Thirty Two Days and Counting

I think I mentioned briefly in May that I was back on the diet bandwagon again. Well like most diets, it didn't work because it wasn't a lifestyle. Whatever. It didn't work because I cheated. LOTS. Have you ever tasted the ultimate nachos at Buffalo Wild Wings? They are cheat-worthy. As are their wings. And their delightful selection of beer. My God, I love beer. For nearly twenty years, I didn't have so much as a sniff of a bottle cap. I drank wine instead. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I'm Canadian.

Anyway, I managed to stick to things for a week that time and dumped a pant size, which was okay but not top ten or anything because they were my freaking fat pants. You know, the ones where you deliberately remove the inside size tag so that you don't jump in front of moving vehicles when you have to employ a hanger to get the bastards done up. Fat pants, by virtue of containing both polyester and spandex, should never leave pressure marks on one's flesh. Mine became uncomfortably snug. So I dieted. AGAIN.

But I don't think I had enough motivation because back then, the trip to Mexico was still better than ten weeks away and once you've shed 30 pounds in 43 days on the HCG diet, losing two pounds a week with a healthy lifestyle change is like swimming in a pool of molasses. Two pounds a week? Not for a gal who has the attention span of a gnat. From my point of view, I had a few more weeks before having to get serious about the diet.

Well like all good things, the days of carbohydrates had to come to an end. A week ago today, Dallas and I went back on the HCG diet. I have been deadly serious this time because the Mexican vacation with our friends and my dimpled ass is a mere thirty two days away today. I have shed 12 pounds in 8 days. I have 18 more to go.

Now before all of you out there who are shaking your head decide to shoot off that email lecturing me about the nutritional ills of yo-yo dieting and all of that stuff, please know that I know. I have researched the topic. For THIRTY YEARS! I promise that I will completely revamp my lifestyle once we are back from Mexico. I swear that I will exercise regularly and pay attention to portion control. I understand. I've read, Younger Next Year and I believe every word of it. My mother is a living testament. I get it.

But until then, I'm going to eat my cucumbers, filet and Melba toast and go to bed each night with visions of fresh guacamole, Dos Equis and a dimple free ass in my head.

¡Olé! Baby.

Diet Update

Dallas and I elected to do the short version of the HCG diet. I lost 13. He dropped 17, which makes me want to hurt him just a little considering his portion sizes were bigger and he's a closet cheater. Actually, this time he was pretty dedicated and stalled for a few days only when he used one of those water enhancement powders from Lipton. We're now on three weeks of no carbs, which might sound restrictive to some but for us, it's a small slice of nirvana.

On Sunday, we ventured back to our neighbourhood gym. I was eager to go because my head was on fire it had been months since either of us had worked out. My excitement lasted to about the six minute mark on the elliptical at which point I was gasping for breath. Dallas was on a treadmill right beside me and I could tell from the set of his mouth that he was labouring through his cardio piece, as well.

After spending thirty five minutes reliving every cigarette that I have ever smoked, I stepped off the elliptical and staggered over to the weight machines for a little weight bearing hell. Dallas joined me a few minutes later and the two of us managed to complete a decent upper body routine. Words were scarce on the way home. i think I said, "Advil" and he grunted.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. I am a bit sore through the chest this morning but nothing debilitating. Unfortunately, we were hit with a terrible ice storm and the gym is closed today which means that I will be forced to do my yoga DVD at home tonight.

That is never pretty.

But I'm not worried. Dallas has a ring on his finger now so when he comes home to see the expanse of my ass in the plow pose, I'm sure he'll just close his eyes and go to his happy place. Marriage is good like that.

Another Year, Another Diet

My weight loss: 5 pounds
Dallas: 7 pounds

Every female in my office is on some sort of diet. The holidays do that to us. We eat with abandon from Thanksgiving until New Year's Eve and on January 2nd, we open our closet doors to find that our wardrobe has become the enemy. Ask Oprah. She knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

As you turn into my subdivision, there is a nice new gym on the corner and lately, the parking lot is full, all of the time. I received a text from a friend of mine the other night asking me to join her for a "Body pump" class. I had to decline, of course, because I am existing on 500 calories a day and I was afraid that anything strenuous beyond say...breathing, might send me straight for my secret stash of chocolate. So far, the truffles and I have been able to coexist peacefully and I haven't been the slightest bit tempted but the situation is tenuous at best. I am fully cognizant of the limitations of my willpower.

Another good friend of ours has been at the gym the last two nights, as well. He smokes, drinks Crown and eats these:

And he is as skinny as a rail. Apparently, he is concerned about a few extra pounds that he accumulated over the holidays so the last couple of nights have found him on the treadmill running for nearly 25 minutes. I'm impressed, actually. When I was a smoker, I was content to do weight bearing exercise but anything in the cardiovascular arena had me coughing, wheezing, red-faced and generally behaving like a future emphysema patient.

The big business of a "New Year, New You" theme has bled over into television, too. NBC kicked off their 7th season of "The Biggest Loser" last night. Dallas is not a big fan of the show but I find it strangely compelling in spite of Jillian, one of the trainers, who sets my teeth on edge. Near the end of the show, all of the contestants have to weigh in. Sometimes the formula strays but basically, the people who lose the least get sent home. One man dropped 32 pounds - in a single week. Of course, he's got a couple of hundred pounds to lose but the guy has got to feel better and that is why I like the show. In spite of the melodrama (or maybe secretly because of it), I find myself cheering them on.

So, January is here and like a lot of people, I am motivated to find my inner fit self. I was going to say that I didn't necessarily want to be thin as much as I wanted to be healthy but I wouldn't want to start off the New Year with a BIG FAT LIE.

HCG Diet Round Two

Did I mention that I'm back on the HCG thing again?

About three weeks ago, I figured that it was time to put down the rum, the chocolate, the bread and anything else remotely pleasurable to see if I couldn't drop another size or two before Christmas. Remember I told you about one of my office mates and that had shed nearly 60 pounds? Well, she is the model of personal resolve and just finished her fourth or fifth round of HCG since last year. She can now be classified as thin.

Thin and Beth.

(I know that last blurb doesn't make any sense but I've never had the word "thin" in the same sentence as my name before so I wanted to try it out to see how it looked.)

Yeah, so she's THIN.

As in her size six pants are a bit loose.

Size six and Beth.

(Same deal. Makes me slightly giddy)

The scale hasn't moved much since I started (10 pounds as of this morning) but I haven't been terribly well behaved. This past weekend, we went to Brandon's birthday party and I was mostly in control until I spotted this:



smothering a block of cream cheese.

There are no words to describe how good this is. Sitting next to that plateful of heaven, was a bowl of blue corn chips.

I took a small chip and dipped it, convinced that I was capable of being satisfied with a mere taste. Like THIN people are. And, of course, you know how that turned out. I parked myself at the table. Tortilla chips were flying. I would have licked the plate if I had been by myself. And then, once the dam was breached, it was nothing to have a slice or three of pizza. Did I mention the birthday cake? Finger-licking good.

So, after experiencing a food hangover late Saturday night, I renewed my resolve. I don't mind spending 80% of my life on a diet because when you don't know any differently, you can cope but seriously, in my next life, I want to come back as Michael Phelps. Who wouldn't want to be young, a man, with big dollar endorsements, abs of steel and the ability to consume 12,000 calories a day?

Exactly.

Underwire Anyone?

There is nothing like a three day weekend, is there? Except perhaps, a four day weekend. And being Canadian, I am quite familiar with the latter. I miss those babies.

You'd start the work week with the satisfying knowledge that in four days, the weekend would be upon you. It would rain of course, because Canadians have somehow offended God, but still, FOUR DAYS. And then, we'd go back to work, with the blinding sun on our faces, knowing that in just ninety six hours, we'd be back on the couch watching the lightning with beer in hand. Statutory holidays are manna from heaven.

Right. OUR weekend. Mundane. Run of the mill. P-E-D-E-S-T-R-I-A-N. We didn't do much of anything. And it was awesome.

We woke up Friday morning, both of us slightly uneasy because we felt the need to do something. Anything.

Identify.

Organize.

Accomplish.

Naw. Sod that. Sleep.

All four kids were home and it wasn't long before the noise level in the house increased to deafening. Long weekend or not, the tribe needed to be fed. Strange phenomena lately: I've morphed into a domestic goddess and weirder still is the fact that these days, I'm happiest in the kitchen whipping up a little something for the family. Somewhere, my grammie is smiling.

In other news, I had a fitting this weekend for my wedding dress. Two words:

Oh. Shit.

It was too big and not in a nip here, a tuck there kind of way. It was TWO sizes too large. My friend who is altering it didn't say much. She just grabbed fistfuls of material, pinned and sucked a lot of air through her teeth. Listen, I am thrilled about the weight loss (28 lbs) but completely panicked. I'm not even sure that I like the style anymore. It just doesn't strike me the same way that it did when I bought it. Did I mention that the bridal shop has a fabulous "no return, no exchange" policy? Oh yes. So, we either figure out a way to alter it or I'm out shopping for another one, which is right up there with having a hockey stick shoved up my nose on a scale of painful things to do.

Since I am not right in the head of late, I attempted to acquire a new bathing suit this weekend. Now one would think that after the last swimming tog fiasco a few weeks back, I'd find some other way to punish myself like flogging or listening Dubya's State of the Union. But alas, no. Not only did I rummage through rack after rack, trying to locate a suit with underwire (BECAUSE SOME OF US BREASTFED OUR CHILDREN AND CANNOT AFFORD SILICONE, DAMNIT!) but I further compounded the headache by bringing Olivia with me.

And she thought it was just bloody hysterical to hide in the center of those round racks, which would have been fine if she had napped or quietly observed the shopping habits of others. But this is my daughter that we are talking about and she hasn't met a piece of bad behaviour that she hasn't worn like a comfortable old shirt. So instead of being normal, she crawled inside the rack and stayed quiet until someone came near. Then she would stick a disembodied hand or foot out which succeeded in scaring the tar out of some of my fellow shoppers. One of these days, I'm going to have to follow through with my threats and beat her like a filthy rug. She did have one shining moment in the dressing room, though.

I had probably tried on fifteen bikinis with no luck. As I was maneuvering into a cute brown number Olivia, who had been uncharacteristically mute, piped up and said, "That doesn't look good, Mama." And right then, I realized that it didn't matter what style I tried on, they were all going to look like crap. I am simply not bikini material yet.

"You're right, Liv." And with that, the self-imposed torture ended.

Later that night, I was sharing a bit of the bikini blunder with Dallas. He shook his head and firmly stated that he liked me just like this, no more, no less. Of course, he'd had a few cocktails and one could make the argument that he had put the beer goggles on but I think he was sincere. Truth is, I'm kind of liking this new body, too. And I haven't had a drink in WEEKS.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The First Stirrings

After a completely indulgent weekend including beer, wine and a veritable carb festival, I got on my scale to find that I was down nearly two pounds.

So let me get this straight.

I limit my carbohydrate intake to sniffing the air at the local bakery, workout until I vomit my spleen and I get to gain a pound OR I eat and drink like a toga clad Roman and I lose weight. Yes, that makes perfect sense....if you live on Fantasy Island.

The only conclusion that I can reach is that my scale is possessed by a lithium-popping, filthy, lying, whore named Cybil.

Anyway, the weekend was fantastic. Dallas and I spent it doing mundane things like an ordinary couple and it was the best time I've had in months. We cooked, shopped and went out with friends. The definitive high point of the weekend was meeting Brandon and his wife, Erin. Wow. They have got to be two of the smartest people on the planet. Several times during the evening, the four of us were howling with laughter.

Besides the fact that Brandon could pass for a Canadian in his mannerisms and his dress, he further endeared himself to me because he married Erin. She is warm, sharp and she makes no apologies for her opinions. After years as a designer in the theatre business, Erin elected to go back to school to complete her degree in architecture. She can spell and she's got a great eye for all things creative. NOT FAIR. Best part is that Erin has agreed to join us on "Girls' Night Out: The Road Trip". And the mix just keeps improving...

They were just awesome and I look forward to getting to know them.

Late Sunday afternoon, Dallas dropped me back at my house and as I watched him pull out of my drive, I realized that my defenses had disappeared. I think the scientific term is smitten.

After four years of self-imposed exile from the dating pool, a girl can become remarkably comfortable with the idea of spending the rest of her life alone. She tells herself that it isn't so bad because after all, the kids need her and that floor really could use a good washing. She doesn't have to consult the TV guide to know which shows are on and she spends hours on the phone with family and friends catching up on the minutiae of their lives. She tells herself that she owes it to her children to remain free from entanglements because the stain of her failed marriage is still vivid. But there is a difference between being alone and being lonesome. Eventually the day comes when that line gets crossed and she will open up her mind to the possibility of being involved with a man again.

Thank God for eHarmony. Dallas and I joke that we'll be making a commercial for them one day. Nobody knows what the future will bring but today, I'm liking our odds.

A Tale of Two Girls

Oh God!

It hurts!

Remember my little workout on Saturday? Oh yeah. There is nothing in the world like a great workout to make you feel every last shooter, cigarette and all nighter that you've ever had in your entire life. I'm dying. But it's a good pain and after I pick the kids up from school today, I fully intend to drag my forty year old ass back to the gym.

(bikinibikinibikinibikinibikini)

One thing I forgot to mention yesterday was that I spent part of the time at the mall trying to find a new holster or two for the girls. TOTALLY DEMORALIZING. I am not ready for Victoria's Very Sexy just yet. I have lost a pant size but the girls seem to be content to settle in for the winter. They're not interested in downsizing from a house into a condo and thus, I have become a letter "P". While this may be appealing to boob men, can you understand how difficult it is to buy a dress or a two piece outfit? The bottom is one size and the top is a couple of sizes larger. So fit the top and lose every curve from the waist down or fit the bottom and look like a sausage in a too-tight casing on top. In a dress if the ladies are comfortable, I could have a three ring circus happening in the tent below and nobody would be the wiser.

I have watched the occasional episode of Dr. 90210 and there is no way that a reduction is in my future. EVER. So, today I will focus on chest exercises in valiant but largely useless effort to get the girls to conform.

Giddy Up

Saturday, Dylan and I rode horses. He has been learning to ride every weekend out at a colleague's ranch and this time, I agreed to saddle up with them. It's been years since I've ridden but I figured that it would all come back to me. Like riding a bike, I thought.

I was wrong.

The first issue was getting the saddle on the horse. They weigh a bloody ton. After three attempts, I finally got the saddle up high enough to sling it over my horse's back. I don't think he was terribly amused because he kept stomping his feet and snorting, which strangely enough, reminded me of my ex husband.

Then, there were all of the straps, the bridle and the reins. I struggled to get everything right and my first attempt at mounting the horse proved that I hadn't. My left stirrup flew off and I looked like a gymnast with my right leg over my head and my left hurtling towards the ground. It could have been very, very bad but my horse startled, moved forward and I was able to land with BOTH feet.

Laura came over and fixed everything and our ride began. My horse was the one reserved for the inexperienced and the handicapped. He was docile, compliant and knew his place in the pecking order. If he were any more laid back, he would have been smoking a joint and listening to Dark Side of the Moon. Several times in the first half hour, he dropped his head to nibble on the few remaining pieces of green grass. Then he stopped to take care of his bodily functions. To get him to trot with the other horses, I had to dig my heels in several times, while yelling cowboy things like, "HA!", "LET'S GO!" and the Chinese version, "HIE!" None of it worked. He would pick up the pace for two seconds, decide it wasn't worth the hassle and then slow to a mosey.

As luck would have it, Laura's son was having a difficult time with his horse, "Jackie Legs". Legs was spirited and unpredictable so I offered to trade rides. I needed a challenge. And that turned out to be one of those "What the hell was I thinking" moments.

Legs was a challenge.

Understatement.

This horse heard phantom sounds of a thousand ghost hooves. We could be walking and all of the sudden, I'd feel him tense and he'd start to trot. Then, out of nowhere, he'd bolt into a full on run. Shadows in the trees spooked him. One time, I was passing a water bottle to Dylan and it must have been in the horse's peripheral vision because he chose that moment to break into a run...with no warning! I stayed in the saddle, but just barely. Most of the ride was spent trotting which is like someone taking their fist and repeatedly punching your ass until it is bruised to the point where you are unable to sit down on a toilet without flinching. Don't even get me started on my girls. Never in my life had I wished for a uni-boob until that moment. I would have welcomed them being bound up like a pre-operative transsexual.

Yesterday, I woke up sore, but manageable. Today is a whole different chapter in the book of OH MY GOD I'M DYING! I am bruised on the inside of my thighs right down to the knees where there happens to be a new, lovely cluster of burst capillaries. My lats are so sore that I am unable to lift my arms above my head. My obliques are positively screaming. I never knew how often one uses abdominal muscles in the course of a day until this morning when merely sitting upright in bed made my eyes water. The worst part of this is my bum. I think it may be broken.

I had been told that horseback riding could help with the weight loss effort and that actually proved to be true. I got on the scale this morning to find myself two pounds lighter. Yeah. Woo hoo. Whatever. I think a colonic might have accomplished the same thing and at least I could have been lying down.

Spandex Is Not My Friend

I have only a couple of things for you today.

First of all, I loathe my bathroom scale. It lies. Whore.

Everyone tells me that the weight loss is really noticeable, which I believe because the pants that I wore three weeks ago can now be removed without undoing the zipper. The cerebral part of the self knows this. But the emotional side of me just goes bat shit when I get on that machine and the digital read out says the same thing it said yesterday...AND THE DAY BEFORE...AND THE BLEEDING DAY BEFORE THAT!!!

All I want is a steaming bowl of tortellini, a loaf of warm bread and a bottle of 2003 Amarone Allegrini. And I want chocolate. Heaps of it. But noooo.....I don't give in because hanging on the back of my bathroom door is the Miracle Suit in all of it's girdle-like glory. I would rather watch a George Bush State of the Union speech (with the volume turned up) than face having to pull that baby on ever again.

So. I'll munch on my celery and try to be content.

In other news....

My.Deal.Came.Together.....For real.

My friend called me and said two words, "It's done." For the first few minutes, I sat in my office and stared out the window because I was quite certain that hell had just frozen over and I was interested to see what flying pigs might look like. Then I exhaled with the realization that I had been holding my breath.

Then, I reached for the power switch on my calculator and turned it on.........

Goodbye Bread. So Long Pasta.

I'm cranky.

I haven't had a decent carbohydrate in over a week. Even milk chocolate is starting to look good. I eyeballed my kids' Hallowe'en buckets this morning and seriously contemplated some sticky finger action. My son picked up on the desperation because I overheard him tell Olivia, "You should hide your candy." It's not like they couldn't spare a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or ten.

Most of the women in my office are on some sort of diet. When you combine the food restriction with monthly hormonal fluctuations, you can imagine the atmosphere. Four of us have lost significant weight and while we rejoice about it every day, there is an edgy undercurrent. Although the men have said nothing (so, so smart), they seem to sense that the jovial mood is a mere baguette away from lunacy. They're like deer. They stop, sniff the air and get a hint of danger but too often, they're standing upwind and can't tell they're in the cross hairs until it's too late.

One of the girls is restricting herself to 500 calories a day and a supplement from her ND. Five hundred calories. You know what that looks like? 6 eggs. 5 slices of dry toast. A Big Mac. She claims the supplement staves off the hunger and she is down about 12 pounds in 10 days but 500 calories? I'm not sure my body would continue to breathe or pump blood and I definitely know that I'd be dangerous in a manic, for-Christsakes-feed-me sort of way.

Skinny Steph the Magnificent refuses to weigh herself but the pounds have obviously melted off of her. I suppose the extra weight she was carrying on her left earlobe was bothersome. She's been watching her carbs and after witnessing her shed a pant size in a week, I jumped on the low carb wagon. I hate my scale but today, I succumbed.

I am down a total of 10.6 pounds in 10 days. I have lost a pant size.

Rah, rah. I am pleased with the results but why does everything really good in life have to be illegal, immoral or fattening?

There is some motivation, however. I was speaking with sistah cousin the other day about our spring break plans. Originally, we were to go to Vermont skiing. As you know, I was slightly apprehensive at the thought of barrelling down the side of a mountain so when she told me that they were having a hard time booking my accommodations for that particular week, I wasn't too upset. Instead, of skiing, we have tentatively decided to meet back at Disney. I'm thrilled except for the prospect of spending a day at one of the water parks stuffed into a Miracle Suit.

NOT THIS TIME!

I have made myself a promise that my next trip to Blizzard Beach will see me in a cute little two piece. Period.

How's that mid-life crisis coming along, you ask? Just bloody dandy. Now bugger off unless you've got carb-free dark chocolate that doesn't taste like a laxative.