In the dee-tales.

Sew here’s some news: Having finally Christmas-tipped all of my doormen and the two handymen (albeit on January 6th, the dead-last day of the holiday season), I felt safe to freely accept deliveries from Amazon once again, and during a bout of insomnia two Saturdays ago, I ordered a sewing machine. It’s not my first. I have a very basic Sears unit I bought to make curtains when I bought my house in 1993, but I always had huge problems threading it and also, it’s in my storage unit in Florida as I no longer own a house or any curtains, and all of that is a relief. But I’m obsessed with design and clothes and making things, and I wanted to channel all of this creativity. (The Zoloft hasn’t taken that away like the Prozac did.)

During the three day weekend, I tailored five shirts (adding darts!) and two skirts. Tonight, I start an old favorite project: turning cargo pants that are too big on me now into a cargo skirt (now with less cargo!).

When I wasn’t sewing or starting a new painting (yes I’m still painting, too. I’m a friggin’ Renaissance Woman), I was watching football (Giants!), or, in one bout of lunacy, participating in an exercise DVD called the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred.

The 30 Day Shred was a suggestion on Amazon last week and at $7.49, it was worth considering in the interest of keeping certain body problem-areas physically fresh. It was billed as three distinct 20-minute workouts. Everyone starts at Level 1, and you move up to Level 2 and 3 based on your own ability to keep up. After 30 days, everyone should have reached Level 3. All that is required are handweights and a mat and it can be done in a very small space, “even in a very small New York City apartment” one review touted.

Excellent. Sold.

I did Level One on Sunday morning.

(To clarify, my definition of “did” is wholeheartedly jumping right into the warm-up movements (jumping jacks, etc.). O, my enthusiasm for physical fitness! Until I hit a speed bump at the push-ups section. But I pressed on, earnestly doing most of the squats and lunges all while punching the air with handweights. I went through most of the motions of the first set of abs work even though the bicycle crunches brought me to nearly vomiting. Back on her feet, Jillian was telling me about the jumping jacks and jogging in place, kicking your own ass with your heel. It seemed to be a reprieve until I realized that my feet wouldn’t leave the floor. I couldn’t lift either leg to do anything. That was 11 minutes in. For the next nine minutes, I watched Jillian finish the workout while I just stood in place, holding the weights at my side.)

It must have been the squats. Or the lunges.

Thank goodness for Martin Luther King and his day because I wouldn’t have been able to get to work on Monday. I barely left my couch. (I even rationed my water intake so I wouldn’t have to pee, because sitting down and standing up from the toilet brought me to tears.) It hurt to just touch the tops of my thighs.

Yesterday I considered researching which subway stops have elevators because descending stairs (as I found out at my usual morning stop) was an arduous process. I was that handicapped person everyone is always trying to push past, taking one step at a time and a breath in between. This morning was slightly improved, but I’m still in serious pain. I’m still limiting fluid intake and I’ve been using the Executive Stall (the one with the bars) at work when I absolutely have to go.

Perhaps I should have read up on The Shred before diving right in and consulted my doctor as the beginning of the DVD disclaimed, but I figured that Jillian Michaels works with The Morbidly Obese, so how hard could it be? Besides, there was nothing, NOTHING, that said: Warning: If walking is your major mode of transportation, do not use.

I am self-aware and I know that I’m not athletic or remotely muscular, but certainly I can’t be the only one who has had these results. I poked around a bit and found this review…

Not for Everyone

With Jillian’s help and your perseverance, you are meant to advance to Level 3 level in 30 days. But Level 1 is actually made for someone who gets any regular exercise 2 to 3 times per week or is active in sports or dance. College Video rates the 30-Day Shred as ‘Advanced’ and customers at Amazon.com say the DVD is not for anyone who is out-of-shape and injuries have been reported. And even if you are in-shape, expect to feel muscle pain and stiffness in the first 24 to 72 hours. That Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, or DOMS, is due to the “shred”. After all, Jillian is now your trainer.

Oh OK, so there’s a word for it: I have DOMS. Step aside, Citizens of Mid-town Rush Hour, lady with DOMS making her way down the steps after half of a 20-minute workout three days ago.

There are some good things about my condition: 1) My abs don’t hurt at all, and my arms are only slightly sore, and 2) Now I know my limits, so as soon as I can move, I’m going to try it again, with maybe less of the squats and lunges.

I will not be beaten by basic calisthenics.

It’s Twenty Twelve, kids, and it just may be your last year here. What will you do differently? How will you make THIS ONE count? I am determined to get out and do more and be more, and also to read more and write more. Maybe this is the year we’ll all finally live up to our potential.

I am celebrating a year today at Andrew Bernard Medical College and it feels fantastic. It’s the finest institution at which I have ever had the pleasure to work and I am tremendously grateful that they took a chance on someone (me) who doesn’t have an Ivy League education, but who makes up for that with cheerful sarcasm and enthusiastic presentations during some rather tedious meetings. Oh, and also the 20 years of experience making philanthropy attractive to people.

Puddy visited for the New Year’s weekend and I pulled one of my mysterious discount Goldstar dinners out of my hat to surprise him. Well, NOW we know why it was half-price. There were a total of four couples who were partaking in the New Year’s Eve five-course meal, open bar and party favors included. And there was a fellow named Marshall who served as coat check guy, bartender, maitre’d, waiter, cheese consultant, champagne pourer, balloon blower-upper, and Long Island iced tea pusher. We are also fairly sure he grilled our ribeye steaks. (LITs were my drink of choice for the New Year. Puddy opted with the Evan Williams and Coke. (Only the wells were included in the open bar.)) I called Marshall “the Cruise Director” and I was convinced we were on television because the entire event was a low-budge, scrambling-around hootenanny.

Speaking of television, during the entire three-hour meal, Puddy fielded texts from Florida from people who swore they saw him on live TV in Times Square standing next to Jenny McCarthy. “Yes that’s me,” he texted back several times. Marshall handed us hats and horns as we dashed out, back to the apartment at three minutes to midnight. We blew the hell out of those horns the whole way. We even blew at the cops who had a person hog-tied in front of my building. I wanted to stick around and find out what was going on, but Puddy isn’t like me and doesn’t listen to other people’s conversations and spectate at police scenes. I do. I just like to know what’s going on.

New Year’s Day presented us with a couch sitting in the ninth floor elevator lobby that someone had discarded and that I was keen on adopting into our apartment. (That’s weird that I just said “our” apartment, but it sort of is already. Although, when Puddy moves up permanently, we will find a larger place because sometimes it feels very much like Godzilla has moved into a very small lady’s lair.) (Puddy would be Godzilla in this scenario.)) Puddy is a lot pickier than I am. I admit, I eat food that falls on the floor and I would also embrace a free sofa after a light Woolite for Furniture scrubbing and some Febreeze. Puddy doesn’t like anything used. His exact words to me for most of my schemes involving used furniture and otherwise are, “No babe. That’s disgusting.”

“Why? Because someone might have sat on it naked and their butt juice is skid-marked on it?” I asked.

“Stop talking about it,” he replied, looking nauseous. (In other Puddy Nausea news, it turns out he is unable to stomach watching any of those TLC Fattest Man/Woman/Teen in the World shows. I’m talking about the sorts that involve the camera shots of gratuitous rolls of flesh and you can’t tell what part of their body it’s supposed to be. I’ll have to watch those on my own.)

“I wish we had a bed-bug sniffing dog.” I said, to no one, because I had clearly ended the potentially free used couch conversation when I said, “butt juice.”

We saw Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, which was reasonably (OK, VERY) entertaining despite my severe disdain for Mr. Cruise. And then we saw Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close which I highly recommend, and is less about the specifics of 9/11 and more about humanity, and how everyone has lost something, and everyone is looking for something. And also about being a parent.

We found a new sports bar for all of the Sunday games (which I loved because they have easy chairs, enormous screens, and delicious nachos). Puddy gave it a chance, but the fat lady Jets fan who tried to seduce him whilst I was in the bathroom gave him a bad taste of the place. (I did not mind the lady… she repeatedly referred to me as “Little One.” First time in my life I’ve ever been called that and I thoroughly enjoyed it.)

Puddy is partial to O’Haras with their painful wooden barstools and small old televisions because they have “real people” there. And no fat lady Jets fans.

We went to the 9/11 Memorial yesterday. It’s strange that it’s so close to my apartment and has been open for nearly four months and we haven’t actually been inside. We stayed only for a few minutes because it was freezing and the wind was whipping up the water in the North pool and drenching people like a very somber Shamu stadium. It’s something you have to go to and just wander around slowly, silently reading names and reflecting, and the frigid wet tornadoes constantly threatening were not the right atmosphere. If you’re going to visit the memorial, email me privately because I have some helpful recommendations.

I remain determined that this year we shall all be bold personified. So let’s get it started.

On December 23rd, Festivus night, (because Christmas Eve would be a cliche), somewhere between the Airing of Grievances and the Feats of Strength, David Puddy proposed to me. The Strike episode was airing on the television in our hotel room when it happened. Any other way would have been out of character for both of us.

It was a formality, really. We’ve been engaged since the moment we met. I was never interested in getting The Ring (although I do LOVE The Ring.) I was simply enjoying our time together: appreciating his laconic honesty, his quiet confidence, his unwavering attention, and most of all, the fact that as long as we’ve been together, he’s never made me cry. Never once.

Duh, you’re thinking. Of course your partner, the person whom you love most in the world, should never bring you to tears. But historically, every other man in my life has disappointed me, made me cry, been horribly mean to me, and lied to me regularly. It’s impossible to believe that someone who DOESN’T do those things actually exists. And once you find them, it’s unbearable to think that you wasted years, or months, or even a day on someone who doesn’t consistently appreciate both your amazing bits and your shortcomings, your beauty and your flaws.

We’ll probably get married this summer. I’m looking forward to a marriage, not a wedding. I’m not into bridesmaids and colors and flowers and centerpieces. I think head tables and placecards and toast schedules and write-your-own vows are bullshit. (People should act out their vows every day. Not just say them once because other people are listening. Actions… not promises to act.) I’m up for doing whatever David Puddy wants to do. He wants an NFL-surfing-beach-beer wedding in the bed of his giant truck? He’s got it.

I like to think that we are an engaging couple. And now we are engaged.

Actually, an NFL-surfing-beach-beer wedding in the back of his giant truck sounds really good to me. And then an after-party at the Ale House.

All signs point to yes.