This is the locally famous, Cheryl Shockey, youngest child and last hope for a daughter Shockey, before her amazing transformation. Now she will have to stop by and let me take a snap shot of the evidence. And Cheryl, this is what you get for giving me a bad time about not posting frequently
enough.
I was just gently reprimanded by my daughter. It is Sunday afternoon and I was just contemplating that I either need to find a way to never need to sleep or discover a habitable planet where the days are 36 hours long.
I'd settle for either because last night, though I slept, I can't say I slept well. I am a person who dreams and usually remembers her dreams. I usually look forward to my dreams, for entertainment's sake. Some times they are adventurous, Bond-type dreams ( no kidding, like James Bond or Lethal Weapon),and at other times they are like out-of-body-astral-projection type dreams of spirit and magic). I don't need to be dreaming about work. My work too closely reflects my personal life in many ways, usually the stuff involving bathrooms and bodily functions. But I definitely digress... to get back on track here...
It was Sunday afternoon and I'd just finished one post for this next week. I felt bad that I'd only posted twice lat week, and on Friday, my sister-in-law Cheryl had reprimanded me for it. "But, but, but..." I started.
"I know," she replied, "Joannie already reminded me that you're working now, but I don't care. I got into the habit of going to your site and I'm tired of there not being anything new there. By the way, what about your story..."
So after finishing the one post, a true miracle considering that Sam is blasting The Nightmare Before Christmas in her room, and Mick and Miranda are watching Marley and Me at a volume to compete with Sam, I took a small break to change over the laundry ( because no one else is going to do it) and get myself something to drink. Then I patted myself on the back, through verbal expression, to the two about feeling so good about doing one post and preparing to do another, and Miranda let me have it.
"Mom, don't you think you should be writing on your story!" And here I sit, faithfully typing and composing away, my brain working just about as well as it ever does these days. Churning out lame posts. This one is kind of like the whole premise behind Seinfeld which was supposed to be a show about nothing in particular. Ditto for this post. It's not even psycho-babble, it's just babbling.
OK. To make up for it a little, I'll share a little bit more about Cheryl and Joannie's visit on Friday. It was a short visit so it will be a short sharing. First, I am so proud and impressed and more than a wee bit jealous of Cheryl.
Cheryl, like many of us, has been battling her weight for a great portion of her life and she is one of those people who has been overweight but very active and fit. Which, when I think about it, had to make the whole weight issue even more frustrating. Like Mick exercising by proxy ( aka taking the dogs to the dog park and observing their exertion) and losing weight while I suffer and slave and can't cheat one tiny bit or even smell good food without another fat roll dropping over the top of my jeans (oh, there is still a short post to come on the subject of my jeans, much to the horror of Mick).
So during a garden raid (when Cheryl and Joannie would stop by to pick up some of my abundant, lovely produce) this summer, Cheryl noticed that I had bought the new Jillian Michael's book, "Master Your Metabolism". We chatted about it. I was about a third of the way through the book, but had not yet begun following the plan. I had good intentions, though. Cheryl, also being a Biggest Loser convert/fanatic, was very interested. Although we talked about it and she looked through the book, I convinced her that she was going to want her own copy because it's just that kind of book and I knew I'd want to keep my copy.
Cheryl took my advice, and, I assume, she bought a copy of "Master Your Metabolism". I assume this because, although she'd been unable to exercise for nearly six weeks due to a neck injury, Cheryl lost 15 pound in one week following the plan!!!!!!!! Seriously. I wish I was reporting it for myself, but as it turns out, you have to do more than just read the book, more's the pity.
Cheryl looks great. Cheryl looks smaller than she has ever looked in her adult life, or at least since I've met her. Yes, she has continued to follow the plan and she has continued to lose significant amounts of weight. I don't believe she's continued to lose 15 pounds a week, but she's been losing more that three a week since she's started. Which brings me to her visit.
Cheryl brought us two big bags full of clothes for Sam. Sam, in case no one knows, has always looked more like Cheryl's daughter than mine. In fact, several years ago, during a summer visit in Pelican when Sam ran through the room stark naked, Cheryl burst into laughter and gasping, said, "I'm sorry, but I look just like that naked, but not as cute!" Now she probably looks just like that but shrunk down. I'm hopeful for Sam. Never assume that someone is just meant to be overweight when you see that they are but they're active, because the right formula just hasn't been implemented.
The clothes...I am so thankful. Sam's clothes-picking/ shredding goes at an unstoppable pace. It is frustrating. It is maddening. It is so expensive!
One big bag of Cheryl's contained coats of all kinds including a really wonderful, brand-new, red barn jacket from Lands End, a lined polar tech jacket Cheryl bought in Scotland, and a beautiful and soft, zip-up, very classy leather jacket. Ooh-la-la. Lovely. Miranda, of course, isn't impressed with the leather, but, well, sometimes we are self-indulgent, self-serving hypocrites. And that's the truth.
How I wish, oh, I wish, that Cheryl's bags had contained underwear. If she reads this, maybe she'll get the hint. But Cheryl is a pretty classy woman. While her brother plays the diamond-in-the-rough, Cheryl is the diamond, marquis-cut. She wouldn't dream of giving anyone, even her beloved, clothes-shredding, panty-destroying, compulsive, autistic niece, any of her old, baggy, possibly-stained underwear. Cheryl, we're not proud. We won't look. We'll take them. Plus, I don't think they'll last long.
Because also today, Mick, Sam, and I made a trip to Wal-mart. Miranda stayed home to watch non-stop, DVR recordings, but we other three had to make an emergency trip to the Evil Empire. Sam had no underwear, no panties...NOT ONE SINGLE PAIR. She wore a dress to the Evil Empire ( I'm sorry, but I once heard a clerk at Radioshack call Wal-mart the Evil Empire, and I thought it was really funny and now I can't help myself.). She didn't go bottomless, but I made her wear a "broken" pair, the most whole pair that I could find. We bought her three three-packs and tonight I am lighting candles, anointing the panties, and sacrificing a goat...People, join us in prayer. A Prayer for Panties.
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