Well, this is a quandary...

I really don't live here anymore.  I live on Facebook and in the real world.  I don't share much of my thoughts with the outside world.  Privacy has become a good thing.

I've had what you could call a tumultuous past four years, what with all the changing going on with my body and the consequent changes it wrought in my psyche and my behavior.  There were days where I loved being me and days when I absolutely loathed it.  I think I've reached a comfortable landing point, though.  I can be me, authentically, and not feel like anyone else's opinion is going to invalidate my own.  I don't seek validation from others anymore: it has to come from within.  It's easy to say that, but it's harder - much harder - to feel that in the marrow of your bones and to trust its source.  Now, I do.

The changes in my health have been overwhelmingly positive: I no longer go to sleep at night fearing that I might not wake up in the morning due to sleep apnea.  I'm not depressed anymore.  The joint pain that was starting to settle in my knees and ankles has disappeared, as has the foot pain that had me wincing every time I stood up.  My high blood pressure is out of the stratosphere and hovers near normal with a very low dose of one medication opposed to the higher doses of three medications it took previously (as hypertension is genetic in my family, it may never be completely normal without medication).

The changes I've experienced mentally are akin to a roller coaster ride - all kinds of thrilling twists and turns, sometimes feeling like I had no brakes, routinely making me dizzy, but all the while knowing there was an end to the ride coming.  I've had way too much attention from random men, to the point where I don't do a Girl's Night Out with single women any more.  It's got to be all of us old married hens sticking together, as I get approached when left on my own as the single girls find dates.  Since I've been married for almost all of my adult life, I hardly know how to handle this and it makes me uncomfortable having to fend them off.  I'd like to say I haven't ever been tempted by any of them, but that would be a huge lie.  I've been tempted plenty.  PLENTY.  Which leads me to...

The changes that have been wrought in my marriage have been, for the most part, constructive and positive.  I am completely unwilling to settle for third place in my husband's affections - that's lower than the dog, folks - and have let him know in no uncertain terms that that shit shall not continue.  If there has been one good thing that's come out of all of that random male attention, it's that I've realized my own worth and power.  I was, yes, a fool to not realize it earlier.  However, I've got a handle on it now, and it's not going anywhere.  We're celebrating our 20th anniversary in two weeks.  I'm happy about that now.

So, as of right now, it looks like the future may be fairly smooth sailing.  There may be some rough waters ahead as our daughter enters adolescence, and menopause sounds like a blast , but for this moment, I'm optimistic.  And that seems like a pretty good place to leave things.

Today, I'm peevish about...

... my trousers.

They are a size XS (Extra Small) yet they are at least two inches too long.  Honestly, I'm not that short!

Choices and Changes

I've made no secret that I've been having troubles with the WCM lately - mostly because I refuse to accept that what I've currently got is going to suffice for the rest of my life. There are choices to be made, and changes that come with them.

One of the things that I've always believed is that people don't change who they are. You must accept them for who they are and not think that you can change their personalities, their appearance, or any of their less-than-perfect aspects. Sure, they can try to change what you don't like, but when they do, you run the risk of them resenting you for it. The WCM and I have embroiled ourselves in a bit of a power struggle, where I think I've been the one doing all the changing and accommodating, and I find myself resenting him for it. I also resent that after all the things I've changed for him, there is always something else he wants me to change, something else that's wrong with me and I need to fix, before I'll become acceptable. And lastly, I resent that he expects me to do all the changing, and won't honor the one simple request that I've made at least once a year for the last 18 years. It's a request that most men wouldn't mind in the least. I dare say, most men that have been married 20 years would be thrilled that their wife was making this request. But then, the WCM is not most men.

I played a very dangerous game last month. I went out to a bar with a friend and flirted. A lot. I collected phone numbers from very interested men. I heard all kinds of ridiculous flattery, drank lovely coctails that I didn't have to pay for, and had a lot of fun.

At the end of the night, when I was throwing the phone numbers away - because at the heart of it all, I wouldn't do that to the WCM, even though some of them were REALLY tempting... - I couldn't help but hear that cynical bitch that lives in the back of my mind as she snarked "well hell, honey, there were at least seven men that you wouldn't have to change shit for."

I honestly believe I've reached my breaking point. There are choices and changes in store for me in 2010. I just hope that I can live with them.

Endings

I've never been so happy to see a month end. This past November was one of the worst months of my life, and I've lived a few doozies, let me tell you.

I missed a very important deadline in the academic world, thus ending my streak of always having my grades in on time to date. I was officially called upon the carpet for it and have officially apologized to parents and students alike. Safe to say, I will never make that mistake again.

Also ending this month was any free time that I ever had - now with another person hanging around the house, an adolescent person who needs a ride to and from work, swim practice, and school, I've found I've less time to indulge in my afternoon winding-down rituals.

Scarily, almost ending this month was my marriage. For nearly 20 years now, my union with the WCM has been stable - boring at times, irritating as sand in your swimsuit at others, but always stable. It was rocked hard this month, and the sad part about that is that he doesn't even know it. Suffice it to say that I should have a fucking Oscar on my mantelpiece for the acting that I can do. Believe me when I tell you that he knows what the problem is. He just doesn't know the magnitude to which it affects me. I've told him. Repeatedly. He just. doesn't. get. it.

Lastly, a few of the illusions I've had about myself have ended. I've had the chance to look clearly at myself in the mirror and examine the parts of me (physical and not) that have been giving me agita for a while. I've accepted that I'll never wear a bikini, but that I can look damned sexy with the right lingerie. I've accepted that I'll probably never find what I'm looking for within my marriage, but I don't know what I want to do about that at this point. I've accepted that I could and should work a little harder at my job, but am not sure what I'm going to have to give up in order to do that.

So many endings without subsequent beginnings. No wonder November was bleak.

Friends and laughter

I have a long road ahead of me, teaching this new course. Already, I've had some bumps on that road, and will now have to redouble my efforts just to stay on target. I know that this uncertainty about my abilities has played a part in my depression this last month.

For my whole life, I've both judged myself and been judged on what I can do - my worth was always measured by my intelligence. Twisted as it sounds, it was one of the things that allowed me not to care about how I looked: as long as I was "worthy" inside my skin, it really didn't matter what the outside of me looked like. It reinforced my belief that putting emphasis on one's looks made one shallow. I've since achieved a slightly less skewed balance on that viewpoint. Because my self-perceived worth has been challenged this school year, I've dropped into this depression.

Today, I spent the afternoon surrounded by friends at a bridal shower. Tonight, I'll be helping another friend celebrate his upcoming 40th birthday. I'm thinking some friends and laughter will be just what the doctor ordered to drag my out of this.

On the verge

For the last month, I've felt as though I've been constantly on the verge of tears. I usually only get this way a couple of days out of the month - why, hello, Aunt Flo. So miserable to see you. - but this went far beyond those days. This was systemic. It affected my work and my relationships.

I'm familiar with depression and how it feels - like being constantly shoved underwater, unable to surface through the thick barrier of ice above you. I've been there. This is similar.

I've deliberately kept myself busy, attempting to push through the feelings and come out on the other side of this mini-depression. That has failed, colossally. I've tried to smother those feelings in chocolate. That was a major disappointment. I've tried losing myself in the internet. Nope, didn't happen.

So now I have to feel these feelings - and just what am I supposed to do with them?

Ratatouille

So, I've been telling you all about the lovely garden produce I've been harvesting from my garden. I figured it was time to show you some. After watching Remy the rat assemble a beautiful ratatouille in the movie by the same name, I thought that, as I had a smallish skinny eggplant, a zucchini, and several tomatoes, that I could do approximately the same thing. So I did.

Now, I have to tell you that the ratatouille of my childhood was always an aromatic soupy mess, served alongside some kind of meat. It was not a meal in and of itself. Nor was it ever so artistically arranged - the General had better things to do with his time than fiddle with the placement of vegetables in crockery.

Be this as it may, I have to avow that half my intent in arranging it thusly was to entice Miss Peanut to try some. She's a picky little thing, turning her nose up at all vegetables that are not asparagus. Let me tell you something else: it did not work. It wasn't half bad, though, so I'll share with you how I made it, just in case you find yourself with a free afternoon, some veg, and a burning desire to arrange circular veggie slices with mathematical precision, shall I? Ok, then.

You'll need one skinny eggplant, one skinny zucchini, and about 3 skinny plum tomatoes. They should all have roughly the same diameter. It will make your life easier if you plan it this way. In my case, serendipity played a part, since that's how they grew.

You'll also need one large-ish shallot, a clove or two of garlic, kosher or Maldon salt, freshly ground black pepper, a few healthy glugs of olive oil, and an ample handful of herbes de Provence.

Peel your eggplant. Whether you peel the zucchini is completely a matter of preference. I prefer not to, so I didn't. I'm lazy. Slice all the veg in damn-near paper thin slices, making neat cross sections. Put the zucchini - and only the zucchini - in a large bowl.

Finely chop the shallot and mince the garlic. Throw this in the bowl with the zucchini. Add the salt, pepper, herbes de Provence, and olive oil, and toss well, making sure that all the slices have some specks adhering to them. Oh, and since you're wondering why I'm picking on the zucchini here and not the eggplant, it's because eggplant is like an oil sponge. You put the oil on the eggplant and you're going to wind up emptying the entire bottle in there. It's not a good idea!

So then, into the casserole. A slice of eggplant, herbed zucchini, then tomato. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeatrepeatrepeat until you've either filled the casserole or run out of vegetables. If you've got any residual specks of herby goodness left in your zucchini bowl, scoop them out with the side of your hand and sprinkle them lovingly all over the assembled loveliness before you pop it into a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes. If you were me, you'd throw some grated parmesan cheese over the whole deal after you take it out of the oven. But you're not me, so you'll do what you want.

On the whole, I prefer the General's fragrant soupiness, but this is really pretty.

One of the Stupidest Things I've Ever Done...

...is not what you're thinking.

One of the stupidest things I've ever done is learn to make microwave cake in a cup. Now, I am no more than 5 minutes away from cake at any given time. Goddammit.

So of course, I feel honor-bound to share this recipe with you. But, be warned - you must love chocolate.

Get a large mug (beaker to you Brits) - the bigger the better - and a fork for mixing. Then find your measuring teaspoon.

Into your mug, measure 2 Tablespoons of All Purpose Flour, 6 Tablespoons of Sugar, and 3 Tablespoons of Cocoa. Stir 'em up just to get the lumps out.

Then, add a splash of vanilla, 1 egg, 3 Tablespoons of oil (I used Canola, since it's got no flavor), and 3 Tablespoons of milk. Mix this all up until it's amalgamated and smooth. It should have a stiffish brownie batter consistency. (Nom, nom, nom!)

Then, for the coup de grace, throw in a handful of chocolate chips and give it a very cavalier stir. You don't want them all falling to the bottom of the cup, so be a lazy person and half-ass it. Pitch the fork into the sink and bung the cup into the microwave for 4 minutes on high.

Let the cake sit for about 2 minutes before tipping it out onto a plate and digging in. You don't want to burn your mouth while it's piping hot.

Or, if burning your mouth seems like a really good idea to you you just can't wait, don't tip it out onto a plate and plop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it instead. It's a substantial cake, so it can take the moisture of the ice cream.

It's enough for two people to share, or for one really greedy person to enjoy in the privacy of her own kitchen. I'll let you figure out which one it was for me.

Dammit.

Learning moderation

So, I'm getting this whole "moderation" thing down. Instead of being either insanely deprived or insanely indulgent, I've been treading the middle ground recently, and been very happy with it. One of the things I've done, is gone back to using Bento Boxes for my lunch.

I use Japanese Bento boxes that I get online from either eBay or from ichibankan. Here's an example of what one of my lunches would look like:



I had a small tub of peanut butter and half an apple in the top half, along with two wedges of Laughing Cow French onion cheese. There's a crispbread under the clear lid to that container to smear my cheese on. The bottom of my bento contains Apple-Walnut Chicken Salad. I've got half a protein pita to eat it on, too, but no container to put it in.

It's not much food, but since I've been surgically altered, it's plenty for me. Now, before I happened on this particular bento - this is the first bento that I purchased - I'd been looking for an old, old Tupperware-style bento. Like this one (photo not mine - I found it at this blog):


Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, I was woefully inept in my internet searching and didn't come across a single one - despite the dozens currently available on eBay... *facepalm*

What I did come across, though was the Laptop Lunchbox. It's a tidy enough system, what with the different sized containers, hard outer shell, and nifty carrier. Here's what it looks like:


I think it's quite nifty, if a little large, which is what my basic problem with it was. See, being surgically-altered, I wouldn't have the room to eat all of that. That's a lot of food - quite a bit more than my typical Japanese bento holds. They market this lunchbox toward getting kids to eat healthy, too. Now, I'm about to have a bit of a rant here, so hold on to your hats.

It has been shown - but damned if I can find it right now - that children learn to eat what's in front of them. They learn their portion sizes in childhood and carry them into adulthood - ergo, if you serve a child a lot and tell them to clean their plate, then expect that they're going to expect proportionately larger servings into adulthood. And those proportionate servings are going to be much larger than the actual recommended serving sizes. Do you follow me?

By serving a child a large lunch, using a box like the one above, you're encouraging them to eat outside of appropriate caloric bounds. You're showing them amounts of food - they aren't sophisticated enough to calculate calories, so while they might be eating an appropriate amount of calories through eating lots of veggies and fibrous fruits, wholegrain bread, and other nutritious staples, they can be learning inappropriate serving sizes. Of course, the other problem here is that not every child has a lunch of nutritious staples. Twinkie, anyone? Our caloric intake in this country is out of hand!

You may find that your child is satisfied with less food than you're serving. Of course, if they tell you they're hungry, then feed them! I don't advocate putting children on diets - just serving them appropriately. That's a lesson I know I'll flub somewhat, given my own food issues. But I can tell you that my child is as yet a normal weight for someone her height. When she's hungry, I feed her. She eats all kinds of stuff - although, I'll admit she doesn't care much for vegetables other than asparagus. We eat a lot of asparagus here at Peevish Place. Ok, rant - and subsequent digression - over (well, almost).

Well, as it happens, I was in Barnes & Noble this week - I go there to sit in the cafe and read the magazines for free - and I happened upon this book: The Nine Inch Diet. The basic premise is simple - over the years, our dinner plates have grown in the same geometric slope as our nation's obesity crisis. In the 1960s, a dinner plate measured 9 inches. Today, a dinner plate measures 12 inches. The author suggests that if we all went back to 9 inch ,and serving sizes appropriate to those plates, then we'd all, as a nation, lose weight.

It looks simplistic, but you know? I can totally see it. If you, like me, were conditioned to clean your plate, not to waste food - there are children starving in China! - and eat what was put in front of you, then today's gargantuan serving sizes are quite a challenge. The WCM's parents went through the Great Depression as children - wasting food was anathema in their house. Consequently, it used to drive the WCM nuts when I leave anything on my plate. Since my subsequent alteration, he's learned not to say anything. Who says old dogs can't learn new tricks?!

Well, when I told the WCM about this whole 9 inch plate deal, he smirked at me. Being a scientist, he was quick to remind me that correlation does not equal causation (although he was quite a bit more pithy in his reminder...). He did, however, hypothesize that, using the same logic, perhaps the cold winter we're experiencing is due to the increase in pirates in Somalia.

My laughter, I'm sorry to say, was immoderate.

Skiving...

Ok, see, the thing is this - there has actually been so much happening around here, that if I concentrated long enough to write it down, I'd be writing for hours. I'll try to nutshell it for you, though.

It was midterm week this week. My lovely students were indeed lovely, and took their tests without too much bitching and moaning. My lovely school district gives us half-days during midterm week, so that we can grade our tests in the afternoons and get the grades in tout de suite. Lovely thing, that.

Well, we had ourselves a bit of weather here this week, too. We got about 3 inches of snow, topped by about a half-inch of ice. My northern friends scoff at this kind of snowfall. I admit to scoffing slightly at it, myself, but it got me a snow day, so I ain't scoffing too loud, ya know?

****

I've also discovered that I can't do the South Beach thing anymore - the Phase One brought out all of my disordered eating tendencies that the DS had put into remission. Pair those tendencies with a strong Oppositional streak, and the outcome of a week of sugar/starch deprivation was a carbohydrate orgy that would make Caligula blush and stammer. I need to skip Phase One entirely. It's not good for my mental health.

****

Last weekend, the WCM and his brother, AC, and I all went up to NYC for a Saturday. After an amazing lunch at the Carnegie Deli - seriously? who needs a sandwich that's 8 inches tall? - we went to an antique show at the Armory. This was kind of a "walk and gawk" event, as nobody had the thousands of dollars necessary to buy even the smallest of trinkets on display. I cut out of there a little early, as the boys were talking scrap metal with an armor dealer, and headed up to Madison Avenue, where I could continue the walking and gawking.

I love Madison Avenue. I stopped in a few couture houses where the price of a gown is more than my car and did a bit of salivating. My main destination, though, was La Maison du Chocolat. I sat in their teensy cafe section and had a cup of hot chocolate and a selection of chocolates. The price was exorbitant, but the taste... simply exquisite. The hot chocolate was thick and rich, hot and sweet, dark and spicy - every good combination in one cup. I bought a tiny box of chocolates to go home with me, too.

Once I was fortified, I paid up and continued to hoof it up Madison until about 75th, where I turned left, found Fifth Avenue and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I met the boys there in the gift shop, then we hit the Arms and Armor exhibit. They really can't help themselves. They love that shit. We strolled around, made a few gift shop purchases, and then caught a cab to our restaurant - Churascaria Plataforma. If you, like me, are a carnivore of the highest order, then this is your Nirvana. It was a celebration of roasted meats, of seared outer surfaces with juicy red centers. Delicious. Pricy, yes, but still delicious.

****

American Idol has come on, taking a bunch of time that I previously put to better use and rendering me a slack-jawed, mouth-breathing slave to the giant box. I've discovered over the last year or so that I can go for days without turning the thing on, if left by myself. There's just not much I want to watch.

****

Oh, hey! Speaking of watching things! I watched the whole of the Inauguration, from soup to nuts. Our whole school did, too. We dedicated the day to it. I really liked being able to do it, since I voted for this one, and since it represents such a turning point in our nation's history. Two things, though:

1. Aretha Franklin's unique phrasing of "America, the Beautiful." "My Cunt Tree 'Tis Of Thee" was rather, well, unfortunate. I just shook my head at that and the ginormous gawdy church hat she was sporting.

2. The poet. What. The. Fuck. Is. Up. With. The. Expressionless. Over-enunciated. Recital. Of. A. Fairly. Uninspiring. Frankly. Boring. Poem.? Praise. For. The. Day. When. She. Learns. About. Phrasing. And. Intonation.

Do you know when you dial information and the automated voice comes back with your number? You know the one, where the lady has recorded all the numbers using different inflections and the computer sorts them all out and assigns the inflection relative to the number's position in the strand to make it sound natural and comprehensible? Well, the automated telephone lady sounds more natural than this poet's rendition of her own poem.

****

The scrapbooking has gone pretty well. I've continued to play with my supplies in the basement, but honestly, it's pretty freaking cold down there. I have a space heater turned up to "Bowels of Hell" and it's just rendering it tolerable.

****

Ma Dawgs be illin'. Unfortunately, Slider, my old doggie has suffered a bout of intestinal distress, and has shat copiously all over the kitchen floor. He's been on the rice diet for the past two days, and seems to be recovering nicely. Zippy, the slightly younger and ever-so-much-more-spry doggie, decided not to be outdone in the excrement department, and one-upped his brother in a most spectacular fashion.

See, Trader Joe's makes Candy Cane Joe Joe's (think Oreos with bits of candy cane in the creme) once a year, around Christmas. I love them soooo much that, this year, the WCM went and bought me a case of them, so I would not have to suffer without them at any point in the year. He can be such a sweetheart sometimes.

Anyhow, they are usually kept locked in the basement. A couple of days ago, I found that I had neglected to lock the basement door and a certain little red dog had not only made a trip down there, but had chewed a hole through the side of the cardboard case, gnawed the side off a box of cookies, extracted the plastic tray of 30 Joe Joe's and eaten every single one. He, also, now has the shits.

So, I now have the joy of wiping two corgi bunny-butts every time they come in from outside. I've also mopped the kitchen floor at least 6 times in the last 4 days. I love my dogs, but I'm done with canines. I'm getting a cat the next time the maternal urge hits.

****

I think that's enough for now. Hope y'all feel updated!

Exciting Culinary Adventures!

So, since the New Year began, the WCM has been feeling a scoche pudgy. He decided that he'd like to do the South Beach thing again, and as I am, of course, a nice and thoughtful wife, I decided that I wouldn't tempt him, and would go along with Phase One. Phase One is two weeks of complete carbohydrate deprivation.

They should just call it Phase Hell and dispense with the euphemisms altogether.

So, we started the South Beach Diet on Saturday, figuring that the misery that is the first couple of days of that diet were best accomplished at home, where one could whine and complain of headaches and fatigue without repercussions to one's employment. On Monday, I must admit to not yet being equal to the task of actually teaching and being nice to my students at the same time. One of my aides, a sweet and funny young man, asked me why I felt so crappy, so I told him about my pledge to help my hubby. He replied "So, then, he's on the 'South Beach' diet, and you're on the 'South Bitch' diet, huh?"

Yep. That's about right.

Now, granted, due to my unique digestive situation, I am not doing this diet strictly by the book. I have added lots of fat into it, by using full-fat dairy products and supplementing with the daily Slim Jim (heh heh heh). I also think that, given the sheer volume of sugar that I consumed over the period between Thanksgiving and New Years', the carb/sugar detox period is doing me a lot of good. It doesn't hurt that, since Saturday, I've already lost the 5 pounds that I put on in that extended holiday gorge-fest. It's also forced me to be a bit more creative in my culinary efforts, hence the title of this post.

Tonight, I made Pecan-Encrusted Chicken Bosoms. They were yum-o-licious! Here's the recipe:

4 chicken bosoms, pounded to 3/4 inch thick
1 egg, beaten, for wash
1 c. pecans
1 t. rosemary
1 pinch cayenne
1 clove garlic
salt
pepper
olive oil

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees, and get out a big ol' baking dish. No, bigger than that. Huge.

If you haven't pounded out your chicken yet, get to it. Season it on both sides with salt and pepper.

Haul out your food processor and dump in the pecans, rosemary, cayenne, and garlic. Pulse until it looks finely ground, but still a bit crumbly-looking. Dump it all out on a dinner plate.

Dip your chicken bosoms into the egg wash one by one, and then dredge in the nut mixture. Press firmly to adhere the nuts.

Place in the baking dish and bake for 30 minutes.

Get out the mop and a bucket, because you're gonna be mopping up drool puddles as the aroma wafts about your house!

*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had yet another culinary adventure tonight, as I tried Queso para Frier (cheese for frying, for the Spanish-impaired). This stuff is pretty tasty, if you like relatively rubbery tasteless cheese that manages to be just a bit salty. Being a huge fan of Mozzarella sticks, I am indeed fond of relatively rubbery tasty cheese that manages to be just a bit salty.

You slice this stuff, fry it in a pan with some olive oil - just to coat the bottom, we're not talking deep frying here - and it browns up nicely, but still holds its shape. If I had some Marinara sauce, I'd be ten kinds of happy! It's Mozzarella sticks without the carbs - gotta love that!

Now, if only I had the same kind of inspiration for a South Beach Phase Hell dessert.

Communique from Cookie Central

Hello everyone! I'm still alive, but I'm baking cookies and not to be disturbed. So far, I've made Fudge Drops (a new recipe, and OMG yummy), Russian Tea Cakes, and Gingerbread People. I've got another couple of batches of yumminess still to go - Chocolate chip, Peanut Butter blossoms, Pretzel Snaps, and Iced Butter Cookies.

Can I just say here that this level of holiday baking is decidedly NOT NORMAL for me, and I'm wondering where it's all coming from psychologically? I've even managed to keep my hands out of the cookies, except for the obligatory Quality Control check from each batch. This is also NOT NORMAL for me.

Hmmmmmmm. Pondering... Could it be? Perhaps?

Sublimation?

Halloween Frightmares

There has been a lot of talk on the Weight Loss Surgery boards about Halloween Candy and the inherent evils thereof.

Pish posh, say I. And fiddlesticks, to boot.

I mainly roll my eyes at grown women (and to a lesser extent, grown men) who talk about candy like that. If they want to live their lives never tasting the glory of a Reese's cup again, then good for them - all the more for me, I say. What irritates me, though, is when they talk about completely depriving their children of candy. Oh, they say, my child never gets candy at home. We don't have cookies, chips, candy, or soda in the house ever. They have healthy fruit and whole grain snacks. They hear all the time from me how bad sugar is for them and how they should NOT eat it. Pardon me, but Get Real.

That shit gets on my nerves.

I understand the reasoning behind it - these are people that, like me, resorted to drastic measures to curb or cure their obesity. They don't want their children to suffer the same fate, naturally, so they eliminate all temptation from their homes. I get that, and I applaud the sentiment behind it. I don't want my Miss Peanut to have to cut out the majority of her stomach and reroute her guts, either.

That shit still gets on my nerves, because I want to scream at them that it won't work! Behavioral extremes rarely work. I should know - I grew up in a house like that. Sweets were rare - my tall, slender stepmother grew up constantly surrounded by them, and was a little chubby as a child. I've seen pictures - she was cute, and not at all heavy. Her family were what I call "pushers," though. If you didn't take seconds, you had to be feeling bad. You were sick, obviously, because you didn't want any more of the good food available. So my stepmother was probably a couple of pounds over where she should have been as a child. She was nowhere near obese. She, however, felt fat and phobic, so as a result, our sweets were severely limited. The only time we had cake, ice cream, or soda in the house was when it was somebody's birthday or a holiday. Even then, soda was rare. Cookies were limited to one a day, for dessert, after dinner. Halloween candy was severely rationed, and usually pitched by Christmastime, as it got old before we could eat it. Because I am a perverse creature by nature, I naturally rebelled, and ate all of the forbidden foods I could once I was able to purchase my own. Yeah, I developed "issues."

It didn't help that my mother, who was a stunningly beautiful woman, started telling me I was fat when I was seven years old. I have pictures. I wasn't fat. I was growing, and I'm built solid, like my father's family. My mother, raven-haired, ivory-skinned, fine-boned, and petite, was a delicate fairy to my sturdy gnome. I'm afraid I was a constant disappointment to her, rounded where she expected me to be slim, quiet when she expected me to be vivacious, clumsy where she expected me to be graceful. Our relationship has never really been mother-daughter, as my stepmother did the majority of the childrearing that I received. Even so, my mother's disappointment only reinforced my issues - even though I looked normal, because I wasn't slender, but instead sturdily built, I was fat.

So now that I have a daughter of my own, a normal-weight daughter, mind you, I am very careful not to forbid the candy and not to push it, either. I want her to learn how to live with it, and not to have to ban it from the house just to feel safe from it. I want her to know about moderation, and that no food is bad or good, but is all part of a balancing game that we play every day called "Healthy Nutrition." My daughter is all but a clone of me as a child - she's got the same big bones and chunky muscles that I had as a little girl. She's not a waif, and she'll never be a ballerina, but she will be healthy. She will have a positive body image. And as the Flying Spaghetti Monster is my witness, she will be allowed to eat her Halloween candy, as part of a balanced, healthy, realistic diet.

Just not before I've mined all the Reese's cups out of it. Motherhood has its privileges.

Everybody's got one

Vices, that is. Everybody's got at least one, and mine's food.

Still.

I suppose it could be worse, though. I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, and I rarely drink. What else is left, really?

So, yesterday, I took Miss Peanut to her Nana's house for the weekend. I asked the WCM if he'd like to, perhaps, be a grown-up with me and go do some fun stuff. You know, just the two of us. After he'd finished with the Groucho Marx eyebrows, he told me to find some stuff to do.

I came up with going on a trip into nearby Philadelphia - hitting Tony Luke's for lunch and doing either the Italian Market or the Reading Terminal Market for some interesting afternoon shopping. I'd also found a Dracula Festival, but the WCM put the kibosh on that, for whatever odd reason.

After our Saturday Morning Trader Joe's expedition, we unloaded quickly, then set off for Tony Luke's. If you've never been there before, you really need to go and get a Roast Pork Italian. Their cheesesteak is good, but honestly? Don't even waste your stomach space if you can get the Roast Pork Italian. You've got juicy sliced roast pork, liberally seasoned with salt and pepper, sharp provolone cheese, and garlicky broccoli rabe all nestled in a soft italian roll. Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

I nearly orgasmed after the first bite.

The WCM got the cheesesteak. He thought it was tasty, so after I'd finished about a third of my sandwich, I offered to trade. I ate what amounted to a quarter of his cheesesteak before my stomach told me to stop. It was good, but the Roast Pork was better. Seriously - if you get the chance to have one of these, you should.

The Reading Terminal Market - a foodie mecca. They had all kinds of cuisine, including my very favorite place in the world: Termini Brother's bakery. I love Termini's for the cannoli. They make, quite literally, the most mouth-watering cannoli that it has ever been my privilege to taste. My stepmother used to work in Center City, so every now and then, she'd stop into the market and pick up a couple of cannoli to bring home. Ah, memories... I got eight, had them box up six, and then the WCM and I ate the other two right on the spot. My God, but they are good.

We also scored an incredible stuffed pork roast - a gorgeous pork loin butterflied, then stuffed with spinach, provolone, roasted red pepper, and mild italian sausage. I'm going to roast that sucker tomorrow and serve it with some asparagus and some roasted garlic mashed potatoes. At another butcher's stall, we found some incredible-looking sausages: I got a pound each of Luganega, Sage Breakfast Sausage, and a Pork Broccoli Rabe sausage. I'm so ready for dinner this week!!! I found avocadoes for fifty cents apiece, too. Looks like there's guacamole in my near future. I bought a small container of organic raw milk, just for fun and botulism, from one of the Amish stands.

We tootled off down the road after grabbing some coffee, just in time to wonder what's for dinner.

Yeah, I've got a vice. And it's a tasty one!

Feeding my addiction, plus a PSA

So, a couple of weeks ago, I went to Melting Mama's site, where she was having a contest. The only thing you had to do to enter was to tell her how you liked your coffee. Since I'm a caffiend, and extremely free with my opinions, I told her all about how I liked my coffee.

Well, I won! She sent me a canister of Click, a coffee-flavored protein powder. Vanna White, eat your heart out.



Being a former Starbuck's 'ho and a current Dunkin Donuts regular, I was all over this. Please note the appliance closest to the canister.



Now, I just started having protein shakes recently, since I prefer to chew my calories. However, whenever I feel like something sweet, my Banana Scream shake (made with ice and half&half in the blender) is a bit healthier for me than the Oreos I'm likely to reach for instead. I've been curious about this Click stuff ever since Melting Mama started talking about it. Well, it arrived in my mail today, so I got busy with the blender!



I started out with about 2 cups of crushed ice, and wound up with about that same amount of half and half. Now, see, I know that most people are not going to use half & half with which to make a "healthy" protein shake. With my surgery, though, I won't absorb 80% of the fat I eat, so I make my shakes with half & half so I get enough fat in my diet. Wild, eh? My cholesterol at last check was 90. Ninety. Unreal. Anyway... I used 4 scoops of Click (30 g protein in all) and 2 scoops of UpCal D (Calcium Citrate with Vitamin D), then blended the stuff until it was all nice and shakey. Putting it into a rinsed-out Dunkin Donuts cup is key to my enjoyment - I'm passing for "normal" here! Nobody knows I'm drinking something good for me!



Holy Noms, Batman! The stuff tastes every bit as good as an Arby's Jamocha shake!



I'm giving Click a big thumbs up! Thanks Melting Mama!!

A Toast - to Kicking Obesity's Ass

Ok, so all of you who are heartily sick of hearing me prattle endlessly about once being fat and then becoming unfat through the rather amazing Duodenal Switch surgery can just hit your back button now. Of course, you'll miss hearing about some really great bonding, a few personal triumphs, and the pseudo recipe for a truly incredible Martini. And also? My first experience with being a stalker.

Oh, still with me? Excellent.

The day started off pretty well - driving out to Conshohocken on the Blue Route, I recognized my friend Shari's car, and nearly scared her off the road by beeping and waving like a maniac. Because I'm related to Sammy Hagar (no, I'm not, really), I passed her and led her to the hotel where the Obesity Help conference was taking place. Having originally been dubious about the usefulness of a conference that was pitched to the mainly RNY crowd, I'd decided to go check it out, check out the vendors, and, failing any useful activity, hang out in the hotel bar with mah peeps. I was expecting to see my girl Shari, of course, plus my girl Sharon, my man Tom, and the amazing Melting Mama and Eggface.

The vendors turned out to be a bit of a disappointment - they'd had some no-shows and some pull-outs, so there were precious few freebies. But, I soldiered on, resolute. First thrill of the day? Melting Mama recognized me! "Peevish!" she said. Holy crap! thought I. But I managed to converse without sounding stupid. There's Personal Triumph Number 1. Then, I found that Tom had scored us a table in the back corner. The OH people had put out little goodie bags, with a folder, pen, and two bags of Kay's Naturals Protein Snacks. We busted out the protein chips and started sampling. Not bad. I also saw that two more of my peeps had arrived - Hedy and Heather.


Here's Hedy and me outside the conference.

Sharon had just arrived when they started the official introductions. The nice coordinator lady, Joanna, introduced our speakers: a well known plastic surgeon (who showed us some saggy nakey pics of the now nipped and tucked formerly obese), the "motivational speakers," the people I came to see (i.e., Beth & Michelle), and a bariatric surgeon who did "all the surgeries: RNY, Lap Band, and Revisions." Sharon & I exchanged a glance, and I just knew we'd be having a nice little "chat" with that particular surgeon later... We sneaked out a little early, because I couldn't take any more nakey pictures with boxy boobies, under the pretense of getting more coffee and had a nice girly hug and chat. You know, sometimes, when you meet someone and you just *click*? Well, that was Sharon. To quote my friend Shari, "Sharon's cool as ballz."

We made it back to the conference hall just before Beth & Michelle started their cooking demonstration. When we were walking through the room to get to our table, I noticed how small Sharon and I were compared to the rest of the attendees. At that point, Sharon turned around and said "Is it wrong of me to feel good..." and I knew she'd totally had the same thought. Nothing like shared schadenfreude. Beth gave a shout out to the DSers in the room - we hooted and hollered like baboons, except for Tom. Tom was an oasis of sanity (and testosterone) in our crazed midst. Tom also brought snacks. If anyone hinted at hunger, Tom hit them with his nuts - chili-lime Cashews or Trail mix from Trader Joe's. Nobody goes hungry when Tom's around, dammit. After the cooking demo, though, even Tom's nuts weren't hitting the spot. Spurred on by hunger, Sharon, Hedy, and I sallied forth to scout out something edible. It was then that we saw the Bariatric Surgeon from earlier.

Did I say we were like baboons earlier? Because at that point, with a glance and a raised eyebrow, we shifted species and changed from baboons to predatory lionesses as we went to beard this lion(ess) in her den. The poor woman never stood a chance, as she was stuck between two tables, and Sharon, Hedy, and I formed an impenetrable wall of DS might in front of her. I believe I may have fired the opening salvo by asking if she'd ever consider doing the DS. To her credit, she did not diss the surgery one bit, and merely stated that it was the next level up in technical difficulty from the RNY, and that she wasn't ready to start it yet. She seemed startled when I revealed to her that we three were all DSers, blurting out "and you're three of the thinnest people here!" Hello, personal triumph number 2.

After winding up our kill chat, we wiped the blood from our mouths split up to hunt solo accomplish some things: like visit the potty. There was, of course, the inevitable line. Having consumed about 3 large cups of coffee at this point, trying to scout out another potty was out. of. the. question. Sharon, meanwhile, having been fed up, or rather not fed up, ran across the street to Wawa and scored us some tubs of pepperoni & cheese. LOVE HER!!

The first of the motivational speakers came on, with a powerpoint that would do any seventh grader proud. Sharon, Hedy, and I made it through about 5 minutes of that lady before we had to bail. Back out we went and decided to check out the plastic surgeons giving consults. Hedy signed up for an appointment, and Sharon, Heather, and I decided to crash it. By this time, Beth & Michelle were out in the hall giving out samples. Beth had brought some awesome chewable vitamin samples from Celebrate. I'll vouch for them: they were delish! The cocoa flavored calcium? Nom nom nom. And also? Samples of the new sweetener Truvia, being offered by Coca Cola. Not bad at all.


'Cuz DSers loooove salad - NOT!

We hovered a bit around the banquet tables while they were putting out the food - very healthy fare: deli meats and cheeses, a selection of breads, grilled chicken breast, grilled vegetables, and salad. There was fruit and a teensy pudding parfait for dinner. I'd heard it was sugar-free, so I passed on it. Tom, however, got one. I think the expression on his face says it all.



The general concensus on that pudding parfait was not only did it taste like ass, but most of us had had ass that tasted better, and it had a nasty aftertaste, which we dubbed the "asstertaste."

The plastic surgery consult was next, and it was hilarious. While we were waiting, we showed each other, as well as several perfect strangers, our scars. I bared my scarred-up, stretch-mark-blasted midsection for the camera even. Yeah, say it with me "sex-ay!"


Baring my gut to perfect strangers! Shameless hussy!

The surgeon was so nice and patient with all of our questions, that I gave him all of my information, and will even call my insurance company to see what, if anything, they'll cover.

At that point, we gave up on the conference and hit the bar for the most perfect martinis ever.


Sharon (Cosmo), Hedy (Chocolate Martini), and me (Naples Martini)

I had a Naples Martini, which was Stoli Razz, Limoncello, lime juice, and simple syrup all shaken up and served in a chilled glass. I believe there were two of them during that afternoon... *hic* Shari and Ray found us there, as did Beth a little later.


Sharon, Shari, Beth, me

We all headed back to catch the end of the conference, when they were giving away the door prizes. Sharon and I got no joy, but Shari ended up with a toaster, that I traded away for a jar of chocolate PB2. Sharon and Shari took off for home, but since I had nobody at home to worry about, I hung around and chatted with a couple of Delaware people that were waiting in the lobby.

It was then that I experienced Personal Triumph Number 3: while chatting with Hambear, a lovely lower Delawarean, another older lady approached me and said "Do you mind if I ask you, I've been wanting to ask you since I saw you this morning, did you have weight loss surgery?" Well, damn if that didn't about blow my mind. Then, once she'd received my affirmative, she asked if I'd had plastics. She just shook her head in disbelief when I told her no. I took that opportunity to "Pay It Forward," and told her all about the DS.

At that point, I pretty much attached myself to Beth and became her personal stalker for the evening, trailing her to the bar (where I said "buongiorno" to Naples Martini Number 3), her hotel room (total stalker!) and then to dinner. I called it a night at about 9:30 and headed down the Blue Route to home.

Overall, I'm sad that there weren't more vendors - they had a captivated and eager audience they really missed out on capitalizing upon - but thrilled beyond belief with the opportunity I had to meet and connect with others who've lived this same experience.

Here's to kicking Obesity's Great Big Ass. To your health!

Bits and Pieces

Because my mind is working in fits and starts these days - divided among school, family, friends, and hobbies, and not necessarily in that order - I offer you these bits and pieces of cognitive detritus. Do with them what you will.
*

So far, I've heard loads of funnies in the hallways of my high school. One girl was chatting cattily with a friend about another girl when I happened to be within earshot, and I overheard the truly priceless description of "she thinks she's Queen Shit on Turd Island." Well, that was worth a giggle - and not a detention - that day.

Another student's parting shot as he sailed out of school for the day was "I'm OUT, like titties at a strip club."

***

Cake has gone stale in my house. I baked one on Wednesday night, because I was trying out a cupcake recipe for a new colleague's birthday (more on that later) and only needed to make 6 cupcakes. I poured the rest of the batter in a smallish square pan (8x8, if you must know) and baked it. After I was done working cupcake magic, I frosted the cake (chocolate! even!) thickly with the rest of the (chocolate! again!) frosting. Nobody, including me, has touched it.

There is a half-gallon of ice cream - Edy's Loaded Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup - that has been in the fridge for 2 weeks, similarly untouched.

The WCM bought a tub of scrumptious coconut macaroons at Trader Joe's a week ago, and aside from the obligatory one-macaroon sample - necessary to declare them scrumptious - they are still sitting in their clear plastic tub on the counter.

WTF? I am perplexed, yet not particularly hungry. Maybe that's why I'm sitting at a new record low weight for me. It makes me nervous and more than a little insecure, body-image-wise. But, hey - I know that if I'm too nervous about it, I certainly know how to make the number on the scale move UP.

*****

My legs hurt - pleasantly so, though - from some fairly athletic and bendy canoodling I was doing the other day. Ha ha! I canoodled! I am smug with my canoodling! And also yoga.

*******

Those cupcakes I was talking about? Deeeeelicious. This is what I did - I baked 6 chocolate cupcakes. Then, I popped them out of the silicone liners. After that, I cut the tops off ("Off with their heads!" - I am a French teacher, after all). Following that, I cut the bottoms off and replaced them in the silicone muffin cups. I put four of the lovely middles into my mouth in the freezer. I then softened a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and layered some over each of the cupcake bottoms. I replaced the tops and froze these mini ice-cream cakes until they were solid. Once they were solid, I frosted them, and put them back into the freezer. They were yummy. Very yummy. And appreciated by my whole department. All 6 of us.

*********

And that's all I have to show for my last 2 weeks of toil and travail. Perhaps y'all did better.

The Omnivore's Hundred

Ok, so I love to eat. Even with a stomach whose capacity has been forcibly and greatly reduced, I still love to eat. I believe I have documented my love of flavor right here on this very blog. So, the sheer magnitude of bold items on the following list should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. I left the Wiki links in so you could unlock the mysteries around some of these foods.

Here’s the deal:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.

The Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Thanks to Elastic Waist and to Very Good Taste for the list! It's no small wonder I weighed 300 pounds!

Latest news from DS Land

This just in - the fucking vampires went after my inner arm again and withdrew 15 vials of blood for lab tests. In a couple of weeks, I should know if I'm deficient in any important vitamins and minerals. I have a bruise the size of a nickel where the phlebotomist punctured my vein - he was rough with me, after I asked him to be gentle. I hate when that happens.

After waffling for half a year over who I was going to have replace my surgeon for follow up care - the guy moved to Florida, for crying out loud! - I've decided not to go with the more local surgeon and to stay with the NYC practice that my surgeon used to lead. After speaking with some of his patients, I deduced that the local guy and his nutritionists are still on the low end of the DS learning curve, as far as post-op care goes. I don't have time to educate a nutritionist on the vastly different vitamin and nutritional needs of a Duodenal Switch patient, as compared to a standard Roux-en-Y Gastric Bypass patient (think Carnie Wilson or Al Roker). Judging from the comments I heard, the local guy's patients are constantly educating their nutritionists. An added benefit is that I can schedule my appointments to visit my NYC peeps.

I'll be going up to New York again this weekend to hang out with my girl Crystal and one of the OH DS board "celebrities," Miss LeaAnn and her husband. There's going to be a huge group of us going out to lunch on Saturday - this should be a hell of a party! It's kind of bad timing for me, since school starts for me and Miss Peanut on Monday, so I'm coming back Saturday night or Sunday morning. I've got a hella busy day tomorrow, finishing up my classroom and getting my syllabi together (I'm teaching 4 preps again this year - ugh!), but I've been at school bright and early every day this week, staying until at least 5 pm every day, so I should be in good shape.

So, the news from DS Land is good and hopeful. I look and feel healthy, and hope that my bloodwork confirms that.

High Maintenance

Yep, no point in denying it any further: I am now a High Maintenance Woman.

I have really short hair, most of the time. It hasn't always been that way - for years, I wore it about shoulder-length, in a fairly nondescript bob with bangs. It was easy to maintain, especially if I trimmed my bangs myself - which I often did. When my gray became noticeable, I'd grab a box of whatever brown dye was on sale and take care of it. I've grown it long, down to about the middle of my back, and about 2 years ago, I cut it all off, almost boyishly short.

It requires some degree of maintenance now, my hair does. I see my stylist once every five weeks for trims, dye, and the occasional highlights. I've let it go for nearly 7 weeks now, and I feel unbearably shaggy and unkempt. It certainly wasn't intentional: my stylist was on vacation, and has just returned. Tomorrow, once shorn and freshly colored, I shall feel ever so much better about my appearance.

My hair is not the only evidence of my High Maintenance Status - my nails, both finger and toe, are now carefully shaped and lacquered. Every two weeks, I waste an hour at the nail salon while little Vietnamese ladies labor over my digits. I always feel outrageously spoiled and pampered. It's such an unnecessary expense and extremely vain, but I've gotten used to it. I like how it looks. And, thankfully, I can afford it. Believe me, if it was a choice between getting my nails done or feeding/clothing my daughter, well, I'd be slapping on some Sally Hansen myself. Besides, Miss Peanut likes getting her nails done, as well.

Every now and then, I indulge in a facial. It's relaxing, and I always leave with a glowing complexion. Plus, my aesthetician usually gives me a massage, too. I recently upped the Maintenance ante by going to an actual Massage Parlor (Massage Envy) and getting an actual massage. For 90 minutes, a very nice lady worked over my muscles. That was divine, especially given the state of my very sore legs and feet (I'd been dancing in some very pointy 4-inch pumps just a few days earlier). They offer a monthly plan. I'm considering it.

This seeming fixation I have with my appearance - because I can hear some of you thinking really loudly right now - is definitely not new, although it's definitely more pronounced than it has ever been. I used to dye my own hair, trim my own bangs, and, more rarely, paint my own nails. Now, though, I view my exterior as an extension of my interior, and accord it the care and consideration that I accord my health.

You see, now, I think more about myself than I did before. I think carefully about what I eat, what vitamins I take, and how much exercise I get. I'm much more conscious of my body than I ever was before I decided to let a very smart man slice me open and rearrange my insides. I think it's finally sunk in that this amalgamation of bones and flesh is just as important as the brain and heart that it houses. I think because I take care of it now, I take pains to ornament it to the same level.

So, something that's always come hard for me, acceptance of my body for what it is, has now happened. I'm far from perfect physically, but I'm happy enough with what I've got for it to count as acceptance. You be the judge: do I look happy?