on the eve of forty-nine

On the eve of forty-nine, I’m moved to pen some rhyming lines

That show, before the year has turned, a few small things that I have learned.


No one needs a hoard of stuff. Life is simpler with enough.

If it doesn’t make you smile, toss it in the garbage pile,

Or give it to a Goodwill store. Someone there will love it more.


Also, chuck your lesser fears and go explore some new frontiers.

Sing in public. Learn to dance. Wear some really ugly pants.

No one cares. They’re more concerned with all those judging them in turn.

Do yourself a giant favor: act like you’re a little braver.


Don’t surround yourself with pain. “Happy” can’t survive the strain.

People who can’t stop complaining just aren’t very entertaining.

Trade them in for those whose brighter outlook makes your soul feel lighter.



So there’s a bit of common sense that something forced me to dispense.

I hope that I will still be here at this time in another year,

Looking fifty up the nose and wearing much, much smaller clothes.



I’ll say goodnight and leave you with some final words of Barb-ly wisdom:

Use your gifts, your heart, your grace to make the world a better place.

Remember that sincere compassion isn’t ever out of fashion.


i really don’t care how many calories are in a margarita.

Especially when I have…several…of them in one evening.  But that was yesterday. This morning I got on a scale and in spite of the influx of tequila, I’ve dropped two pounds. That’s since I got the magic number five days ago.

La dee freakin’ da. Two pounds. Less than a kilo. But thinking about it, I’ve seen kilos of both weed and cocaine (on TV of course, it’s not like I’m wealthy), and they’d be pretty hard to stash in your pants without a noticeable bulge. As would a two-pound box of See’s candy. Or eight sticks of butter.

Mmmmm, butter.

So I’ll just say I’ve lost nearly a kilo of weed and call it good. It is good. And what’s better is that I haven’t done it by getting all draconian on my ass, which is a recipe for disaster with me. As soon as I try to actually deprive myself of something, that whole “you ain’t the boss of me” thang kicks in and my mouth always wins those battles. Always. “Self-destruction before subjugation” seems to be my subconscious battle cry even when it’s good for me. Especially when it’s good for me. Kinda romantic really, but also desperately stupid. Like a Mel Gibson movie once you realize that the dude truly is mentally ill.

So two pounds. If I can keep up this pace I hit the target in 42-and-a-half weeks. Which means early September of next year.

Crap, that’s a long time.

Well, once more into the breach, and all that. Perhaps a poem will inspire me.

A big lady from the Midwest
Had at long last been forced to confess
That her heart would beat better
And death not soon get her
If the size of her ass were addressed.


let the losing begin. or, it’s all about me. ick.

What could possibly be more boring than a blog kept up in the service of a weight-loss journey? Gad, even typing “weight-loss journey” makes me want to hurl at the self-indulgence. A journey is a trek up Everest. Or simply walking into Mordor. Trying to ingest fewer Cheetos is not a freaking journey (thought the overwhelming deliciousness that is Cheeto does make it a difficult task).

But gird your loins, folks, because here we go.

Visited the pulmonologist today, hopefully for the last time, and he gave me the magic number: 85 pounds. Actually, it was 87, but I was wearing my coat, so I figure that’s my head start.

He said my heart is “stiff.” By that, he did not mean stoic. Or stalwart. Or even stubborn. He meant stiffity stiffstiff, as in unyielding and inflexible. On a muscular level. Apparently my heart is the only part of me that is not soft and gushy. And it should be.

So, in an effort to “not make it any worse,” I agreed to drop some significant poundage. I’ve already lost quite a bit, as before-and-after photos will attest, but this is a whole new ballgame.

Ballgame…mmm…hot dogs….

People who know things say that you shouldn’t lose more than a pound a week. This seems woefully inadequate when compared to my pack-it-on superpower of gaining 10 pounds in a week with hardly any effort at all. Thirty in a month if I’m diligent. Anywho, at a measly pound a week this will take more than a year and half. Or roughly 8.5 Kim Kardashian marriages.


But it’s for a good cause. So if you stick around, in between the random rants that I’ve fallen behind on, you’ll be seeing poundage updates and hopefully a newfound love of exercise that has evaded me my entire adult life.