studiously ignoring the bag of towels in the corner

...because maybe if I wait long enough, they will roll themselves.

So. Hi! Happy Saturday!

I decided that I would start a private blog--which I can do now, since Blogger finally introduced password protection, thankya Jesus--that will include all things associated with my own weight-loss. I'm talking numbers, graphs, pictures, highs, lows, relationships as related to weight-loss, and anything else I think might fit under that umbrella, such as deep, dark secrets and yearnings in my SOOOOUL. So, if you want access to it, I have these criteria for admittance:

1) I must know you, either in person or over the intarweb. Like, now , as in we must have talked or emailed or had some type of communication within the past two or three months. Also, when I say know you , I do not mean in the biblical sense [of course there are only 6 people out there who would fit in that particular box--no pun intended--so, nobody named Craig, Chad, John, James, or Brian (Randy would not want to read it anyway, I know that much for sure), unless you have proof you have never been anywhere near my nether regions. There]. No exes or blasts from the past need apply. I do reserve the right to change my mind on the off chance you get to know me again and I feel comfortable letting you in.

2) You should either know my last name or know me well enough that I would not feel completely weird telling you what it is and/or need an emergency therapy session because omigod a stranger knows my last name omigod .

3) If you are a family member, I will probably have to hold off a while on giving you access. It's not you, it's me. Promise.

4) You must not be an enemy of mine or an enemy of a friend of mine. It should be fairly obvious if you are.

5) You must buy me a 24-carat white-gold diamond-encrusted tiara. (Okay, that's not really one of them. I just needed something to put here. It would be cool if you did buy me one, though; I could sell it and buy my Nikon. Or you could just give me a grand and save yourself a few thou and me the trouble of--sigh! bitchy Paris Hilton eyeroll!--selling it. Hey, it's up to you, Moneybags!)

6) You must have a blogger/gmail account. (That's not my criteria, it's Blogger's. If you don't, go here to sign up with Blogger or email me at bluedaisychain @ gmail . com and I will send you an invitation for a gmail account. Both are easy-peasy and free.)

7) If you meet all these criteria (extra points for a tiara OR a Nikon D50 or better--I am all about giving you choices!), and you work at a place that RECORDS YOUR MONITOR, YOU MUST PINKY SWEAR THAT YOU WILL NOT ACCESS THE SITE THERE. I am going to post progress pictures of my big-ol'-yet-shrinking self (YES, THAT'S RIGHT) and I do not want them frozen on some supervisor's screen for all eternity. (I'm looking at you, call center employees.) (And I will know if you have. I HAVE MY WAYS.)

I think that will narrow it down to about three people. Hee.

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I was tinkering around with the new Blogger this past Thursday (my Sunday) and I realized that Blogger has a way for me to post via email. I don't know if it was on the old Blogger or not. Hrm. Anyway, score! I have missed posting from work. I used to post from here all the time, y'all. It was my pastime when I was a disgruntled, depressed college student looking forward to my real, fabulous teaching job; which, as we all know, turned out to be far too real and about a quafrillion light years away from fabulous...but that's a dead horse which has been beaten all the way to the glue factory, so let's move on, shall we?

Robyn and I are still doing EMDR in our sessions. Last Tuesday we spent the entire hour on it in regards to my weight/control issues...and I have lost 3.5 pounds just since then. For the math-impaired such as I, that is roughly a pound a day. No, I am not kidding. I have been weighing myself every morning and every night. Interestingly enough, I seem to weigh less in the evening. I thought it was usually the other way around, but apparently I am an exception to that particular rule, if in fact it is a rule. Also apparently, it has addled my brain to the point where I just rattle on and on when I have already said what I'd intended to say.

Blah blah BLAH.

Ahem.

I'm on my second muscle relaxer today, and I am at work, but the boy scouts in my right shoulderblade are practicing on my trapezius. I am so tired of this, y'all. And now I am so stoned I don't know how I'm going to drive home. Of course, I still have three hours before I have to do that, so this may be an example of premature worrying. You can bet your ass, however, that I am going to jump on that breast reduction train just as soon as my insurance kicks in. They. Are. Too. Mother. Fucking. Big.

I was going to talk about some weighty issues (HAW HAW) but I forgot that goes in the private blog. At any rate, once Robyn and I stop the weight EMDR--for now, at least--we are going to need to focus on Tomhell. I really don't want to talk about it, but I am still so angry about it and just thinking about talking about it, just right now, my throat got all tight, like I have a pill stuck in it or a piece of a chip or something, and that's a sign that I'm getting distressed. I left that black pit where the Dogs of Satan chased me down Main Street every day of the world almost two years ago, so needless to say, it shouldn't upset me as much as it does. I still fantasize about writing Cindy a vituperative letter dipped in anthrax and chiggers with maybe a brown recluse and a scorpion or two thrown in for good measure. I hear brown recluses (reclusi?) don't hurt when they bite, but they rot the skin, and Texas scorpions aren't deadly, but I know from personal experience that their stings hurt like a motherfucker. Then the chiggers would itch and maybe the anthrax would kill her until she died. I would not be sorry. Unfortunately, I am a good person so I would never do that sort of thing. I don't think anything could kill her anyway, at least physically--she is too horrid. I know for a fact, however, that her soul is black as tar and deader than the proverbial doornail, so perhaps it doesn't matter anyway. She's dug her own hole. Did I tell y'all that it looks like she got divorced? She's gone back to her first married name. She was married to her second husband, the one whose name she had when she spent the school year sitting at her desk and thinking of ways to further torture me, for less than two years. I hope that I put a lot of fucking strain on their marriage. I hope that he divorced her because he saw what a beast she is, and I hope I was part of it. I know they were doing all right when I first started there, because they were building a house together and he was constantly at the school for one reason or another. I hope he sent her world crashing down around her, like she sent my world crashing down around me.

You know, even if I was a horrible teacher (and I know I wasn't good, for God's sake; I was green as one could possibly be, with no self-esteem, badly treated major depression, untreated social phobia and ADD, in a new town where I knew no one, separated from my family and friends and newly single after a seven-year relationship in which I basically grew up--and for which I was still mourning--ended in a broken engagement, thirty kids to a class...with at least three in each one that were either emotionally disturbed, special ed, or spoke no English, and I had no aide; no curriculum, no art mentor, no support from my administrators, no chance in hell of success) , even if I broke every rule in the book on purpose, she had no right to treat me as badly as she did. I can see how she would've had a right if I had done atrocious things like beat/have an--ahem--inappropriate relationship with my student(s) (EW) or smoke pot in my classroom or similar, but jeez.

Okay, I'll have to get back to this later. Housekeeping just called and asked me to roll towels, so I guess I'll go earn my fifty cents an hour. Au revoir!