ethylmermaid

I’m one of those unusual women who look forward to grocery shopping. I love going up and down the aisles, looking for new and interesting items, reading recipes on the jars and packages, and trying to get a look at what’s in other people’s carts. (I know. It sounds a little like someone who, when visiting at someone’s house, uses the bathroom just to get a peak inside the medicine cabinet. But I swear I don’t do that. Really.)

Next time you go to the store, give it a try. It’s eye opening. You can really see why America is getting fatter by the day. Processed foods. Cans, bottles, jars. There’s not much food in their food. Carts are filled with “fast food”, the kind a weary working mother/wife can pop in the microwave and present at the table in minutes.

I just can’t do it. Now, I admit, there’s an occasional chicken pot pie in my freezer that I keep for those times when I don’t want to cook and would be happy with tea and toast, but my husband has to eat, so the pot pie is backup. But generally, I’m old school when it comes to preparing meals. (Thanks, Mom.) I buy fresh produce. Once you’ve steamed the green beans and roasted the asparagus, you can’t go back to canned. The flavors and textures are so much better than produce that’s been handled by machines and people and vehicles. And it takes just a few minutes more to wash your own greens for a salad (hate those bagged ones) or steam the carrots or saute the zucchini.

But my biggest beef about the grocery store (pun intended) is the people who park their carts in front of the ground beef section and stand there staring at the packages like they’re waiting for them to suddenly pop up and dance and sing and make their shopping experience an entertainment. Meanwhile, you stand off to the side waiting, waiting, waiting, until they finally pick up a package and move on so you get your chance to wait for the encore when the ground sirloin tries to tap dance its way into your cart, leaving the poor, less graceful chuck on the side lines.

I just got back from the store, didn’t pick up a single package of hamburger (line too long) but I managed to scoop up the most beautiful Fuji apples and bright yellow lemons, a whole trout for the grill, and some gleaming zucchini which I plan to slice lengthwise, brush with olive oil, sprinkle with a dusting a parmesan cheese, and slap down on the grill next to my trout. Beats a frozen pizza any day!

I met my husband at a bar. Not exactly something you’re eager to admit to your grandchildren, but since I don’t have any (yet), I’m not going to sweat it. Tall, blond, blue eyes, great moustache, sexy Adam’s apple, he looked like no one who would be interested in me, especially since I weighed about 270 then. I went to karaoke with my single club friends where we met Thursday nights to sing and dance and throw back a few tequila shots. We went as a group and there was no pressure to “hook up” either with the guys in the club or the guys hanging out in the bar hoping to “hook up.” And I wasn’t particularly interested in men, being a single mother raising a teenage son, able to pay the bills (some of the time) and cope with parenthood (most of the time).

But there he came, this good looking man, putting his hand on my shoulder and asking if he could have the stool next to me and join our table. I’d been raised to have manners, so of course I smiled and said yes, but inside I was thinking that he just figured I was the fat, plain one, easy to befriend, because we all know the fat/plain girls will take any attention they can get, and that once he was “in” with me, he’d have my circle of pretty, petite, fun, dancing and singing girlfriends to pick from. And he did dance with some of them that first night, but with me first, and he did buy a round for the table, but for me he bought drinks all night.

Next week he showed up before I did and a friend met me at the door before I got to the table and said, “He saved you the stool next to him. He won’t let anyone else sit there! I think he likes you.” So I sat and we danced and he asked me to meet him at the park the next Saturday and walk with him. I met him, we walked a trail around a mountain in the 100 degree heat, and as I’m not much for the sun and hadn’t walked longer than the grocery store aisles, the only thing keeping me going was him in front of me, no shirt, tiny shorts…you get the picture. We were friends for a long time, mostly meeting for walks and at karaoke. But then one day he called and said what was the harm in two friends just meeting up to go dancing and have a few drinks—not with the rest of the group, just we two. Of course I said yes, then called my closest girlfriends, who all assured me this was a date, not just two friends having a night on the town. I felt transported back in time to high school when the boy I’d had eyes on for weeks/months/years finally showed up at my locker and asked me to the game. Butterflies. Tremors. Heart palpitations. Inability to find anything worthy in my closet to mark this dramatic event—my first real date in, oh, about 17 years.

We met, we danced, we had a few drinks. Then, all of the sudden, he leaned over the table, grabbed my head in his big hands, and kissed me. One of those movie kisses where all sound is blotted out and the crowd fades and some wonderful symphonic crescendo crashes over you and your life becomes a romance novel, only better, because it’s you being swept off your feet into the hero’s arms.

He’d never dated a big woman. In fact, he’s the sort of man who never had to pursue women because they came to him, which is usually the sort of guy you want to avoid. But I soon found this one was different. He once told me, long after we were a couple, that the reason he approached me was my blue eyes and red hair, that when I smiled or laughed, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. (And, just on the side here, whether he admits it or not, I’ve got nice cleavage, and that’s a real plus for John.) Yes, he’d never been with a larger woman, but once he had, he could never go back.

We’ve been together ever since, almost 12 years, married 5 years, and right now he’s in the back yard making a garden so that I’ll have fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and radishes and all the fixings for all the salads I can ever eat. He says he fell in love with me, not my body, and though he can appreciate a good figure, he loves me, Buddah belly and all. He’s supportive of my weight loss not because I’ll look better, but because I’ll feel better, and also because I want to lose weight, and he’s behind just about everything I want.

So this week I’m dedicating any pounds lost to him, because I’ve decided that every week is going to be dedicated to someone I care about, because those are the people who really deserve the effort. They love me, they want me healthy, and I owe them that much.

Diet assassins…we all know one or two. My closest GF is one. She’s so much fun, so intelligent, and our ideals and values really mesh, but man can she push the sabotage button. I start losing and all of the sudden she wants to go to coffee at BakerWee, where, of course, we sit at a table an arm’s length away from a lovely array of cream horns, blueberry scones, maple bars, and cheese danish that occasionally rise up from their lace doilies and do a hula dance in order to get my attention. And the smell! I know that’s what heaven is going to smell like…sprinkled sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. If it’s not BakerWee, it’s Denny’s, where she orders a mushroom burger dripping in cheese between a HUGE bun and a load of fries that even the Hulk would have trouble digesting. Then, of course, there’s dominoes night where she and her husband come over for a friendly game and she brings an unfriendly nosh of beans and chorizo topped with cheese, potatoes fried in bacon grease with cheese, jalapenos, onions, and bacon crumbles, and shredded pork roast rolled up in flour tortillas after being heavily rained on by more cheese.

So, we go to BakerWee and I have half a bagel, a thin layer of lite cream cheese, and coffee with no creamer and a packet of Equal. At Denny’s I order a burger, sans bun and fries, eat the patty with the lettuce, tomato, and onion, and a diet Coke. And when she comes to the house with her arsenal of Mexican delights, I take a spooful of the shredded meat, plop it on a bowl of lettuce, chopped tomato, and a dollop of salsa, and call it salad.

Yesterday she just had to go to In and Out burger. I discovered they have what they call a “protein burger” on their menu, which is basically a small patty, with tomato and onion, wrapped in lettuce. I hand over my fries (which come with the burger whether you want them or not) and totally enjoy my Saturday afternoon treat without feeling one iota guilty.

 Only thing is, she just comes on stronger, has her husband whip up ceviche and gooey conconctions of the Mexican persuasion that are in no way amenable to calorie counting (unless you’ve got a metabolism driven by jet fuel), and wants to order pizza as a midnight snack after we’ve had our dinner and are watching a movie or playing cards. So, finally, yesterday I sat her down and said, “No more.” Well, I said quite a bit more than that…along the lines that she should be supportive, give encouragement, blah, blah, blah. And I pointed out the fact that whenever we go out shopping or whatever, she gobbles down a doughnut, chomps on a giant soft pretzel, and savors a chocolate bar, even after we’ve had lunch, all the while offering me bites, rolling her eyes at the orgasmic deliciousness of it all, as if that’s going to persuade me that I should turn my back on cottage cheese and chicken breasts. She’s heavier than I am, but in a different way. I’ve got the belly thing going on, she’s got the butt, hips, and thighs. I’m apple. She’s pear. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get along, as long as she ceases playing Eve in the garden.

This morning she called and apologized, so we’re okay. Actually, we’ve always been okay, despite her behavior, because I know it’s her own fear that drove her to try to slamdunk my eating plan, and I’m strong enough to withstand the sabotage, love her enough to understand her fear, and willing enough to let it go.

Because it’s not about her, it’s about me. And I’ve got my Kevlar on. There isn’t a brownie or chocolate chip cookie gonna get through my armor.

Yesterday I dipped into the chicharrones, worried about it the rest of the day, but still managed to get another pound off. I don’t know about anyone else, but the scale is like a siren call to me. I’ve just got to get on it, but only first thing in the morning when the only thing I’m wearing is my ankle bracelet and yesterday’s makeup. I’m aiming for a once a week weigh-in, but in defense of myself, I did read in Time Magazine that people who weigh daily have a higher percentage of weight loss. The author explained that this was because if you hit a plateau or even start gaining, you know it at once and since it’s fresh in your mind you can think back over the last few days and see where you might have gone wrong. Which makes sense, but also makes me laugh a bit because I know where I go wrong the moment I smell the chicken frying or the bread toasting. I’m considering putting my bathroom scale in the kitchen as a heavy reminder (no pun intended) that what lies behind the cupboard doors is also what lies on my belly. I’m diabetic so I don’t have a lot of junk luring me in, but my husband is a slender 6 ft. and can eat just about anything without adverse effect and I do like him to have a few snack items. I try to find things I don’t really have a jones for (a very small list) and keep them available to him. This morning I made him guacamole, laid in a few tins of sardines, a package of pepperjack cheese, and a supersized jar of green olives stuffed with garlic. None of these get my juices going, yet he’s a happy man, and one who never has to abide by the scale. Oh! to be so wild and free.

Between yesterday and today I dropped 1.4 pounds, which is incredible for a diabetic on more meds than Sonic has onion rings. Do you ever notice that sooooo many commercials at night concern food? Just when I get rested and comfortable and feeling no pangs, along comes Papa Johns Pizza with the offer of their free chocolate-stuffed pastries with order of a large pizza. Then comes Subway with sandwiches dripping in processed meats and veggies, which they make sound like the best diet food in the history of obesity, but there’s a catch–you can’t have anything on them. No mayo. No oil. No cheese. That’s not a sandwich–that’s like a coat with no buttons. You can wear it, but it isn’t gonna protect you from the weather. I do appreciate the M&M’s commercials, though. They’re a lot like the California raisins. Remember them? They’re cute and funny dancing around the screen, reminding me of a few friends who had one or two too many shots of tequila at karoake. And who wants to eat their friends? So I wish all the food in commercials danced and sang, because once they’ve got personality, I don’t want to eat them. Because of my moaning about the all the culinary advertisements, my husband bought a DVD player for the bedroom so after we go to bed and hit the television, we can either watch PBS, which is commercial free, or slide in a movie to send us off to la-la land. The biggest problem I have now with food on TV is trying to wean myself off the Food Network channel, which is something I really dig.  I love Sandra Lee and Tyler Florence and I would pay big money to whip up something (anything!) with Ina Garten, aka Barefoot Contessa. Trouble is, watching these shows makes food a priority, and although I don’t believe eating right means you have to throw out every chocolate chip and toaster muffin in the cupboard, it’s not good to fixate on the enticing dishes these culinary wizards whip up in 30 minutes. However, I do still indulge fully in watching Bizarre Foods, because most of what Andrew Zimmern puts in his mouth is not going to make it through my own lips as I like my insects outdoors, not on my plate. I’ve not resorted to fried grasshoppers or sauteed bees yet–though I am curious as to their calorie content. Be kind to yourselves today, as always, and pass it on to the next person. Donna

I’ve never agreed with the song that says “rainy days and Mondays always get me down.”  I love a rainy day, especially since I live in Arizona where you have to be half Gila monster to survive the summer months.  And I love Mondays because they’re “start” days…you know, like Monday I’ll quit smoking/start a diet/walk the dog/start a grocery list/be nicer to mankind.  It’s the other days of the week that pose a problem for me.  By Wednesday I’ll decide the dog looks too tired for a walk and by Thursday I’m searching the entire house for anything remotely resembling a cigarette.  Saturday comes and I can’t find the grocery list so I come home from the market with several items not conducive to healthy eating.  The following Tuesday I’m happily shoving the last bunch of broccoli into the garbage disposal where I believe it’s actually grown in the first place.  And by Friday if I have to smile and make nice with the general public one more time, I’d just as soon buy a ticket to outerspace and commune with the moon rocks.

So today I started a diet, and at 224 lbs and growing, I can’t be too unselective.  I say the word diet with a grimace because none of them in the past have seen me under a size 16 in years.  (Except some 5-6 years ago when I developed diabetes and lost 60 lbs in one summer.  This is not good weight loss.  I looked and felt horrible, even when I could buy clothes in a store not aimed at ladies who lunch too much.) 

This was not a bad day, but it’s 10 PM and my husband is wondering what I’m up to in my home office which I usually avoid when I’m not working.  (I’m one of those privileged few who work at home and don’t have to wear shoes as part of the dress code.)  So I’m going to call it quits for now and hit the sheets and try to find something bearable to watch on TV (easier to win the lottery) and not think about the peanut butter pie I made for John (husband) that sits in the freezer and is screaming to be eaten with a big fat spoon.

 Wish me luck.