Another Scintillating Weekend

Not much in the weekend round up except that:

A) I'm thisclose to breaking into the next "decade" of numbers on the scale. I'm nearly 25 pounds down. Yeah me.

B) Olivia managed part three of "The Naughty Chronicles". On Sunday night, she came home from her dad's house with a teeny tiny attitude. Poor thing. At her age, how could she possibly grasp the concept of mummy holding on to sanity by a thin, flimsy piece of dental floss? So at the dinner table as she wiggled and got up and sat down and dropped her fork and dropped her napkin and wiggled some more, I shot her the parental death ray and shook my head almost imperceptibly. To my complete amazement, she stopped. Like a deer standing downwind, I think she must have picked up the scent of danger.

But Olivia is my daughter and thus, she learns each and every one of her lessons the hard way. She was incapable of finishing the meal in peace. Instead, she slid off of her barstool, sidled over to me, cupped her hands and stage whispered, "Mama? Would you be mad at me if I wrote on the wall?" I let this new revelation wash over me and surprisingly, I wasn't all that upset.

"Where did you write on the wall?" I asked, while continuing to eat.

Teenage daughter and Dylan simultaneously said, "the bathroom".

I looked at Olivia and said nothing. She blinked and her eyes quickly filled with tears. Still, I didn't say anything because truthfully, I was at a loss as to how to handle the situation. And then just like that, I didn't care. I was completed defeated.

By a six year old.

I told her to go into the laundry room, grab a magic eraser and scrub the doodles off the wall. I explained that this latest incident had to be the last for the rest of the summer and that she had used up all of her naughty cards. I have tolerated hair cutting, eyebrow cutting and adventures in a birdcage but THIS had to be it. She nodded solemly. "Yes, mama."

She then marched over to Dylan, stuck her tongue out and hissed, "Now YOU can't tell on me. Mummy knows". Smart cookie, that one.

C) Wedding stuff. Blah, blah, blah. I know. The mere mention of it causes one's eyes to involuntarily roll to the back of one's head, right? Well, living it isn't any better. Dallas and I are so excited to have all of the people that we love gathered together in one place but the details of planning this thing are completely outside of my area of expertise.

I cannot get my head around all of the stuff that you have to have for a wedding. Cake server, knife, wedding guest book with matching pen, garter, toasting glasses, ring bearer's pillow, flower girl basket, card box, and on and on and on. The profit margins are indecent. For instance, we recently met with the facility that is hosting our reception. Keg of beer: $215 plus 22% (mandatory gratuity) plus tax. Works out to be about $287 total or roughly $1.74 per glass for shitty, headache-inducing draught beer. The wine? Not so great French stuff for about $5.32 a glass. Since neither of us can claim a Rothschild in the family tree, I spoke with one of the catering directors and proposed that we be allowed to supply our own wine and beer with a proper "uncorking" fee. The suggestion was not well-received. Well, of course it wasn't! If I was getting over 400% profit, I'd be loathe to change the program too.

Bastards.

And how about RSVP cards? Why do people find it so difficult to write a number in the little spot provided and throw the thing in the mailbox? Our cards were addressed. And stamped! Some people have called or emailed but the absolute BEST excuse is one I got from Tim, my friend the motorcycle instructor. This past weekend, Dallas and I were at the Harley dealership. While Dallas went to the parts counter, I wandered out back to the range and ran into Tim. He told me that he was happy to see me because

THE DOG ATE THEIR RSVP CARD.

Not original, but excellent.

So, that was my weekend. I'm just a twitchy, bitchy mess but whenever I feel the need to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply, I look at this picture.



This will be my view in less than four weeks.

Wanted: Serendipity

Dude.

I can't get no synchronicity.

At home, with six personalities sharing three bathrooms and about 2600 sq. feet, things can sometimes get tense. I find myself shrewish these days because three of the four children who are capable of doing a few domestic chores, just don't. They have better things to do like sleep and eat and stare at a computer screen until their eyes bleed.

Me: Did you make your bed?

Child: No.
Me: Why not?

Child: No answer, followed by rapid blinking, as if I had just asked for the exact diameter of George Bush's sphincter, which of course, only Condoleeza Rice would know.

I come home from work most days to a mess in the kitchen. The children are conscientious about putting THEIR cereal bowl in the dishwasher but God forbid they tuck away the box of cereal or the loaf of bread. And don't even THINK about them cleaning up someone else's coffee mug.

"Not MY dish", they say.

"I wash your underwear," I think to myself.

The bathrooms are another story. A few weeks ago, I told the manchild that he would have to clean his bathroom because there was a distinctive scent hovering near the base of the toilet.

"Not my pee," was his reply. It was all I could do not to beat him where he stood. Instead, I got a grip and said,

"Really? Well I don't have a DNA kit stored under the sink to test my theory but since the distance between you and the toilet bowl is about three feet, I'm pretty sure we could locate a few droplets that were once hosted by your bladder." Sheesh.

It's a work in progress, for sure.

The job has also been a challenge lately. My biggest projects have either ground to a standstill or they are mired in bureaucratic caca. Every day, the president walks into my office with a hopeful look on his face and I proceed to blow his budgetary expectations to kingdom come. My eye twitch is back along with an unexpected bonus: anxiety nightmares.

When I was in university, I used to have a recurring dream where I was unable to find the professor's office to drop off a group project worth most of that semester's grade. The team was counting on me to get it in on time and I would wander through the campus asking people for directions. The trouble was, nobody spoke English so I would stand in front of them gesticulating a whacked version of charades and they would just stare at me with passive, blank looks on their faces. I'd often wake up chewing on my heart and gasping for air. Awful.

Lately, my dreams have matured. A few nights ago, I had a doozy. I walked out of a pale yellow with white trim Cape Cod house. My mum was inside. I hadn't seen her or spoken to her but I knew she was there. I walked down the front porch steps and out onto the sidewalk which was lined with massive elm trees. It was summer. I could hear the crickets.

I was walking towards the quaint downtown area to shop for party supplies for our rehearsal dinner but soon into the journey, I had the creepy feeling that I was being watched. Suddenly, three men appeared out of nowhere and advanced towards me. I knew that I was in trouble because they all looked like Big Pussy but when I opened up my mouth to scream, it was full of bubble gum and I couldn't muster a peep. I reached into my mouth and began to pull frantically as gob after gob of gum came stretching out. When I realized that I wasn't going to be able to yell, I turned and ran. Except for some reason, I had put five inch stilettos on and it felt like I was running on stilts. I didn't have time to take them off and I was terrified to turn around. I could smell the cologne of one of the men behind me.

I reached the porch and sprinted up it and into the house. My mum was on the phone. I tried to tell her to get off and call the police but the gum issue prevented me from uttering a word. The men entered the house and I remember looking at her, ashamed that I had put her at risk. Her eyes got wide and she stuck a vacuum in my open mouth and sucked out the remaining gum.

(I know how convenient it is that she would just happen to have a vacuum at hand but what can I say? I'm a sitcom watcher where everything is tidied up in 22 minutes. Must bleed over)

ANYWAY, I turned and faced the three men. By this time, I was LETHAL in a way that only a carb-deprived, premenstrual, stressed to the max woman could be. Big Pussy guy had a huge rock in his hand and instinctively, I knew that it had my name on it, which infuriated me further. I marched up to him and hissed through clenched teeth that he was a bully.

"I bet you killed your wife, didn't you?"

"Naw. She's a hag all right but it'll be YOU that sleeps with the fishes," he replied. TOTAL CLICHE!

And apparently, that's when I woke Dallas up talking or screaming or something else. Now I know that you'll be tempted to analyze this but psychologically, it's nothing compared to the weirdness of a dream I had last week where Morgan Freeman was my mentor. I like Morgan. He's a nice man.

So, I'm grateful that today is Friday. My children are with their dad this weekend. My Harley is calling out to me and there might be a few golf balls in my future. Do you remember Romper Room? Well, I see pedicure and manicure and bubble bath and driving range and shopping and.......

Battle with the Id

Today marks the 26th day on the HCG diet. I have lost a total of 21.6 pounds. And feel free to round that puppy up. I don't feel deprived. I am not crazy and for goodness sakes, thousands have lost weight this way. It is perfectly safe. Relax already.

People have sent me notes telling me that a diet like this is too restrictive. Well, yes, it's restrictive. It's a DIET. Let's face it, there is no magic pill out there which will prevent Rice Krispy squares from settling on my hips. I have a sweet tooth. And a deep fried tooth. And a tortilla chips smothered in cheese and topped with guacamole tooth. I LOVE to eat.

However, this diet has forced me to reevaluate my relationship with food. I am most definitely an emotional eater and sweets are like that jealous boy every woman dates at least once. Intuitively, we know that they aren't good for us in the long term but they sure satisfy the immediate need.

So we indulge.

Often.

Recently, I have found that during times of stress (scissor issues), I have been more inclined to think about a piece of carrot cake than a cigarette, which is progress, really. If I had to pick, I'd prefer to expire quickly with a heart attack rather than linger with lung cancer. Except that overeating is a lot like smoking cigarettes. At some point, you have to have a chat with that person in the mirror that you no longer recognize or respect. Once I made the decision to quit smoking, there was nothing in the world that could have stopped me. Likewise, on my wedding day I wanted to feel beautiful and carrying the extra weight was going to make that difficult for me. So I made the decision to do this diet and for the most part, it has worked out quite well. My resolve seems to be a heck of a lot stronger than the lure of a chocolate chip cookie.

I still have another 35 lbs to lose. I have no doubt that I'll get that accomplished before Christmas. One thing is for certain, though: I will NEVER allow myself to gain it back. High blood pressure, diabetes and heart disease run in the family and I'm kind of partial to the freedom that comes with good health. So, as I spear yet another cucumber round and give thanks for the comforting myth that is negative calorie food, I know that with each pound gone, I've increased my chances of living long enough to drive my children crazy ensure that my children will honour my "DO NOT RESUSCITATE" order when the time comes.

Motherhood is Overrated

Oh joy. Bliss. Elation. Glee.
This past weekend, I celebrated hitting the twenty twenty pounds lost mark. And I was so very, very happy.

Until I went shopping on Saturday.

With teenage daughter, Olivia and Dylan.

I needed some career clothes now that I'm "wasting away" (according to reader from Huntington Beach, CA) but somehow, I became delusional and wandered into the bathing suit section. My tummy is pretty flat these days so I thought I'd try on a few bikinis. Like I said, D E L U S I O N A L. The dressing room was equipped with a three way mirror and everything was fine until I had a gander at my backside. In that moment, I clearly understood why human beings were never given the flexibility options of an owl. It wasn't pretty. I distinctly remember thinking, "Jesus, where did THAT come from and how the hell did it get so WIDE?"

After recovering from the shock, I refocused my attentions and got back to business. I didn't have another peek at my ass because I am not one of those people who feels compelled to slow down and get a good look at the wreckage on the side of the road. I only need to be horrified once.

Teenage daughter, in all her youthful perkiness, had parked herself in the dressing room beside me. Olivia was in the toy section of the store and Dylan was busy pulling the wings off of stray flies or something like that. He was having himself one of those shithead days which seem to be occurring more frequently of late. Everything out of his mouth is either sarcastic, sullen or angry. Have I told you recently that adolescence sucks? Um, yeah.

Anyway, thirty minutes go by while teenage daughter and I worked our way through a basket full of clothes. Suddenly, Olivia entered the dressing room and pushed her way into my stall. Her eyes were wet with recent tears.

"I have to tell you something," she said and I felt my stomach clench involuntarily. I was thinking that one of two things had happened. She had either pooped her pants (don't ask) or broken something in the store.

I waited and she didn't say anything.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"Dylan told me NOT to tell you. He said you'd be mad." Oh, no. Oh, no. OH NO! I had visions of him pushing her into a shelf full of china.

So, I pulled the mother card and told her that she had better spill the beans or I'd punish her. Still, she resisted.

"Did he break something?" I asked.

"No. Worse"

"Did he hit you?"

"No mama. It was worse than that."

At this point, the dressing room is silent except for the conversation happening between me and Olivia. I could actually feel the other mothers in the room holding their breath.

"Livvie baby, what happened, honey?"

She teared up, grabbed my hand and finally confessed.

"He locked me in a cage and I got stuck and I COULDN'T get out and I cried and he couldn't get me out and then some people came over and helped us but mama you can't tell Dylan I told you."

"A...a..cage?" I was confused. "You mean the BIRDCAGE?!!!"

"Yes."

Teenage daughter couldn't hold it one second longer and burst out laughing which started a chain reaction in the dressing room. I quickly scanned Olivia for cuts and bruises and then sat down on the bench trying to figure out how to get out of the store without being seen.

I was THAT mother.

The one that lets her children run WILD in the store so that she can shop. Sympathetic strangers extracted my six year old from a birdcage.

A BIRDCAGE.

So, I did what any woman would do. I pretended that NOTHING weird had happened. I walked out of the dressing room and straight for the check out. I didn't acknowledge my children even though Olivia trailed behind me chanting, "Mama. Mama. MAMA!" I was deaf and determined. I looked straight ahead.

I paid. They bagged. I left.

Once we were safely ensconced in the car and headed home, I allowed myself a giggle. After all, can you imagine the surprise of the kind people who got Olivia out of the cage when they saw she was a one brow wonder?

Oh yes. I'm THAT mother.

Week in Brief

This is day 21 on the HCG diet. I've lost all interest in food.

Yeah, whatevah.

If that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't be in the sorry shape that I am. Knock, knock, knocking on twenty pounds lost. I am totally cheesed with myself for giving in last weekend. Even though it was a little cheat and I only went up half a pound, I didn't lose Saturday, Sunday or Monday. I could have been at twenty today if I'd shown a whisper of restraint. GAH! Ah well, I've been back in the saddle all week and results are good. I'll update you Monday. In the event that I don't hit the goal, I may be cranky and will be forced to blog about something I despise, like the current administration or taxes or young, hefty people riding around in those electric shopping carts at Wal-Mart because they are too lazy to walk.

I was a wedding planning goddess this week. Of course, you know that last weekend was kind of a breakthrough for me and now that I've drunk from the bridezilla goblet, I have become militant in my need to cross items off of the "list". This week I:
-Ordered the wedding favours.
-Ordered a little something something for the brave women who have agreed to stand up there with me
-Reserved the limo BUS. Yes, BUS.
-Got pricing on the flowers.
-Decided on the table centerpieces (did not have to put head between legs and breathe deeply)
-Organized the logistics of the wedding day with a specific timeline.
-Organized rehearsal dinner.
If I was allowed, I'd reward myself with a dark chocolate truffle and a glass of merlot.
*Sigh*

My daughters, all three of them, have been sent from someplace fiery to torment me. Eldest, the one who made me a grandmother, phoned very late one night, repeatedly, until I answered. I don't usually pick up the phone after 9pm because I wear bifocals now and beauty rest is no longer a joke. I answered this time because I'm a grandmother and for goodness sakes, it could concern the baby.

Nope.

It was daughter crying incoherently because her tooth hurt. Apparently a strawberry seed was lodged in the wrong place.

Threats of the emergency room.

Ice pick in the head stuff.

HIGH DRAMA.

And then it passed. I suggested that she might want to get a sitter every now and then and get a full eight hours. Or perhaps a psychiatrist with a liberal prescription pad. Jesus.

Teenage daughter got herself a new boyfriend. He is the same age, clean cut, polite and generally delightful. He's also the lead singer in a death metal band. I'm told this type of music is an acquired taste, like jazz or rap. Hmmm...Since they seem to be spending nearly every waking moment together, the birth control issue is bound to rear it's controversial head again because abstinence is a fairy tale. I dread the conversation but I'm going to take another run at it anyway. So everything is all good. She's babysitting Olivia for the summer. We think that perhaps the boyfriend might be a distraction, though. He comes over most days that he doesn't work and "helps" teenage daughter with Olivia. I'm not sure it's working out so well. Yesterday, I came home to this:

Oh listen, I know she looks peaceful enough. You need to look a little closer.


See it now? She's missing a bloody EYEBROW! Apparently, while teenage daughter was otherwise engaged, Olivia took a pair of scissors to her eyebrow. And this, thirty five days before she is scheduled to pose in about a million wedding pictures. I'll be damned before I DRAW one on. Then she'd likely do the whole Norma Desmond, "All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close up" thing.
I am praying for a quick regrowth.

And this is why good chocolate and alcohol are part of my vernacular. It's called COPING.

37 Days

In 37 days, I'm getting married.

Holy crap.

I was mildly panicked a few weeks ago but I have a well developed ability to stick my fingers in my ears. La la la, I can't HEAR you. Some call it procrastination. Some call it denial. For me, it is a matter of survival.

In another life, I must have suffered from multiple personality disorder and it has dripped a little bit of crazy onto this one. There is a part of me that is Felix Unger meticulous. I write EVERYTHING down. I keep lists. I get uptight when things are messy and I have no use for incompetent people or lousy systems. I have an unnatural, kinetic need to stay busy (baking or ruining my work clothing with errant bleach spots).

Sometimes.

Then there is the other side:

The Rastafarian. ( Irie, baby.)

Yes, this facet of my personality shrugs, nestles feet into the sand and sparks up a metaphoric dutchie. It takes urgent documents and shoves them into one of several "junk" drawers which results in frantic needle in a haystack searches later on. It has to re-launder clothing that has sat in the washing machine until moldy. Under extreme stress, this side CHECKS OUT.

Way, way out.

Lately, work has been rife with issues. In my personal life, the big day is barreling towards me like a freight train and I'm taking in so few calories that grass looks palatable. I fully expected to wake up one of these mornings with the desire to scour the cupboards looking for the leftover prescription pain meds that I've been saving for a bikini wax. Instead, I am quite surprised to find myself mostly calm and fully engaged. I have been remarkably efficient the last couple of weeks which is completely contrary to my under pressure personality. This past weekend, we met with the event people at our reception venue and I participated in finalizing the details. Me! I actually had an opinion on the colour of the napkins.

This is progress which can only be attributed to the diet. I'm thinking that the sluggish, disorganized, somnambulist part of me can be directly linked to the excess weight I was carrying. I mean, how effective can one be in a carbohydrate coma?

Today, I am within striking range of twenty pounds lost. I should hit that goal by the weekend. And that will be after 24 days of dieting. I really shouldn't complain about the variety of food on this plan. After all, to lose weight this quickly, it could be worse. Much, much worse.

(picture courtesy of MSNBC)

Did Someone Say Truffle?

Today is day eighteen of VCLD (Very Low Calorie Diet or ). When this is all over, I don't think that I will eat cucumber, spinach or asparagus EVER AGAIN. I've had enough of them. The lack of variety is really, really hard, which explains my weekend of letting the whole thing go to hell.

It all started Friday night when Dallas and I were deciding upon our dinner choices. The trouble with this diet is that there isn't a whole lot of tolerance for delayed mealtimes. We thought that since my kids were with their father, we might venture out to Ruth's Chris for a steak and veg. Unfortunately, the earliest reservation that we could secure was 7:30pm and by that time, I would have been outside salting up some road kill. So, we decided to stay in and BBQ. Dallas was nearly 20 pounds down by Friday so he was Mr. Cocky Diet Boy and felt comfortable deviating from the plan. My mouth watered as I watched him take a bite of his salad with CHEESE and DRESSING. I couldn't stand it. I had a REAL salad, too. With multiple vegetables. And cheese. And DRESSING. And a chocolate truffle.

It was NIRVANA.

Later that night on the way home from a movie, I suggested that we stop for frozen custard because I'm THAT person.

Cue sound of father's voice saying, "Give her and inch and she'll take a mile".

Dallas coaxed me off that ledge and proposed a simple cookie from Starbuck's might be a wiser choice. It was better than a Chinese foot massage. Except for the guilt, of course. I could have done nicely without that.

Saturday was mind numbingly busy. I cleaned the house (which surprisingly, I'm really enjoying these days)while Dallas met with his groomsmen to be fitted for their tuxedos. After lunch, we rode down to the reception site to finalize our menu. Then, we were off to see the cake lady. After her, we picked up my newly re-sized engagement ring and wedding band from the jeweler's. Understandably, we were in need of some unwind time by the end of the day.

So, we dined out with Brandon and Erin because we had heard that you burn up to 20% more calories when you're laughing. Unfortunately, we both indulged AGAIN. Dallas had wine and dessert and I had cocktails.

Three of them.

After the first one, I was slurring. By number three, I was wobbly on my feet. I have to admit that there was something deeply satisfying about being a cheap drunk date.

Sunday, Dallas and I did the impossible:

We cleaned up the front flower bed.

And it looks fabulous. We now appear all grown up and responsible to our neighbours. We even tossed around the idea of having a nursery come over and plant a shade tree in the front yard. My God! We are drunk with ambition!

After all of that sweat labour in the blazing sun, and since it was Father's Day, I agreed to make strawberry shortcake for dessert. I had adhered to the diet plan all day until then. I didn't have any of the shortcake but I did have a giant dollop taste of the whipped cream. And I had another REAL salad with dinner. And a chocolate truffle.

This morning, we got on the scales.

Dallas was up three. I gained half a pound.

So, we're seriously back at it this morning. I was feeling just the teeniest bit defeated until I got dressed. My favourite pair of pants, which were snug last week are actually LOOSE today. Seeing this, I went to the cupboard, grabbed the bag of truffles that have been singing to me for the last two weeks and threw them in the garbage.

I'm hoping for a productive, normal work day today because it would suck to have to go fishing in the trash.

Prop-a-gan-da

prop·a·gan·da
-noun
1. information, ideas, or rumors deliberately spread widely to help or harm a person, group, movement, institution, nation, etc.
2. the deliberate spreading of such information, rumors, etc.
3. the particular doctrines or principles propagated by an organization or movement.

It's no surprise that the GOP smear machine has kicked into high gear now that Obama has secured the Democratic nomination. We've all seen it in action before and thankfully, you can log on to a website that Obama's team has put together to refute the nonsense.

Unfortunately, current times demand this kind of proactive approach to campaign management. With people like Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity out there regularly discussing rumour and innuendo as if it were verified, factual material and a general population that can be made to believe anything if they hear it enough (think: non-existent link between Saddam Hussein and Al Queda), it is essential to engage in a defensive campaign strategy.

I'm sure that as November nears, we will hear more propaganda about Obama's supposed Muslim connection. Oooh, how scary. Muslim. Which is beyond ridiculous. Besides the fact that he isn't Muslim, we'd have to clean up all of those nut jobs sacrificing chickens and speaking in tongues to Jesus Christ before we pointed fingers and spat, "radical".

I saw a headline the other day that said, "IS AMERICA READY FOR A BLACK PRESIDENT". Well, we were ready four years ago to elect a functionally illiterate cowboy with a Napoleon complex and an itchy trigger finger. What could possibly be worse? Blackness? I understand that there is a segment of the population that will not vote for this man because of the colour of his skin but it seems that the consciousness of America might be progressing. Just the other day, the conservative Supreme Court gave the suspected terrorists in Gitmo the right to challenge their detention. Perhaps we are finally pulling our collective heads out of our asses.

So, as November approaches and the propaganda escalates, check out the link below and share with some friends.

http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/fightthesmearshome/

500 Calories or Bust

Today is day thirteen of ingesting a pithy 500 calories a day. I have lost 14.2 pounds. And yes, the 0.2 matters. No rounding down for this gal. I am beyond thrilled. It really hasn't been that hard. Lots of coffee and appetite curbing tea in the morning, protein, veg and fruit at lunch, flavoured water all afternoon and then a repeat of lunch for dinner. It's boring, for sure, but not all that difficult. To help matters, the weight comes off so quickly that it's easy to stay motivated. I only think about cinnamon toast or deep fried chicken a hundred times a day instead of a thousand.

Unfortunately, my breath could peel wallpaper. I'm not kidding. It's awful.

They tell you to drink water until you float to minimize this unpleasant side effect of ketosis but water is not a cure. It's a crappy bandaid. Brushing and flossing don't even put a dent in it. I've gargled Listerine until it stripped the flesh off the inside of my mouth and still, I'm Smelly Suzie. Dallas is just as bad. But it's okay. People naturally avoid you when your office is blanketed in a green fog. I'm getting so much work done, it's criminal.

Dallas is down seventeen pounds and now looks about twenty five years old, which brings out the raging coug in me. He's on the short term plan so in just over a week, his diet will become much more varied. One side effect that came as a surprise was his development of a slight obsession with the bathroom scale. He must hop on that thing four or five times a day. Every night, he boldly predicts his overnight weight loss and he's frighteningly accurate. There is a small, shallow like a puddle, part of me that is irrationally jealous. He's lost more and is eating more food than I am. Last week, he had a FUDGSICLE.

And he TOLD me about it but not in a boasting, baiting way. He was guilty. I kissed him, which he took as a forgiving sign but really, I just wanted to lick the corners of his mouth to see if there might be a bit of chocolate residue left.

He has a goal weight for Saturday which is only four pounds away. If he gets there, he's going to reward himself with a beer. When that happens, I just might have to kiss him after every sip.

Weekend Wrap Up

There is not much news on our front.

Another weekend went by without Dallas and I tending to the front flower bed. I'm sure that sometime soon, the Home Owner's Association police are going to drive by and give us a warning for excessive weed growth and butt ugly ground cover.

But the job is so big, neither one of us want to tackle it. I can't imagine anything less appealing than laying a bunch of black plastic sheeting down and spending hours meticulously cutting holes in said plastic for the existing plants we'd like to keep. But we have to do something because all of my neighbours have gone to great trouble to beautify their landscaping and we look like the family that could any moment jack a car up on cement blocks.

And shade trees. Did I mention those? Our yard is void of them. It's not like I haven't tried to conform to the subdivision standards. When I moved into the house, the lazy son of a bitch builder had planted a sugar maple in the front yard. It was thriving. Then my gram died and my coworkers gave me a dogwood tree to plant in her memory. Naturally, as a flowering plant, it belonged in the front yard. So, I dug up the maple, replanted it in the back yard and replaced it with the dogwood. BIG MISTAKE. The dogwood died and when I removed it, it made a sick sucking sound and smelled like a sewer. I replaced it with a Bradford Pear, which is apparently idiot proof. Not so. Died a slow, painful death like Hillary Clinton's presidential bid.

Meanwhile in the back yard, the transplanted sugar maple was happy, that is until it met Sandy, my first and last experiment with large dog ownership.

Sandy was a yellow lab mixed with some sort of high energy hound. She was sweet natured, playful and dumb as a box of rocks. She dug and chewed and gnawed and pulled until there was nothing left of that maple. For a long time, it resembled the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

And then one day, it just wasn't there anymore. Shortly thereafter, Sandy went to live with a nice family in the country who didn't mind that she shat herself senseless in the house.

I'm thinking that something in a cactus variety might work. Don't they flourish when you forget to water them and leave them alone? Of course, mother nature doesn't always cooperate and it would probably die too. Drown. Or get blown away in one of our weekly freaking tornadoes.

------------------------------------------------------------------

It's already dripping hot here and even though I said that I wouldn't go through another southern summer without a pool, I am eating my words. I had every intention of spending the 25K to dig a giant hole in my easement-challenged back yard. Of course, that plan hadn't figured a wedding into the budget so I recently tossed the idea around that maybe one of those above ground numbers might do. I mentioned this to Dallas and he wrinkled up his nose like he had smelled something bad. Okay, I will concede that they are a bit ugly and that the set up would require work. Yes, it would kill the grass it sat upon leaving a crop circle-like impression in the yard but it would be wet and cool and underwater, it's hard to hear the children and I can hold my breath A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME. Dallas wasn't swayed so relief will have to be a lawn chair under a sprinkler.

Again.

Speaking about the wedding (aren't I always doing that lately?):

Dallas and I are shamefully delinquent in accomplishing the tasks set forth by our wedding planner. We were given a list of things, by week, that we were supposed to have accomplished and since receiving the missive three weeks ago, we've done nothing.

Bubkas. Squat. Nada. Zip. ZERO.

Each day, Dallas would say, "Hon, have you seen the list?"

I'd answer, "It's on the coffee table."

He'd reply, "I don't see it."

Me: "Oh really?"

And then we'd be off on another topic or headed out the door or generally MOVING ON with life. This weekend, I cleaned for the first time in the better part of a year (recently let our housekeeper go) and guess what I found?

Right! And it was on the coffee table.

And we both looked at it and came to the conclusion that we were screwed. It is now less than six weeks from D-Day. I'm sure everything will come together but if it doesn't, our plan "B" is to have enough grog on hand so that nobody gives a hoot.

If I Had A Molasses Cookie...

Okay, so we've established that it's been over a year since I quite smoking and during the first few months, I really thought that I might get away with it without packing on any of the weight that whiny ex-smokers reference. I'd go up a few pounds here, a few pounds there but nothing of any significance.

However, once I examined the entire 365 days and had a look at the scale, one thing became glaringly apparent: I'd gained some weight.

Like "Freshman year of university" gain. (Still cannot understand that phenomena considering the amount of time I spent hugging the lav)

Like "Ooh, I'm pregnant and eating for two" gain.

Like "Holy crap, is that MY ass?" gain.

I can't really blame the excess poundage on cigarettes, either. I've battled with weight since I was an infant, apparently. In my baby book, my mum wrote the following about my Christening:

"Beth was the largest baby at the ceremony".

Nice.

Yeah, well my parents are to blame. Breast feeding wasn't "fashionable" back then (clashed with the mini skirt and go go boots, I suppose) so they stuffed ounce after ounce of formula down my throat until I looked like a sausage. Actually, the real culprit is their faulty DNA which is programmed to consume multiple bags of salt and vinegar chips washed down with gobs of triple chocolate cake. My foodie genes dominate the entire chromosomal pool, too. They ensure that no matter what the circumstance, feeding takes priority.

As an example, I recall the time that sistah cousin and I drove from New Brunswick to Ontario after spending Christmas with our grandparents. We got up at the crack of dawn on January 1st to drive the Plaster Rock Highway (to hell), which is a legendary two lane nightmare known for its twisty roads. It is flanked on each side by a forest teeming with deer that regularly bolt out in front of traffic. For nearly 203 km, there isn't a restaurant, a gas station or any public building of any sort. It's a wasteland. In the dead of winter, this highway could be the backdrop for a horror movie. It is a desolate, icy, roller coaster. At night, things peer out at you from the woods. Bear? Deer? Moose? Serial Killer? It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up.

Cindi had a GMC Jimmy back then (waaayy ahead of the whole SUV trend)and a leaden foot. We left Gram's that morning with our luggage, our Christmas gifts and the best molasses cookies that have ever been made by anyone since the beginning of time. I was feeling a bit under the weather and it was decided that Cindi would take the first driving shift while I lay prone in the back seat.

It had been a rough winter for the Maritimes that year and there was a ton of snow on the ground. City roads had been cleared and salted but the more rural routes were likely to be covered in several layers of snow, ice and sand. We had made it most of the way across the highway and were looking forward to coffee, a washroom and some sign of intelligent life. Then, we hit a patch of ice.

As we crested one of the hills we felt the rear end of the truck slide to the right. Cindi corrected and we slid to the left. Then right, then left until finally, we were out of control and headed for the ditch on the side of oncoming traffic. As the vehicle rolled over, I distinctly remember thinking, "This isn't so bad." Until we came to a stop, upside down.

And I saw that Gram's molasses cookies and other baked goodies were scattered all over the car.

Then, I was upset.

I wasn't the slightest bit concerned about being hurt or about the car being caved in at the sunroof. I was worried about finishing our trip home without provisions from my grammy's kitchen.

Cindi, still strapped in and hanging upside down asked me to get her out of her seat belt. After initially panicking at not being able to open the doors, we rolled down the windows and crawled out on our bellies into the snow. There we were, early New Year's Day, waiting on the shoulder for a car to flag down. We didn't have cell phones back then and the prospect of walking that blasted highway to the nearest gas station caused us both pause. Freddy Kruger could have been in those woods.

So, we waited. And because Cindi has exceptional karma, we didn't hang out there very long before a nice family drove up with a stunned expression. I think they expected something horrific when they saw the truck wheels up. They offered to give us a lift to the nearest gas station. We scurried back down the ditch to get our purses. As I tried to shimmy all of the way back into the Jimmy, Cindi asked me what the hell I was doing. Our purses were within an arm's reach.

"We've got to get the molasses cookies", I said.

And there you have the clearest example of my lifelong relationship with food.

I have thought about chocolate EVERY SINGLE DAY. When I ate my spinach leaves tonight, I imagined that they were a beautiful prime rib dinner, perfectly seasoned with garlic mashed potatoes swimming in butter and a side of sauteed onions and mushrooms. I savoured each dry, earthy mouthful.

But I didn't cheat.

Because when I got on the scale this morning, I was down ten pounds after six days of dieting. This Hcg thing is a miracle.

The Diet Miracle....for now

Dallas and I have started a new diet. What's new, right?

Well for starters, we've never tried this one. And we know that it works. There is one woman in my office who has lost over 60lbs.

Since January.

And another who has lost 8lbs this week.

The possibilities make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. The miracle of the moment happens to be Hcg. This little hormone is produced by pregnant women and blah, blah, blah pituitary gland, blah, blah, blah abnormal fat, yadda, yadda, yadda, LOSE A POUND A DAY!

Umm...hello? How fast?

The science lesson didn't really interest me because who gives a flying fig? Losing 30 pounds before the wedding rang my bells.

The method is simple. You take Hcg everyday for a minimum of 23 days and a max of 40. The first two days, you are to stuff yourself like a Roman with a feather with the fattiest, richest food you can find. I thought that this would be heavenly but on the evening of the second day, we were miserable. I couldn't bear to look in the mirror and when I weighed myself the next morning, I just kept blinking, in disbelief, at the digital readout on the scale. I had expected my own little Armageddon right there in the bathroom but after Krispy Kreme donuts, a PAN of brownies, beer, rum, KFC, Wendy's, chocolate chip cookies and a huge Chinese food fest, I'd only gained a pound. In the past, I've merely blown a kiss in the general direction of a brownie and watched my thighs dimple.

Day three also marked the first of at least twenty one days where our caloric intake would be severely restricted. There are a total of 20 "allowable" foods. Everything else is banned. Cream based cosmetics and lotions are off limits. DIET COKE is a no no.

When the diet was first explained to me, I had a hard time keeping an open mind because I figured that anyone can lose buckets of weight when they're only consuming 500 calories a day. Yes, you read that right and I know what you're thinking because I was right there with you a few months ago. But then I perused some of the literature and figured, what the heck. It couldn't be any crazier than any of the other million or so things I've tried. I mean, every goober with visible abs claims that he and he alone has the "cure" for America's weight issues. Whatever.

Eat less, exercise more.

I should write a book.

Except that existing on 500 calories per day is a lot like being nominated for an Academy Award and not winning. You smile politely and pretend that you are perfectly satisfied while inside, you imagine the skinny girl with fake boobs winner tripping up the stairs.

I can state without hesitation that 500 calories a day can make a girl cranky. And this no moisturizer thing has me looking distinctly reptilian.

But since Friday, I have lost 8.4 pounds. How's that for fast? And today, I feel great. My energy level is unbelievable and I'm not obsessing about Harry and David truffles.

Even my right eye has nearly stopped twitching.

Quick and Dirty Update

There has been so much going on that I just don't know where to start. Obviously, I have been slightly overwhelmed lately, hence the lack of posts and an eye that WON'T STOP TWITCHING!

Dallas's ex is back from her spiritual sojourn on the east coast. I'll be darned but within 48 hours of being home, she's looking for a little financial influx from our general direction.

Imagine that.

In other news, it seems that teenage daughter adjusted to having a stocked refrigerator, hot water and a clean house because she made the decision to stay with us instead of returning to the other house. This announcement came while we were grocery shopping last weekend and resulted in me shedding a few tears right there in the deli section of Wal-Mart. I was quite proud of her for choosing a healthier situation especially since there were significant emotional pressures to choose otherwise.

Now Dallas and I just need to figure a compassionate way to ask ex wife to leave the other house so we can gut the inside refurbish and rent the place out. Did I mention that we own that place and have been paying all of the bills for the last half year? Now that the children are living with us, there is no conceivable reason to continue the economic outpatient care. We talked about it briefly this weekend and the mere thought of asking his ex to leave made him slightly nauseous. He's hoping that she'll do the right thing and vacate of her own accord. I'm hoping that the fat on my arse will be sucked out in the middle of the night. So yeah, we both have our fantasies.

Our honeymoon plans were finalized this weekend, which is a huge relief. We worked with this great travel guy who still took my phone calls even though I changed my mind 400 times only to end up booking at the first resort he showed us. Yep, I'm THAT client. But no matter. Dallas and I are a honeymoon cliché. No, we aren't going to Hawaii. We're off to the white sandy beaches of Mexico. Actually, travel guy sat me down and put it all into perspective. He told me that Aruba, Antigua, Negril, British Virgin Islands, the Dominican Republic, Turks and Caicos, Trinidad and Tobago AND eastern Mexico all had one thing in common: white beaches and hot, sunny weather. As long as there were pools, alcohol and decent food, why did we want to pay through the nose for additional airfare to go to someplace that soaked up an entire day each way in travel? Well, when he put it like that, I was forced to wrench my head from my ass. Dallas had said as much several weeks earlier but I've been practicing for the day that we are legally married, so I ignored him like any good wife would.

One other chore we took care of this weekend was purchasing our wedding bands. We visited the jeweler several months previous and had picked out our bands. We're not really a matchy matchy couple so we felt liberated to choose those styles that appealed to our own personal taste. Dallas opted for a simple, unadorned ring. It is understated and very masculine, which suits him perfectly.

I went for the bling.

To go with my sparkling personality.

And a strange thing happened. We looked at the engagement ring setting that went with the band I had picked out and decided that we liked it better than the one I had been wearing. So, we traded it in and two hours later, I had a spanking brand new engagement ring on my finger, in a full size smaller. Go figure.

So after beating our credit cards to a pulpy mess this weekend and setting our wallets on fire, Dallas and I retreated home and had a few moments of silence for our debt to income ratio. Ah well, money is for spending, right?

Did I mention that we were existing on 500 calories a day? Oh yes. More on that tomorrow.

No wonder my fucking eye won't stop twitching.