I had one of The Talks with my mom the other day.
It's no news that I'm fat. I know it, I'm working out and stuff, I'm dealing with my psychostuff and I'm fighting various pressures from the surroundings. Hearing twice a day that I shouldn't eat this and rummage in the fridge and eat that and I should work out, do something useful, carry things upstairs one by one instead of by armful etc.
Oddly enough, I managed to turn the debate to a normal tone. I explained how I feel about things - that I sort of feel obliged to eat whatever is there when mom tells me again and again that there's a stew in the oven while she considered it as a sort of public announcement. At the end, we came to an agreement that she's not going to nag, announce food content in the fridge, pots and other containers and that she's even going to cook me whatever I want if I provide recipes.
Recipes will be certainly provided because it's going to be quite a bit of fun to see my mom making vegetarian curry (1) and because I'm lazy.
When packing for the family reunion, which is happening at the hotel, it occurred to me that I now have another reason to be slightly nasty. I told mom that when I knit, I can't stick my fingers into a bowl of roasted almonds and when I hold needles, I can't hold forks. In other words, when I knit, I don't eat. She reluctantly agreed. (1)
I'm sitting by the fireplace after morning botanizing and a bath in the local stream (2), or, well, foot bath of sorts, I was playing with cousin's dog and we were splashing water at each other, and I'm working on a fluffy pink and white sweater, sized a bit smaller than my current girth.
In unrelated news, after my yesterday's angry rant, blogspot is back to the old interface. Fair enough