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NOTE: As always, this is a funny look at the things that have happened/are happening as I continue on my weight loss journey. I in NO way plan to replace food with alcohol or need to be told how bad I am for drinking one night with a friend (mind you it's a friend I haven't seen in 15 years). Please don't feel the need to lecture me or get passive aggressive with your comments. As my regular readers know, I am just giving a comedic side to WLS. Also, remember that everyone's journey is different and just becasue I may or may not be doing it the same way you are, does not mean that I am better or worse than anyone else. Ok, I think I covered it all. As always, enjoy and I hope the story puts a smile on your face. Sorry it's been so long since I've blogged but I've been one little busy beaver. I had my friend and her family in from Costa Rica, then my friend from Ireland came in for two weeks (she is still here), and while she was here, my brother-in-law and niece came for a two night visit. Needless to say, I've been the hostess with the mostest. I've really missed doing my blogs. They seem to keep me focused and help me put things in perspective. I've also not had time to do myfitnesspal.com. So, for about a week and a half, I haven't written any of my food intake down. That just makes me feel like I've been a bad, bad girl....and not in a kinky good way. (sorry, those hormones are still pouring out of the fat cells LOL) Anyway, I have so many stories for you all. I wish I could just sit down and type them all for you but I can't so today I am going to let you know about my first drinking experience since the sleeve and the interesting things I've learned from that experience. I hope I can give you a good idea of how the night went as I am not sure if I remember it all....but more on that later. First, you have to understand how I met my Irish friend Cat. 15 years ago, I worked and lived at the beach. Cat worked at the same place and even though she didn't live with me, I swear there were times I thought she did. We were 21/22 and we were having fun. We worked hard and played harder. We spent many nights at a bar across the street from my house and only a 1/2 block away from work. I somehow was able to keep up with all the Irish kids that were in town for the summer. I could go one for one with them with any drink (except Guinness. That stuff is REALLY thick). I was even told I had become an honorary Irish lassie ( I even learned most of the Irish pub songs that they sang). I tell you all this to explain that after 15 years, loosing more than 1/2 my stomach, and a lot of weight I for some reason thought I could still drink like a fish. Never mind the fact that I haven't drank in almost a year (except for an occasional glass of wine or a night cap). So, we go into a local bar and order two drinks. I got a L.I.T (long island iced tea) as I have always enjoyed them when they are done well. As I drank my drink and did some catching up with my friend, I could feel the effects of the liquor seeping into my blood. I won't lie, I enjoyed it. Paying less to feel this way was great (before anyone freaks, I don't plan to go out drinking on a regular basis......BUT....it was nice to go out and spend less money and get tipsy). This is about the time I knew the night was getting ready to change. The bartender (a little bored) asked if we wanted shots. "Are you buying them for us?" I asked. Of course he wasn't but after talking it over with Cat, we decided, "Hey, why not"? Now as I explained already, I haven't seen Cat for a long time and we needed to go on "a tear". Patron it was. Lick. Slam. Suck. OHHHHH how smooth. Now, from that moment on, the night began to just blend together. I know I played pool...and lost. (wonder why!!!) The drinks went down easier than I ever remember them going down and I have to admit, I was enjoying myself. Through it all, I never felt “drunk”. I mostly felt tipsy and then I would feel mostly sober....then tipsy again...and so on and so forth. I never thought anything about it as I was having fun and enjoying being out and about...the alcohol was just an added positive. Then, we decided to go to another bar only a block or two away. Now, you have to understand that drinking and feeling tipsy was a whole new experience to me. I would go from being (or should I say feeling) sober then in just a few moments, I would be “footloose and fancy free”. The back and forth wold happen so fast, it wouldn't make any sense but to be honest, I wasn’t trying to make sense out it as I really didn’t care.. So, when we left to go to the other bar, I REALLY thought I was sober...that is until the curb jumped up and tripped me. I know it grew at least a foot with out telling me. There is no way a sober gal, like myself, could have missed that curb. Then, as always, I did my thing. I fell. I fell hard...and I fell fast. My knee was the only thing between my face and the pavement and because of that it was all scrapped up. Even my hands had stones imbedded in them, and I am sure I messed up my back just a little more than it was. It was such a hard fall that even the person driving passed stopped to make sure I was alright. Poor Cat, was so concerned, and all I could say was, "Really, I had to fall TONIGHT?" LOL...then it happened. I felt DRUNK. I collected myself, raised myself up from the ground, dusted off my knees and hands and tried to focus on the person only a foot away from me. Needless to say, it took awhile to focus....mostly because my glasses went flying off my face were now in Cat’s hands. Not seeing well is only intensified when your half blind. LOL Once I put on my glasses, Cat and I began the walk (she walked I stumbled) to the other bar. Then it hit me when we were almost there. I was sober. It was like I hadn’t had a drink at all. How was this even possible? So, I did what any sober person of sound mind and body would do....I ordered a drink. LOL As I was sipping on my drink, we decided to get something to eat. I also figured that maybe getting a little food in my tiny stomach may help....it didn’t. I still went back and forth from sober and drunk but now it was happening faster than I can even begin to describe. After finishing up there, it was time to get home. Yes, we were safe about it and no, we didn't just wait for me to "feel sober".. I thought my husband would find my stories funny...and he did when I told them to him sober. But BAM, next thing you know I’m drunk again. This of course caused an argument. Now, I should be more honest. My lack of knowing when to just keep my mouth shut and go to bed is what caused the argument....nothing else. But for some reason I felt it would be a great idea to go for a walk. So I walked out the door and made it down three steps and then THUMP....yes, that’s right, I fell down the steps. I figured this would be a good time to go back inside with my head down and my tail between my legs. Once I did that and listened to my husband give me a very short lecture, I took my Tylenol and went to bed. When I awoke the next morning, I remembered why it was that I no longer drink like I am still in college and then I then looked at my knee. I should say I felt my knee...then I looked at it. Yep, it was bad. It was all scrapped up and swollen. It was so stiff that I was unable to walk down the steps of my condo to get to the pool. I felt like a total gimp having to take the elevator because I was sloppy drunk...or should I say a sloppy sober one minute, drunk the other person? Anyway, .I did get the to pool and worked it out. I had to as the day after my Irish drinking reunion, I had my 20th H.S. reunion (more on that tomorrow) and I figured I would have to be able to walk that night for it. It worked. I got my knee working (and ended up hurting my shin...not sure how), and I was ready to face all the people from H.S....or at least as ready as I'd ever be. Funny thing is, I was more upset to realize that I was no longer Irish!!! Apparently when they took my stomach, the doctors also took my Irish drinking crown as well. Needless to say, lesson learned. Funny thing is, I am sure it won’t be the first or the last lesson I learn after having this surgery....I mean it’s only been three months. But to be honest, this lesson was a fun one to learn...up to the point I fell down...no, that didn't damper the mood.....it was fun until I woke up the next day hung over. LOL

I've decided that I was going to attempt to start a blog to use as a sort of open online journal / diary of how I got here and what I'm doing or not doing to contribute to my weight loss success or lack thereof. If this helps anyone who takes the time to read it, great. Some of you might find it a good read or facinating, or humorous at times or maybe inspirational or a source of motivation, while others might find it to be a boring bunch of crap. Either way is fine with me. I guess if I'm going to do this, I might as well start at the beginning, or at least what I consider to be the beginning. I was born and raised in Connecticut in an Italian household where food was more than just sustanence, it was a means of showing love, gratitude, hospitality and probably a million other things. As soon as you walked in the door, my grandmother would see that as a signal to head for the fridge to find something, anything....even leftovers to spring on you. And God help you if you said no thank you or "I'm not hungry". To Gram (as I called her) everyone was ALWAYS hungry, or was supposed to be! If you were a friend, she'd just ignore you as she was preparing something for you to eat (I always thought she did this because if you said you didn't want anything, she figured you just didn't know what you were talking about....of course you wanted to eat!) and if you were family, you might get a slap across the back of the head, followed by a meal in front of you and a "shuddup and eat". One thing which we seemed to always have was gravy (we NEVER called it sauce) and meatballs, whether fresh made, which was every Sunday, or leftover. Sadly, Gram passed away in 1984 at 76 years old, but I swear to this day I have never tasted better meatballs by anyone, including myself, who was taught by her how to make them, or any restaurant EVER! She even taught me how to make homemade pasta, including ravioli, from scratch. I can remember clearly the day before Easter in 1983. We were in her kitchen until 2 in the morning making dough, rolling dough, making the ricotta filling and making the ravioli and cavitelli for tomorrows Easter dinner. We'd lay them out on a sheet on her bed to dry so we could cook them the next afternoon. I was the one grandson (she had 6 of us who all lived either on the same street or around the corner....a REAL Italian neighboorhood!) who took an interest in how she made stuff, and to her I was gonna be the one who took over after she couldn't do it anymore. Little did we know, she would sadly be gone the following year. Let me say here, even though I haven't yet mentioned my mother, she was no slouch when it came to cooking either....after all, she was Grams daughter and she was right in there with us most of the time, and her "gravy" was the best! My mother and father (he was Irish) were divorced when I was 8 and my sister was 2, and we were raised by my mom and Gram. I don't think there was any joint custody in those days...the kids always went with the mother and personally, I am glad it was that way. So, as I mentioned earlier, we had relatives all around us so no matter whose house you went to, there was usually something waiting for you to fill your face with. If I went around the block to my aunt's house to see if my cousins could come out and play, the usual answer was, "Sure, but get in here and eat something first". As a teenager, our Sunday routine was 9 o'clock mass, then home for some fried meatballs (they were always fried in olive oil, never baked) of which a 1/2 dozen or so were left out for us while the rest went straight from the frying pan to the now boiling pot of gravy to finish cooking. Some already browned Italian sausage (or sau-seege) as she called it was also left out. Me and usually one of my cousins would wolf those down with a couple of cups of coffee before heading out to the Italian bakery for some fresh Italian bread and grinder rolls. We loved this because the bread and grinders were always right out of the oven! We didn't even mind standing in the line that formed outside the bakery and sometimes halfway down the street because we could smell the bread and socialize with the other kids and neighbors who were in line also. (It wasn't just OUR Sunday ritual!) Then, after a stop at the Italian import store for some pepperoni, cappicola, provolone and whatever else Gram, my mother and aunt wanted we'd head back home where we would immediately start tearing off hunks of that fresh Italian bread and dipping them in the gravy until we either got yelled at for almost eating all the bread (after all, it was for Sunday dinner for the family) or chased out of the house by Gram or my mother wielding a wooden spoon at us like it was a broadsword. There was one thing about my childhood which wasn't so idyllic as far as food and eating go. There were a few things I wasn't particularly crazy for like homemade soup, canned asparagus, and over easy eggs for example. I can remember being around 10 or 11 years old, and perhaps younger when I was "forced" to eat that stuff. I'm 56 now so we're talking about the early to mid 1960's here, in a household where you ate what was put in front of you. We were by no means even middle class then so the menu wasn't very diverse and you didn't waste food because; one, we didn't have the money to cater to everyones particular tastes and two, according to them wasting food is a sin. So, not only did I have to eat this stuff (funny how in later years I grew to love homemade soup, grilled or sauteed asparagus and eggs!) but I had to finish everything in my bowl or on my plate. As if that wasn't bad enough, there was a little timer on the kitchen stove which they would set if I seemed to be stalling with my food. If that timer went off and I wasn't finished, they would REFILL MY PLATE AGAIN! Now, on this point I want to be clear. This wasn't done out of any type of abusive mean behavior, it was because they wanted to make sure I ate because believe it or not, I was a skinny kid. But this instilled 2 things in me which would become demons of mine later in life: 1. Eat everything on your plate. 2. Eat it fast. Next Week - Teens and 20's - Sports, Late Night Eating and a Wife

I officially under 280. i stepped on the scale this morning and i was 278. Wow 72 pounds lost. if you count pre op weight 92 pounds. I have been doing a hundred pushups a day and i feel like that is very beneficial. love you guys

Funny how when we look back, so many of our memories are food based. And the way family and food go together - Thanksgiving, Sunday dinner, so much of our family interaction is around the table. Being 100% Irish, I do not have quite the great Italian food stories. But some good soda bread... or the New England Boiled Dinner: potatoes, carrots, cabbage boiled in a pot with either a piece of something dead, or an old shoe... never did find out which it was - did not much matter after all the boiling.

Jim your story is all too familiar to me. My mother-in-law was diagnosed with Lung Cancer, and when they found it, it was Stage 4 and already metastisized to her bones (spine). They found it incidentally on an xray of her back. She had tumors in all 5 lobes so they couldn't operate. After about 6 months they found a brain tumor, and she had surgery on that. She lived for 3 1/2 years at Stage 4. Did every type of chemo she possibly could, countless weeks of radiation. Right before starting our "last option" for chemo, they found she was in liver failure and therefore couldn't start chemo. It was a long, painful journey for everyone involved. Cancer just doesn't touch the patient, it touches whole families. She passed away in 2008 and there isn't a day that goes by we don't think of her. It's such an awful, awful disease and it really does take no prisoners. We've done Relay for Life for the past two years, hoping to raise enough money country-wide to find a cure. One day, I know they'll find a cure but until then people have to keep fighting and praying!

It has been five months since my surgery. I have lost eighty pounds. That’s about sixteen pounds per month, or about four pounds per week. I would say on average, I am very pleased with my progress, even though I’ve had a lot of ups and downs. I’ve had two major stalls, which had more to do with my depression and food addiction than actual physical changes within my body. During those times, I was terrified that I would never be able to lose another pound again – or, even worse – I would gain some weight. Fortunately, I didn’t end up gaining weight, and I feel like I am back on track to losing some more. I still need to incorporate exercise into my everyday routine, but overall, I think I’m doing okay. As I look back over the last five months, I can’t believe how far I’ve come. This much weight loss would never have been possible without the surgery, regardless of how much time I took to try to lose it. I still want to lose another seventy-five to eighty pounds. My doctor would be happy if I just lost another fifty. If I lose another eighty pounds, in the next five months, I’ll be at my goal weight by Christmas. Clearly, the biggest struggle has been the addiction. If it wasn’t for that, I think I would have been able to lose a lot more weight, faster.

Today I started my preop diet, also am quitting smoking. It's tough but I know I can do it I just keep thinking about my future and the future for my kids. Wow I'm just so hungry but I get to eat a meal at dinner so that's good. I've never been so excited for salad and protein. I just keep reminding myself that I can do this, I am determined!!!!!

You can do it. When I quit smoking after 35 years I kept telling myself "I never want to go thru this again". I have been smoke free 12 years. Doing both at the same time is quite a feat. You will be in my prayers.