Cracked Egg

The way my egg cracked for today’s breakfast was strangely appropriate.  I held the egg as I normally do, an egg similar in shape and size to the ones I normally use, and tapped it against the chopping block with the same force as always.  Still, the egg in my hand formed an odd vertical crack until the two halves lay in my right hand like an open silly putty container.  I blinked in surprise and, as the egg slid broken into the bowl, stared at the shell trying to figure out what went wrong.

That’s how I feel about my diet lately so, yes, it was strangely appropriate that my egg cracked as if it had a mind of its own.

My diet.  My stupid, confusing, mind-screwing diet.  I continue to eat correctly.  I don’t cheat.  I follow the rules and do everything else as usual and, yet, I am wallowing under a blanket of malcontent.  My grains are low glycemic, but I have yet to recapture the verve and vigor I had the first month.  I just don’t have energy.  I frequently feel cloudy and unmotivated.  I procrastinate more than usual and am loathe to get up from my desk chair and make myself lunch.  And, of course, I haven’t lost weight.

Diane warned me that the addition of grains would cause a water shift of about three pounds.  Three pounds that I would lose within a week or so.  It took me nearly three, and that’s only because I cut out two of the daily grain servings.  I have an appointment with her soon, so I added back the missing two grains in guilt.  Along with the grains, I regained the three pounds in water weight overnight.  This means I have not lost any weight this month.

Diane has a very normal, centered approach to food, so she is quick to remind me that a platueu is normal and healthy.  I am neither normal or centered when it comes to food, so a still scale is all but killing me.  I remind myself that my clothes seem a bit looser.  But then I consider that I wear the same jeans almost everyday because they are the only clothes that fit me.  For all I know, they are loose because I am wearing them threadbare.

I’m not obtuse enough to miss that my dissatisfaction with my diet coincides neatly with my plateau.  In fact, I am painfully aware of the coincidence and want to gnash my teeth in response to being so obsessed with the numbers on the scale.

When?  When will I have a normal response to food?  When will I pick up a simple banana and not recite in my head the calorie count and major vitamins and minerals?  When will I objectively watch my weight creep up three pounds and acknowledge it healthy and temporary?

When pigs fly, I suppose.

The Short List

I have a short list. People who irritate me immediately by their appearance, mannerisms, or beliefs. Not exactly a charitable quality in me, but no one is perfect. Especially not the people on my short list.

My short list is, by definition, not terribly long and varies from year to year. People who once bothered me I find agreeable, fences mend, and I grow up. There is one type of person that, maturity be damned, sits forever on my list. One person that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t understand, tolerate, or pretend to like. I am talking about the label loving rock-star mom. Middle aged women defined by their appearance and possessions.

She’s in her early 40s and she has chunky highlights, either in blonde or something ridiculous, like purple, because she’s young and hip and cool. She wears every label she owns all at once and drives a Hummer. To the mall. On her fingertips sit 3-inch long acrylic rectangles she occasionally uses to scratch a boob filled tight with 300 cc of saline. Her gum snaps, her lips flap, and she thinks she is incredibly hot. She is not. She is, most likely, horribly insecure, has her own issues, and uses what she shouldn’t to define her and make her feel valuable. No one is perfect, especially not me, and I shouldn’t judge.

Remind me of that tomorrow.

I arrived at Weight Watchers several minutes early last Friday because the last few times the line moved slower than I do on a walk. By the time I cattle herded my way through the line with the equally obese, the meeting was over. Normally this would not be a big deal, but I was due for a couple of goal related awards and, dammit, I wanted that sticker in my book.

This time the line was short, and before me flitted the leader of the short list. A middle-aged blonde in skin-tight stretch capris who, I assumed, was there for her monthly maintenance weigh in before going to the gym. I was impressed. She was actually a repeat offender–someone who started the program the previous year and was now back to lose…I’m not sure. She looked to be at goal weight. During her extended leave, she forgot all the Weight Watchers protocol, including where to pick up her book and where to stand while other people weighed in.

I was nice and friendly, even when she asked (loudly–they’re always loud) if she should be standing where I was, a 3×5 mat with the words PLEASE STAND HERE WHILE OTHERS ARE WEIGHING IN stamped boldly along its entire length.

“Yes,” I said. {internal sigh}

Two stations opened up and we both walked up to get weighed. She went on and on about how she was back because she gained 15 pounds and even though her new husband said he would still love her no matter how fat she was, she couldn’t stand being so fat.

She weighed 136 pounds.

She was there with her friend who has been doing the plan for two weeks. Her friend appeared to be a rotund 150 pounds. The two of them together are practically my goal weight.

As usual, I sat front row, left seat. They sat second row, diagonal to me. The talked to each other the entire meeting. Mainly it was the blonde espousing all her diet tips. Her friend announced to the meeting that blondie was “very smart and the master of diets and carbs.” She was, like, “practically a nutritional-ist.”

But not so smart that she could avoid gaining 15 pounds in 9 months, right? I was good. I kept my mouth shut.

Until.

Until it was my turn to get an award and Donna, the meeting leader, asked me what was the hardest part of the plan. I spoke honestly, and said the hardest part is admitting what you can and can not do. I gave my popcorn example, and how I would pick at dinner so I could eat 7 points worth of popcorn.

The entire room gasped. Which I found funny, because I doubt any of the people in the room were overweight from eating carrots. I ignored them. But I couldn’t ignore blondie. I noticed Donna looking behind me, and when I turned around I saw blondie looking at me with a mixture of disgust and revulsion, but exaggerated. The way you do when you want to convey to everyone around you your complete shock and horror. The look on her face hurt me. A lot.

So, I got angry.

“You shouldn’t look so shocked and disgusted,” I said calmly. (Sort of. I could feel my blood begin to boil.) “A teaspoon of oil has 1 point. I use three tablespoons of oil (9 points) for 6 tablespoons of popcorn kernels that my husband and I share. It adds up.”

Donna chirped like a nervous bird, “That’s right! It adds up!” {pleasedon’tfight. pleasedon’tfight.}

Blondie stared at me, still disgusted, and said, “I can’t staaaaaand oil.”

I stared back, imagined her typical diet (a six pack of Michelob Ultra and an Atkins Bar) and responded, “I guess that’s what makes you better than me.”

And in that regard, maybe she is. Maybe she does have a better grip on snacking than I do. After all, she has 15 pounds to lose. I’ve already lost 16 pounds, and I can barely tell the difference. I assume I’m losing fat around my liver, because everything else looks the same.

But she’s still on my damn short list.

Baby Hippo Love | Weigh In Week 10

Pinenuts Can Suck It.

So the results are in: Nicholas is severely allergic to pinenuts. As in, “We need you to come into the office with your husband on Friday so we can show you how to use an epi-pen in case of an emergency.” As in, “No nuts of any kind, no food made in a facility that handles nuts, no touching, breathing, or smelling nuts.” As in, “You got lucky.”

Gulp.

Our children, apparently, are allergy-ridden genetic hiccups. Neither The Mister or I have food allergies, but Mikey and Nico do. I don’t know what to make of it. I think we will probably put having more children on hold for fear we will conceive the next bubble boy.

I LOVE our pediatric allergist. He is roughly The Mister’s age, aggressive, and has young children, too. I just got a great feeling from him from the second he walked in the room and started ordering tests. Our pediatrician didn’t want to run tests. He is generally opposed to invasive procedures of any kind unless absolutely necessary because first and foremost, he thinks of the child and any potential trauma and pain blood work would cause. I say, screw trauma and pain! That’s what the toy aisle at Target is for–tell me what could potentially kill my toddler the next time we eat at a restaurant. I promise to give him lots of kisses and franchised action figures the second it is all over.

In the end, Nico had to give 5(!!) vials of blood and that little bugger never cried–not even when they put in the needle! I didn’t even have to go to Target! Well, he did cry at one point, but that was mainly out of frustration. The blood was just not coming out and it was taking forever. He didn’t like his little chopstick arm held flat and straight, and a few times the phlebotomist had to wiggle the needle a bit. Finally they realized the tourniquet was too tight for his small arm, so another phlebotomist applied the pressure with her fingers. Things started flowing just fine after that, but Nicholas was done. He started crying, which made one of the phlebotomists and a couple of waiting patients cry. Seconds later they pulled out the needle and we were done. Nicholas wasn’t. He was in a full on scream, until I said loudly over his screaming, “Nico, would you like a lollipop?”

Wouldn’t you know it, he stopped mid-scream and with the smiliest tear soaked face you’ve ever seen squealed, “YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!”

The entire room burst into laughter and applause, and several patients came out of their cubicles to pat Nicholas on the head. Meanwhile, I sat there preening like a cat over the utter fabulousness my womb can deliver.

On Sunday The Mister cleaned out our cabinets of anything nut related while I spent two hours at the supermarket navigating the food labels. So many things have “spices” listed as an ingredient. I know it’s for proprietary reasons, but I am now in the position where I want to know exactly what they mean by “spices.” You wouldn’t think it would be anything harmful (he can have nutmeg, as it is not a tree nut) but you’d be surprised. I signed up for the FAAN (Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network) recall emails, and every day there is a recall for an item with an undisclosed allergen. Ridiculous things you would never suspect like this:

**THE FOOD ALLERGY & ANAPHYLAXIS NETWORK SPECIAL FOOD ALLERGY ALERT
NOTICE**

MILK ALLERGY ALERT
April 28, 2009

McCormick & Company Inc. is recalling “Lawry’s Fajitas Spices &
Seasonings” due to undeclared milk.

The product was distributed in grocery stores nationwide.

The 1.27-oz. pouches are marked with a “best if used by” date of
OCT0110PX62 and UPC 2150022500.

Consumers with questions or requesting a full refund or replacement may
call (800) 952-9797.

See what I mean? You can become paranoid if you don’t keep yourself in check. I’ve done the research, and it looks like 9% of children with tree nut allergies out grow them. Those aren’t great odds, but I’ll take them. I’ve decided Nicholas will be in that 9%. I haven’t figured out just how, but he will.

Everyone Can Go to Hell

On Thursday, April 16, 2009, I stopped snacking and eating sugar.  Well, sort of.  I eat a fruit every morning.  And if I am really craving a sweet treat late at night, I drink a glass of Crystal Light.

I drink a glass of Crystal Light.  Hi, my name is Pathetic and I will be dining alone.  Table for one, please.

I went from eating fistfuls of popcorn and the occasional Reeses Peanut Butter Cup (Thanks, Easter!) to absolutely nothing.  Consequently, I’ve been a raging lunatic most of the week.  But, I’m complicated.  It’s not just white hot rage that has me crashing the hopes young children just because it’s fun to watch them cry. No, Mikey, YOU CAN’T have that chocolate bunny for breakfast!  HAHAHAHAHA!

No, my rage is a product of two things: withdrawals and intolerance for days on end pain.

Today is the first day I haven’t woken up with a headache since Thursday.  I’ve read sugar withdrawals (headaches, depression, anger, etc.) can last up to seven days, sometimes more, so I consider myself lucky.  I expect the sudden urge to kick a kitten only sporadically from here on out.  I credit the garage sale we had on Saturday for my speedy trip through detox.  So may losers, so little time.  I sized up each person that walked up our cracked driveway with the razor-like precision of a person without faults.  For one day only, I was perfect.  And ruthless.

Bonus points to the cocky Guatemalan guy who let me work out my childhood issues.  Dude, you thought you were bargaining for a set of four prints from Target, but IT WAS SO MUCH MORE.

That brings us to the present.  A beautiful day in southern California, and I’m eating strawberries and plain yogurt.  Happily.  I’m going to try my hand at some home improvement projects, do some writing, and enjoy my children more than I have the last few days.  Today is going to be a great day.