Friday, 9 May 2008

So...Why are you on the Floor with your Pyjama Bottoms on?

I'm excercising, obviously.

The time has come to stop looking in the mirror and using adjectives such as "cuddly" and "healthy". When you stop fitting the most rudimentary items of your wardrobe arsenal (we'll meet again, Yellow Check Shirt :'( ) It's a sad day for the biscuit tin.

I've never counted calories before - my mum's always instilled the notion in me that as long as you eat healthily, you can eat as much as you want. Which is fine. If you're my mum. She runs approximately 85990993 miles every day, and goes to the gym, and goes to evening torture classes. And also, she tends to eat rye bread and things that involve very small portions with cottage cheese. I've always followed her advice, and until now it's stood me in good stead. I'm healthy, I'm happy, I'm not obese or anorexic...I'm grateful for all of these things. But moving out and creating my own recipes has meant a LOT of cheese, a LOT of olive oil and a serious amount of fat-ridden Value Mince dishes. These are not the healthy meals she was talking about. It needs to STOP!

I was looking around for crosstrainers today (well, I'm not going outside to excercise am I? Think about it. People will SEE) and I came across this little gem of a calorie counting website.
http://caloriecount.about.com/
We got off to a bad start (It knew I lied about some measurements, and then the BMI indicator called me fat) but now I can see it's going to be a useful tool in my ultimate 9 stone goal. It tells you how many calories you should be working towards each day, and once you fill in what you had to eat, it can tell you how you're getting on. Pretty neat. Let's see how long I keep that up for.

So, from now on it's all low fat shenanigans. Oh fun! I miss cauliflower cheese already.
This isn't going to become a recipe blog, but if I find any gooduns, I'll be pasting them here.

Furry Exo-Skeletons


A fascinating and slightly disturbing study into what exactly goes on inside our favourite kid's toys by Matt Kirkland has surprising raised some deep-seated issues from my childhood. It's cool, you should check it out. There's robots.
http://s3.amazonaws.com/s3.mattkirkland.com/ursum.html

As a child, I didn't really play with that many toys, but the lucky ones that gained my love and respect got looked after very very well. In fact, I think my little sisters still have some of them (although they don't take as much care of their things as I did - probably because they are normal children - so I think they might be a little worse for wear by now).

I don't know whether this was because I had a genuine love for my cute wittle Mattel collections, but what I am sure of is that one day I saw a Barbie bone and it scared the CRAP out of me. Seeing toys' insides has always been a creepy and sickening experience for me. I have no idea why, maybe I have some issues which need to be addressed at a later date by a professional, but the idea of toys having insides always creeped me out.

Obviously I always knew that they didn't have proper insides, no blood, no lungs, no disgusting squishy bits like when you step on a snail (the one time I was ever sick because of an animal. What the hell?!! What are snails? eeerghhhhh, I don't think I'll ever get over that. I thought It would have a HOUSE in there!!) but they had something in there that you weren't meant to see. I knew this because when they broke, my Mum or Dad would take them away and bring them back later nearly as good as new.

Never quite the same though. The velcro on the back never quite reched as well as it did when it was factory fresh. That's just screaming out for traumatic childhood experiences.

One day I was up in my room, minding my own business, playing with some toys. As you do. Probably reading to them, or having a tea party. My toys liked to be read to. They also liked jigsaw puddles, and bunjee jumping out of my window. Anyway, realistically-moving Pooh Bear (who was actually kind of creepy, but he was allowed to be in my gang because it's not nice to be prejudiced) stopped moving properly. I picked him up and opened the velcro, and I was horrified to find white boxes of electronics and wires and plastic bits that made him move. My parents told me I was stupid, but I never played with him again. Ever since then I've felt there is something deeply sinister about moving and talking toys.

Even Barbies hold a secret! While chewing on my least favourite Barbie's ankle (...nevermind) I uncovered a sharp, hard bit that hurt my mouth. To my surprise and disgust, there was a sharp stick coming right out of her leg. This was clearly her plastic frame to make her legs move a bit, but I thought I had chewed her bones out, and I don't think I've ever gotten over it.
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