Cookie

My scale is broken. According to its faulty calculations I haven’t lost any weight. None, zippo, zero, zilch.

Well that can’t be right – can it? It stands to reason that it’s broken and about to get much more broken if it doesn’t fix itself soon.

I swear, aside from a couple of double chocolate Oreo cookies I have been on the diet wagon – and!!! I’ve been exercising EVERY day. Just last week I did a three-hour garden squat and pull marathon. Lemme tell you, those weeds make really good weights. They really don’t want to come out of the ground.

Add to that:

Instead of just 30 minutes of walking on my treadmill I get in about eight minutes of full-on trotting before I collapse on my basement floor. Eight minutes people! I’m not doing this for fun – I want some weight loss, but no, my scale silently torments me while all the numbers flick past, higher and higher until stopping at an undisclosed number way higher than say, a mountain.

"But what about the health benefits you’re surely reaping Rene," you ask?

Any small unseen health benefits I’m supposedly achieving are not worth the possible unfortunate positioning of my neighbors in the vicinity of my home when I decide I’ve finally had enough of this scale. I am a humanitarian, afterall.

I do admit, however, I have received small amounts of encouragement from my clothing. Unlike the scale they cannot change to toy with me. My clothes are getting a wee bit looser and they can’t fake it.

Just yesterday, I put on a shirt that I don’t usually wear because it’s a little too snug, but I was rushing and grabbed it – then as I ran down my stairs late for work, I paused. The shirt didn’t cling to my bottom three belly rolls as it had in the past, it floated right past them.

“Now wait a minute here scale,” I shouted. “My shirt hasn’t changed, but why haven’t you?” I demanded.

The scale did not answer. It sat there silently on zero, daring me to step on it again. I didn’t give it the satisfaction, my boss was waiting and I didn’t want to show up for work sweating after beating the life out of that scale – and yes, I believe the scale not only has “life” but a personality. A really nasty personality, that loves to torment me, much like my little sister. It won’t win though, oh no nasty little scale – or shall I call you Cookie? Yes, Cookie, the EVIL scale – you will not win.

Taking it on the road

I took the PHAT blog on the road today for some public exercise. Yeah, this is all about shaming myself into weightloss afterall.

My daughter and I went to Beauti-Ful Heritage Park in Taylor. That is place really is a secret gem Downriver. It is so amazing there it Almost makes it easier to get some exercise. Almost.

We walk/trotted around the paved trails for a grueling hour with me putting my head down and speeding past all other park inhabitants - nobody, not even the little squirrels need to see me trot. Trust me, it ain't pretty.

The botanical gardens there are Spectacular though, and eased the pain of the exercise while making it even more worthwhile.

I'm thinking of making it my secret Downriver exercise hang-out. If you happen to see me there, however, don't expect a 'hello' I'll be running past like I never saw you - which, actually would increase the exercise, so not a bad idea.

I'm thinking of trying the rollerblades there, but I wouldn't want to traumatize the flowers, they're too pretty for all that and those poor squirrels might never recover. God help them if I fell while one was nearby - squirrel pate' - yikes.

The photo is of me acting as the (rather lofty) antenna for the butterfly. See? Those gardeners at Heritage Park sure know what they're doing. I bet I wasn't their idea for antenna though.

The Blame Game

Now it’s time for my favorite amusement — The Blame Game.

This is how it works: I blame someone, or something, in either my past or present for ruining some aspect of my life.
The game only works if you assume absolutely zero responsibility for your own actions — no problem there — I’ve never claimed to have control of ANY of my actions.

Today’s Blame Game guest is (drumroll please) … My mother.

It could be my mother’s fault that I’m PHAT because:

My mother always has a long purple-lidded Tupperware container filled with two sticks of pure butter somewhere on her kitchen counter with a loaf of fresh bread.

My mother always has cookies, chocolate candy, cake, pie or other pastries on the counter alongside the butter.

My mother loves to fry food.

My mother thinks sharing food is an intimate act of love.

During our annual 4th of July fireworks I argued with my mother for nearly half
an hour over my NOT eating a damn piece of apple pie.

I think her feelings were a little hurt. Looking back, I realized all she really wanted was to see my joy from eating the delicious pie.

I hate my life.

In hindsight, she was clearly upset that I wouldn’t allow myself to be happy by eating the pie.
She kept insisting it was just one piece – it could even be a small piece. I pictured it glued onto my thighs, where it would surely end up.

Everywhere I go people use the “It’s just one bite/piece/whatever” to get me to try something. Why? Because I think some people receive happiness from the joy of others. It’s a problem I’ve never had.

Food does makes me happy. You only need to look at me to know that.

When I was a kid it really made me happy.

I grew up fairly poor and one of the happiest times of the month was when the church or the Good Fellows dropped off boxes of food at our house.

Talk about a kid at Christmas. Food drop off day would send all of us flying into the living room like high school seniors on the last day of classes to see what was in those boxes.

“Look at this! Rice a Roni! Chef Boyardee!”

My ALLTIME favorite, however, was that huge yellow block of government cheese. That block could make more meals, for more people, than any non-poor person would ever suspect.

I love cheese.

If cheese is on a meal, I’m happier. In fact, give me extra cheese. An extra cheesy meal is like reliving the joy of food drop off day and thrilling at the luxury of it.

Ha — most girls thrill at diamonds and gold.

Maybe my mom’s not all to blame. Maybe she just loves me and wants me to be happy. Maybe I’m PHAT because I was (still am) poor.

In my experience, for poor people, food really is love and happiness. Food means we won’t be hungry another day, a week, a month.

Being poor makes us save the best, or last bit of food, for the ones we love. It may sound silly, but it is a gift.

When having something to eat is a measure of success, pastries, meat and real butter are proof that we’re doing really well.

In my family, if we have “non-necessary” tasty food there is no better way to show our love than to share it and enjoy the happiness in each other’s faces as we eat together.

Damn it.

I’ve got go. I have to buy a pie and visit my mom.

Spare pair of undies? Anyone?

I planned on cheating again. But this time it was for the good.
I decided I wanted to give my weight loss initiatives a boost with supplements.

Being the studious journalist I am, I began researching my options.

Everybody knows diet pills and the like are unsafe, ineffective and a rip-off. I, however, believing in second chances - even for mass manufactured, money grubbing, shame making pills, powders and liquids that lie their deceiving way into your medicine cabinet - decided to inquire.

I thought maybe they’ve changed since the last time I’d thought about using them. I’ve thought about ex-boyfriends the same way and been similarly disappointed.

My research ended in my near vomiting – which also happens to be an effective,
but unhealthy and kinda gross diet option.

I’ve now created a new rule: If the list of side effects of a "medicine" is longer than the list of benefits – I’m not taking it, or probably not, unless the benefit is really, really amazing – like plastic surgery, or those fat band stomach - shrinker things.

I found that a vast majority of weight loss supplements come with side affects such as:
-Increased heart rate (I had thought that was generally good.)
-Increased blood pressure (That comes with the heart rate thing, right?)
-Sweating (Like I need to do that more. Have you ever seen me on a hot day??)
-Constipation (Isn’t that counterproductive?)
-Insomnia (inability to sleep or stay asleep) – Their parentheses – not mine. If you have to explain insomnia, why use the word? Maybe us diet pill people aren’t very smart.
-Excessive thirst (I’m always excessively thirsty on Fridays; will that extend to other days?)
-Lightheadedness and drowsiness (Not just at work? Or as in maybe I shouldn’t be driving? I’m not losing weight to stay home for Pete’s sake.)
-Stuffy nose (Also common with the cocaine diet.)
-Headache (Probably from trying to quench the excessive thirst.)
-Anxiety (See cocaine diet above.)
-Dry mouth (Common with another popular anti-diet drug, which makes you want to eat even more.)

This next one, however, is what really stopped me in my tracks: “In extreme cases, they can’t control their bowels — they’ll leak all over their pants,” says Caroline Cederquist, M.D.
As if I don’t have enough problems. Having my bowels leaking all over my pants really does not need to be put on the list.

I wonder if people taking these medications carry around extra undies? Wear adult diapers? — Wait, I take it back, I DON’T want to know.

I can just imagine sitting at my desk at work and suddenly "leaking" all over my pants. “Excuse me guys, I just leaked my bowels all over my pants,” I say while covering my butt and running to the bathroom, where, God help me, I have a change of cloths.
Of course, I’d then have to quit my job in shame, in the unlikely case that I wasn’t fired.

Perhaps it’s needless to say, but I’ll be losing my weight the old fashioned way — diet and exercise and I’ll skip the ritual burning of the bowel covered clothes in the dumpster out back — thankyouverymuch.

Photo courtesy Palm Beech Post

Steamed veggies = LAME

Recently at work we had a 4th of July BBQ outside on the patio.

I decided way in advance that I wasn’t going anywhere near the elaborate, milky, syrupy, creamy, sweet, dessert table, but I would enjoy the BBQ.

I was feeling good about myself until my nearest co-worker – who is also (needlessly) trying to lose weight announced she wouldn’t be eating the dessert - or the BBQ either.

Noooooo BBQ for her. Instead she indulged on a bowl of steamed mixed veggies.

Yeah. Thanks for making me look like a PHATass even while I'm avoiding the dessert table.

Lemme tell you, when you write a blog about losing weight and people know about it, food gatherings are about as joyful as a pit of tarantulas to an arachnophobic.

Several of my co-workers taunted and teased me while I waited in the food line. One of them, without mentioning names (Donna), even videoed taped me.

I thought I'd playfully joke back with them by slapping their full plates onto their shirt fronts, but I had other fish to fry - those ribs needed eatin'.

While I despise my co-workers feeble and failing attempts at humor, they do keep me in line.

When I went back up for a second helping of ribs I was as quick and stealthy as a gazelle. Plus, I pretended I was just chatting with the caterer. Because of peering eyes I really had to plan out my eating - it was worth it though - Primo's ribs are the bomb.

For dessert, I did indulge in a few strawberries and slowly savored every single
morsel while disdainfully watching said veggie eater munching carrots at her
desk.

My boss, who’s humor is so off-colored and unexpected it often ends up painful – not only for the recipient of the joke, but bystanders as well, decided a plate of brownies was just what the veggie eater needed.

Diets be damned, he put the brownies right in front of her on her desk – and guess what?

She ate every crumb.

Thanks boss.

Happy 4th to the PHAT friends!