowance for Holidays. Regardless of this, last night I went out, and I drank ALCOHOL.

That's right folks, my brain has returned to a place of intoxication, and the slight hangover that I'm now sporting feels wholly familiar, and quite pleasant. Also, the need for food of a non-healthy nature is slowly but surely creeping up on me, and the chocolate biscuits that mysteriously made their way into my kitchen are looking ever so appealing. I feel that today, ANZAC Day, (a public holiday for those of you who live in the UK and/or have their head in the sand), I have fallen off the wagon.

The question is now, how far off the wagon will I continue to fall? Will I find myself lying in a crumpled heap under the wheels of the wagon? Or will I fall so far that the wagon is a small dot on the horizon from my landing point on the road of destruction and dismay? I've never been a person to do things by halves, so I feel that I should attempt, at least, to clear the wagon completely. There'll be no hanging on here, no dragging alongside the wagon, no clinging onto the wagon in a desperate attempt to appear to have not fallen off at all. Oh no - I'm off it, and I'm off it until at least tomorrow.

This is brilliant - the alcohol has brought my ability to babble endlessly back to the surface. I feel like I could go on for hours... days in fact! But unfortunately I have just been reminded that I should 'switch to a power outlet' in the next 17 minutes or I'll lose my work. Fuck it. I can't be arsed. I'm going for the choccie biscuits...

I Heart Chocolate

I imagine that I'm on very few people that are currently harbouring a gigantic craving for chocolate. You would think that I'd have had enough choccie over the most chocolate filled weekend on the calendar - but you would be wrong.

That's right people, it's now 8 weeks since I started the Twelve Week Challenge, and therefore 8 weeks without chocolate.

I know this thought may shock the majority of you; I've actually shocked myself. If it weren't for the numerous vivid dreams about chocolate, I think I might have died of deprivation. These dreams are some of the most vivid and exciting dreams I've ever had. I will now recall one of them for you...

I am made of chocolate. I live in Brisbane and am bound to a chair in an air conditioned room, tied up with marshmallow string. The air con is set to 4 degrees in order to preserve my chocolatiness. I have the ability to regenerate my own limbs if I accidentally chew on one of them. I am happy.
There's a loud bang, a hole appears in the wall opposite me, and thousands of tiny little men wearing camouflage gear invade my room. After chewing through the marshmallow string, they carry me outside and put me on the back of a truck and take me off to their camp where I'm devoured by hundreds of wild albino dogs - where the more they eat of me, the browner they get. I wake up just as they're about to eat my chocolate eyeballs.

And I think we can safely assume that I've lost my mind.

Interlude II

Fear not, avid reader, the Reading List will be completed and posted this week. I'm just waiting for another couple of suggestions from a couple of people who are totally slack and apparently need more than a week to think of three books that they've enjoyed.

In the meantime, let's have a little Twelve Week Challenge update!!

Saturday saw the end of Week 4 - and the first Testing Day. I rocked up nice and early to avoid the queues, and was one of the first to enjoy being prodded, measured, weighed and poked. I have achieved the following results:

• 5 kg of weight loss
• 38.5 cms off various parts of my body

Pretty great, I think you'll agree. But I can't help thinking that this may spark some worry in the minds of some of my fans, namely, Mr Mary Mason (a pseudonym, yes).

So, I am informing you now that a total of 7cms has gone from my chest area. They have been reduced. Officially. I'm sorry for any sadness this may cause you.

And now, I begin my 5th week - back onto the carrot sticks, the protein shakes, and the endless trips to the gym.

Stay tuned for the finalised Reading List - entering your local cyber network this week.

Interlude

I will be completing my Reading List next week. Until then, I will attempt to amuse with the following anecdote:

It is one day after pay day, and I'm almost broke! HAAAAAAA ha

That'll be the $1000 that I had to pay on to my credit card. I hate credit cards. But I love them... so confusing. So anyway, outside of work my life is currently filled with numerous episodes of pure craving. That is, the 12 week challenge is going well and I am still existing on carrot sticks and protein shakes. This morning, I have had the following cravings:

• Pie - of any variety. It's the pastry I really want, but will hoe down on any form of content.
• Donuts. This is a regular morning craving for me, but it gets stronger and stronger every day now. I wonder where it will stop?
• Small chocolate easter bunny in gold wrapping. I can't explain the wrapping, but I think I might like the taste of it.
• Grande Skinny Latte from Starbucks. I have succumbed to this one, as I'm allowed two a week.

So, that's my morning, and that's your interlude. For those of you who haven't left your reading suggestions, I *tut* in your general direction and shake my head with disapproval. You've got one week to regain my respect.

Speckled Hen

Today's post relates to two things which are overtaking my thoughts at the moment. Firstly, I am speckled due to painting a bookcase that I rescued from a skip. It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it.

Secondly, I am behaving like a Hen because of my rather ferocious PMT, which kicked in yesterday. It's worse than I've previously known - I watched 'Meet the Parents' last night in attempt to find something that wasn't romantic or annoying, but I still ended up crying. I think it was the car he was driving - too many memories of cars. See what I mean?? I'm fucking useless. A big fat girl with far too many hormones.

I wonder if I'll ever ever find a man who can put up with my raging hormones? It's something that I'm not confident about...

Hold on - slight diversion here. The person on the computer next to me if having difficulties opening a file. There are two library staff helping now, and they're all as useless as each other. I know what the problem is - but because I'm feeling particularly bitter and mean today, I will not help. Ha. The person who supposedly knows what she's talking about is going to find someone else. Ha ha ha ha I'm so evil...

Ok, so back to me. The twelve week challenge has started, and I went to the gym this morning. I did a one hour workout, and am aching nicely, and then got a phone call from Personal Trainer (PT). She has told me to go again this afternoon - and that she's gonna be there so she'll know if I haven't been. Damn her and her military style rule over me.

Oh god - back to my little diversion... The IT man has arrived. And he still can't work out that it's a program problem. It's not the fucking file you dimwits!! It's the fact that you don't have the full version of Microsoft Office installed on these fucking useless machines!! Oh ... wait... I think he's got it. I think that after 3 other people coming to fix the problem and failing, he might have got it. The suspense is killing me - he's so close, yet so far...

Nope. It's over. I'm bored now and my abs are killing me - just crying out at the thought that I'm gonna go to the gym and kill them some more. Better go tank myself up with some protein.

P.S. Sorry for the boring and slightly haphazard post today. The PMT is to blame - of course.