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.

Crazy like a fox

I took Clooney to the vet yesterday. He's been licking and chewing at his skin for weeks now, and it's to the point that he's driven to distraction by itching.

I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.

I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.

A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.

In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."

We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.

I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?

Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.

After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.

But then. The Itch.

Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?

OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.

Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.

I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.

AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.

Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.

So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.

OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?

In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.

Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.

If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.

Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?

There's Lazy and then there's LAZY.

In my eternal quest to lose weight, I found this completely shady quack of a doctor who runs a 'weight loss clinic.'

Ironically, said physician is obese. He has a nurse who takes vitals, and calculates BMI. He meets with each patient for the initial visit, and if the BMI is above 'normal' will prescribe any legal weight loss drug, which he keeps in his office, already packaged. All in exchange for a nice crisp $100 bill. Cash.

Perfectly on the up and up, no?

So, around February, I went for a refill. Which, amazingly, I got from the nurse! Awesome. Hopped up on the scale, got my refill, paid my money and went on my way.

But now, I'm out. And, like a junkie, am thinking of new ways to get my fix. According to the scale, I fall under the parameters of "normal." I was thinking about finding a friend to go, and get the script for me, but then I realize, I would be telling her that she's fat enough to get a drug, while I am not. And I can't really think of any one who would go do that for me after I've called them fat.

So, I'm telling CC my predicament. (If only CC weighed 100 pounds more, she could go get me a refill.) And I tell her I have a new plan: I have these ankle weights...

CC, an exercise buff and Skinny Minnie gets all excited. "Hooray! You could walk early in the morning before it gets hot. That would be great for you."

Sorry to disappoint, but I was thinking more like putting the weights on under my jeans and drinking a gallon of water so that my BMI was pushed out of 'normal' for the weigh-in.

CC's eyes register the cheat. The energy I have spent calculating an easy fix could easily have gone towards legitimate exercise or healthier menu planning. She shakes her head upon its slender neck. "You're nuts." she says.

Which is true. Do you think there's a quack out there running a 'psyciatric clinic?'

Exorcising...Exercising

So, my friend Cici tells me that at her gym class, there are some fun women, and I should go and check it out.
At first, I was wondering if this is Cici's very tactful way of getting me to work out, or if it is her way of torturing my hamstrings, or if it is her way of bringing me to show and tell. Regardless, it doesn't really matter to me as I enjoy spending time with her, the class sounded challenging, and who cares if she is bringing me to show and tell? S brought underwear to show and tell...it's all good.
So, this morning, I dig out some workout clothes. Literally. Dig. My yoga capris, all the rage last century, were under about 40 pounds of crap that I wear even slightly more often than work out clothes. Like Halloween costumes. And sexy lingerie.
Then, I realize I haven't shaved my legs since winter began. And when ol' Puxatawney Phil saw his shadow, I was like, "cool. No shaving for six more weeks of winter!" My legs are so hairy, that S was looking at them, looking at his legs, and said, "Look mommy, you have fur, too!" This mammalian trait isn't really a problem during the winter months because I only ever wear jeans, but my slightly shorter, stretched out, old yet seldom worn yoga capris show some calf hair. (haha. Calf hair, like moo.)
We get to the pilates studio, and as I think I have mentioned before it wasn't until this last decade that I learned that pilates does not rhyme with pirates. It's French, you know. Anyway, the exercise equipment for pilates is basically a souped up rowing machine. Only you use your body to row. Feet, arms, hands, whatever contortionist limb the instructor can think of pull you along and back along the main bar. Resistance is provided by a series of springs and is exerted in only one direction. Some of the exercises are yoga-ish and it's relatively easy to control the body while doing them. Some of the exercises rely more heavily on the contraption-nature of this so-called reformer machine and require significant coordination. And some of the exercise are just plain gynecological in nature. At one point, I had my feet in two stirrups, and in completing a horizontal jumping jack-style maneuver pulled myself along and back on the reformer. I had this vision of my legs, trapped in these straps, splitting apart and winding up parallel to my torso in some sort of Barbie doll-amputation mishap.
To be clear, I haven't truly exercised since the Bush Administration. I will walk, but that is all. Ironically, or, probably not at all ironically, but fittingly, I cannot jog anymore because my weight is too much of a burden for my knees. So, here I am, in this near silent studio, the only sound being concentrated inhalation and exhalation, and some idle gossip between two participants, and all I can think of is the horrific sound that will explode when I lose control of the muscles of my inner thighs, and my hips give out, and suddenly my ankles are behind my ears, and I will resemble a disjointed turkey on the carving table.
Inhale (ohgodohgodohgodohgod don't let me tear in half.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, don't let me make an ass of myself.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I probably look like a spastic albino wookiee getting electrocuted right now.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod am I doing this right? This can't be right.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod. Holy crap look at Cici's shoulders! She is buff. I'm so jealous.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod. I could be at home drinking Starbucks and watching The Penguins of Madagascar right now. That doesn't hurt my inner thighs at all.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgodohgod, how are my abs supposed to pull up my legs? That's what my legs are for, to pull their own damn selves up!) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, my hamstrings are going to hurt so much tomorrow, I won't be able to sit to pee.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, why are there mirrors from the floor to the ceiling?) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I am ENORMOUS. And have far more chins than I used to.) Inhale (ohgodohgod, seriously, those Penguins are funny. And they don't judge me.) Exhale (ohgodohgod, people can see me. I only do this move when I'm home. In bed. Alone, for god's sake.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, seriously, what is with the mirrors?) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I'm breathing in, I should be breathing out.) Exhale (ohgodohgod, I can't even breathe right. I shouldn't be here.) Inhale (ohgodohgod, I can totally believe that a Frenchman invented this. He's probably laughing his dead ass off right now that he convinced people to get on a modified sex swing, stretching their muscles, contorting like circus freaks, and paying money to do it.) Exhale (ohmygodohmygod, I can't believe how uncoordinated I am. If I were redheaded this would be a Lucy sketch.) Inhale (ohmygodohmygod. They're right to laugh at me. This can't be right. I'm doing it wrong. I just know it. Look, the instructor isn't even trying to correct my formless attempts at following her instructions. She thinks I'm an idiot.) Inhale (Ohmygod. She's right.)

Broken

Only the third week of January, and already:

1. Have sworn at kids. A lot.
2. Have yelled at kids. A lot.
3. Have yelled and sworn at kids at same time.
4. Valentine's cookies? What Valentine's cookies? I saw no Valentine's cookies.
5. Dishes in the sink will teleport to the dishwasher, no?
6. A catalog is a book, right? Mostly.
7. I need that super cute shirt. Like NEEEEEED it.
8. But Coke Zero is sooo much better tasting than water.
9. Asking M if he wants more Valentine's cookies is meaningful conversation.
10. On Saturdays, it's ok if I'm in pajamas at 2 pm.
11. It's too rainy to go for a jog.
12. It's too cold to go for a jog.
13. It's too beautiful a day to waste it jogging.
14. Cleaning out the closet would displace hundreds of dustbunnies. And they need homes, too.
15. But I have a headache.

Woah. Dude.

Since the week after Thanksgiving, our household has been plagued by an unusual convergence of food issues. Well, actually, we've apparently been suffering with it for a while, but have only recently identified our issues. S has been tentatively labeled as "Failure to thrive." Which, as I can sort it out, is a medical diagnosis for "doesn't eat any food." Since Thanksgiving, we have been in medical purgatory waiting to identify a cause for this (clearly not inherited) disorder. In response to this ambiguous disorder, I have been eating my anxiety, as any normal mother would do. Right? RIGHT!?!? So, we have the interesting dichotomy of small baby, fat mother. Jack Sprat and his Mom.

I was chatting with my neighbor and her husband about this situation. Partly, because I haven't seen them since forever, and also because I feel compelled to explain my recent bloat. He happens to be a physician, and they are of rather conservative lifestyle, so I appreciated his candid input.
There's only one truly reliable appetite stimulant that I know of, says he. It has significant side effects, though.
Sure, I say. Lay it on me. Maybe the side effects are worth it.
Medical Marijuana, says he.
As in the cartoons, the skies part, the rays of sunshine beam down upon me, and the angels burst out in choir.
Hallelujah! HALLlelujah! Hallellujahahallelujajallejah!
Why haven't I thought of this? My kid with a killer case of the munchies. All is solved.
I'm working on it, now. Do I give my kid a little joint? Can't you just see S with a joint dangling out of his mouth? Exhaling with a cough cough cough. Passing the roach?
Or, do I become the most popular mom at school and make special brownies? Everyone comes home from Julie's house feeling happy!
As an added bonus, I could quit antidepressants and mooch off S's script. The whole family would be healed. It's a medical marijuana miracle! When everybody gets home from work and school, we could pass the dutchie. Homework? Meh. Dinner? Hells yeah. What should we make for dinner? Rice Krispie treats and chicken wings. Hooray! Ramen with Stove Top Stuffing? YAY! Mom, you're the BEST.
Can't you just see my half-lidded boys showing up at school with, "Sorry ma'am. I didn't do my homework. We were stoned."
The side effects? Sure, my kid is six feet tall as an adult, but man is he LAZY. The house would have stacks of laundry (which it does now, of course) BUT I wouldn't care. We could give S his "medicine" before a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese & he'd be set. He could watch the animatronic animals all afternoon and then chow on some pizza. That's my idea of remedy. We could all watch Spongebob together now. Wait...we could home school! Everyone would take their "medicine" and then we'd watch Sunrise Earth on the Discovery Channel. Educational AND stimulating to the 'enhanced mindset.' We could make hemp jewelry and practice rolling joints for crafts. We could throw a bong on a potter's wheel. We could do chemistry and watch spiders crawling along the wall and listen to Pink Floyd for music appreciation.
Suddenly, I see my future more clearly than ever before. And it all hinges on a script for medical marijuana.
Please, please please. Help our family. Send a dime bag by.

On a cold winter's day

I remember now why I hated winter. Perhaps it is just my Southern California bones refusing to yield to the chill, or perhaps it is a psychological barrier that prevents me from enjoying it. But, whatever the reason, I do NOT like the cold.
And it is cold today in Mobile. It was in the teens this morning, and threatens to be in the tweens by Friday.
Everything is more difficult (as if it isn't difficult enough already). Kids need extra layers and forget their extra layers. The car takes longer to warm up & go. My skin is dry and itchy. The dog is all static-y. The pool pump requires M's attention. The fountain is frozen. The plants are all frostbit. The line at Starbucks is huge.
Two things, and they are closely linked, keep me from moving to Aruba for the next two weeks.
One, I can try to hurry up some weight loss while still wearing the marshmallow man outerwear. Maybe no one will notice the holiday/stress poundage I have packed on.
Two, all the winter foods are so yummy. Hearty stew. Beefy bolognese. Rich strogonoff. Comforting soups. Ahhhh.
So. Forget one. I will just go ahead and bare my Stay-Pufft-ness to the world come spring. For now, bring on the food. I've got blubber to build.

Friends don't let friends drive with dinner

I know that it seems that I am picking on people with weight issues when I describe the cruise. But, the thing is, nearly all of us have weight issues. What and who I describe is BEYOND indulging in that extra piece of cheesecake. We're talking people who are so large that you could easily divide them into two healthy sized adults. People who are unable to move about freely, and whose health is suffering tremendously because of their weight. They are truly struggling.
These people eschew the dining room on the ship for, apparently, two reasons. One seems to be that they are physically unable to sit in the anchored-down booths in the dining room. Unlike in restaurants, the furniture is bolted to the deck, and so there is little forgiveness when one slides into the booth. Second, and more obviously, is that the portions in the dining room are rather petite. On the Lido buffet, where I found myself (and my kids) several mornings at unholy hours, I watched people eat several breakfasts at a time. People heaped food upon their trays in portions considered hefty for a rhino. I am talking plates of eggs, stacks of pancakes, and chains of sausage links. One night, I happened into the Lido for a late night coffee, and watched people eating a dinner that only barely resembled the one I had eaten some time earlier. For dinner, I had a salad, a soup, 5 grilled shrimp with a boiled potato. That, in itself, is a largish meal. But then, I caught a glimpse of what the people were eating upstairs: I saw a person with no fewer than 20 shrimp on his plate, along with several slices of ham, and 3 pieces of cake! One woman had rigged her personal mobility device (scooter) with a tray so that she could load up on food while driving through the buffet line.
But, my soon-to-be-classic tale of a scooter happened while reboarding the ship in Key West. A woman in front of us boarded on her candy apple red mobility device. She was chatting with her friend who was walking. The friend laid down their purchases (SHOPPING!) on the X-Ray conveyor belt. Ms. Scooter leaned forward, accidentally depressing the forward button on her scooter with her excess flesh, and drove maniacally into her friend, pinning her against the metal detector archway. Friend, apparently, was okay, although it would have been awkward for her to berate Ms Scooter for running her over, so she could have just been polite about it. The officer in charge if the reboarding process admonished Ms. Scooter to drive more carefully. While the whole thing could have been calamitous, it remained only only slightly alarming because no one went overboard or was hurt.
But, Ms. Audi Scooter and her friend have taught me three valuable dieting lessons: Stop eating when you can no longer be bi-pedal. Two: If you don't listen to lesson one, make sure there is a safety on the accelerator. Three: If your friend is Ms. Scooter, don't walk in front of her.

Butter's Good

Every August, the Discovery Channel airs Shark Week. Invariably, the producers of a show do something absolutely ridiculous, like pulverize an entire herd of sheep and dump the chum into the water to see what happens. Generally, an armada of bullet-headed sharks arrive out of nowhere and turn the camera man's shark cage into a frothing, chaotic feeding frenzy. The narrator describes how the sharks go out of control, occasionally chomping at steel fragments of the shark cage or fiberglass sections of the research vessel, completely disoriented and eating everything in a fantastic orgy of food.
Every November, there is Thanksgiving. Americans, already fattened to the brink of physical boundaries find themselves at tables laden with more food than most countries will ever see. Passing, grabbing, stuffing, gorging on food that barely registers on the taste buds. I am pretty sure that at our table, some one passed the butter, and while it was temporarily in his hands on the way to the naked dinner roll, he just went ahead and ate some of the butter. Plain. Because, hey, it was there, and this is the day we eat, dammit.
But, my parents were here. And that is a first for us. In all the years of my marriage, we have always gone to my parents' house. Although my sister and her husband were at his family's house this year (hehe), my kids were here, my husband was here, my parents were here. It was Thanksgiving Dinner at Our House. Things are always different at my house when my parents are here.
This was an ACTUAL conversation between my kids and my mother last night:
Scene: family room, Hot Wheels strewn all over, nearly comatose adults watching football, kids actively playing and begging for dessert. Adults represent a chorus as in the tradition of the Greek Theater.
S: Can we have dessert? I'm hungry.
Adults: Moan. Don't talk about food.
E: What do we have for dessert?
Grandma: Lemon cake.
S: Ew. I hate lemon cake. (S hates everything right now, and has not even had lemon cake. For the record.)
Adults: Too much food. Don't talk about food. Was that pass interference?
G: There is rainbow sherbet in the fridge.
S: Oooh. Yum.
Grandma rises and serves ice cream to the children. Children go off to kitchen to eat ice cream.
One Adult to the next: I think I might have eaten butter. Like plain. Off the butter dish.
Adult #2 responds: Yeah, I heard about that.
Grandma, from family room: Kids!?!? Please hurry and eat your ice cream so I can clean up your cars.
Kids: But what about the lemon cake?!!?
Grandma: You can have the lemon cake after you help me clean up your mess.
Kids: Oh, man. That's not fair.
Grandma cleans family room.
Kids watch.
Adults: First Down! Off sides! Penalty! Kick! Score!
Kids return to kitchen to eat lemon cake.
Grandma retreats to kitchen to serve it to them.
Adults remain on couch.
Grandfather: You know, the kids have been fairly well behaved this week.
Parents: It's tough for them when grandma is around. What with having to supervise the cleaning in between desserts. The Pilgrims had it easy compared to my kids.
Adult #1: Was that butter or some kind of margarine? I'm just asking, what with my cholesterol.
Adult #2: Nope. Butter.
Adults, as one: Too much food. Stop talking about food.
Curtain.

The Perfect Storm

A confluence. A merging of all things evil in my current reality. A convergence in the Force. An assembly of assailants. An unholy throng of cruel mini-tragedies.
There is only so much one person, under-medicated, hungry, and sober, can withstand.
Friday, in desperation, I ate real food. Small quantities, so as to not be crippled with guilt. Still, an official departure from my diet. But, oh, sweet delicious freshness. Texture and flavors performed Swan Lake on my palate. For lunch, I had grilled chicken with carrots, lettuce and tomatoes. Not long ago, this would have been an ordinary experience. But on Friday, it was a delightful culinary experience. And Friday evening, given that M had to work later than expected, and had firmly declared a "no-pizza" night, we met at Longhorn Steakhouse for dinner. I ordered with my dinner, a take out box, and promptly put half of everything in it before I even started to eat. But, oh, the salty, meaty, Caesar salad-y, mashed potato taste explosion in my mouth. The sensual texture of silky potatoes and tender red meat and oh, how everything had its own flavor and color. The sweet, gorgeous color of it all! Nothing was vaguely gray. So fresh and delicious. The famed Harry and Sally scene from the diner came to mind. Only I wasn't faking.
So, Saturday morning came and the cereal that bears a striking resemblance to playground mulch returned. But this Saturday brought with it trials of my patience and mental fortitude that might have exceeded my limit.
We had soccer this morning. S kicked a ball so slowly, I thought maybe I was suffering from a cardboard-induced coma. The ball crawled along and came to a halt right before the goal line. It was comical. But, typical family sporting performances aside, we had to go to CiCi's Pizza Buffet afterwards for the team's end-of-season celebration. The bad pizza temptation. The crappy crust with cheese and salty goodness. With overly-processed toppings. Ooooh. Even that looked yummy. And the little girl next to S finger painted with her alfredo sauce. I was disgraced by the waste of it all. The first temptation of Julie.
I should mention at this point that the script for my craziness meds ran out on Thursday. At some point, I had the phone, but not the bottle to call in a refill. And then, later had the bottle, but not the phone. And it took until today to call in the refill, by which point, I was on an emotional roller coaster, and mere millimeters from total breakdown. I did this thing in the car while the kids were "elbow fighting," (is this something kids do these days? They said that as though I should have heard of it.) and I turned around at a red light, and it must have been like in horror movies where the psycho alien emerges from its human disguise, and is slobbery and fanged and terrifyingly loud, and screamed at them to stop. (The look on their faces reminded me to phone in my script right away.)
THEN. I wanted to take the kids to the pumpkin patch and corn maze tomorrow, but it's closed on Sundays. Which would have been fine. Except that it's also closed Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.
AFTER THAT. I saw this cool catalog and wanted to pursue information about a product in it for my sister for the holidays. The website was by far the least user-friendly site I've seen since the Internet evolved past glowing green lines of DOS programming. It was baffling, and inexplicably thrifty with actual facts and information. (How big is it, how much does it cost, what is the price of the accessories) and other things a consumer might want to know.
THEN. I remembered that Bellingrath has a fun Halloween thing to do, and the kids and M's dad might enjoy doing that Friday night. So, I look THAT up online. Brilliantly, the octogenarian volunteers who plan that organization's events planned it for Saturday night, actually Halloween. I know my kids would rather walk around a botanical garden than get candy from neighbors. Yet another bust.
FINALLY, the dinner hour comes along. The kids get Wendy's for movie night. I drive with extra concentration as the enticing aroma of fast food burger and fries wafts through the car. I keep an eye out for the sweet, creamy frosties so they don't melt. (A big sip of them would have stopped that, you know.) I stop and pick up my script. We come home and I heat a meal claiming to be beef with noodles. Two tablespoonfuls later, it's gone, and I'm simultaneously revolted by the food and wishing there were more. And the kids leave the table, announcing that they are finished eating.
And in a final tease to my willpower, E has left three-fourths of his cheeseburger on the table. I take it over to the trash can, and see that S has left a bunch of fries in there. I actually reached into the can and pulled out a fry. I actually contemplated putting it in my mouth. M sees me, realizes my imminent fall into ignominy, grabs the remaining cheeseburger, runs it under the faucet, and dumps the runny mess into the trashcan. The fries are soaked, and everything is a ketchup-y, mustard-y, soggy mess. I snap out of it. I realize what I was about to do. I skulk off.
I sit down at my computer and bitch about it.
Do you think that taking 2 anti-crazy pills at once is a good idea?

Why food does not belong in a box.

I promised myself that I wouldn't relentlessly report on the agonizing day by day process of Nutri System. And if I ever decide to go pro with the blogging thing, Nutri System will not be signing up to be my first sponsor, but I can say this: if you like food, you'll lose weight on Nutri System.
This morning's packet o' breakfast was a "chocolate chip scone." And the person who created it has never had tea in England. Not that I have, but I am sure that even the British (not the world's most discerning palate) would not make such a big deal over tea if scones were like the lump in this morning's packet. First of all, the thing was so dense, you could execute some one by stoning with this bad boy. Second, the consistency was some where between cookie dough and slimy brownie. Third, the taste was an unholy melange of protein bar, chewed multivitamin, and artificial flavor. I choked it down with as much coffee as I could drink.
The thing is, I like food. Which is what got me into this weight dilemma in the first place. I didn't gain weight eating McDonald's (another sponsor I will no longer presumably get) or junk food or candy, or cheap frozen dinners. I gained weight eating home made food that is yummy: smashed parmesean potatoes, schnitzel, pasta, blue cheese dressing, pork chops. I'm not trying to be a food snob. I love the Golden Arches' french fries with the best of them. But that's not how I gained weight. I just eat too much of relatively healthy foods. It's one of life's cosmic unfairnesses.
For lunch, I had reconstituted "homestyle cheesy potatoes." Actual potatoes would not have recognized these potatoes. Fortunately, I got to add a salad (no dressing allowed, so I used vinegar straight) and a vegetable (broccoli, my old standby) and a tablespoon of fat free cottage cheese. Which somehow made everything a little more palatable. But those potatoes are a crime against nature.
And of course, I ate it all so fast (hard to eat while holding your nose)that now I have to burp, which just brings that hideousness right back to me. I would rather have eaten the paper cup the potatoes came in. For real.
All I have to say is this: if I haven't amputated my taste buds by the end of 56 days, it will be a miracle.

Diet Plan #459

So, I finally broke down. I got so taken with Marie Osmond's skinny new self, I decided I, too needed a big ol' chunk of that Mormon happiness and started the Nutri System diet. Actually, I didn't do it. I asked M to do it, as if the act of ordering on line was like viewing porn. It's like buying an As Seen On TV product. I just couldn't press the Purchase button in case the Dick Cheney of skinny people was watching me, and would swoop in and chastise me for buying into a diet gimmick such as Nutri System.
Nonetheless, M pressed the Purchase Now button, and on my doorstep several days later arrived a giant box. A box big enough to hold S. Inside were a jillion packages, color coded by meal, and boasting photographs of relatively yummy looking food inside. This, of course, is when the first realization hits me. I hold up a microwavable "bowl" of chicken pasta and think, this can't POSSIBLY be one serving! Clearly, my biggest issue with weight loss is portion control, because if that scrawny bowl is one serving, I've been eating for me and the rest of my family. Then, the second realization hits me. This assortment of green, red, and blue packaged food spread across my dining room table is what I am going to be eating for the next 28, possibly 56, days of my life. To paraphrase Brent Musberger, there isn't a lot of food there, folks. And NONE of it looks like a giant batch of fresh-baked cookies.
This morning, I ate Nutri System's cinnamon cereal for breakfast with the designated 4 oz. of milk. For those of you who eat Seinfeld-sized bowls of cereal for breakfast, or dinner, or dessert, that apparently is 27 servings of cereal. I ate my out of a coffee mug this morning, so it looked less pathetic. That fiber stuck with me, though. For lunch, I had chicken in a cacciatore sauce that was edible, though puny. And I was reminded of a one liner my father in law often mentions, "this food is awful, and the portions are so small." So, I would say that I wolfed that portion down, except that I ate it all with one scoop of a tablespoon.
Could that possibly have been lunch?
Finally, I am sorting through the boxes that represent my dinner options. There is something that resembles pizza on a cracker, something involving black beans and ham (it won't come to that), and another pasta-ish looking concoction. I review the "results kit" that came with my order, and notice the asterisk that says "For best results, do not consume alcohol on this program." I pull out a Sharpie and draw a line right through "not" and "best". I replace with "reasonable." There is no way that I am putting freeze dried lima beans in this mouth without a gin and (diet) tonic to wash them down.
During carpool today, another realization: something in the Nutri System food makes me mean. Or impatient. Or just the idea of it makes me cranky. But something was leaving me ornery. Perhaps it is the stuff that is NOT in Nutri System that makes me irritable: cookies, cupcakes, potato chips, heaping mounds of schnitzel and spaetzle.
I can forecast this for you, gentle reader--that while my fantasies this month may still include George Clooney (who has a movie coming out soon), he will be covered in whipped potatoes, chocolate covered strawberries, and other delicious morsels creeping into my subconscious. Regardless, I will be updating the diet module on notcinnamon regularly again.
If you see me cheating on my diet and eating real-life food, smack me. But do so gently, and with pity, for I will be desperate.

Twelve Steps

I have blogged before about my addiction to Bejeweled (sweet, I got 2 scores of 100K plus yesterday!) and today I am considering the lifestyle of a junkie. Because I did something last night that I regret: I ate Chinese food.
First off, I LOVE Chinese food. What a delicious combination of sweet, fried, spicy and YUM. Sadly, though, I usually order it when I am starving, and of course gorge on it. But like an abusive husband or a recovering addict, the second I finish my food, I instantly regret it. I feel so sorry. I apologize to myself for the oncoming swelling, water retention, weight gain, and stomach cramping. I know I will rue the carb fest the next time I step on the scale. But, oh, General Tso, how I adore you. And potstickers, with your cute and self-descriptive little name, and oh lo mein and greasy egg rolls. The delicious corn syrupy goodness.
As I was sitting in my post-gorge haze last night, I was thinking about how clearly INauthentic Chinese food from the take out place in Mobile, Alabama must be. First of all, the most productive nation in the world couldn't possibly eat that on any regular basis. Three billion people would be in a diabetic sugar coma half the time after their breakfast of sesame chicken. After eating Chinese food, I stumble to the nearest comfortable seating and stay there, in a nearly drunken stupor, listening to my poor liver try to process all that glucose and fat. (My liver actually does make a sound when it works that hard) Second, three billion people would weigh 90 trillion pounds. The total lack of anything resembling a protein or vegetable (I mean there were some vegetables that might have been green once, but were now just a delicious saucy brown.) would suggest an entire country of malnourished souls. And while China has food issues, it's not like EVERYONE is starving in the streets.
Not that I am complaining, mind you. I probably wouldn't eat authentic Chinese food with such gusto as I consume its Americanized counterpart. I think of all so called ethnic food--Indian, Mexican, Italian, British and then I think of its hyper-sugary, overly salted, dumbed down American version. Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Long John Silver's (that's the fish n chips British food, in case you were wondering why I included it)...are secret guilty pleasures, (well except for LJS. I really find the idea of fast food fish completely revolting.) And they are all ridiculously bad for me. When I go home to SoCal, I can find authentic Mexican food--tamales, chile rellenos, carnitas, guacamole that is as it should be--dairy free--food that is not overly salted, fatty, generic re-combinations of cheese, beans and salsa. I have always felt that the Taco Bell menu should be used in permutations and combinations math classes. The restaurant receives massive orders of beef (?), cheese, rice and beans and then recombines them in various proportions and ways. Maybe I would have done better in math class with that kind of hands-on explanation. But regardless, the resemblance between The Bell and real Mexican food is purely coincidental.
When I have had the good fortune to be in Italy, I think of the fresh mozzarella and tomato salads, the light, flavorful pasta sauces, the delicious meats not bathing in thick red gravy. All washed down with a remarkably palatable wine that cost next to nothing. And all the skinny Italian women walking blocks and blocks in their stiletto heels, not waddling in a post carb stupor.
So, while I'd like to blame the cultural wasteland of America for my revolting food binge last night, I will accept personal responsibility for it. I pigged out. Gross. Wish I could sit in the freezer until the fat in my blood separated out and hardened and I could skim it all off. (Wow, that turned out more graphic than expected.) I am filled with regret and plan to start over with Step number one: accept that I cannot just eat a small quantity of Chinese food, and therefore should never eat any.
I should stick to the other bastardized food imports, perhaps: pizza for dinner?

Exercising my right....and my left

I have written before about denial, and what a powerful mechanism it is. Yesterday, I talked to Cici, who I think I've mentioned is in phenomenal shape, and is not only an instructor in various forms of exercise, but is also very knowledgeable about physical therapy and the mechanisms of the human body.
She has this mentality of a competitor, which I have never had, but envy very much. She drives herself in a way I can't even imagine. Her motto is probably something akin to "Pain is weakness leaving your body." Whereas my motto is more like "Pain means you're doing something you shouldn't be." This disparity is readily apparent if you were to take one look at us. Her body fat is someplace in the viscinity of 0%. Mine is somewhere around bacon.
Regardless, she has agreed to take me on in the short term as a client to move into respectable shape. So, yesterday, she starts to explain the basic tenets of Pilates to me. Pilates, (which until recently I thought rhymed with Pirates) is a method of exercise developed by this guy who had chronic pain. It is all about Resistance and the ever-popular "core strength" the skinny people keep talking about. I'm all about resistance, too...to exercise. But, I am determined to lose this damn weight.
We have a fundamental agreement, Cici and I: our working out relationship is completely separate from our friendship. I don't want to use that time to visit or chat. I want to learn and improve my health. Also, no laughing. At me, specifically.
So, anyway, she is explaining to me about centering one's body and posture. She tells me to put my pelvis in neutral. (I am thinking that neutral sums up about all my body parts) but she tells me to make a level triangle between my hip bones and my pubic bone while laying flat. I am too embarrassed to admit that I can't find my hip bones under all my, um...skin. Then she has me methodically move my legs while keeping the rest of my body quiet. (Um, creaks and cracks are part of the package.)
Then, what every overweight person LOVES to hear upon their first foray back into exercise, "girl, you are weak." Fortunately, we have the Rules and I do not take this as a personal insult, but rather a declarative sentence regarding my total lack of muscle tone. She tries to align my body properly and says, "you don't mind if I touch your body to help you, do you?" I don't. Really. Except that it's mortifying. My belly resembles a partly deflated latex balloon: really soft and puckery.
Oh, God. This is awful. How did things get so desperate?
I think a high calorie alcoholic beverage will fix this feeling.

BioRhythmic Disonance

Are biorhythms real? (My spellcheck doesn't think so.) I don't mean natural cycles of sleep and wakefulness and morning people versus night people. I mean butterfingery, forgetful, walking into walls biorhythms. The ones that are completely out of whack with me for the last few days.
First, there was the ferocious PMS. Not that you, gentle reader, need to know the full details of my monthlies, suffice to say I was a horrible person last week. I saw red at the slightest irritation. The boys and M were cowering in fear. Even my friends politely pointed out (from afar) that I was not my social self. I found myself, on more than one occasion, sitting in a chair and growling at the world. That's not healthy.
Since then, though, I have been incredibly clumsy, forgetful, and altogether out of synch. There was the nightmarish experience of getting dressed for dinner the other night. Not a single thing in my closet was 1) appropriate for the occasion 2) fitting properly 3) cleaned 4) comfortable. I wound up in a standard shirt and nearly sweatsuit-fashioned linen pants.
Then, there was the scraping of the hand on the inside of the washing machine, of all things. So that now, despite the trash compactor incident scrape healing nicely, I have a whole new scrape on my hand.
Then there was a mysterious charge on my credit card that took hours to sort through. I explained to the woman thirty times that I did not know what an Acai Berry Colon Cleanse pill was, nor did I particularly wish to know (it sounds horrific), nor did I pay for it ($80, please!), nor did I receive it (thank goodness), nor do I wish to receive more (the horror!). Eventually, I broke down, yelled at her, and begged for a supervisor. He told me that per the terms of agreement, I had elected to receive another shipment. At which point I thought I was going to have a psychotic break. I explained to him that I had not agreed to the terms of agreement as I had not paid, received, or heard of his blessed product. Grrrr.
Yesterday, friends came over to swim. Which in and of itself did not really trigger any emotional anxiety on my part. But, when they left, I neglected to put the auto-vacuum-R2D2 thingie back in the pool. So, this morning at 4 AM, or whenever the timer kicks it on, all the water started flowing through the vacuum as it should, only it flowed out of the pool on to the yard, as it should not. By the time I got there at 6:30 (S slept in), the water level was tremendously low, the syphon in the filter had lost its suction, and the flower bed was flooded. Not good. Not good at all.
Then, there was the whole camera trauma. My SLR camera has been taking strange pictures lately. Or, rather, I have been taking pictures with strange light effects occurring in them. (It would be truly bizarre if the camera were taking pictures by itself.) A perfect halo forms on the left hand side of the prints. I searched on the Interwebs that all the kids use these days (and apparently, I searched inefficiently, as it took me forever to find a photographers' forum) to find experts who generally agreed that the shutter mechanism in the camera was failing. Canon assured me this would be fixable for $250. Which is not a good price, considering the problem would not be permanently fixed. I learned that shutters on my Canon model are only scheduled to last approximately 8,000 clicks. Mine crapped out at 6700. Figures. So, then I had to struggle to search for new camera, compare models, verify compatibility with my excellent lenses, and mire myself in technical specifications which I barely understand because technology changes moment to moment these days. In the end, M learned more than he ever wanted to about cameras and shutters and Canon so that he could order, pay for, and arrange for shipping on a new camera for me. I just couldn't cope. Bad development (haha. Pun).
Needless to say, if any of my doctor friends are reading (and I don't mean all you competent PhDs or academic "doctors,") although you are my friends. I mean those doctor friends wielding the almighty Rx pad--if you could just write me a script for like a thousand Xanax and wake me when school starts, I would appreciate it. Thank you.

Physician Problems

I, like every woman who has the good fortune of health insurance, hate preventive care visits to the doctor. The dread annual: I honestly get heebie jeebies just writing about it. PAP stands for Perfectly Agonizing Procedure. Not that I have one coming up immediately. I usually make my appointment for that funfest after the kids are back in school in the fall. But it's looming out there.
I also have a general distrust of the traditionally male-dominated field of medicine. Aren't we all sure that if women led the industry, we would have a tampon/dustbuster that reduces your monthly to a one-hour, mess-free experience? Wouldn't we have diet pills that don't just help you slim, but actually MAKE you thin instantly? Wouldn't birth control be a non-invasive, non-hormonal, non-crazy making, easy to remember gadget/procedure/pill? Wouldn't we NEVER invent Viagra? What crazy man-researcher thought women (even women in their 'golden years') would want men all over them even MORE than before? Wouldn't there be Prozac and Fluoride in the water supply?
But, back to preventive care. Every year, I go to a dermatologist for a "mole inspection." I have a million little moles on my body that need to be checked by a professional. I have had dozens removed--atypical little buggers. And, living all over the country, I have seen a bunch of dermatologists. Most of them, to be honest, are these fresh faced women whose skin lends total credibility to whatever salve/cream/injection they are selling. But, nearly all the dermatologists I've visited have been serious about their task. They check for moles under armpits, between my toes, and even on all my unmentionables. The last dermatologist I visited, though, was a disappointment. Not only did she not do a FULL body inspection, but she tried hawking her wrinkle cream to me. ("Not that I'm making judgement, but you really could get ahead of those furrows on your forehead before they get any deeper." Internal reply: I'll show you a furrow on your forehead, biatch.)
So, I have been questing for a new physician. One was recommended to me yesterday, in fact. But he came with a disclaimer: I heard he's really thorough, but really young and cute.
Great. As if there's any chance I'll lose 20 pounds and get a boob job before I die of melanoma.

Summer Wear

I sometimes feel compelled to offer wisdom, sage advice, and sometimes formal guidelines for moms. I realize that I am not above reproach, and yet, I am very opinionated and superior- feeling about some things. (Look, I know my flaws.) One of the things that I feel strongly about is moms who abuse their purchasing power: they see products available in stores and buy them with senseless disregard for 1) their own dignity 2) our eyes and 3) their age and station in life. I want to qualify everything here by saying that just because we are moms, we do not need to roll over and die in terms of fashion, style, or flair: we just need to pause that extra moment before going in to Forever XXI and realize, that NO. We are not. We are now at least XXXI, and that age carries certain privileges and responsibilities. One of which is to keep on walking, right past Forever XXI.
There are certain things, at my current age, body weight, and familial state, that I simply should not own. Bowing to the necessities of age and waist measurements, I have ceded most of this property to charities and garage sales. But every now and then, something creeps out of my closet, or cupboard, or makeup drawer to remind me that vigilance is required, lest I let down my guard and step out wearing something wildly inappropriate.
The most recent of these incidents happened with a pair of Levi brand "skinny cut" jeans. After a traumatic trying-on attempt, I realize that ANYthing with the word skinny must be purged from my closet. As my mother says about all things mysterious or inappropriate, "it has no business being there." Which is unfortunate, because the skinny jeans with the rolled up cuffs are really cute. But then I have visions of the me in the Saturday Night Live alternate universe and buying MomJeans from JCPenney. Shiver. I'm rather sad to see the "skinny jeans" go: they have the upside of sparing me from actual shorts when cuffed cutely.
Which brings me to the subject of shorts. I am a mom of two with a marginal weight problem. Shorts offer limited options: low waisted patches of fabric that let the top of my buttcheeks show, or Momshorts which are gargantuan when viewed from behind and have a fly 12 inches long. Is there no hope besides capris? Thank God for capris. They are populating my closet like bunnies.
Another thing I would never own, but saw a mom at the beach wearing: string bikini. There are rock star moms who can pull off the string bikini. Confidentially, I say they've all had work done, as even the most fit moms I know complain of that iddy biddy pooch down low on the abdomen that remains after pregnancy. (For me it's neither iddy nor biddy, but stilly poochy)But the mom at the beach was no rock star, and she was tugging and pushing and shoving that suit like she was trying to stuff a pillowcase. She was clearly self conscious and I have no idea why she was wearing it all. I have raved before about the benefits of the Miracle-type suit. The one that makes you ten pounds slimmer the moment you put it on. I have several, and have graduated to the "tankini" a brilliant invention, if a stupid name. Max coverage, easy pee accessibility. It works best for me when paired with a skort, shorts, trunks or some other disguise for my behind. Because if I'm not wearing a substantial pair of bottoms, I have this bizarre nightmare of bending over to build sand castles at the shore and having a whale out at sea glimpse my gigantic butt up in the air and come charging at me, thinking he's found his lifemate. This is my theory to explain those whales who mysteriously beach themselves. I think they saw some mom butt and wanted to mate.
The mom in the string bikini was committing another violation of mom ownership rules: she had that nasty Banana Boat tanning oil. Does she not realize that we will get old and wrinkly and raisin-ish without the "help" of our solar-alien friends, UVA and UVB? This is what that mom is going to look like in 20 years:
Does it not give you the heebie jeebies too? Gadzooks. By the way, if this photo does not get you to post a comment, you are not human.
I think in regards to string bikinis and summer clothes in general, a good rule of thumb is to avoid clothes that require manual tying to stay up. So, if you learned to tie more than 20 years ago, halters, bra tops and swimwear with ties are NOT for you. And they sure as hell are not for me--no sailor in the world knows a knot strong enough to hold this back fat, let me tell ya.
So, now that it is 320 degrees with 92% humidity here in Mobile, and I am pulling out that summer wardrobe (winter clothes are so much more forgiving), I am going to keep this image of silicone granny blazoned in my brain. Because just as these children are staring awestruck at granny and were surely haunted by nightmares after this beach run-in, I worry about wearing a halter top and traumatizing the check-out girl at the supermarket who is frantically scanning my merchandise so that she will get me out of there before that little knot at the back of my halter top fails.
Clothes shouldn't require a prayer to stay up.