The Diet of the Lambs

The posts seem to only happen monthly these days. Partly, it's summer, and getting two brain cells to cooperate seems impossible. Second, it's summer and getting two kids to cooperate and give me 5 minutes alone seems impossible. Third, it's summer, and--oh, hell--I dunno.

I'm currently depressed over the return of my weight. Apparently, it's summer, and the only things I CAN get to cooperate are gin and tonic, bourbon and Coke, and vodka and lemonade. Fortunately, or unfortunately--as the case may be--those spirits find themselves mixing just fine.

Unfortunately, they're building an inner tube around my waist. Oh, well. I can starve again in the winter. Upon very careful study, I have decided that I need a getaway to one of those fat farms. Like The Biggest Loser, only less yelling.

I want to be pampered while I work out. So, in exchange for a near-death experience on the treadmill, I'd like an hour-long massage. This would be motivating. Fact is, a day alone would be motivating. It's hard to be sober and thin when surrounded by kids and their greasy snacks. Children are like the grit and dirt that irritate an oyster to make a pearl. Only the pearl isn't a precious gemstone, but a giant cocktail at the end of the day. Fine...it's a crappy metaphor.

So, at my fat farm, I'm going to wake up early and eat a nutritionally sound breakfast. Then, I'm going to train for 4 hours. Then, a nutritionally sound lunch and training. Then, a very small dinner, some form of spa reward for my hard work and then sleep. Like a movie star in a detox program: I need coddling.

Of course, the side benefits would be temporary asylum from the kids, proper training and encouragement, and of course, skinny thighs!

Naturally, you're thinking this is WAY to excessive for me. Too much luxury, too much pampering, too much indulgence. So, I propose an alternative: The Buffalo Bill Diet.

Remember Buffalo Bill? He was the villain in the Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. He kidnapped fatties, kept them in a hole, lowered lotion to keep their skin supple, starved them 'til their skin hung lose on their bodies, slayed them, and then made himself a transgendered skin-suit out of their remains.

So, what I'm telling you is this: if a psychotic killer wants to kidnap me & starve me, I'm okay with that as long as I get to moisturize. Rather than die, though, I'd like to escape and live to have some dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Exercise for the body and mind

Yah. I hear ya. Send all complaints in the form of compliments, and I might respond. If you have no complaints, you're not human.

So, it's been a while. Like 3 weeks. I know. I've been sublimating all of my creative energy into working out. It sounds stupid, but it's not. I have to get up and force my body to do one thing each day...type and be funny OR run like there's a mean dude chasin' me. Lately, the latter.

If only blogging burned more calories. I need jlogging...a healthful combination of blogging and jogging. Can you imagine how fiercely slim I would be if I burned calories being bitchy? Holy cow.

So, in the vein of burning calories, CC invited me to a Pilates class at her studio. CC was actually taking the class as well. But the thing is, CC doesn't understand the TREMENDOUS pressure (for some one like me) involved in going out to exercise.

First, there is the outfit. Flattering. (There goes half the closet) Exercise sensible (There goes 49.5% more). Fortunately, my very supportive Valentine bought me workout clothes for the upcoming chocolate fest of a holiday. So, outfit in place.

Hair? Certainly no washing, but it can't look bedraggled. There will be SPRING HILL MOMS THERE! Low pony with headband.

Face? Nice washing and waterproof mascara. I don't want the tears to leave pathetic black smears down my cheeks.

There are people there, man. They might be watching me. I might fart with exertion. I might fall over while standing. I might cry a little. ALL KINDS OF THINGS CAN GO WRONG.

In all, of course, the class was challenging and invigorating and positive, especially since I have been working so hard at home. I could tell a HUGE difference since last summer when I took my first class, and that is after just about a month of work.

Back to CC, though. It's not that she doesn't understand the pressure, it's just that she doesn't relate. So, in order to help my dear friend understand the mental stamina involved in heading to a pilates class in public, I create the following scenario:

Imagine I have invited you to a convention of crossword puzzle afficianados. Now, imagine ALL of them have a New York Times Saturday puzzle in front of them. They all do the puzzle regularly, so they already know words like ORT and RIV and all the other obscure crossword-only words.
Now, they give YOU the puzzle.
And ask you to solve it.
In front of everyone.
In a fat suit.

Which is exactly what going to Pilates class is like. It was good for me. I'm better off for having gone. But for a while, there, I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide, like a nine letter North American Dasypodidae.

Puns and Buns: coping with (non) weight loss

Bathroom scales are like 2 AM phone calls: they are either the wrong number or very very bad news. (TM)

Don't even think of stealing this little Ben Franklin-esque nugget! I've trademarked it, see?!? I plan on plastering it on decorative tiles, coffee mugs, key rings, and other tchatchkes, so that while I may never be thin, I can at least make money to console me.

It'll be sold right next to the current popular axiom, "Friends are like bras: close to your heart and very supportive." (I happen to prefer mine.)

So, if you're wondering if my pithy little truth springs from actual experience, the answer is, yes.

I hopped on the scale this morning, feeling less bloaty and a little leaner. Damn scale put all that to a screeching halt. This is very disappointing to me, considering that I have been exercising regularly, and have improved on the calorie intake front.

The first person who jumps on down to the comment section and posts that muscle weighs more than fat will be personally macheted to death. I don't care if muscle is a lead weight. I used to have muscle AND weigh less than this, and I'm pissed about it. I have gone from forlorn to out and out mad.

At the risk of having my children removed from my home by DFS, I will post yesterday's food journal:

Breakfast: snack sized protein bar, coffee w/ skim milk

Lunch: Bratwurst, sauerkraut, diet coke, coffee w/ skim milk

Dinner: 2 bourbon and Coke Zeros, 1/2 bag of lite popcorn

Exercise: 2 mi. jog

(We went out to lunch, Osman's Midtown yum! So we weren't hungry for dinner.) Don't you think that after that day's worth of food, I should be thinner, or at least not so freaking mad?!?

Doesn't my scale understand that throwing me a little bone would go a long way in psychological terms?!? Would it hurt the little effer to just knock a half pound off the total now and then?!? Just once in a while?!?

M, if not the scale, is supportive: he'll tell me the weight has at least left my third chin, or that my upper arms are less swingy. These are the little tidbits I live for--a glimmer of hope among the Oreos and sweet tea vodkas.

Auld slang lyin'

I'm relieved that I made, and failed to keep, my new year's resolution early. It really saves me from the crowds at the gym the next couple of months. While I have exercised on and off since my kids were born, I was in a real, um, inert phase there for a while.

Now that I'm back into either walking or 'running' every day, I feel
a) entitled to eat a little bit more
b) more aware of my health in general
c) I should do other small things to be healthful

and, I don't dare tell CC about this, because someday when I'm off this kick, she'll use it to try to motivate me (curse her and her positive motivation):
d) like I kinda look forward to exercising each day.

Shh. It's totally the kind of thing I don't want to get out there.

But don't expect to see me at the gym or the health food store anytime soon.

I have one simple goal, for one simple reason:

I want to be skinny.

For vacation in March.

I finally have a deadline. I hope I have the willpower to make the goal happen. I doubt it, because let's be honest; seasonally available Oreos are both rare and delicious. Also, unless there is a global run on cheese and bacon, there is still a TON of food out there that I love.

I don't want to have abs or anything. I want to weigh 8 lbs (ideally 10) fewer than I weigh right this second. Well, not this second, but what I will weigh in a few days. (I've got the major PMS bloat, which makes me both heavy and MEAN.) This is not an unattainable goal. As long as there is somebody around to duct tape my mouth shut after a single helping of every meal. And as long as somebody invents a calorie-free way to approximate the nearing bliss of cocktails. (Let's keep it legal. Heroin would be great, of course, but the track marks would really distract from my figure in a swimsuit. No matter how much weight I lose or don't.)

Look. I'm vain. I get it. Do I care about my heart? Not really. Blood pressure's fine. Cholesterol is manageable. I visit doctors when I'm supposed to, and promptly ignore them. I don't want to run marathons or be a fitness model, or have washboard abs or be able to wear sleeveless dresses again. I just want the clothes I already own to fit better.

The journey of a 10 pounds starts with a single step. Maybe if I write everything down, I'll eat less.

I'm even drinking water right now.

Actually, that's not true. I'm drinking diet soda.

I need to work on the honesty of my food journal.

I guess I broke that other resolution early, too.
Shit. The whole new year's shot already.

Swagger Wagon: Part Deux

As much as I love the Toyota Sienna ads, I have come to loathe the new Chrysler ad. In this spot run during football, a kid is running away from bullies, takes refuge through the liftgate of the family minivan, and gives his pursuers a big raspberry as his mom pulls away from the driveway. BUT, in the middle, the narrator has to explain the new safety features of the vehicle, which include back up sensors (as mom is backing up, she nearly runs over the bullies, but thank goodness, there's back up sensors to let her know the boys are behind her) and a rear view camera (as mom is backing up, she nearly backs into traffic on her street, but thank goodness, she had a camera to let her see so she could slam on the brakes just in time).

Okay, let's start with the basics. Before she got out of the driveway, mom nearly killed three neighborhood kids, herself, and her own child. Maybe mom shouldn't be in the carpool anymore. Apparently, before dad bought her the new Chrysler, every trip to the orthodontist was about as safe as a WWII sortie into France.

Second, whatever did we do before our cars told us we were about to hit stuff? Oh, yeah. We looked behind us.

Third, why would any advertising executive decide to green light this ad? This ad is selling a multi-passenger mini van with a one-child family. This ad is selling a vehicle based solely on its unnecessary safety features. Using a mom who CLEARLY needs them. I don't think of myself as a menace to traffic and local bullies! I don't need a car that protects me from myself! Why would I need a car with safety features for geriatric blind people?

Chrysler has tapped into the ubiquitous national neurosis of fear. Everything out there is trying to hurt us and our children: cars, inoculations, plastic, Latinos, moms in reverse. Chrysler's not interested in swagger, it's interested in taking us out into the world and back safely home with out being eaten by vampires, killed by UVA/B rays, or maimed by playground equipment. I am afraid of enough crap. Lemme drive my gas-guzzling family vehicle around in style, dammit.

This ad embodies every reason I DON'T want a minivan. It's conservative. It's too big for a regular family. It's stodgy. It's going to bitch at me every time I put it in reverse. Its creators are appealing to my husband who deep down thinks I'm not a good driver. Screw that.

In researching today's segment, (read: googling Chrysler minivan) I found this article that ran this summer in the Chicago Tribune http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2010-06-30/news/ct-edit-minivan-20100630-29_1_minivan-suvs-hood-scoop

Yes, in nutshell, yes! First of all, I like this article, because it verifies what we all know deep down inside: girls like cute cars, boys like manly cars. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. But what I appreciate about this article, is that sometimes (even) Americans will break down and act in a practical fashion. Even if our practicality stems from cupholders big enough to hold McD's french fries so we can stuff our faces on the road. But while we're breaking down and being sensible, we don't want to have every impulse towards coolness stomped on like a juice pouch. And, oh Chrysler, you are stomping my Capri Sun.


I KNOW what to do when my vehicle is in reverse: look behind me. Do not run over children (no matter how obnoxious). Do not back into oncoming traffic.

I want style. I want to think that those hot (read: young) guys are looking at me, not at the diaper bag I distractedly left on the roof. I've got SWAGGER. My family is cool, and I want a minivan because I've got 2 kids, and we're out DOING stuff, and we've got cool places to go, and that's how we ROLL.

We are not the people that hide from bullies in the trunk of the family car.

All of this being said, of course, I'll probably be in a car wreck this week. It'll be my fault. It'll involve bullies and reverse, and y'all will see me driving my stodgy Chrysler the week after that.

It's all about perspective

This has NOT been a good week for me, as you know if you have Facebook. There were missed appointments and failed chemistry, over-schedules, under-schedules, nourishment mishaps and general chaos.

By Saturday, I was nearly fetal, rocking in the laundry room, wondering what the hell had happened. The week started off okay. Boys went to school, things were good. And by Saturday, the laundry had clearly embarked on a breeding program that pandas should learn from, the domestic Lego factory has exploded, S is drawing on walls, and my brain chemistry is about as stable as Chernobyl.

Getting to total insanity isn't an instantaneous leap. It's a journey. Wednesday certainly represented stop 1. At that point, it finally became clear that E needed a haircut. Unlike S, whose hair is fine and wispy and curls only at the ends in a most charming 1970s, Greg Brady sort of way:

E's end-of-summer hair is all thick and unruly and not so much attractive, and may have some sort of avian nesting in it, a la high school Greg.
I always cut the boys' hair. Usually, everything turns out ok. But, I think because the cut involved a total reshaping of their hair, things got out of control. In a hurry. The boys look like they encountered a strung-out Flowbee in a back alley.

Flowbee 1, Boys 0.

Unfortunately, the bad haircut epidemic spread like Swine Flu. M's normal easy-peasy clipper 'do looked more like Wrigley Field's checkerboard outfield than hair. While a groundskeeper would have been proud, M is not terribly fond of the effect for the first day of classes.

In the end, they'll have to do what everyone with a bad haircut has to do: wait. Wait. WAIT for it to grow.

At least I learned my lesson for the week. I pretty much gave up after that. I started no projects, undertook no crafts. Because, apparently, when you're off, you're really OFF. The bad news for E is that I didn't figure it out until his hair looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and Calvin.

Yup. That's about it. Poor thing. Oh, well, I don't feel TOO bad about it. And this probably makes me the worst woman, mom, human in history (well, maybe not worse than Hitler, or Attila the Hun, or whoever invented reality TV) but It's not my hair, after all.

If it were MY hair, this would be a MAJOR EFFING TRAGEDY.