The thing is, my arms are one of my proudest accomplishments this last month, since I’ve taken on this challenge to loose weight with the help of training at Anytime Fitness in Old Orcutt. That’s because I haven’t lost ANY weight. I mean I lost a pound and then it came back and brought friends. I feel like I’m the only person in the world who has worked this hard and only gained weight. But I’m sure I’m not.

Recently my brother, who lives in Vegas, came by to see me. He’s a trainer too. We talked about my training, my diet and genetics. My brother used to be a somewhat doughy framed guy with asthma. Not really fat, but he was pudgy for a while there. Now he’s totally hot, if I can say so in a not weird way. I mean, he fits the universal definition of what would be considered a hot bod. OK that still sounds weird. But what I mean is he trasnformed his body. It took lots of work and discipline to be sure but he did it — despite genetics.

He had become fit and lean for some time then around Christmas family was worried he was getting too skinny. Maybe he’s got a problem we thought. Then last week he came to visit and had packed on tons of muscle. He had been trying to get rid of as much fat as he could before building the muscle.

The thing of it is the rest of my family, well, we don’t look like that. Obesity and belly fat is a strong trait in my family. Being of Hispanic heritage, a square-ish and stocky shape is another trait. But my brother totally broke free of that. So as we chatted I listened hard. I’ve always argued that genetics doesn’t play such a big role. My brother argued that it does.

He said we have a tendency to be sensitive to carbs. We have a tendency to build muscle easily but hang onto fat for dear life. That all sounded totally like me!

The reason this was so significant was because last week I began journaling my food intake to discuss with my trainer Jennifer at Anytime Fitness. We began to tweak what I was eating and how much. But it seemed like such little tweaks–how can adding a bit more protein or eating a bigger breakfast make such a difference? I understand now. It’s my genetics coming into play.

That’s not a cop out. Because of my training over the last month I’ve seen massive muscular gains and in the strength I have. (I can finally do push ups on my toes–I’ve NEVER been able to do even one!) but the fat is stubbornly hanging on. So maybe it’s genetics. Whereas some people can just cut out a few calories or up their cardio a bit, I probably need to watch the fine details in order to shed pounds. My genetics dictate that fat hang on to me for dear life. Which means those little tweaks that Jennifer told me to make will actually make all the difference in the world. I hope.

So for now, I’m playing a game of chicken with my fat. Who is going to give in first? Me or my fat? Will I have the willpower to fight against genetics, fatigue and that oh so seductive hunk of rosemary parmesan foccacia bread in order to get rid of that jelly that spills over the back of my bra strap? I sure hope so.

For better or worse, I’ll post a pic soon, stay tuned.

Both things need to be done. I really do need to spend a few hours at the computer. But I also need to do some yard work, finish some painting– and playing at the park with the kids, I mean do I really need to question that one? So today I’m deferring the work I so badly want to catch up on for a little active time outside (and maybe a little brisk housecleaning). After all I can  do computer work tonight but the other stuff is decidedly day work.

Lately, I’ve realized that I’ve opted out of even the most basic exercise–just simply moving around–for desk work. Therein lies the problem. When my two oldest boys were babies I found it hard to get out of the house and excercise with them. So I did two things: I asked my husband for a stationary bike and I just started moving. When the kids watched The Wiggles on Disney Channel I got up and danced with them. During commercials I ran around and around the closet that separated the living room, dining and kitchen areas. We even made it a game, the babies would crawl or toddle after me and I’d run circles around them. They loved it. And I lost weight.

Of course, then I was a stay at home mom and didn’t have to spend hours in front of a computer screen. But I can still make similar decisions now. So in 15 minutes from now I will be chasing my three year old on the playground and walking my older boys to the duck pond to feed the ducks. Work can wait. So can bills.

This is my third week of training at Anytime Fitness in Old Orcutt. The workouts really make me feel a difference in my body. I am coming home wiped out and boy do I sleep hard afterward. But still no weightloss. However, my body fat percentage is down! That’s still an accomplishment.

So this week, I have to admit I cheated more than I’d like. I was feeling a little distraught about my weight again. I mean it’s one thing when your pants are too tight but when the undies are too snug that’s depressing. And though it doesn’t make sense, I ate more this past week. But that was last week, it’s not going to affect me going forward. I renewed my resolve and I’ll eat much better this week.

I’m still getting in my workouts and adding a few workout videos at home.

This week’s secret to getting up my motivation: Buying cute things to aid in my weightloss journey.

Buying a new shirt to work out in and a lot of bright and colorful veggies has helped.

I also bought some veggie seedlings, which I’ll plant in my garden soon.

I also ordered a Japanese bento style lunchbox from J-List.com

These are great because they have little compartments to separate food and for me it was an exciting and fun way to make sure I plan out my lunches.

What tricks do you have to keep motivated?

I’ve loved working out at Anytime Fitness. It’s totally convenient and never too crowded. It’s also great to have brand new, state of the art equipment. I feel so athletic!! Just kidding. That’s only until I look in the mirror and realize I’ve got a way to go. That’s OK I’ll get there.

I’ve been great with the diet and the whole one-serving of carbs a day thing. Except for today. When I had two cookies at work and they made me sick. At home, not feeling sick again I had two more. OK so three. To make matters worse I had to work late and had appointments until dinner time, then it was dinner, then cleaning, then making the snacks for the kids’ Valentine’s Day parties. So I didn’t get my exercise in. It’s 9 p.m. now and I just sat down.

Overall a really bad cheat day. Tomorrow will be better. Not going to beat myself up about it.

So for my diet the last few days I’ve been eating oatmeal for breakfast or else fresh green juice. Lunch has been a cup of lentils, carrots, an orange and water with lemon and an apple for snack or a handful of almonds. Dinner has been chicken-less mandarin orange chicken with rice and vegetables or kale and carrot stir-fry. This week I’ll branch out a bit more.

Tomorrow I’m waking up extra early to get in an extra workout to make up for today. This will be a good exercise and eating week. I will lose another pound.

If you are on your own weight loss adventure, let me know in the comments, I’d love to hear your progress!

Shelly

My husband has hinted at it the last year but I didn’t take notice. Then recently, my mom, in that way that mom’s have, put it plainly. As we were looking through old photos at a family gathering I mentioned how my mother used to encourage me not to dress so conservatively. My mom then said, “I did. She dressed too conservatively and she should’ve wore clothes that were more flattering to her figure,” my mom told everyone. Then she added, “Now she dresses like she should’ve when she was younger,” then she turned to me, “And you don’t have the figure for it!”

A loud audible gasp went through the house. I looked at my husband, who did what any smart husband would do–he sided with his mother-in-law. I didn’t know what to say. More importantly, I knew they were right. Not about the clothes of course but the fact that I don’t have the figure anymore.

It was time to do something about it. So I am. I began training at Anytime Fitness. My trainer is Jennifer Santos and she’s been crazy good at it. She set me up on a nutrition plan and we are trying to get me to lose 20 pounds. The best part is that because I was so athletic just over a year ago I knew that I needed a fitness program that can show me some real results. Every time I’ve tried to get back into shape in the last year my muscle memory kicked in and I just plateaued quickly.

With Jennifer at Anytime Fitness I’m confident I’ll see results and I’m excited. So here goes. I’ll be journaling my efforts each week and highlighting my successes, my weaknesses and my failures as well.

So here’s the BEFORE. Me at 156 pounds.

What I ate this week:

I’ll summarize it a bit for now. Breakfasts were either fruit like apples and pineapple and banana or else maple cinnamon oatmeal.

Lunch was primarily carrots and hummus, an apple and a handful or almonds. Or tuna fish with a teaspoon of mayo on one slice of bread and an orange or Spanish rice in a jalapeno cilantro tortilla.

Dinner was sweet potato curry soup over brown rice with zuchini and summer squash or a cup full of cheese tortellini with salad or a cup of homemade potato salad, soy sausage and some salad.

Did I cheat? Yes. There was a day when I had a half of a Twinkie. Several days when I couldn’t resist a Diet Coke. And there were a couple of glasses of wine and maybe a beer or two here and there. But I can’t focus on that. I am more concerned with what I’ve done right and that is to get stricter about my diet. I’ve always eaten a somewhat plant-based diet but I’ve really watched the junk that creeps in– like processed foods. So I’m choosing to be proud of that rather than to be bummed about the small failures I’ve experienced.

Check back next week for my next update. Wish me luck. And if you are going through a weight loss challenge feel free to share your experience as well!

By Shelly Cone

Every year during the holidays I start to cringe when I check the mailbox. I know at some point I will open the mailbox and that first Christmas card of the season will be sitting there all gold and sparkly and smarmy. Smarmy because it’s the very first Christmas card and it brings tidings of boasting and bragging, jealousy and good jeer. Because inside that smug little envelope is a photo of a perfectly coiffed family, in a perfectly staged photograph, with perfect smiles on their faces. And their card is the first in my mailbox because they are first at everything.

I, on the other hand, have three boys and spend most of my off hours stopping up bloody noses, breaking up brawls, and trying in vain to stop the game of catch going on in my living room. I can also never find a semi-decent photo of my family. There is always someone making a face or turning away to look at something that was much more important in that two seconds than looking at the photographer.

So I wait and then I get that first Christmas card from the Jolie-Pitts. I hadn’t even planned on sending the Jolie-Pitts a Christmas card so it sends me into a panic. Suddenly I now need to get them a Christmas card and it has to be as perfect as theirs. After much whining and lamenting and poring over a year’s worth of photos, I realize I don’t have a perfect family. I have a family of boys and they don’t give a damn about perfection.

Then, while we were at the mall Ron had a brilliant idea. Let’s turn the Christmas card routine on its head. We weren’t perfect so we needed to own that fact. We were going to take pictures with Santa, as is, and make faces at the camera. That would be our Christmas card.

For us as is, meant the baby was wearing holey jeans with food stains on the front of his shirt from lunch. The boys had messy hair, I was wearing my old jeans (actually Ron’s jeans) with paint on the knee and I hadn’t put on make up and I didn’t even comb my hair that day. I just put it somewhat back into a ponytail/messy nest look. We were better suited for a run to Home Depot than a picture with Santa.

We informed the camera girl of our plan and they quickly handed us reindeer antlers to wear. “Someone needs to give Santa bunny ears. I’ve been waiting for someone to give Santa bunny ears but no one will,” she said.

“You realize he’s the last person you want to give bunny ears to? He brings the presents,” Ron said.

Then we stuck the antlers on our heads and waited in line behind the most incredible family you have ever seen in your life. A family so beautiful and perfect I was going to vomit rainbows on their little girl’s goldilocks. “Why can’t we be that family?” I whined.

Then they all took incredibly timeless and beautiful shots on Santa’s lap, everyone looking insanely perfect. Then it was our turn. While most of us played along, one of us—Jake—decided he is too close to teenagehood and the moodiness and mortification of doing stuff with your parents that comes with it that he refused to put on the antlers. He also refused to make a face. Not only did he refuse to make a funny face, he refused to make a smiley face. But he didn’t fully think it through because by sitting there all sullen and moody, he was actually making a face.

We pleaded with him to play along to no avail. Then Santa stepped in and played hardball. “If you don’t cooperate I’m not coming by your house,” he said. Then he looked sternly at Chase and Sebastian who looked confused for a second then quickly grasped the meaning of that statement.

Santa had just turned the Cone brothers on each other. At that moment, I was so happy I had decided against making bunny ears behind Santa.

“Jake just do it or we won’t get anything for Christmas!” Chase hissed through his teeth. Sebastian could just manage a “C’mon Jake” in a pleading voice with just a tinge of baby brother whine.

So Jake put the antlers on for the second half of our pictures but his face remained frozen in that sulky look that doesn’t thaw until after senior year of high school. It was OK. We got our dorky photos and went about our day. That night when we got settled we decided to check out our photos. My mouth dropped as I called out to Ron, “We are that family!”

Everyone came running to see our pictures of the candy and sugarplums family from in front of us in line. That left one big question: What if that family was sitting down to look at their pictures and they opened up pictures of some whacky-ass family wearing antlers and making faces wearing the same clothes they were doing yardwork in earlier that day?

For a second I had considered slapping that photo on our Christmas card and sending it out, but instead I went back to the Santa booth and got our real photos.

Our photos were just as we expected—silly and slightly outrageous and definitely nowhere near perfect. But Santa visited our house just the same. I hear ours was the only house where he felt comfortable enough to loosen his belt and kick off his boots for a bit as he enjoyed the glass of beer we left him. We may not be perfect but at least we know how to entertain.

This post was originally published in the The Sun newspaper.

Recently, my husband and I celebrated our 12-year wedding anniversary. Yeah, congratulations to me, right? Of course I’m thrilled that 12 wonderful years of wedded bliss has been easy peasy for us, but anniversaries cause me some amount of anxiety. What should be a happy occasion I usually look upon with dread because it requires me to “dress.”

Knowing this, my husband usually includes a pre-dinner shopping trip, which, for most girls, is a welcome bonus, but for me, it adds more pressure, partly because of my lack of fashion sense, but mostly for two other insidious reasons: my left and my right breasts.

Like an evil arch nemesis, they have infamously thwarted my fashion choices, embarrassed me to tears, and even dominated significant events I’ve attended. They have exposed themselves to world leaders by way of ill-timed and unnoticed button breaks (unfortunately, not to the U.S. president I would’ve chosen to expose myself to).

They have a tendency to collect and display various food items like a waiter carrying a dessert platter, and they have invited my 3-year-old to nuzzle his little arms between them and use them as warmers whenever I’m at the cash register at the store, talking to a friend, or otherwise occupied. Once, at a social engagement, they even lured a stranger to abruptly and without warning, squeeze them forcefully; I had to assure her they were very real before she would loosen her grip. I mean, who does that, right?

But more often than not, they simply dictate my wardrobe. Victoria’s Secret bras? “Nope, too dainty.” Strappy tops? “Not unless you want us to make an unwanted appearance.” Bikinis? Holy torpedoes, Batman! Not a good choice if you plan to surf or swim.

This dictatorship was at an all-time high three years ago after I had my fourth child. Let’s just say God either took favor with me or really didn’t like me, depending on your perspective of boobs. This was very evident at that time. This abundance is not a good thing, unless you shop at the same place as the dancers from Spearmint Rhino. Because I don’t make that kind of wage, I shop at regular places, like Walmart.

I wanted something pretty, but in my size, I could only find an industrial-strength steel-beamed support bra with a tiny bow in the center, because you know, nothing says sexy like a microscopic white bow. Then I spotted the only colorful bra in my size. It was pea green satin. I tried it on anyway, and it was too small. I tossed it on the go-back counter and tried on some other things.

Then I heard the dressing room attendants approach the counter. “Who would wear this thing. It’s a hideous green?” one asked. Then the other added, “And look how big it is! Oh my God, it’s huge! Who fits in this?”

To be fair, I could probably cradle a newborn baby in one cup and his buddy in the other. I walked out of the dressing room and answered, “Well, I guess, not me, because it didn’t fit.” Then I hurried outside, passed my husband, and I cried in the parking lot.

Did you hear that, Walmart ladies who worked in the dressing room in 2008? I CRIED! And my breasts probably laughed a maniacal laugh, but I don’t know for sure because it was probably muffled.

And all of this still lingered in my psyche this week as I went on our annual anniversary shopping trip—except this time I concentrated on all the good my boobs stand for in my life. Like, when I am tired of listening to someone at a dinner party, my boobs often act as a stand in for eye contact, allowing that person to blabber on without noticing me rolling my eyes. Hey, without them as my wing women, I’d have to actually pay attention and engage in that boring conversation about that guy’s latest book.

And on that rare occasion when my husband and I are too lazy for romance, my husband can just bat at them like a bear pondering food in a half hearted attempt at asking “Do you wanna?” and I can either respond or remain in my pretend sleep mode—without either of us saying a word. And you know, maybe my toddler has the right idea. Who couldn’t use a convenient hand warmer every now and then?

So, with a renewed outlook about my overflowing cornucopias, I shopped; my husband patiently stood outside every dressing room, quietly nodding his approval and silently handing me crisp bills with which to pay. I came away with a few very nice things and subsequently the dinner found us both in great spirits. Of course, I did carry home leftover crumbs of seafood fondue, a bite of crème brulee, and a martini olive in my cleavage, but hopefully no one noticed.

This column originally appeared in the Sun newspaper.

They get in bed, because they have to, but then it’s not about going to sleep. Usually, there are shouts and yelling followed by someone crying or yelling “Ow! Why did you do that?”

When I go in to check the conversation goes like this:

“Well Chase is bugging me,”

“And what did you do Jake?” I’ll ask.

“Jake got on my bed and hit me,” chase will answer.

And after a long covnersation I find out, Jake climbed onto Chase’s bunk because Chase decided to blow his cheeks out put his face in a corner of his own bed and “motorboat” the corner of his own bed. Why Chase would do this in the first place I don’t know. Why this would bother Jake so much that he would climb up onto Chase’s bed and hit him I don’t know either. Especially since Chase’s action did nothing to disturb Jake except create fart like noises.

But these are the things that keep them up at night. For me? I guess this is also the stuff that keeps me up at night.

“OK, ask” I said.

“well, when we were at the park, well OK here is a backstory, there was this …”

“He wants to buy a bird,” Chase interrupted.

“Just shut up Chase, just shut up,” Jake said.

I’m that kid right now. Except I’ve abandoned trying to wiggle my ears and opted to try and juggle kids, somehow it seemed easier. Somehow my teacher is seeing this, holding her nose and thinking “Eeewww.” It is a tremendous strain, at least for me. And that’s the excruciatingly frustrating part. I can’t do this easily. I’m juggling as fast as I can but I’m dropping kids like Mrs. Crabtree did in high school algebra.

What is it about raising kids that makes you feel so small? I’ve always been a woman confident in her abilities. I’m totally sure that if you gave me a medical book and a brain surgery patient I can have him hopping around on one foot minus a quarter of his frontal lobe in no time. But keeping a clean house, getting the kids to soccer practice and making sure ol’ grumpy has his food on the table early enough for him to get to bed by 10 p.m. that sends me into a hyperventilating tail spin.

The truth is, most days, my husband does the cooking, has it ready for me at a reasonable hour and I come to the table disheveled and trying to redeem myself. “Sorry about dinner, but I hit soccer practice, paid bills, got the baby immunized, oh and I removed what was thought to be an inoperable tumor from an 85 year old woman today.”

Why should I have to apologize for not keeping every ball in the air. It’s their fault. No I’m not passing blame, it really is their fault. As in they, the ones whose opinions we hang on, whose acceptance we crave, the varsity cheerleaders/football jocks of society. The ubiquitous “they.” They say this, they say that, they say women shouldn’t be fat. They say men get more distinguished as they age. You know them. Them are they.

And for some reason it matters what they think. And so even though I absolutely love being a mom and having such a great family I feel dorky a lot of the time. Like when I look really, really hot in the latest trendy style, but because I am younger than my husband, the waiter asks him if I’m old enough to drink and then I have to explain that I’M THE MOM. And then I never look that good again, because They might think of me weirdly. Or, when I am having lunch with friends and even though I may be dressed like a professional whatever, I still feel inadequate because I am toting a baby. Yes I admit it, sometimes I feel like carrying around my poor little guy is akin to having an extra appendage sticking out of my forehead–it’s a permanent fixture, hard to control and draws lots of attention. At least that’s what my brain tells me “they” think.

And isn’t that a lousy way to think? Especially since, I KNOW, my baby is probably thinking “I can’t belive this woman with the wacky hair and stained shirt is my mom. Look at her fishing through her purse for her wallet. Doesn’t she realize I pulled it out of the diaper bag, chewed on it and tossed it on the floor of the car. She’s so scattered. And would it hurt her to put on some makeup, geez.”

I honestly don’t think it gets any easier as they grow. They just grow. Oh well. However, I think I am getting a bit closer to wiggling my ears.

I hate to go into a potty training tangent because it’s all been heard and experienced before. Still, it’s one of those rights of passage that are so important in the annals of parenthood (annals? anals?) Anyway, let me back up and open the door to my twisted mind for a minute. You see, I was feeling a bit unloved, underappreciated, lonely and overworked. The solution to that, of course, was to get a puppy. Right? Ya with me on this? Adding another mouth-to-feed, needy, living, breathing being was the solution to all my problems. I was so convinced of this that eventually, my logical-thinking, no-nonsense, overworked, guilt-ridden husband bought me a brand new, beautiful, puppy. Which promptly began to piss all over my life.

That is to be expected, but what wasn’t, and should have been was that my 2-almost-3-year-old would need to be potty trained. My sister began to babysit him and immediately started potty training him while I was at work. That forced us to enforce the potty training at home, which we had both been too overworked to do until this point. So that meant I was now responsible for TWO living beings with orifices that unpredictably spew stuff.

This has been tough to say the least. In the mornings as I am rushing around getting kids dressed, meals ready and adding layer after layer of face makeup to hide the fact that I’m getting old, I manage to sit the baby on the potty. While I’m pleading with him to make a “fast pee,” my older boys will either a) bring my puppy out from his crate and let him roam the house looking for a suitable place to release his night’s worth of bounty, or b) they will let him in from outside before he has done his thing.

So when my baby pees, his little potty plays a regal tune once the pee hits the sensors, and we do a round of high fives and hands in the air and whoops and hollers and we’re ready to go. Only to leave the bathroom and find a puppy mess in the hall. Conversely, if I take the puppy out first and wait with him while he takes care of business, I walk back in to see my baby eating a bowl of cereal while sitting in a pool of pee looking embarrassed. Decisions, decisions.

This hasn’t been just my battle either. When my sister was watching him the other day, she noticed that her son and mine were playing fine together and so she ran to another room to straigten up. When her son entered the room by himself, she asked him where my son was. “He’s in the bathroom training himself,” he said.

She ran back to the bathroom only to find my son sitting on the potty but with liquid everywhere but in the pot.

They say that the best way to train is with positive reinforcement. So with the baby, it’s a candy or cookie for getting pee in the pot. For the puppy it’s often a tiny piece of cotto salami or a doggie treat. For both it’s plenty of praise, dancing and high-pitched baby talk, the more it makes you look like a baffoon, the better.

This has become the norm now in our house. Whenever anyone uses the bathroom, they walk out like a rockstar holding their arms up in acceptance of the praise from admiring fans. This was mildly funny and a way to cope with the dorkiness of having to turn on the praise for the two potty trainees. Then my company moved to a new office. My tiny department is upstairs. With it’s own bathroom. Just feet away from my desk.

Now I have a new training to undertake; fighting the urge to clap and cheer whenever my co-workers exit the bathroom.