Letting Go, Part 1 (and a book update)

I’ll be taking a few shortcuts in my blog now and again while I write the book. This includes posting things I’ve written years ago that have nothing, really, to do with weight loss. But the one thing I’ve learned about losing weight after all these years of trying and trying is that our lives aren’t put on hold just because we decide to drop some pounds. The hours and days still pass, and to lose weight and maintain it successfully, we have to incorporate our ambitions and dedication with the ordinary everyday stuff.

I’m 46 and am just figuring this out.

Anyway, here’s the update on the book: The proposal is soon complete. Once all the revisions are complete (which is what I’m working on now) and on my agent’s desk, she will send it out to publishers. IF a publisher buys it, then I will write the rest of the book. So don’t be looking for anything on Amazon for a while. I’ve really appreciated your support through this process. Trust me, you’ll be the first (well, third after my husband and kids) to know when and if I have a book deal. Here’s hoping for the positive.

But back to the latest shortcut. My daughter Cassie, mother to my grandbabies, joined the Army Reserves shortly after 9-11 when she was 16 years old and a junior in high school. She needed my permission, and signing the papers was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made. Here’s what I wrote back in Dec. 2001 about the process. Part 2 will be told from Cassie’s perspective.

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I’m being weaned, figuratively, from my children by my children. At 17 and 18, Cassie and Carlene don’t need me for many things anymore except maybe to buy face wash, body lotion or tampons. Then it’s not really me they need but my Visa card.

From the minute they were born, I’ve been letting go. I let them go with the nurses to be cleaned, weighed and measured. I let them go on the bus to their first day of kindergarten. I let them go to birthday parties, sleep-overs, field trips, to the mall alone with their friends. I’ve even let them go on dates with boys I didn’t like, not because I trusted the boys, but because I trusted my girls. And trust is at the heart of letting go.

For Carlene her letting go of me was harder for her than me letting go of her. She hated day care, she wanted her first-grade teacher to call me after a thunderstorm, and she usually sat on my lap when strangers or people she hadn’t seen in awhile were in the room. As she got older, Carlene grew a strong backbone, and combined with her level-headedness, she’s turned into a strong young woman, even though I still buy her razors and shampoo.

On the opposite end of parenting is Cassie. Our letting go experiences have been of her pushing me rather than me pushing her. She had no problem disappearing into clothes racks when she was 2 while we were out shopping, leaving me frantic looking for her. She couldn’t wait to go to school and loved it when I hired a babysitter if I went out. I always knew she needed me in some esoteric way, but she hasn’t given up the secret of why.

She’s done some fast talking and gentle pushing lately to help me face the hardest letting go of her yet. Last Tuesday I signed a consent form allowing Cassie to join the Army Reserves. She made this decision before Sept. 11 and I was mostly OK with it since she could finish high school without interruption and go to college while doing her military work. Then as I watched the World Trade Centers collapse and the Pentagon on fire, I decided there was no way in hell I was going to let her join anything that might put her in the middle of whatever was coming.

But when she came home from school that day, she was more determined than ever to sign up.

I knew that given my fear, the control freak I’m known to be could refuse to let her join and make her wait until she was 18 and no longer needed my permission. But I’ve spent 17 years reigning in this child. To hold her back might break her.

After all, this is a girl who, when she was 3, thought she could stick a penny in an outlet like it was a vending machine. When the lights flickered, I heard a “snap” and felt a bump on the floor. I ran in to her room and there she was blinking and stunned, and a penny bent and burned near the outlet. I didn’t punish her. I figured the electric shock that sent her flying two feet from the wall was lesson enough.

This is the same girl who, when she was 7, decided to visit her 80-year-old friend for five hours without telling me where she was. How do you get mad at someone who’s doing a good thing, but who didn’t follow the rules? Just as control defined me, dichotomy defined Cass.

I read the consent form. It was perfectly clear. My signature meant I understood Cassie might be put in dangerous, life-threatening situations should her reserve unit be activated. It meant I promised not to sue the government if something happened to her while in their care like a broken leg, loss of eyesight, or death. This form made the paper I signed so she could get her belly button pierced seem like a sales slip for lipstick. I was granting permission for the government I live under and pay taxes to, to use my child in the country’s best interests. God, the government had better appreciate her.

She’ll go to basic training this summer, a complete letting go if there ever was. If she screws up it won’t be me talking to her about her mistake or grounding her for a night. She’ll have a drill sergeant in her face calling her names and screaming at her to do 50 pushups. Instead of her favorite mashed potatoes with cream cheese and sour cream and Italian chicken drizzled in butter, she’ll be eating chipped beef on toast. Instead of sleeping in on warm summer mornings, she’ll be up at 4 a.m., running, learning to shoot an M16, and throwing grenades. They’ll even put her in a gas chamber. “Cool,” she said.

So, I signed it. She’ll come home a soldier. A lean, mean fightin’ machine. But she’ll still be my little girl and she’ll still need me. And my Visa card.

I’m being weaned. Weaned from directing and controlling my girls’ destinies. But you know something? When I look at them, when I think of all we’ve been through, I smile like a Cheshire cat and think, ‘Damn, I’ve done a good job.’

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Shawna’s Savin’ All Her Carbs For You!

I don’t remember this, but apparently sometime last week I changed my name to Shawna, moved to Austin, Texas, and became a spokesmodel for a resveratrol weight-loss product.

No wonder I’ve been so tired.

This is the third time (that I’m aware of) that a “weight-loss company” has stolen a photo from my website and used my image to sell their crazy products. The first time, a “lose belly fat by obeying one rule” scam cropped a photo of my (fully clothed) stomach. I was appalled and flattered at the same time, like I’d been whistled at by construction workers. The second time, a weight-loss “blog” selling acai berry pills included a link to my website, inferring that I used their product to lose weight. Of course anyone who clicked on the link would soon learn that I didn’t use a product to lose weight, but I was still bothered by the reference. (I wrote about it in January. Click here to view.)

This time, the before/after shots from the homepage of my original website, Lynn’s Journey, are being used to sell something called ResV. I know I shouldn’t “promote” the site by giving out the address here, but I want you to see just how ballsy these folks are. Click here to see the site. Scroll down…you’ll see me halfway down on the right. Honestly, I’m not sure what offends me more: that they’re using my image to sell a product I would never use or endorse, or that the “testimonial” they attribute to me is so poorly written. The image is clearly me, but the writing? Not so much.

I’m not as ticked this time as I was the first two times. First of all, there’s little I can do to have my images removed from these fake sites. I tried, ad nauseum, in the past to contact someone, but all they want is your credit card number. Second, I’ve come to accept that it’s just my photo, not my story or real name. I know who I am. I know my story. My image is nothing without my story. Besides, if someone is buying ResV or acai berries or belly fat weight-loss products to lose weight, my story of losing weight through a healthy diet and NO supplements won’t interest them much.

I’m also posting this blog on Refuse to Regain because I’d like to reach as many readers as I can for feedback. The Internet is, in many ways, a free-for-all for cheaters, scammers and plagiarists. I’d like to know: 1) If you have a website, has your image been stolen to promote a product you did not endorse; and 2) How did you handle the situation (or how would you handle it if it were to happen)? As always, leave a comment or send an email to lynnbering@verizon.net.
Now on to the carb love. Whitney Houston’s voice was in my head last Sunday morning, as she is every time I anticipate lunch with my oldest daughter at our favorite western PA restaurant: North Country Brewing Company. Thank god Slippery Rock is no longer a “dry” town because this place serves up some mighty fine beer and PA wine. (The new Rosabella Pinot Grigio from Narcisi Winery is to die for, and I’m not usually a sweetish kind of wine lover.)

But I don’t love North Country for the drink. Oh no, my friends. I love North Country for the pita and hummus and field green salad with feta, walnuts, artichokes and green beans.

The salad is self-explanatory…and secondary, actually. It’s the hummus and pita….oh my….that make me so happy and have me singing my version of a Whitney Houston song.

Their chef makes a new hummus every day and every one I’ve had is gooooood (said in my best Elaine Benes accent). And I don’t know if it’s homemade, but the pita they serve with it is gooooooood, too. I mean “worth-every-carb-calorie” good.

The chef isn’t afraid to combine hot with mellow and savory with sweet. His hummus is always a taste explosion. And the pita is thick and white, grilled and a little sweet. It fills you up real quick, but it’s worth saving every last calorie you allot for the day just to savor more than a quick sample.

Carbs like this have become a once-in-awhile treat, unlike when I was obese and didn’t give carbs a second thought. I ate them regularly – and often primarily – as though they were a right. I bought whole wheat bagels and whole wheat English muffins and whole wheat pizza dough thinking I was eating “healthy,” but they were wreaking havoc with my body. It was only when I broke down my food intake into food groups (something I did months after I’d reached goal, not while I was losing weight), that I saw and felt the affects of carbohydrates on my body. Too many breads, crackers, cereals or fruits and I bloat up and gain weight. That’s why they’ve become once-in-awhile or tightly controlled foods. And that’s what makes the pita and hummus so special.

With my apologies to Ms. Houston, here’s the song (my adaptation) that goes through my head every time I anticipate the hummus and pita at North Country – a place, I assure you, I only eat at once a month at the most. It would be too dangerous otherwise.

Savin’ All My Carbs For You (aka Savin’ All My Love For You)

A few stolen moments is all that we share
You’ve got your calories, and they feel like air
Though I try to resist, I put you on my list
Cause no other carb’s gonna do
So I’m saving all my carbs for you

No other woman, is gonna love you more
Cause this lunch is the lunch, that I’m ready to munch
We’ll be eating carbs the whole hour through
So I’m saving all my carbs
Yeah I’m saving all my carbin’
Yes I’m saving all my carbs for you
For you, for you

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The Healer

WARNING: This blog entry is rated PG or PG-13, depending on your standards. There’s no food porn, I promise, but there is a wee bit of *ahem* s-e-x. Nothing that’ll make you want to light a cigarette, but a little blush-worthy, at least for me.
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“Researching” my book last year led me to the basement and the box of journals I keep in a box waaaaay in the back of the third shelf, behind Christmas decorations and another box filled with every paper I wrote in college. (I was an English major with a writing minor. It’s a VERY big box.)

I’ve kept a journal since sixth grade and I still have the small hard-cover blue diary I began when I started “going with” my boyfriend Ricky. Since then, I’d amassed quite a collection of cloth-bound, spiral-bound and leather-bound journals.

I dug out the one I kept in 1989 when I was newly divorced, had just started college and was working full time. I weighed 170 pounds. When I was 300 pounds, I’d have given a body part to weigh 170, but in 1989, it made me self-conscious. Throughout the journal is the line, “I wish I was 30 pounds lighter…” After a blind date, I wrote, “He is gorgeous and nice and funny and I’m sure I’ll never see him again. He’s too everything for someone like me. I know what kind of men care about me (for longer than a night) and he’s not it.”

Poor me, right? *eyeroll* No need to feel sorry for boo-hooing me because a few pages later, the name “Jace”* starts popping up. (*Not his real name, but I’m using it because in Greek it means “healer,” which will become clear by the end of this blog.)

Here’s my story of Jace.

I was out with some colleagues for a drink before picking up my kids, making dinner and watching “The Cosby Show.”

You know how busy bars are during happy hour – you have to practically yell to talk to the person next to you. But within the hum and laughter, I heard a voice that was definitely not Minnesotan. I casually glanced over my shoulder. Sitting on a stool adjacent to me was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man wearing a tailored suit. He set his drink on the bar and caught me staring. He grinned. My insides turned to Jell-O.

My friends finished their drinks and asked the bartender for their tab. From the corner of my eye, I saw the dark-haired man glancing at me as he talked with his friends.

‘Crap,’ I thought. ‘Do I stay or do I go?’

I did a quick mental assessment. I was a size 14 and wearing a forgettable skirt and blouse with the buttons undone one hole lower than at work. I’d also freed my hair from its barrette. Hardly stunning, but I was still in good standing with the Pretty Face Club, and thanks to a little liquid courage, I felt sufficiently attractive.

I turned around and smiled at him just as his friends went to get another drink. I leaned over and asked him, “Your accent. Is that Italian?”

He smiled a wide perfect-teeth smile and said, “No. I’m Greek.”

Oh my.

My friends said their goodbyes and whispered, “Call us tomorrow” as the man moved his stool next to mine.

“I’m Jace,” he said. “Who are you?”

I said, “Lynn,” but when he said it, he pronounced it “Lean.” Oh the irony.

Within 45 minutes I learned he held a Ph.D. in electrical engineering and worked for a consulting firm on the west coast. He lived in a corporate apartment when he was in Minneapolis, and his family lived in Greece. He was thinking of buying a Porsche, and was currently reading a German translation of “War and Peace.” I had to pinch myself because he was so dreamy, then I remembered my kids and dinner and “Cosby.” I said I had to leave and he wrote down his personal number on his business card.

“Call me,” he said, and I floated home.

The next day my inner fat girl wondered what a handsome, well-dressed, worldly man like Jace wanted with a frumpy overweight secretary with kids? The woman with the loosened blouse and free hair and subtle wine buzz disappeared in the night, but I knew I needed her help to convince the fat chick to call this guy back. It took a few good hair days and some tough love, but I called him.

“Lean, baby” he growled.

He asked me to dinner for the following Saturday and we agreed that I’d pick him up since I didn’t want my kids meeting Mommy’s new friend. When I got to his apartment, he greeted me at the door, all 6-foot 2-inches of him, with a smile so devilish that Satan himself would have turned around and run the other direction. That’s what my better judgment did, but the rest of me walked in and he locked the door behind me.

We exchanged nice-to-see-you-agains and sat down on the couch. CNN was on TV and “War and Peace” was on the coffee table. As we talked, I tried to avoid his gaze because his eyes were like pools of melted chocolate. If that’s all I had to worry about, we might have made it to dinner that night, but there was no avoiding his accent. It was like an aural massage.

I didn’t care whether mistake or good fortune lay ahead, but I finally decided to get brave and look him straight in the eyes. He placed his large soft hands on my face, smiled and whispered “Baby,” then wrapped his lips around my mouth like a lid on Tupperware. My body went totally limp and he moved me on to his lap like I was as light as tissue paper.

My fat girl was screaming, “There’s a light on! Don’t let him see your stretch marks! My God, what are you doing letting him touch your breasts while you’re in that upright position! You know you should be lying down!” But what I was feeling was enough to send that fat chick packing. For a few hours, I didn’t think about my too-large hips or my mother-of-two apron belly. I just let myself feel.

‘Where did he learn this?’ I kept thinking, because I was signing up all future boyfriends for that class.

I know confidence has to come from within, blah blah blah, but meeting Jace and going toe-to-toe with my fat chick, even for a little while, helped me see myself in a new light.

Jace was so good looking that women would buy him drinks when clearly they could see we were on a date. It was intimidating (because of course ALL those women were WAY better looking then me, right?), but Jace always focused on me when we were together. I began to see that this was more than a physical thing, though not exactly a “love” thing, either, in the traditional sense. I knew that from the start and never tried to change it. I just let things unfold, which was so unlike tight-gripped, control freak me.

Jace was as passionate about conversation and debate as he was about sex. I’d just started college, but he treated me like I had a Ph.D. He was fascinated by my life – my little old podunk life. He asked me questions about my reading lists, taught me about foreign policy from a Greek perspective, and encouraged my writing. That he believed in me opened the door for me to believe in myself. How do you thank someone for that?

We saw each other on and off for a few years until his project in Minneapolis was complete. He went back to the west coast and I moved to the east. I thought about him once in awhile over 17 years, and finally last year, I looked for him on the Internet – not because I was unhappy or needy. I was writing about that time in my life for the book and I was curious about where he was and if it was possible to let him know what an influence he’d been in my life.

He was easy to find. I sent him an email asking him if he remembered me. Not an hour later I got an email back. Yes, yes, he said, I remember you. He asked me where I lived. As luck would have it, he was going to be at a conference in Pittsburgh the following month and, fully sanctioned by my husband, we made plans to have dinner.

I won’t lie. I was scared to death to see him, like I was that insecure girl at the bar all over again. But when I saw his fabulous grin and he hugged me and said, “Hello, Lean,” I knew I’d made the right decision to contact him. Our friendship transcended the years and we talked for hours.

When I explained I was writing a book, he said he knew I could do it. When I thanked him for all he’d done for me physically and intellectually, he said he didn’t understand. How did I not know then that I was a good and worthy person? I just sighed. He hadn’t changed a bit.

But I had.

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Moroccan Stew, Mushroom Sloppy Joes, and Roasted Cauliflower and Broccoli: This Is A Food/Recipe Post (open at your own risk)

I must be the most naïve blogger in the world. I had no idea it was a courtesy to put a “Food Porn” warning in the title if a blog entry mentioned food. I apologize to anyone who’s had food cravings or binges after reading one of my blogs.

Today’s entry is all about food. Healthy food, albeit, but food nonetheless. Binging on this stuff will only give you a really bad case of gas.

I love Taste of Home, particularly its Healthy Cooking Magazine. I found this recipe in the regular Taste of Home magazine, but it could easily have been in Healthy Cooking. It’s vegetarian, low fat, hearty and packs a great lemon-cinnamon punch. It’s my new favorite soup. And I don’t say this lightly since I’m a huge soup fan. This is really good stuff for 3 Points for a 1½-cup serving. My only advice: don’t overcook the potatoes.

(FYI: I substitute 2 cups of carrots for the butternut squash when husband Larry’s eating this since he isn’t a fan of the cucurbita moschata (I heart Wikipedia).)

Moroccan Chickpea Stew

Ingredients:

1 large onion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 cinnamon stick (3 inches)
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
4 cups vegetable broth
2 cups cubed peeled butternut squash (or carrots)
1 can (15 ounces) chickpeas or garbanzo beans, rinsed and drained
1 can (14-1/2 ounces) diced tomatoes, undrained
1 medium red potato, cut into 1-inch cubes (1 cup)
1 medium sweet potato, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes (2 cups)
1 medium lemon, thinly sliced
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 small zucchini, cubed
3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro

Directions:

In a Dutch oven, sauté onion in oil and butter until tender. Add the garlic, cumin, cinnamon stick and chili powder; sauté 2 minutes longer.

Stir in the broth, squash, chickpeas, tomatoes, potatoes, lemon and salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 15-20 minutes or until potatoes and squash are almost tender.

Add zucchini; return to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 5-8 minutes or until vegetables are tender. Discard cinnamon stick and lemon slices. Stir in cilantro. Yield: 9 servings (about 2 quarts).

Cauliflower & Broccoli

Here’s what I’ve learned about roasting cauliflower the right way (as opposed to my normal hurry-up-and-roast-already): Cauliflower TAKES TIME. It took me a year to figure this out. But taking time to do it right is well worth it.

I hate cutting up cauliflower. It’s like wiping off spitballs or Styrofoam on your cutting board – impossible to clean. Those little white florets stick to everything. But last week, using my hands instead of a knife, I broke the cauliflower apart into little pieces over my ceramic roasting pan to catch all the little white bits. Worked great! I threw in some minced garlic cloves, sprinkled some pepper and a tiny bit of seasoned salt on top, sprayed it all with Pam, and put it in a 375-degree oven.

After 20 minutes I tossed the mixture and set the timer for another 20 minutes. I tossed it again and set the timer for 10 minutes. I checked on it occasionally, but it took the full 50 minutes to be Lynn Done. Time and a lower temperature produced THE best roasted cauliflower I’ve ever had. I used to eat it after roasting it for 30 minutes thinking hard and chewy (in other words, RAW) was how I was supposed to eat it. But I’m not that raw kind of gal. I like my food caramelized, soft, dark, really cooked. I order my toast nearly burned, I like the “burnt” potato chips, and when I ate meat, I preferred chicken or turkey thighs.

My new-found knowledge about cauliflower applies to broccoli, too (however, I sliced it rather than rip it apart with my hands). I sprinkle it with pepper and garlic powder, coat it with Pam, and roast it for 20 minutes, after which I toss it again, give it another 20 minutes, then watch it and test it until it is Lynn Done. I throw on some parmesan cheese and called it dinner. Well…PART of dinner. Tonight I added this:

Portobello Mushroom and Bell Pepper Sloppy Joes

1 T. olive oil (or you can eliminate the oil and sauté the veggies in a bit of vegetable broth)
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
2 small bell peppers (I prefer sweet red peppers)
1 yellow onion, thinly sliced
1 pound portobello mushrooms, thinly sliced
Salt and pepper to taste
1 8-ounce can tomato sauce
2 T tomato paste
1-2 T Worcestershire sauce (2 T will give you a nice tangy flavor)
1 t dried oregano
½ t Tabasco

Heat the oil (or broth) in a large skillet coated with cooking spray. Add garlic, pepper and onions. Cook until slightly softened. Add the mushrooms (and a little more broth) and cook, stirring occasionally, until mushrooms are softened and liquid is absorbed.

Add tomato sauce and paste, Worcestershire, oregano and Tabasco. Stir well. Cook until thickened.

Spoon mixture on to your favorite bread/bun/wrap/Arnold’s.

Makes 4 servings

I’ve missed sloppy joes. I haven’t had them since my ground-turkey-eating days. I knew I could substitute Boca or something like that, but I wasn’t real enthused about it (too much sodium). Then I saw this recipe in O Magazine last month. I tried it tonight and really liked it. My new motto: Give me veggies over fake meat any day.

So there you have it. My new favorite foods. None of them will bring about world peace, but they make me happy after a day of writing and fussing and running around. The veggies also make great breakfast side dishes. I love a good smoothie and some green tea and roasted broccoli before a workout. I used to eat 2 cups of Frosted Mini Wheats and drink a quart of orange juice and called myself healthy…

*shaking head*

Tomatoes are ripening everywhere so I bought some Romas and Big Boys at the farmer's market on the way home from P'burgh today. Tomato sauce and chili....you will be mine.

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The CarbFest Comes To An End

I got back on the clean-eating wagon yesterday after a 3-day “No Formal Exercise and Carb Fest” in NYC and CT. While I didn’t go crazy by most standards, I was definitely off my food game.

As you know from my last blog, I carbed up a bit in NYC on Thursday and Friday, but had no regrets. Fighting a slight hangover and lack of sleep, I drove to CT early Saturday morning from NYC armed with little more than a bag of cheddar and sour cream Baked Lays and Hershey Kisses. I arrived at Diva AJ’s around 10 a.m., and after much hugging and photo taking, AJ, Sondra, Kick and I went to a beautiful park where we talked, got rained on, and ate hummus, rice crackers, plums and pears, and sipped on fruit beer.

At the grocery store on our way back to AJ’s, I vowed to eat no more breads/crackers/chips/fruit for the rest of the night and made a salad at the salad bar for dinner. (I believe my words were, “My kingdom for some spinach!”) Still, the damage was done. I looked four months pregnant from the bloat and knew I could do little else but wait it out.

Asparagus and wine...

Sunday morning, I ate a few edamame while I steamed three cups of broccoli, made a Swiss cheese omelet, and threw some PB2 together and spread it on an Arnold’s Sandwich Thin. I packed it all up (Yes, I ate everything on the road, including the broccoli. I had a fork…) and headed back to NYC to pick up my husband and daughter. On the way home, I ate some plain Greek yogurt and raspberries, one peach, and a Subway veggie sandwich toasted with no cheese and only a smidgeon of lite mayo and mustard. Once home, Larry ran to the store and picked up a bag of spinach and grape tomatoes and I had a salad for dinner. I went to bed feeling a little better, but man, a weekend of high carbs really do a number on my insides.

Today’s post over at MizFit (Big Dietary Changes One Small Step At A Time) is all about cleaning up your eating without a formal “diet plan.” I especially loved this part of her acronym:

“Intuitive eating. Start this one today. Slowly. Listen to what your body is saying. Pay attention to how you feel after eating certain foods. JOURNAL. For me this isn’t journaling *caloric intake* but feelings. Noting how, when I crave sweets, it’s mainly AFTER I’ve had a high processed carbohydrate meal.”

Amen, Miz. It wasn’t until recently (as in the last year) that I actually paid attention to how my body responds to overdoses of carbs. I just thought everyone got bloaty at the end of the day. Umm…no. They don’t. Everyone’s bodies are different in how they respond to carbs, and mine just happens to be very sensitive.

Armed with this awareness, I (usually) limit my bread/pasta/stuff-like-that and fruit intake to no more than two of each every day. I’ll add a starchy veggie once in awhile (regular potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn on the cob), but not every day. Doing this has kept my weight steady for a year. I don’t see the same kind of 2- and 3-pound swings I used to see. Now, day to day, the scale goes up and down in much smaller increments. Most of all, I feel it in my gut. I’m not loosening the belt after 3 p.m. anymore.

This morning, the scale was up 1.6 from last Monday, but it’s all good. No scale freakouts, just getting back on my game. Starting with a typical breakfast and an exercise plan.

Necessity is the mother of invention, and this morning I invented what I think is my new favorite smoothie.

I didn’t buy anything last week that we couldn’t eat before we left or could take along with us because there’s nothing worse than coming home to rotting food. Because Larry’s only mission at the grocery store last night was to get a few veggies, the fridge is pretty bare except for some Greek yogurt and lite soy milk, a handful of frozen berries and a peach: a hearty little soldier that rolled around in the back of the Jeep all weekend. I tossed them all (along with a little stevia) in my smoothie container and turned on the hand mixer. It was a little runny, but the peach added such an awesome flavor I think I’ll ripen all peaches from now on in the back of the Jeep.

I’ll hit the store after my workout (please, elliptical, be kind) and buy stuff for tomato sauce. I have a lovely little butternut squash just waiting to be smothered in tomatoey goodness.

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Eating Out In the Big Apple

Good morning from New York City! I wanted to post a quick hello before heading to Connecticut this morning to meet the Maintaining Divas.

New York is only a six-hour car ride from my home in western Pennsylvania – hop on I-80 and drive until it ends – but it’s worlds away in terms of food. I live in a town of 13,000 people, two McDonald’s, two Subway’s, a Taco Bell, a Long John Silver’s, an Arby’s, a Wendy’s, five pizza joints and a Starbucks (how that got there I’ll never know). Sit-down restaurants include Perkins, Applebee’s, a steakhouse, a Mexican restaurant, and a diner that doesn’t serve fruit or vegetables that don’t come from a can, but offers a “salad” made mostly with the white parts of iceberg lettuce and topped with french fries and served with a homemade bread stick the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread.

I’ve become an elitist food snob since I began losing weight almost five years ago. Put me in any restaurant before that and my options were unlimited. Now, I study menus like they’re textbooks and question wait staff like I’m a CSI agent. (“Can you tell me if the base of your vegetable soup is actual vegetable broth, or does your cook use chicken or beef broth?”)

It’s not easy eating out in Podunkville when you prefer your food low fat, your vegetables not swimming in salt and butter, and your salad dressing choices to include options other than Ranch, French and blue cheese. “Let’s go out for dinner” always sounds like a good idea, but it’s always followed with the question, “But where?” I can make whatever we’d eat in any of our local restaurants so much better at home.

That’s why eating out in NYC these last few days has been such a pleasure. While in Times Square, we ate in an Irish pub where the veggie of the day was mashed carrots and parsnips (I have to find a recipe for this somewhere, especially since my daughter liked it. LIKED it. That’s HUGE! We’re talking she ate PARSNIPS. I didn’t think she knew what a parsnip was. I was so proud. :**) …sniff…sniff…). And because of the ¾-mile hike to the subway, walking around Times Square, and in anticipation of the ¾-mile hike back to the hotel, I treated myself to a bit of spinach and artichoke dip made with gruyere cheese. I don’t regret a single bite.

Lunch yesterday was at a place that offered tofu as an option on its salads as well as chicken or salmon. Talk about all inclusive. I had steamed edamame and an entrée of sautéed greens and vegetables over brown rice served with a carrot-ginger dressing. I also ate a few slices of a whole grain baguette. It was a bit more starch than I usually eat in a meal, but again, no regrets.

While my daughter went back into Manhattan for the evening with a friend from school, Larry and I stayed in Queens and went to a small neighborhood restaurant recommended by the hotel staff. We walked there, of course, since parking spots are scarce, but it was worth every step in the rain. I had a warmed beet and apple salad with reduced balsamic, steamed cauliflower and green beans, and bread. Again. Crusty French with butter. It was fabulous.

It’s now time to shower and hit the road to Connecticut. Tomorrow, it’s back to Podunkville – a place I love to live, but hate going out for dinner. In the meantime, I have to see some divas about some wine…

(To read about the Divas, see A Gathering of Divas and The Maintaining Divas Meet At Last.)

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It's A Matter Of Trust

It’s been almost a year since a Great Horned Owl killed a skunk in our back yard. The owl was probably perched in our neighbor’s pine tree, saw dinner, but with its poor sense of smell, didn’t realize he was diving right into a skunk. One whiff after he killed it, he was outta there, leaving us with a carcass and sheets, blankets, shoes, clothes, towels – anything within 50 feet of the back windows – reeking of skunk. It took a month to air out the back half of the house and rid the smell from our linens and clothes.

Skunks are attracted to bird seed, I found out after searching “How to get rid of skunks without killing them.” We have three feeders in our back yard and so with great sadness, I stopped feeding the birds in mid July and will not put feed in again until mid September.

I’m so lonesome I could cry.

I miss the cardinals, sparrows, finches, cowbirds, catbirds and even the mourning doves and blue jays. Every day there was a feeding frenzy at the feeders, and I had a great view whether I was washing dishes or sitting on the deck.

I still fill the bird bath, and once in awhile a cardinal or robin will stop by and take a dip, but it’s not the same.

So I’ve taken to observing bees. They love the salvia and phlox in my garden, and now that the mums have bloomed and the sage and oregano have flowered, bees are everywhere.

Bees break all the rules. Man-made rules, that is. Within our current understanding of aerodynamics, bumble bees shouldn’t be able to fly. However, says Dr. Galapagos on the teacher-oriented website The Flying Turtle, “…not fully understanding how something works does not mean the explanation must then be magic (nor does it mean the only possible explanation is aliens from another planet). A violation of the normal laws of physics would be magic or a miracle.”

Many times I’ve wondered why the scale has gone up or gone down when I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary. I read bloggers and comments from people who ask the same question: “I ate the same thing, worked out the same way this week and I gained three pounds? How does that happen?” All I can say is, “I don’t know.” We can try to explain it, like scientists trying to explain the physics of bumble bees, when maybe all we need to do is trust that our bodies are simply working within some physical laws we don’t understand.

Statistics suggest I should be gaining back the 170 pounds I lost. Unfortunately it’s what most people do after getting to goal. But it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s like “my” birds. I have to trust that even though I haven’t filled the feeders for six weeks, they’ll be back in September. I trust that the salvia and phlox and other flowers will return to my garden next year and so, too, will the bees. I trust that if I keep doing what I’m doing with my body….it will stay the same. Relatively speaking.

This reminds me of the song by Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes: “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” For all the things my body and I have been through together, I should understand it, right? Just trust in it. I’m working on it. Always working on it.

Wouldn’t you know it? As I type this, I smell the faint odor of skunk. Not in my back yard, but somewhere nearby. I can only trust that skunk won’t find its way into our yard. I’ve done everything I can to safeguard the place. But as I know all too well, nothing’s 100 percent.

So I’ll just take some solace in Harold Melvin’s appearance on Soul Train. (Props to Simply Red and his version of this song. I love it, too.) Body, I dedicate this to you:




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Side note: I got an email from Marsha from the Fit Woman blog over at the weight-loss retreat Green Mountain at Fox Run in Vermont who said their account was hacked into a few weeks ago which caused a loss in their rankings on major search engines. Just helping them get back in the groove by throwing out some searchable words. Gotta love technology, don’t ya?

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