Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

There comes a time in every woman's life when she knows she has to make a change. She has to grab her willpower in both hands, strap on her resolve, and call her mother-in-law and say, "We are going to lose 20 pounds, and I don't care how expensive it is, we are going to start by going on one of those goddamned cleanses, because I am tired of thinking about what I should and shouldn't eat! I want to pay someone to decide for me!"

My mother-in-law just lost 20 pounds, which is really impressive, but she also went through knee surgery while she was doing it, and that just too much effort-- a cleanse seems like a reasonable alternative to major surgery.

Why a cleanse? Well, mostly because MY MOTHER suggested it, and I follow her advice on most things. She looks fantastic, after all.

Secondly, because we have a friend who is a juice expert, and he swears by it. I'm not saying I'd go to the guy for advice on everything, but he knows his juice.

Finally, I figure I have lost the same 10 pounds about 10 times now, so I'd better try something different, and the idea of having the juice provided to me does appeal.

So today I begin. I have six juices that I drink whenever I want them, and it's about 1200 calories for the whole day. I hope I'm able to drink six in one day! I might be too full to finish it all! (I made that joke in honor of all you bitches who are unreasonably "full." My favorite is my Auntie J. "I just had a bowl of soup and I am SO full." Really? Unless that bowl is a mixing bowl, I just don't see it folks.)

I did not know if the cleanse would arrive today, so I figured I would start tomorrow. Which is why I had a brownie and tea for breakfast. However, the cleanse did arrive today, so I figured, "What the hell, might as well give this puppy a spin anyway."

I waited until 11:30 to have the first juice, being full on the brownie and mint tea. Not surprisingly, the juice does not taste like hot chocolate, but it wasn't bad. It contains romaine (I assume lettuce, not "Romanians") celery, cucumber, apple, spinach, kale, parsley and lemon. So basically apples and a bunch of foods I try generally to avoid. It's organic and has 110 calories. I should be hungry again by 12:30.

Actually, I'm pretty excited about the whole endeavor, which is why I thought I would resurrect the blog and share that excitement. Also, if I am going to suffer, I want you all to hear about it. I will let you know if I suffer from any of the side effects listed in the literature (some of which are pretty extreme and make the whole thing sound like a pregnancy--I hope I give birth to a 20-pound fat baby). I will also let you know if I lose any weight. If I don't, things might get ugly. Watch you back, MY MOTHER and MR. JUICE, and hope that the weight flows from my body like a river of greasy broth. Otherwise I'm coming for you!

Want to make a great time even better? Add The Big Dog!

This past weekend I was at my Favorite Brother's* Surprise 40th Birthday Party. The term "Favorite" might be a little misleading here. My Favorite Brother is not my favorite because I like him the most of my brothers (The Baker's the nicest to me. Hands down.). He's my favorite because when you're really up a creek without a paddle, he manages to fashion a paddle out of the cover to a cooler and a passing branch. He's a problem solver. My Favorite Brother has great ideas and they work. He just won an Apple television at work for having the best solution in a team building competition. When I need to have my roof replaced, or evict 300 bats from my attic, or build a bug-proof garage that looks like a barn, or handle the other crazy problems we seem to get around here all the time, I like to consult with him.

[FN: My Favorite Brother and I also dance together like a dream. Had MY MOTHER had a little more foresight, we would have won a number of ballroom dance competitions in our teens and twenties, and then went on to establish our own elite Argentinian Tango/Samba dance studio. We would probably be choreographing numbers for So You Think You Can Dance as we speak. Unfortunately, that alternate destiny, like so many others, resides in the dustbin of time.]

The term "Surprise" is also a misnomer. My sister-in-law, Ms. S, had the party at her home, and my F.B. works from home. She had about 1,000 limes in the fridge, not to mention stacks of cheeses. Of course he knew she was having a party! My F.B. also said that the house was just too clean, so he knew something was up. Ms. S keeps her house very clean, so I think the cheeses were a better tip-off, but whatever. [Whenever I vacuum or move furniture around, my husband, Total Package, accuses me of planning to have a party without telling him about it. He's right about 50% of the time.]

By the by, Ms. S threw a great party. The mojitos were FANTASTIC! Mojitos are really easy to screw up. Lots of people put too much mint in them, and then you spend the whole night with mossy teeth. Take a page from Ms. S and go easy on the mint!

The company and food were also excellent. We had a writer, layered bean dip, a professor of french, pudding cake, a dancer, mushroom tart, an interior designer, bruschetta, engineers, goat cheese dip, a doctor, chocolate dipped fruit, a mechanic, lawyers, and a guy in a toupee. Really, what more can you ask for?

Finally, we had The Big Dog. Ms. L set The Big Dog (a.k.a., my little cousin) up with our former babysitter, who is a dancer and built like a brick house. The Brick House is also a great person who is much loved by all of our children. My son, Mr. B asked me this past weekend, "Why is this girl at our house?" And I said, "This is your babysitter, Cassie. She's taking care of you tonight." He said, "Where's the Brick House?" Which is especially funny, because (1) The Brick House hasn't babysat for him for years; and (2) I hadn't even given her that nickname yet, little pervert must of thought of it himself. [FN: Just kidding, he referred to her by name. He does want to marry her, however, after he marries me and T.P. is forced to marry the kids' bus driver. I hope we live here, because I am NOT going to move after all this time.]

The Big Dog (not to be confused with my uncle, The Original Big Dog) has been dating The Brick House for a few months now, but we didn't realize that they were in Sturbridge for the party, so it was an excellent bonus. They also seem to be getting along well, which is awesome because I think they are both so great. Especially after the other night, when we discussed what we were wearing to the wedding, whether undergarments would work with our dresses, and how their relationship is very similar to mine and T.P.'s. Obviously, we'd been drinking, but I will always maintain that there's not much better than a hard-working Italian man who likes to stay in shape, so we weren't too far off track.

To wrap up, Happy Birthday to My F.B.! I will continue to tell people that we are twins and that your wife is older than me just to mess with them!

Big Dog, nice to see you in the 'Bridge! You can party with us any time!

Brick House, there's no way your dress for the wedding is as awesome as mine, so you better keep rockin' that body! See you at the batchelorette party!

*Note to all my brothers -- I love you all the same, really, regardless of race, creed, or color.

Is this bathing suit too small, or am I too fat?

I realized last week that I will be watching my kids swim every day for the rest of the summer. While tiring, this is a pretty good gig. I put my orange hat on, slather my white children with sunscreen, [FN: Mr. B asks for sunscreen, because like most men he is always looking for a free backrub, so I pretend to slather some on him, too.] sit next to Ms. L and spend the rest of the afternoon squinting and yelling, "That's too deep!," "Get off of him!" and, my favorite, "It's not time for lunch yet!"

The two suits I bought last year are not going to be enough. The "bridal suit," as I think of it, is adorable and easily ruined, being white and ethereal, like its owner. As a result, I don't really want to wear it to the local lakes, or more importantly, the restrooms at the local lakes (last trip to the lake I took children to the restroom about 500 times). Let's put it this way -- there are no attendants passing out mints at state park restrooms.

The black one-piece suit is good, but let's face it, it's been under a lot of, shall we say, pressure, over the last year. Certain seams and wires can only withstand so much. Also, let's face it, a girl deserves a new bathing suit each year. It's part of what gives her the courage to go to the beach practically unclothed.

So I turned to my life coach/personal shopper, Ms. L and said, "Why haven't you bought me a new bathing suit this year?" She said, "Oh, I didn't know you wanted one! I have a few that I found that are on sale, let's take a look!" [FN: Certain remarks she had made about my black bathing suit were what sowed the seeds of my discontent in the first place, so I don't know why I had to even have the conversation, honestly.] Ms. L is frighteningly knowledgeable about where to find good bathing suits on the internet. Much like The Girl with Dragon Tattoo doing a background check, she trolls around at high speeds, knowing just where to find suits for every budget, body type and need. It's a little disconcerting. [FN: I wonder how much teaching she actually does. . . ]

We settled on a gray suit that is very similar to my black one, and, in a leap of faith, an awesome black bikini. [FN: It has little see-through stripes around a square neckline. So cute!] Both were, while on sale, very expensive. Total Package did not believe, upon reviewing our credit card report, that I spent that much on just two bathing suits, but I had, and it was worth it! As I'm sure you understand, I would be happy to plate my ass in gold if I thought it would make me look good on the beach. Who wouldn't?

Unfortunately, the bikini is just a little too tight. This was confirmed by Thorn. I pointed and said, "This is the problem, right here." and she said, "Yeah, if you could get rid of that, it would look nice." Unfortunately, we were pointing to part of my anatomy, and that is not very easy to alter.

The suit may do its job and inspire me, however. The fed ex guy knocked on the front door just as I was dishing ice cream out to the kids. I took the suits out, put them on a counter, then dished out the ice cream. Then I had a banana.

Good Morning, Monday! Do you feel real?

I was on the phone with my sister this morning [Footnote: The other day my son, Mr. B, asked me if Ted was my sister. I said, "Yes, yes he is." However, don't be confused, this morning I was on the phone with my other sister, Ms. L]. I heard my kids arguing in the next room, and my youngest started to cry. She ran into the room, sobbing, and she said, "Mr. B says that Darth Vader is going to cut me in half with his light saber."

I told her that Darth Vader is not real, and light sabers are not real, [Footnote: Actually, someone, somewhere, has probably developed a light saber, and nylons that don't run, and alcohol that gets you drunk without a hangover, but we commoners will never see them.] and even if they were real, Darth Vader would not be attacking my Bean, because she is not under the auspices of the Empire, and as far as I know, has not joined the Resistance. Also, Bean really likes to get along with people, and is pretty understanding, so I think that she might have a shot at turning Darth Vader away from the Dark Side. Certainly a better shot than that puling, whiny wuss Luke Skywalker had.

Discussions about what is "real" get very heated around here. Total Package tells our kids that everything he likes, for example, E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark (excluding the last movie, which was a train wreck), the Fonz, Star Wars, etc. are real. I think it's important for my kids to know that a Southeast Asian man cannot use magic and chanting to rip their hearts from their chests, so I am a little less whimsical. I think that this is an especially important lesson, given that their pediatrician is from India.

I try to be clear without being repressive. I was driving through the countryside, coming home from my weekly trek to pick up vegetables from the CSA, when I had to try and explain a similar misunderstanding to my nephew, Mr. Pants.

Me: Look, boys, there's a pony!
Pants: Is it a pony or a horse?
Me: I can't tell by looking, it could be a pony or a horse, but it's pretty small, so I bet it's a pony.
Pants: Too bad it doesn't have a horn. We should get a pony with a horn. Did your pony have a horn?
Me: Those are called unicorns, and they're not real. They're imaginary.
Pants: But I've seen them on T.V.
Me: They are beautiful, but they are imaginary.
Pants: What about the pony with a horn on My Pretty Ponies?
Me: Those ponies are pretend - they are pink and purple and blue. Real ponies are black and brown and white and don't have horns.
Pants: Cows have horns.
Me: Yes, but not just one horn on their forehead, and ponies and horses don't have horns, like unicorns. It would be fun, but it's just in our imaginations.
Pants: I'd going to get a unicorn.
Mr. B: We should both get unicorns.
Me: Sounds good. Please get me one, too. I'd like a pink one.

You see how these conversations run. I answer their questions, but tell them they can believe whatever they want in the end. After all, you can't push Santa Claus on one hand, but turn your nose up at unicorns. People certainly believe in things that are much harder to swallow than unicorns, like frozen yoghurt, for instance.

I do draw the line at scary stuff. TP said that the fairies must have done something this morning, and Bean scoffed and said there was no such thing as fairies. A few moments later, when my oldest, Thorn, was describing a trip to a cemetery, Bean told her to be careful in cemetaries, because that's where zombies come from. I told her in no uncertain terms that there were no zombies. Later in the day, she ascertained that it is impossible to prove a negative ("But Mom, you can't know EVERYTHING, so you don't know for sure."). I therefore took a different tack. I told her I was really old, and all her grandparents and great-grandmother and aunts and uncles were really old, and none of us had ever seen or heard of a real zombie, so she didn't have to worry about them. That impressed her, mostly because she can't quite believe how old we all are. She was also talking about going to a cemetery with my mother-in-law to visit TP's grandmother's grave. I'm not sure if that is because she is now certain there are no zombies (which I am very confident about, honestly) or if she is just double-checking my work.

Back to this morning, while I was on the phone with my actual sister, simultaneously convincing Bean that as a non-rebel, she was safe from Empire reprisals, Ms. L was trying to calm down her kids. Her three-year-old, Cookie, had swallowed a penny, which his more cautious siblings feared was an instant death sentence. They were all screaming, "He swallowed it! It was a penny! It could have been a dime! He swallowed it!" Baby C was loading up the car for a trip to the hospital. Mr. Pants was trying to argue that Cookie probably had never actually swallowed anything, he just said he did, so he'd be OK. I think I am more likely to see Cookie eat a penny than to ride a unicorn, so I have to disagree with Mr. Pants on this one. Unfortunately for Ms. L, I think hunting for unicorns would be a lot more fun than hunting for pennies will be.

So much to tell you all!

As you all know, I was in Nantucket last weekend. Lots and lots to tell you all about that!

To summarize, TP and I were together constantly, and biked a total of about 40 miles, so we got some excellent exercise. We ate large bagel-ious and other starch heavy breakfasts (don't tell MY MOTHER), skipped lunch, and then had fantastic, huge dinners at hip, expensive restaurants. TP ate more than I did at these extravaganzas, though I certainly put in a yeoman's effort.

As of today, TP is three pounds lighter than he was before the vacation, while I gained three pounds. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE, I ASK YOU? I wouldn't mind if he just wasn't so damned happy about it. (Though I guess I do get a payoff, too, which I will probably try and collect on tonight, so I'm not complaining.)

To combat this distressing trend, I just brewed a pot of mint tea, and I will continue to try and flush the poisons out of my plump little body.

Other things you should know about my vacation:

I tooled around in a happy orange hat for much of our four days there. Bet you can't say the same! I know most of you are too cool for a little orange fisherman's hat. Too bad for you, folks! I can't wear sunglasses because I am hopelessly cross-eyed (Emphasize the HOPELESS -- I recently had this diagnosis confirmed at Children's Hospital, to the tune of $1,500.00. You would think for $1,500.00 they would have thrown in a pair of B cups, but all I got was dilated pupils and some sad head-shaking.) [Footnote: My Ancestry.com research (I have a lot of hot hobbies) has determined that my cross-eyes are of Irish origin. My great-grandfather, Dr. Lawrence Henry Goodwin Collier, a.k.a. "Dr. Can't keep it in his pants" named his illegitimate son Lawrence Goodwin. Turns out Dr. Collier's mother's maiden name was Goodwin. I was contacted by a Goodwin cousin, and they are all cross-eyed. I don't know if there are a lot of cross-eyed, Irish broads out there, but there you go, you know at least one! They also have heart problems and are mostly left-handed. Haven't determined if any of them also enjoy knitting and romance novels, but I have not completed my research.]

My HOPELESS crossed-eyes mean I only look out of one eye at a time, so I can't wear glasses or sunglasses, so I needed the cute, goofy hat to protect my eyes from the sun. It may not have been a perfect solution, but I bet I made a lot of friends/admirers, so I'm not complaining.

Another nugget I need to share with you:
Certain foods are very hot on Nantucket right now. Grits, for instance, showed up on multiple menus (I discovered I loved grits, not surprisingly, though I had not had them before. Or if I had had, they were called, "polenta"). Also, lots of confits, though it seemed to mean something different every time. As far as I can tell, they mostly used it to mean, "cooked, mashed up bits of meat." Churros and foi gras also seemed ever-present, which was a good thing, and probably responsible for some of those pounds I gained. Finally, lots of local veggies, including a kale caesar salad, which I enjoyed. A kale caesar salad is such a health food corruption, kind of like a wheat-grass cocktail, or seeing the pope give someone a [insert favorite sex act that you think the pope might be good at]. [Footnote: I would go with strip-tease.]

Last Nantucket Nugget for this evening:
Cucumber water. WOW! I'm going to buy one of those upside-down pitcher things, with the spouts? Know what I'm talking about? Then I'm going to have a lady party, and we are all going to drink refreshing cucumber water (which, by the way, is not fattening) and play canasta or maj jong or dominoes, (because I am open to games of all races) under an umbrella in my backyard. Seriously, I want to have a party just for the water. I don't even like cucumbers, AT ALL, in ANY circumstance, and I thought this water was delicious.

So, it's like I always say, you travel the world and you get a silly hat and fall in love with grits and cucumber water. Can you imagine what would happen if I went to a different state?

Anniversary Post

Yesterday was my parents' 20,000th wedding anniversary.  Seriously, they were married forty-three years ago.  Luckily for me and my inheritance, that was before I was born, which I have always found vaguely surprising, considering their subsequent inability to avoid conception.

Therefore it might be a nice time to consider how they've done it.  MY MOTHER, despite her strong personality and decided opinions, is actually very easy to live with.  She has good hygiene.  She practices what she preaches.  She has good posture.  She is rarely twitchy and never picks at her skin or scratches herself (probably because of the good hygiene -- there's a little life-lesson for you, kids!)

Seriously, though, as I sit here on vacation, waiting for my husband, the self-dubbed Total Package, to finish his work so I can go to the beach and get a sunburn, I think the thing I like most about MY MOTHER is that she is UP FOR ANYTHING.  Want to go on a bike ride?  Sure.  Want to have a drink or four?  Sure.  Want to host a few weddings?  No problem.  Want to make fifty fruit and coffee cakes for everyone you know every Christmas?  Time to put a smile on, roll your sleeves up and start chopping walnuts!

Now, you'd think most people would be that way, because it's definitely the way to have the most fun and get the most done.  If you don't go up to bat, you never hit a home run, dipstick.  However, most people are tired, or lazy, or pretty lame, actually, so they don't have evening cookouts on the beach or roller blade in the rain like MY MOTHER.  They don't ski like maniacs or paint their daughters' kitchens.  They don't call every like-minded voter to protect the Town's open space or schools.  And they don't laugh at themselves and everything else that strikes them as funny as they move through their day.

Bruce Springsteen once said, by way of my little brother, J Monster, MY MOTHER "has the heart of a ballerina."  I used to think that was a little prissy and delicate for my earthy, gardening, sexy mum.  However, then I remembered a ballerina's feet.  Nasty!  Those bitches go for it!  It hurts, but they twirl on, and they love it!  So I think Bruce and J Monster were right, and MY MOTHER and her heart are pretty cool to be married to, and to have in your life at all, actually.  I recommend doing something awesome with her, if you get the chance.

Mr. Lasagna, a.k.a., Daddy to a large group of lucky people, also has good hygiene, though he can be pretty gross on occasion (this site is too classy for any of those stories  -- quick two words -- bucket and boat).  He can whistle between his teeth, which he does when he is happy, and he pretends to know a great deal about wildlife.  This impresses those of his grandchildren that can't read.  Finally, he is fun to play cards with, as long as you remember that you wouldn't actually "get shot in Vegas" for dropping a card, something that has prevented me from braving that metropolis to this day.

Seriously, I think Mr. Lasagna is perfect for MY MOTHER because he thinks BIG.  If you are hanging with someone who is UP FOR ANYTHING  you better have some crazy cliff diving-type river rapids for her to dive into.  I also truly believe that if you have an over-inflated concept of what you can do, you often accomplish stuff that wasn't actually possible.  You can WILL things into being.  Hence the six kids (most of whom are pretty cool), the house expanded, the garage built, the tennis court built, the four houses built/renovated for his kids, the local laws passed, 1,000 + acres of land preserved, etc., etc. 

And he's funny (though not as funny as he thinks he is).  Which has kept them laughing and probably kept him alive.

Well, enough of this love-fest.  What have we learned today?  One, be UP FOR ANYTHING.  Two, you CAN do it (even if you actually can't).  And, three, try and get a good laugh in, no matter what you are into at the moment. 

I'm off to find TP.

The Coarsening of my Delicate Sensibilities

Once upon a time, I had standards.  I ate off my own plate with my own utensils.  If food fell on the floor, I threw it out.  I wore clean clothes that were ironed and in good repair.  I wore earrings every day.  I was positively uptight about bodily fluids.  I would say the same about my husband.  We were clean, well-groomed and proud of it!  Now?  Not so much.

I blame my children.  And it started right at the beginning.  Try giving birth sometime.  For those of you that have not seen a birth, it's not something you want to do on a white couch.  Or even in your home.  Blood, mucus, vomit, poop -- it's not for the faint of heart.

Then bring the baby home.  Suddenly, for the first time in your life (unless you are a medical professional or a pervert), you are being peed, pooped and vomited on.  My youngest daughter, The Bean, once pooped across the room.  She was a teensie little infant on her white changing table, on a white blanket, in a white outfit, and I took her pants off to change her diaper.  There was a bureau with a pile of white cloths on it across the room.  She she shot out this liquid, mustardy poop that splattered all over her, the changing table AND the whole bureau.  It was amazing in all the worst ways.

Do you let people you aren't boinking have a sip of your drink?  I didn't until I had kids.  I still resist it, but sometimes when it's a choice between giving one of them a sip of water or getting up and pouring another one for them, I give up.  And I was much more particular about my hair and clothes when I was the only person I was dressing.  Now if someone notices I've lost a button, I like to pretend that it "must have just fallen off." I have one jacket I've worn that way for four years.
Ever reached down a full toilet to get a tube of toothpaste or other dropped item?  Not cool, but often necessary when your five-year-old is an uncoordinated pain-in-the-ass who wants to "do it herself."  It breaks something in you.  The scary part is that then you have to defend throwing the item out, like you're the unreasonable one.

The girls are nothing compared to the boys, though.  As you probably know, my son, Mister B, is a gorgeous, sweet little man.   Unfortunately, hygiene is not his strong suit.  Many a time, we have found an unflushed toilet in the bathroom, BUT THERE'S NO TOILET PAPER IN THE BOWL.  Think about it.  It's upsetting.

On the upside, his revolting personal habits do pay his sisters back for the emotional torture he's undergone at their hands for the last six years.  This morning, my oldest daughter, who's self proclaimed rock n' roll name is "Thorn," ran downstairs screeching.  She explained that Mister B had overshot some pee onto the floor, and then wiped it up with a towel.  So far, so good for Mister B.  Unfortunately, he then put the towel on the counter and Thorn used it to dry her face after her morning ablutions.   The worst thing about it is that TP and I really didn't think it was a big deal.  We both PRETENDED we were upset to mollify her, but after she went back upstairs, TP said, "I almost told her, 'It's only water.'"  The TP I fell in love with would not have thought it was only water, but then, that innocent manchild had never have been forced to wipe his son's nose with his bare fingers in a moment of desperation, either.

I try not to worry too much about breakdown in standards.  There have been a lot of wet, rather disgusting kisses that I would never have missed along the way.

I'm back, baby!

As many of you know, one of my little cousins, Tootsie, is getting married on August 18th, less than two months away!!!!!! As such, Tootsie is officially nominated, "My Favorite Damned Cousin" for the rest of the summer. She is my little cousin, because she's much younger than me (Five years!) and she's tiny (rumor has it the bitch has been eating kale for lunch every day). [Footnote: Kale is gross. I know it's good for you, but I just cooked about four pounds of it for dinner last night, and I wouldn't eat it even if it were dipped in chocolate.]

Despite her lean, young body, and her repulsive eating habits, she is really awesome, and she mentioned to me when I last saw her that she used to read my blog when she needed a break at work. A multitude of other readers (four or five hundred) have also asked that I re-start the blog. I have therefore decided to come out of retirement (much like Brett Favre, but without the dirty pictures) and give these blog entries to Tiny Tootsie as a little wedding present. [Footnote: Tell your husband-to-be that that will not negatively impact the size of the actual present. I am not one of those jerks who "helps someone move," or "reupholsters a chair" for a wedding present. You will get your chunk of change, as is your due. By the way, did anyone else know how to spell "reupholster?" I had to look it up -- why do we spell that that way? Should be "reapolster," yes?]

I have already completed much of my Wedding Checklist, which I am sure you are very concerned about. Step one -- Killer dress/shoes/earrings. Went to Pilgrim's Progress, the best clothing store in the world, so done. Just a piece of advice when you are a smokin' (or slightly charred) lady dressing for a wedding in August -- It's going to be hot, and you are going to dance your patottie off. Dress for sweating. My dress is strappy, floaty and fantastic, so I'm all set. If any of you try and wear the same thing, I'll claw your eyes out. That includes you, Miss R who works upstairs. I'm watching you.

Step two -- Make hair appointment. Done. No roots allowed at the wedding.

Step three -- Get in shape. Done. My main squeeze, TP ("Total Package"), and I just completed the Insanity workouts. Nine weeks, six days a week. I eat lightning and I defecate thunder. I AM AS STRONG AS AN OX. I look back fondly on giving birth after finishing those videos. Seriously, I would be happy to prove it by beating up the bully of your choice.

Step four -- Get thin. Having a little more difficulty with this one. Quelle Surprise! Seriously, I've once more lost the ten pounds that I've lost and gained about six times in the past five years, so that is good. Unfortunately, I have not progressed beyond that. So here I am at 130 pounds again, well-muscled, with a layer of fat over what I hope is a killer body.

Also unfortunate is the fact that I have not grown. I am still at 5'3", with no boobs, shoulders or hips to speak of. If I were not 5'6", or a D cup, the math would be much more in my favor. Now that I am in my forties, I think hoping for a growth spurt is overly optimistic, however, so I think I am going to have to eat less.

So there it is! Time for another journey! Can I lose ten pounds in eight weeks? A NEW ten pounds, that is? Yes, I can! I'm in shape (albeit well-padded shape), so the rest should be easy (or easier).

To kick off this journey, TP and I are going to go to Nantucket for four days and nights. We've already made reservations at four different incredibly decadent restaurants, so I should lose some weight on the trip without even trying. That's my motto, "Set yourself up for success!"

Hope you enjoy the posts, and please let the other cool cats know I've started up again! Love you!

Big K

So Hungry. . .

. . .can't write. Have chewed own lips off because they smelled like strawberry lip gloss. Bit client at meeting that smelled like smoked turkey. Becoming a danger to those around me. Must go to bed and hope for fuller days.

(Seriously, I am hungry, but mostly I'm exhausted from my meeting. Will post on the morrow.)

My Weekend with the Soul Man - Second Post of the Day

You get to know a person in a new way when they are a guest in your home. My cousin, Senor J.J. has stayed at my home many times, and he is usually an easy guest. However, the weekend before the wedding, we sunk to new lows.

First off, he totally faked me out. He said he was coming to visit on Saturday, then he called on Friday and said that he would not be coming due to the weather.

I slept late on Saturday. Granted, my children woke me up a couple of times and asked for food, but trust me, after throwing them some scraps I fell right back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't be seeing Johnny Cookbooks until Sunday.

When I finally dragged my butt out of bed, I realized that the weather was perfectly clear. I tracked J.J. down, and sure enough he was on his f-ing way. Now, he knows I'm a lazy slob that does everything at the last minute, so I don't really know what he was thinking. When he arrived I was wrestling two naked children into their clothes while simultaneously begging MY HUSBAND to take out the garbage. Not exactly a welcoming environment.

Let me also remind you that I was trying to lose weight so there was no food in the house. I sent MY HUSBAND out for panini supplies and proceeded to feed the poor boy leftover pizza and panini for lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch and another dinner. I would have felt badly about this, but the little bastard 1) Seemed to enjoy them; and 2) Kept offering to finish my panini. For example, I would eat half a panini and he would say, "Don't you want me to eat the second half for you? I'm willing to do that on your butt's behalf." I did manage to eat less due to his assistance, but I can't say it made me happy.

His accomodations were horrible in other ways. My daughter asked why he couldn't just sleep with me, as MY HUSBAND was away for the night. I tried to explain to her that that would be weird. When she asked why, I told her that he kicks a lot, which I bet is true. I also bet he steals all the covers and talks in his sleep.

[FN: I would bet that the worst cousin to sleep with is still Senor J.B., however. I know from personal experience that he kicks, spins, steals the covers and snores. He may be a cutie, but the women of the world should avoid him like the plague. Of course, my information is based on his behavior when he was five years old, but I doubt it has changed much in the last 15 years. He's a menace.]

We did manage to practice a couple of songs for the rehearsal dinner and wedding with our comrades. We also stayed up until midnight talking "Of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings." If you appreciate this kind of discussion, J.J. is one of the best people in the world to talk to.

Unfortunately, I could not inflate the air mattress because I mistakenly thought the air pump was uncharged, when actually I just was using it wrong. So I set up a very comfortable crib mattress, complete with ancient afghans and a new pillow (this ain't the Ritz, folks). I think that his right leg got a good night's sleep, but the rest of him was basically on the floor, and was up for most of the night.

I hid him in the parlor, and in the morning my kids couldn't find him. I heard them going from room to room looking for him so they could wake him at an ungodly hour. Eventually they located him and swarmed him, which was pretty bold, considering the amount of sleep he didn't get.

In the future, when J.J. returns (hopefully with his beautiful and sweet wife, Mdme. A) I will make sure that we have set up the new double bed. I will also be sure to vary the fare a little more, as the effect of all those panini on J.J. was pretty clear (he clogged my toilet).

While I can hope that future visits are more civilized, and that we have more time to play more music, and less time being swarmed by young children, I know that I will always enjoy hanging out with my friend and cousin, the Soul Man.

Girl Scouts of America -- The Devil's Handmaidens

I know I promised y'all a post about a certain soul-patchy gentleman, but I'm afraid that I have to address an emergency situation first

The Girl Scout Cookies are in.

Now, I don't buy Girl Scout Cookies. They are fattening crap that I find irresistible, and as such have no place in my home. Unfortunately, MY HUSBAND, while he agrees with me, always manages to bring these little torments into my life every year, just when I am working the hardest to lose weight.

This year he bought nine boxes from four different people. I understand that he had to buy some from our niece -- I'm happy to support her cookie selling endeavors. However, couldn't he have told everyone else he bought cookies from that he had already ordered some? One would think so.

This was a light year, actually, because MY HUSBAND is being really good about his diet and working out right now. He therefore bought just enough cookies to fatten me up and give the kids a treat. On his "cheat day" this weekend he'll eat a box of Thin Mints and be sated. Usually he would buy closer to 20 boxes -- I shit you not -- so he is practicing restraint. A charity that sells cookies? The man can't help himself.

When we didn't know any Girl Scouts, back in our Newton days, he cruised the supermarkets looking for kids in green sashes. If he was unsuccessful, he would actually go straight to the local distribution center, which happened to be in Newton.

Are the cookies that great? Let's discuss them.

Samoas, or Carmel deLites -- Coconut has no place in a cookie. The only food that should have coconut in it is Auntie K's Crispy Coconut Chicken, in which coconut is added to the breadcrumb coating. It was discovered when an enterprising homemaker (me) had leftover coconut she had to get rid of. Otherwise, coconut sucks out loud.

Do-Si-Dos or Peanut Butter Sandwich -- The name alone catapults it to greatness -- they do-si-do right into your mouth. A very good cookie, provided you have milk or tea. Too dry otherwise.

Tagalongs or Peanut Butter Patties -- Despite the silly name, these are really good. I ate about 10 last night.

Thank U Berry Munch -- Not even worth my consideration.

Lemonades -- The Richard Dreyfuss of cookies. Not your first choice, better than you remember them as, but ultimately annoying.

Dulce de Leche -- Too sweet. They are supposed to be modeled after a latin american treat, but they just wish they were chocolate chip cookies.

Lemon Chalet Cremes -- The Nicole Kidman of cookies. Trying to be elegant and refined, but only managing to be sharp and bitter. Has she ever been good or appealing in a movie? Is she only famous because she married Tom Cruise? At least Katie Holmes seems pleasant when she slaughters her lines. Don't bother eating these cookies.

Thanks-A-Lot -- Actually, no thank you. Just not enough chocolate for this broad. If you are going to be chocolate, be chocolate. I could draw parallels in Hollywood, but most of them are racist, so I will not go there.

Trefoils/Shortbread and Shout Outs -- Don't waste my time. Not worth the calories.

Thin Mints -- The Queen of the Girl Scout Cookie lineup. Their Tom Brady, their Robert De Niro, their Will Farrell. A really good cookie that doesn't have a counterpart in regular grocery store cookies. I think these cookies are why MY HUSBAND insists on buying Girl Scout Cookies, and the reason why I am always stuck with all the others.

Moral of the story -- Don't buy Girl Scout Cookies. Most of them are crap. If you must buy some, only buy the Thin Mints and the Peanut Butter kinds. If your spouse buys them, give them your children and nieces/nephews (it's what my kids are getting for dinner if he brings any more home). Thank God they come in such small boxes!

P.S. The slogan on the website is "To Help Girls do Great Things." I say "Piss off, Girl Scouts, for profitting from my pain!"

It Ain't Over 'Til the Fat Lady Sings (Again)

I have been asked countless times, (well at least once) whether this blog is over now that my brother and his mate have successfully been wed. The answer, for now, is "no." I still have 6.5 pounds to lose. It might not be a good idea to mention this to my husband, however, as he suffers under the delusion that I would get more housework done if I was not blogging. We all know that I only get housework done at gunpoint, so I don't know why he thinks there's any correlation, but I guess he's just being hopeful.

I also have a boatload of stories to share from the wedding and events leading up to it, so I can't sign off just yet.

I had grand plans of beginning fresh on Sunday or Monday, but I just haven't been able to muster any energy to write. Seriously, my feet are still sore from cutting up that rug Saturday night. Tomorrow morning will therefore mark two fresh starts -- Mdme. L and I will be attending Candy's step class from hell, and I'll also post a new entry, which I like to call, "How to Entertain a Man with a Soul Patch."

Until then, my friends,
Big K

The Best Meal I Ever Had

I once read that if you ask an Italian who their favorite chef is, or where one can get the best meal in town, they will respond, "At my great-aunt Nazarina's house" or, if they are politic, "My wife makes the best meal in town." I understood what they meant immediately, as the best food I have ever eaten was made by people in my family or my husband's family. (All of the women in my family are accomplished cooks, as are many of the men. My husband's sister and my mother-in-law are also da bomb -- for instance, my mother-in-law is a genius with chicken cutlets.)

Imagine my dismay this evening, then. Tomorrow night is the rehearsal dinner, and I'm sure it will be lovely. I am also looking forward to the food at the wedding on Saturday, which sounds great. However, let's get real. The best place to eat in Sturbridge is 19 Orchard Road, home of over 300 sprouted bulbs, an army of quince branches and MY MOTHER AND FATHER. Tonight MY MOTHER served Mmlle. W's family some mushrooms (stuffed with ricotta, prosciutto and spinach), lasagna (not MY FATHER, real lasagna), chicken and wine, greens with roasted pine nuts, asparagus and chocolate mouse for dessert. HOW GOOD WAS THAT, DAMMIT?!? I had half a luna bar for dinner. Yuck. Mdme. L and I planned on showing up to "do the dishes" and then steal all the leftovers, which we know will be gone by Sunday, but it was just a fantasy. We knew we'd never get away with it.

And no, I still haven't lost any weight. I think I might have to get radical tomorrow and drink some homemade juice and some of the more SERIOUS teas I have described in earlier posts.

On a more positive note, I got spray tanned today, so I am a nice pale orange color, which has literally brightened my day. Luckily, the only decent clothes I own are black, so I'll be able to pull off a cool Halloween vibe this weekend.

I have to go to bed now. Tomorrow MY HUSBAND is picking up Gramma B. He called her earlier today, so they could plan their little date. He's already explained to me that he has to get up early to bring the car to the car wash and vacuum it. I could give birth in that car (I thought that I was going to, at one point), and he wouldn't clean it for me. He's absolutely gleeful, because while I am cleaning the house and getting ready for the wedding, he'll be gossiping and dissecting current events with Gramma B. I'll be lucky if he doesn't run off with her.

I am kind of excited to clean the house without any kids or husbands in the way. I'd be more excited if someone else would clean it without me in the way, but I'm trying to be "glass half full" here. When my children are not home, and they are pretty much always home, so it doesn't happen often, I can hide all their toys in the cellar. This does two things: 1) Allows me to have a clean house until they find the toys again, and sometimes they NEVER find them again; and 2) Gives the mice more toys to play with and keeps them busy. I now hate toys almost as much as I hate mice. I've never liked toys very much, honestly, or children. Or animals. They don't have any good stories. Give me an old person who was in a war any day. Then you're going to hear a goddamned story.

I just heard a mouse trap go off. That's my cue to go to bed, the evening's murder having been accomplished.

A Little Frustrated

Stardate, 2/9/11. Still no weight loss on the frozen planet of Sturbridge. Hunger is endangering indigenous population. Productivity low. Walked three miles today in an attempt to boost metabolism. Had bowl of soup and raisins for lunch. Consumption patterns becoming strange. Still angry that mailman stole my cheese.

I have to stop writing like Captain Kirk from Star Trek to explain that last one. On Friday Mdme. L went to Plymouth with our parents to buy an outfit for the wedding (I know -- that's a long way to go, but there's a very nice boutique there. . . ). Her nefarious plan was to drop some cheese at my house, so I would be able to make pizza later. I would then feed the pizza to our combined pool of children. According to MY MOTHER, they placed the cheese in the mailbox. When I returned home and checked, however, THERE WAS NO CHEESE. Now I know that people are not supposed to put stuff in mailboxes, other than mail, and MY MOTHER has actually gotten in trouble with "The Man" for doing this in the past. Also, my flag was up because we were returning a movie to Netflix. I think the mailman took the movie. . . and the cheese.

I drove by him the next day, and he presented a bland, blameless countenance, but I could smell the guilt on him.

Of course, MY HUSBAND was glad that the cheese escaped us, because he doesn't believe cheddar has any place on pizza. My little RAVIOLI thinks it's "wrong." You can't please all of the people all of the time, especially if you regularly include certain people in "all of the people."

We are trying to be better about returning Netflix movies. We had "The Wrestler" for two years.

Sorry for my Silence!

I've never had to say that before. "Silence" is kind of a foreign concept for me.

I haven't written because I'm lazy and tired. I find when I'm lazy and tired, I don't write anything funny, and then I get shit from some of my more discriminating readers (Mdme. L, in other words). However, many of my readers have felt a void in their lives because I haven't written for a few days (well, one lonely little reader emailed me and asked me to write. She is now my favorite, most pathetic cousin. Her name rhymes with "Lia." Go give her a hug.), so I figured I'd better get on the stick.

I have a few topics I need to discuss. First off, no, I haven't lost any more weight. Still at 126.5. On the upside, I haven't gained any weight, either, so things could be worse. I also can tell that I will be thinner tomorrow (dammit) because I am REALLY empty and hungry right now. There is a story, involving eating tiny pumpkin muffins, a clogged toilet and a crib mattress as to why I haven't lost more weight, but I am not at liberty to divulge it until after the wedding, for reasons I will make clear next week. All you need to know right now is that I ate too much this past weekend to lose any weight (piss off, those of you who are judging me. I know who you are.).

Next topic -- unfortunately, I discovered anew last week that MY HUSBAND is capable of rendering me almost crippled in about half an hour. I could barely walk. For three days the pain in my legs and butt was excruciating. My muscles screamed when I climbed the stairs. You might be saying, "My husband/wife/trick I picked up at the bus stop/ did the same thing to me last week." However, when MY HUSBAND decimated me it was not with bedroom acrobatics like the "Congress of the Flying Blue Monkey" or a pair of gravity boots -- that I would have applauded. Instead he gave me about half a dozen exercises to do in the cellar (while he watched -- he likes watching me exercise so he can point out errors in my form while he admires my form, IF you know what I mean). I should have known he was tougher than someone named "Candy," but he is so much more elegant than Candy that he had me fooled.

Sadly enough, kicking my ass in a workout class isn't that difficult. A four hundred year old woman taught the class at the Y on Monday (she looks great for her age) and she totally beat me up. Let's call her Sadie the Sadist. The class was a little slower than it usually was (the albums Sadie was playing on her gramophone kept slowing down whenever it needed to be cranked again) but when you have been around since before indoor plumbing like Sadie has, you can really power through those squats.

[FN: I really hope Sadie never reads this post, because I have nothing but respect for her, and I truly hope that Mdme. L and I can teach a similar class when we are Sadie's age in the morning, before we go to our library job. "Didn't I see you at that class we teach at the Y this morning, dear? Did we make you throw up again? Lovely. Have you read this book about an irrisistable, rangy, billionaire cowboy in Montana? Great scene on the back of that horse -- it gets my "Five Heart" rating!"]

Before I sign off, I'd like to remind my readers that Valentine's Day is a week from yesterday. You really should either, 1) Do something thoughtful for that special someone; or 2) Make a date with a stranger that you think you can lure into your bed. I actually saw an item in Martha Stewart Living Magazine that I am going to get for MY RAVIOLI -- a hot water bottle. Martha suggested that you sew a cunning little flannel bag to put it in, but I think he will have to happy with a bow. Our bed is so cold when we get into it (I don't heat my bedroom with the express purppose of keeping the children out of it. If they dare to open our door, an arctic blast pushes them right back into their heated bedrooms.), and my feet just torture him. I would love to get one of those bed warming pans that you fill with coals and pass under the sheets, but then I would need servants, so that probably isn't very practical. I also worry that the coals would set the bed on fire.

Once he warms up the bed, we're fine, but those first few minutes are kind of rough, so I think the hot water bottle will be a big hit. I would be interested to know what others are planning for Valentine's Day. I think I am going to "strongly suggest" that MY RAVIOLI take me out to dinner on the 21st. "Strongly suggesting" what you want for gifts is a very good marriage strategy.

I'd better pack it in now and go to bed. I am freezing and starving. I am already cold, even before I have made it to my room, because I have stopped using heat on my first floor in an attempt to punish the mouse population. I got a letter from their attorney requesting that I keep the heat to at least 60 degrees, but as they A) Don't have a lease; B) Tried to eat my Godiva cocoa; C) Don't pay rent; and D) I'm trying to kill them with traps, I don't think they're going to get very far. Their attorney is really taking their money under false pretenses.

Emergency Update!

125.5! Actuallly, it was more complicated than that, as everything is. It took me about 10 minutes to figure out how much I actually weigh. I stepped on the scale and it flashed 126, then 127. So I got off the scale, and tried again. I did not move it (if you move the scale in my bathroom from where it is right now, the floor is so uneven that it screws the whole thing up) and when I stepped on it again and it read 125.5. Then I tried it again, and it said 125.5 again, so that's what I'm sticking to.

Seriously, I can also tell that I lost weight because I look thinner. My stomach looks more like a "waist," and less like a "belly." The bones of my face are emerging from the mask that they've been under for so long. I don't have very strong bones in my face (MY MOTHER did not see fit to pass on her beautiful jaw) so I really can't mess around. As many of you are related to me, I know you know exactly what I'm talking about, poor things.

No Progress Today

Still at 127. Sigh.

I am very motivated, however, despite my lack of progress. I tried on the outfit that I want to wear for the wedding. I look much better in it than the last time I tried it on two years ago, which is gratifying. However, things are still a little lumpy, if you know what I mean, so I'm not letting up.

MY HUSBAND approved it, which reassures me, because he is an exacting exquisite when it comes to matters of dress. When asked, he ruled that my upper arms did not resemble tube socks, but that it would not hurt to focus some more exercises on them specifically. I feel that this was a fair assessment.

My kids also liked the outfit, and tried to stroke it with their grubby little hands. I am also reassured, because I know that my eight year old would definitely have told me if I looked fat, even though I didn't ask her that question. If I bend over and my pants slip down a little (something that happens often -- a very attractive trait I inherited from MY FATHER) she pulls them up. It makes her nuts. I think if she were in charge of my consumption, I would be starved to a frazzle in about two weeks.

By the by, I highly recommend the spray tanning. I am deathly pale in the winter, and it really has taken the edge off. This is especially true of my arms and neck. I don't think it's as essential for a more dark-skinned person, like my PIC, but I thought she looked good, too. Ironically, although these little beauty schemes are born of her fertile little brain, she is very impatient with their execution. I think this time that she is willing to go back again a couple of days before the wedding, however.

One important note about spray tanning -- don't wear any deodorant. My armpits look like someone was finger painting on them.

I had some chicken salad and a bowl of soup for lunch, and I'm pretty much done for the day. I may force down a few bites of broccoli to encourage my kids to eat it. I walked 2.5 miles on the treadmill. I should have run, but I just didn't have it in me.

Tomorrow I'm going to work out with MY HUSBAND, which should burn a lot of calories. Letting MY HUSBAND write up a workout for me, which he is very good at, is very similar to taking a class from Candy at the YMCA. Lots of old school lunges, push ups and sit ups. Lots of hardcore cardio. Screaming muscles the next day. The advantage to working out with MY HUSBAND, however, is that even at my most pathetic, it turns him on to see me sweat, and he rewards me accordingly. I don't seem to have that effect on Candy. Junk in the trunk must not be her thing.

Until tomorrow!

This Will be Brief. . .

because I am still worn out from my weekend. Saturday night we went out to celebrate Mademoiselle W, my brother's fiancé. Ironically, everyone there was younger than me but MY MOTHER, and she's the only one I couldn't keep up with. That scrawny little kitten's a lot of fun to party with.

This is not the place for me to re-cap the night. I don't want to get disbarred. Let's just say there was a sea of jello shots, Mlle. W was wearing my brother's underwear on her head at one point, and by the end of the night I was as cantankerous as Red Forman from "That 70's Show." Oh, and during the middle of the night MY MOTHER tried to cuddle up to my sister-in-law, because she thought it was MY FATHER.

[FN Next time you see MY FATHER and Mdme. S, please give each of them a hug and see if you could ever make the same mistake. Now, Mdme. S and MY MOTHER both have washboard stomachs (if they've had a drink, they will show you) so you could get those two hungry wenches confused, but MY FATHER? Ha, ha, he wishes.]

Anyway, while my behavior over all was NOT very good (For example, I stole Mlle. W's illustrated Kama Sutra, and I'm not giving it back to her until I've put little notes in it to help her out. She's from Illinois, after all), I was pretty good about food. I walked at home before we left, didn't eat any dinner, or chips, dips, brownies or Smartfood. Mdme. S buys it to taunt me. The next day I had an egg sandwich on a bagel with home fries for brunch, which was not too much food considering what I had been through the night before. It was wonderful, though the bagel was second rate. I also really don't like restaurant home fries that much. I wish we'd gone for lunch, so I could have had a hamburger and fries. I would eat a hamburger and fries for breakfast every day if I could. With a chocolate shake.

[FN In this Nirvana, after my burger breakfast, I'd have soup for lunch every day, with homemade tut-a-lings (yes, we really call them that). If you've never had my family's homemade tut-a-lings (a.k.a. tortellini) they are the best food in the universe. They are better than any pasta I have had in the United States (not surprising) or Italy (I was there for a week, so I'm quite the expert). They are served in a red broda (broth) and they are filled with meat and cheese. I hope you never try them, because if someone makes them for you, that's one less time that I got to have them (they take a lot of time to make). If I could, I would lock my grandmother up and make her make a certain quota each day. If she did not meet the quota, I would read ridiculously contrived novels to her until she moved her little butt (she's not a big Sci Fi fan). I bet one novel about robots would yield about a thousand tut-a-lings. Of course, if I did lock her up, my goddamned cousins would mug me and steal all the tut-a-lings she'd made for me, so it probably is just as well to let her run free. If you are reading this, Gramma, I'm not trying to be subtle. Feel free to finish working, go home and make some toots! Don't whine to me about being 87 and working full time, just get to work. Her generation just doesn't know how to work.]

I did have two small pieces of takeout pizza on Sunday as well, which was not a good idea, but as I said, I was running on fumes.

Today I had a chicken salad (chicken, fat free yogurt, nuts, dried cranberries and cumin -- got the recipe from my mother in law) on a wrap, and an apple. I'm hoping that I see 126.5 tomorrow. I'll let you know.

Jersey Shore, Here I Come!

No, I am not so lean and sexy that I belong on the beach, I just got a spray tan for the first time today. I haven't washed the "bronzer" off yet, so I look like Snookie from Jersey Shore. I'm hoping once I wash it off, I'll look like me again, only a couple of degrees darker.

If the idea of me getting spray tanned doesn't immediately make you giggle, let me explain. First of all, it wasn't my idea. I don't have ideas about "beauty treatments." Every new haircut, hair color, massage, pedicure, manicure, facial, make-up, etc. that I've tried in my life has been someone else's idea. In fact, almost all of them have been the brainchild of a certain person. Let's call this person my "Partner in Crime," or "PIC." They have requested that I keep their identity confidential. [FN They tried to get me not to write about the spray tanning at all, but that wasn't going to happen. Also, hopefully we'll be tan, so that's kind of a giveaway right there. When you haven't left Massachusetts for months, and there's three feet of snow outside, people notice if you're tan.]

I'd also like to point out that I don't usually have many ideas at all. I'm not very creative. What little inspiration I have I save for, (1) New foods I'd like to make. I'd really like to try baking empanadas and cakey cookies right now. (2) Music I'd like to play with my music buddies. I never actually get to play with them, but I think about it a lot. (3) Books I'd like to write if I wasn't so lazy. I have some intricate plots in my head that will never see the light of day, most of which heavily feature magic, romance and happy endings. No real literature allowed! (4) Silly things to put on my blog to make my family laugh. All of my ideas are more like useless distractions. PIC is much more creative, and one of the ways that she uses her surfeit of creativity is to try and improve my life (or to "fix me," depending on the mood she is in).

As usually happens when PIC has a brainchild, PIC called me and said that we were going to be too pale for the wedding, and should try spray tanning, to which I replied, "O.K." PIC then said that we should give it a test run a couple of weeks before the wedding, to which I replied, "O.K." Today PIC called and made the appointment, arranged the babysitting, and picked me up to go to the spray tanning place. When she called and told me, I said, "O.K." She then made me go first, in case the whole thing was a big mistake.

Which it may have been. The experience itself was painless, if chilly. I'm glad we just went for the waist up option, as it was bad enough to just have our shoulders, arms and faces sprayed with cold mist and air (we used strapless bras to preserve our modesty, though that didn't work out very well for me. As I said, it was cold.) Right after she sprayed us, we definitely looked better.

I'm curious to see what color I'm going to end up, however, because my son asked me, "Why is your head orange?" Of course, if I were black like he is, I wouldn't need to worry about this shit, so that was kind of a kick in the pants. I sometimes wonder if he is going to call his memoirs, "My Foolish White Parents and How I Overcame Them." However, my daughter also wanted to know, "What did you do to yourself?" when she got home from school, so maybe my son wasn't just rubbing in how beautiful his skin is all year.

Of course, we were told not to wash our hands for three hours, which I screwed up very quickly. My daughter pooped on the floor, and I'm sorry, but you have to wash your hands after you wash poop off of your daughter, toilet and floor. Oh, and the cracks on the floor. Don't forget them! I somehow doubt that Angelina Jolie has to deal with this when she gets spray tanned.

So, maybe this time PIC's brainchild will work out, maybe it won't. She has already washed off all of her bronzer (coward), so I'll let you know how "Snookie" I end up.

P.S. This morning I still weighed 127. Hopefully I'll be lighter (and tanner) tomorrow!

Had to Let You Know. . .

. . . I weighed in at 127 this morning. Yippee! Very happy. Accepting that losing weight is a two steps forward, one step back kind of process, this is still a weight I haven't hit for about four years. In other words, before my final pregnancy.

Now I have to build on this momentum without getting too extreme. I did pretty well today, but I don't know if I actually lost weight.

Reasons I might be lighter tomorrow morning than I was this morning:

1) I am starving right now. If I were full, I'd be in trouble.

2) I ate an egg, some lettuce, half a pepper, half a glass of milk, about a cup of brown rice, three bites of chicken leftover from last night, about half a cup of black beans, salsa and a 90 calorie tortilla (there was also a whisper of cheddar cheese on the beans and rice).

3) I got my eyebrows waxed, so I am definitely lighter without all that hair.

Reasons I might weigh more tomorrow than I did today:

1) I did not work out today.

2) I ate an egg, some lettuce, half a pepper, half a glass of milk, about a half a cup of brown rice, three bites of chicken leftover from last night, about half a cup of black beans, salsa and a 90 calorie tortilla (there was also a whisper of cheddar cheese on the beans and rice).

We shall see what we shall see! I'll let you know tomorrow.