I have new gym shoes! They came in the mail today, and I went to test them immediately. My old pair sucked – it’s a real bitch to run when your arches are cramping. I’m thrilled to be able to say the new (cheap! on sale!) pair are loaded with cushiony goodness, as well as appealing to my vanity by being cute. Yay!

Meanwhile, in the past week I discovered I was selling myself short, fitness-wise. I’ve been setting limits for myself – 45 lbs, 10 minutes, etc. And I’ve been meeting them, but not bothering to even try and surpass them.

Until I found myself reaching my self-imposed limit on the treadmill, and thinking, I’m not tired – maybe I should keep going? And so I did. And it sounds ridiculous and obvious, and HELLO AMBER HERE’S YOUR DARWIN AWARD, but REALLY. I went for longer than I thought I could. And sure, I was dripping puddles of sweat and gasping for air, but I did it.

After that earth-shattering revelation (oh, bite me), I decided it’s high time to kick my own ass. So I have been. I’ve been running harder and longer, and lifting heavier weights. There were a couple days I beat my alarm until I was positive it was broken and thought about not going at all, but I made myself go. And now I’m going every day.

More than once I’ve been on the treadmill (I have a deeply ingrained hatred of running, so much that I sometimes have to pretend I’m being chased by scary monsters to keep going) and my strength – okay, mostly my strength of WILL – has started flagging, and I find myself considering giving up. But I found something better than monsters to motivate my increasingly less-jiggly ass.

Now I just think of Demi Moore – GI Jane, anyone? I remember that movie, especially the part where she was fighting for scraps out of a barrel in the rain – and STILL managed to hang upside down and execute perfect situps. If GI Jane can be half-starved and still kick ass, I can probably run more and lift more on my diet, which is less of a diet and more of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

When I’m running and watching the clock, I want to die after about four minutes. I think of quitting. I think of GI Jane and keep going. After about seven minutes I’m resigned to my fate, unhappily. After about ten minutes I realize my body isn’t going to collapse, and I want to finish – I’m going to finish. It’s satisfying to know it. This is corny, but when I hit the fifteen minute mark I feel a thrill, a heady sense of triumph. I’ve finished. I ran flat out, for 15 whole minutes, on an incline – AFTER torturing myself on the elliptical for 20 minutes.

I know some people might roll their eyes at 15 minutes, might scoff and call my sense of accomplishment undeserved. But I’ve never done it before. Ever. Until now.

I’ve had temporary custody of Rowdy for about a week now. Heidi will be here sometime tomorrow to claim him and take him home…except I want to keep him.

He and Luna have finally started getting along (a little bit). And he’s gotten all cuddly. I curled up on the couch to take a nap yesterday and before I knew it he was squirming up against my stomach, pressing his cold nose against my hand. We snoozed for an hour or so.

Another bonus: Taking him for his daily walks has been helpful for my butt. Seriously. We walk to get the mail and back, in addition to my gym time (sadly Rowdy doesn’t come to the gym with me).

He’s always in such a great mood, besides. Dogs are so HAPPY. He waggles around, all cheerful and affectionate. Just seeing him chase his stupid, demolished lobter puts a smile on my face – partly because his legs are so short that it’s hilarious to watch him run.

But LOOK:

Would YOU give him back?

I took Lara to her first official swimming lesson yesterday. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, so I did an awful lot of nervous smiling and prayed over and over that I wouldn’t have to strip down to my swimsuit – some of the toddlers were terrified enough, screaming bloody murder as they were cradled in the water, and I would have hated adding to their future nightmares. Luckily they had instructors already in the water who were both willing and able, so I was spared the humiliation of exposing my upper thigh flesh.

Lara wasn’t afraid at all. She was delighted, nearly skipping as we made our way over the gravel and into the pool area. “Let’s do it!” she exclaimed.

I took off her clothes and shoes and she bustled over to the ladder, only to come back a minute later and say, “Here, Auntie Amber!” before spitting her wet, lumpy wad of gum out and dropping it into my already outstretched hand.

Why…thank you. (GROSS).

I stood up to dispose of the gum (seriously? GROSS) and my heart sort of did a slow, dizzy roll in my chest. And I realized that while I talk a good game, I want kids. I really, really want them. Two or three. I love my niece so much, so hugely – every kid, actually. I love their sticky faces and their silly questions and their laughter.

I want children of my own someday, and while I still harbor deep fears that I’d be the kind of parent who has to set money aside for therapy instead of college, I’d like the opportunity to try.

I went to visit a friend in Billings for the weekend (it was her birthday), and I got a chance to make my first loaf of bread from scratch. I’d been wanting to try it for a while, and she had all the ingredients scattered throughout her kitchen, so we set to work.

First of all, FUN. After you add all the initial ingredients and stir, it becomes like Play Doh for adults! It’s lumpy and sticky and let me just back pedal before I start to seem like a total nerd (too late? okay, then). Ta-da:

Let’s take a moment and gawk at how incredibly manly my arms look in that photo. Moving on.

It tastes as good as it looks, despite the fact that it fell quite a bit and ended up being rather dense. The effort was satisfying, anyway, and I can’t wait until I get good enough to try wheat bread.

I know I’m probably boring all of you to death with my fixation on healthy eating and fitness, but it’s become very important to me lately. I’ve never been this determined to improve my health in my life. I did yoga this morning. YOGA. I enjoy yoga about as much as I enjoy root canals, but I needed the stress relief. And hey, it worked. The knots of pain in my back are gone. Not that I plan to make contorting myself into unreasonable shapes and angles a habit. (Okay, so I’m not THAT dedicated).

I’ve been thinking about food a lot lately, too. Normally when I diet I go from one extreme to the other, and when I say extreme I’m not kidding – we’re talking jelly donuts one day and lettuce the next. I quit buying boxed dinners and junk and I switch to fresh fruits and vegetables. The problem is, I eat the healthy stuff exactly like I eat the crap food – without cooking or making it into anything worthwhile.

Last night I found myself doing something I used to laugh at my friends for doing (yes, I’m a bitch). I found some recipes and made a grocery list! I planned meals for the week. I feel very optimistic about some of the dinners I want to make, although of course I plan to invite my sister and use her as a guinea pig.

I still haven’t had any significant weight loss and now I’m bloated on top of it, which is sort of discouraging, but I’m not giving up. The more I work at it, the less it becomes about a number on the scale. I feel good, and I know my body is experiencing benefits (even if I can’t see them, stupid, stubborn body!).

Oh, and you’re all invited to dinner on Saturday.

I decided that this year, my 28th year, I’m going to get into great shape. I want to be fit and healthy and strong. And, if I’m being totally honest, I want to look HOT in my jeans. I want to wear strappy little tops without fretting over bulges in the wrong places. I want to be able to run for a few miles without feeling like my muscles are turning into pudding.

So far, I’ve been kicking ass at the gym. I’ve been doing cardio every day and weight training every other day. I’ve even added the bench press to the mix, which I object to on the basis that I have thin, wimpy arms designed to carry shopping bags – not to casually extend forty-five pounds.

I feel leaner and stronger. My thighs are tighter. I don’t get winded as easily. I’ve started having really ambitious fantasies about kick-boxing and possibly saving some unsuspecting citizen from a reckless driver. I am She-Ra (in my mind).

The thing is, I’ve always been a binge eater. No matter what I’m feeling – boredom, elation, depression, anticipation – there’s no question I’m also feeling my teeth close over hotdogs, french fries, or anything else I can get my hands on.

My sister once pointed out that while she stops at two pieces of pizza, I always eat three or four. My need to feel completely stuffed doesn’t stop at pizza, either. I’ll eat two or three hotdogs, a whole can of soup (as opposed to a bowl) – no matter what I’m eating, I’m the first in line for seconds.

I’ve tried portion control with varying success, for short periods of time. It never lasts long. I get hungry, and then - feeling as though I’ve denied myself - I go overboard. Big time.

When I started working out regularly, I expected to lose weight. At least SOME weight. Instead, I’m holding steady at 150lbs. It’s obviously because I won’t alter my eating habits. I’m not looking to live on salad and beans, but I would like to find the strength of will to say no thank you after two slices of pizza.

Despite my love-love relationship with food, I feel great about the progress I’m making. I talked to Heidi today and she told me she got the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred DVD. She claims it’s awful, in a good way. I can’t wait to go try it out with her.

Does anyone have any ideas, tips, or tricks to scaling back the food intake? (You know, other than self-control).

What I spent time making with Tayla and my munchable niece Lara the other morning:

Yeah, the image kind of sucks. I don’t photoshop well.

We also made snow angels. Lara was skeptical that lying on her back and flailing about was something she would be interested in doing (I can’t imagine why – perhaps because her mother & I looked like a bunch of mental patients, laughing and rolling in the snow?) but eventually we talked her into it. She was way more excited about the snowball-throwing portion of the morning. She squealed and tried like hell to make her own ball while Te & I had a quick war – which I won, of course, having superior aim and speed. (Okay, so I got hit in the face one time, BIG DEAL).

NO, we didn’t throw snowballs at the kid – or if we did, it was just enough to make her feel included, and not hard. And despite the photograph evidence proving otherwise, she was wearing mittens for the duration.

PS: If snowmen – er, women – could come to life, that one would kick our butts for giving her a huge, lopsided carrot nose.

* I got an alarming message about my domain name and required payments, under threat of the site expiring. Bad timing all around.

* I renamed Archimedes. She’s Clio now, and to tell the truth she responds better to being yelled at in shorter, more concise words – like her name. Heh.

* I couldn’t find my Christmas tree or ornaments anywhere. I searched and searched, high and low, near and far. I had to buy new ones today, and luckily it wasn’t incredibly bank-breaking. Okay, it hurt a little.

* But now I’m basking in holiday spirit. My house has Christmas in every corner, nook & cranny. There’s even a zesty reindeer doormat I got last year on clearance after the season was over. I feel like an elf, but with better shoes.

* I finished my seventh complete journal. I keep a personal record, on paper, for my own sanity. (It’s theraputic). I’m ridiculously excited to start my 8th one, which is gorgeous blue & black leather. Mmm, leather.

* I found two books I’ve been dying to read at the library, NO PURCHASE NECESSARY! They were right up front, which was handy, because for someone who loves to read & write I can’t be bothered with alphabetical shelving.

* I bought a cute black sweater for my dinner date tomorrow night. It’s a turtle neck, which I would normally hate because they’re evil and constricting, but it was the only top the store had that didn’t emphasize my extra stomach flesh. I also bought a festive green t-shirt that says, “Be naughty. Save Santa a trip.” Also, saves me the trouble of being nice.

That about caps the last week.

I love October. It’s my absolute favorite month of the year. For starters, it’s nestled right at the heart of autumn. There are colors everywhere, sweeps of red and gold that pop like jewels in the sun. The sky continues to be a burning blue, a sweet reminder of summer. The scent of wood smoke lingers on air that’s crisp, and just cool enough that I need to put on a light jacket before going outside, which cheers me up considerably as my windbreaker nicely conceals the extra pounds I gained toward the end of last season (STUPID CAKE).

Best of all? HALLOWEEN. It blows my mind to think that there are people in the world who don’t celebrate this lovely, spooky holiday. There’s candy! And costumes! Pumpkins to carve, apples to bob. WHERE, I ask, is the badness? I’ve long suspected it’s NOWHERE to be found. I’ve already ordered my skanky pirate costume – complete with vision-impairing eye patch (just add liquor to ensure disaster) – and am positively giddy at the prospect of stumbling around all night with one hand braced in front of me to fend off impending collisions. Given that I also ordered thigh high boots (hey, I SAID skanky), I’m thinking alcohol consumption will be at a bare minimum. Or maybe I’ll just find a tall, sexy companion who’ll keep me on my feet and away from walls.

If I were ever to get married (which I won’t), I’d want an October wedding, at the very beginning of the month, so that it could still be outside (near sunset) without people freezing their bits off. Naturally it would be in a park or by a lake, with trees everywhere, and paper lanterns so that we could all dance under the stars. In our parkas. Because who am I kidding, October at night is a time for mittens. I could be the first bride (or not?) to shake it in her wedding dress with Uggs on her feet.

Anyway. October is the best month of the year, so expect lots of gushing about it’s perfection and teeth-gnashing over Halloween plans! I’d like to know what everyone is doing as far as costumes, too.

Last night was one of those lovely summer evenings, the kind where the air was warm and the sky was smeared with clouds. I have a willow tree in my yard that sheds branches whenever the wind blows, so I invited my nieces over to make s’mores around the fire pit.

I handed out branches for marshmallows and we crowded around the fire. I kept close tabs on Lara, who’s only two and was fascinated enough to keep scooting closer and pointing and shouting, ‘Owange! Owange!’

Brianna and Acadia are fourteen & eleven, and therefore spent the better portion of the evening bickering the way sisters are prone to do. Acadia was wearing a red and blue U.S.A. shirt, which Brianna kept insisting translated to ‘Ugly Sisters of America’. I meant to discourage the teasing but to be honest I was trying not to laugh. It reminded me so much of when Heidi and I were younger, and all we did was argue and shove and create new and unique ways to get each other in trouble with our mother.

Eve, the other toddler, was content to sit and cram chocolate in her face – she refused to add graham crackers or marshmallows, perhaps not wanting to ruin the purity of a Hershey bar? Some children can’t be taught the value of a good snack food.

When it was time to distribute the children back to their various parents, we all had sticky marshmallow fingers and chocolate crumbs around our mouths and collectively smelled like a forest fire. It was one of those memories I’ll savor, a quiet night disrupted by noisy, well-loved brats on a sugar high.

Acadia: “Get out! That’s MY chair!”
Brianna, giggling: “No. Go get your own.”
Acadia, shoving her: “That IS mine. Get off.”
Me: “For god’s sake, there’s THREE OTHER IDENTICAL EMPTY CHAIRS!”
Acadia: “But that one is mine!”
Brianna: “Not anymore.”

And then I started thinking to myself how twenty-seven is really too young to have kids of my own, it’s probably best to wait until I’m forty. Or dead.