A Few Of My Favorite Things

“When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad. I simply remember my favorite things and then I don’t feel so bad.”

Just so we’re clear, I’m not feeling particularly bad. It’s just limbo. When I find myself in this neutral free-falling space, I like to focus on happy things. And when I do, Julie Andrews’ voice always pops in my head.

So, now that I have that song lodged in your head, too, I’m going to inject you with even more sugar-crusted sweetness with these photos, the first of my list of favorite things this week:

Claire and Luca (who cut his first two teeth today! Little bugger told no one.) had their first official photo shoot with a professional photographer last week. My friend Pam is a gem. Has a real eye for people and their emotions and gestures. Check out this photo that I had printed in poster size and will frame for my living room. Not just because this is my granddaughter, but because it’s a lovely piece of art.

And of course my daughter loving Luca and vice versa isn't so shabby either.

The scale is not usually one of my favorite things, but on Saturday, it delivered some really good news: I’m not a water-retaining mess anymore! Whoohoo!

Another favorite thing: my bike. Oh what I’ll do to ride my bike, especially this time of year.

Here’s Larry dressed and ready for our bike ride last weekend.

Here’s me.

I’m dressed like I’m hiking the Andes and he’s ready for a romp on Padre Island. It was not even 50 degrees outside! Guess who wasn’t freezing five minutes into our ride? Hint: it wasn’t me.

A few food favorites. Remember how I said I’d cleaned out my homemade recipe books? I discovered the Dijon roasted potatoes recipe I’d totally forgotten about. Since last Saturday (as in 9 days ago, not 2), I’ve made them at least four times. Heaven!

Mix 1 T Dijon mustard, ½ to 1 tsp crushed dried rosemary, ½ to 1 tsp dried oregano, and a few shakes of pepper. Put it in a plastic bag with 6-7 ounces of potato wedges. Shake it all together and put it on a baking sheet sprayed with cooking spray. Spray the potatoes. Cook for 17-18 minutes. Flip. Cook for another 17-18 minutes. Serve with ketchup and/or mustard and or/fat-free sour cream. I do all three.

I’m heading to Pittsburgh tomorrow and will partake in four of my other favorite things: watching the grandkids, seeing my daughter, shopping at Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods, and listening to NPR in the Jeep. I might even stop at Starbucks and get me a vanilla rooibos latte. It’ll be darn cold tomorrow (barely 50 for a high and 40 mph winds). I’m breaking out my favorite sweaters, that’s for darn sure.

And finally, two other recipes that became my new favorite things today.

Sautéed Asparagus

1 pound asparagus, cut into 1 1/2–inch pieces
1 T light butter
2 cloves minced garlic
½ c veggie (or chicken) broth

Sauté asparagus and garlic in butter for about two minutes or until the butter is mostly absorbed. Add the broth, cover and simmer until asparagus is tender. (3 points for the entire dish. 1 point for half.)

Lentil Vegetable Soup

(I apologize for having no clue where this came from. If it’s one of you readers, please let me know so I can publically bow in your presence because this is really good stuff.)

1 large onion, chopped (1 cup)
2 t chili powder
1 t ground cumin
2 (or 5 like I use) cloves garlic, finely chopped
3 cups veggie broth
1 C dried lentils, sorted and rinsed
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes (or use 2 cups diced fresh tomatoes with skin removed)
1 can (8 oz) tomato sauce
1 can (4.5 oz) chopped green chilies, undrained
1 C frozen corn
1 C sliced carrots
2 C zucchini, cut in quarters

In Dutch oven sprayed with non-stick spray, sauté onion, garlic, cumin, and chili powder for about a minute. Add tomato sauce and cook until onion is tender, about 2 minutes. Add everything else and simmer for 30-45 minutes (depending on if you use fresh or canned tomatoes. Fresh require a few more minutes.)

Makes 6 2-cup servings. 180 calories, 1 gm fat, 8 gm fiber, 11 gm protein per serving. (3 points)

Good stuff. No lie.

And finally, one of my very favorite veggies is beets. And last week, Claire tried them and now loves them, too.

It’s Amazing What Foods You Can Find (and can’t find) In Podunkville

I had good food news and some not so good food news today. First, the good news.

God love the owner of our local “health food” store, Sage Meadow. Because of Pat, there is tahini in Podunkville! I can make this hummus recipe this weekend rather than wait until after Tuesday when I hitch up the wagon and travel 90 minutes to Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods for provisions.

How good does this look?

Sun-Dried Tomato Hummus (From “1,001 Low-Fat Vegetarian Recipes” by Sue Spitler. It’s like my vegetarian bible)

8 servings (about ¼ cup each)

1 can (15 oz) chick peas, rinsed and drained
1/3 C fat-free yogurt
2-3 T tahini
3 cloves garlic
4 sun-dried tomato halves (not packed in oil), finely chopped
1 t each: dried oregano and mint leaves
2-3 t lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste

Process chick peas, yogurt, tahini and garlic in food processor until smooth. Stir in tomatoes and herbs; season to taste with lemon juice, salt and pepper. Refrigerate 1-2 hours for flavors to blend. (Nutritional info: 73 calories; 1.7 gm fat; 256 mg sodium; 3.6 gm protein; 11.4 gm carbs)

More good news, we haven’t had a freeze yet which means the local farmer who raised a field of late summer/early fall strawberries is still at the market. These are better than the early summer strawberries by far. I call them god’s apology for such a cold and rainy summer.

The Swiss chard was lovely and I couldn’t resist. So were the brussels sprouts. I also picked up some old-fashioned cranberry-type beans. Aren’t they pretty? The farmer I bought them from said to cook them like a butter bean. Okey dokey. I’ll find a recipe and check them out.

The not so good news is that the Wal-Mart here in Podunkville discontinued yet another one of my favorite foods. And unlike Greek yogurt (I protested) and garlic cloves (I protested again. How can a “grocery” store not sell garlic cloves?), my beloved hearts of palm won’t be back.

I was in the canned vegetable aisle – the same place they sold hearts of palm just last month, right next to the artichoke hearts. I looked and looked. Didn’t find them. I asked the guy straightening the shelves, “Where are the hearts of palm?” He looked at me like my head was on backwards. “The what?”

Happens all the time.

“Hearts of palm. They used to be right by the artichokes.”

“I don’t work grocery. Let me call someone,” (he was very helpful) and he grabbed his James Bond 007 walkie talkie and paged Jess. Jess came over and looked for the hearts of palm, then said, “Wait. I think we discontinued these. Let me check.” (To her credit, she’d at least heard of them.)

She paged the Wizards of Wal-Mart – the decision makers they keep hidden behind the doors all around the building – and found out that yes, hearts of palm had been discontinued. Crap.

“Thank you so much for checking,” I said and I pushed my cart slowly away.

“What are they?” asked the guy I originally talked to. I stopped and explained what they were – a chunk of the heart of a palm tree – and he asked if they were a “vegetarian thing.”

Hunh?

I told him no, hearts of palm are not exclusively for vegetarians and are very good on salads. He looked perplexed, but let me go.

I left the canned vegetable aisle and walked toward the freezer section. A few seconds later, Jess walked up behind me and said, “Look what I found in our discontinued section!” In her hand were two cans of hearts of palm. Eureka!

“Are there more?” I asked. Yes, she said. Four more cans. Whoohoo! And they were marked down to $2 each. Bonus. I got six cans of hearts of palm for $12. To quote The Who, “I call that a bargain.” Maybe not “the best I ever had,” but close.

I heart hearts of palm. I’d never heard of them until my friend Heather in Chicago tossed them on a salad she’d made for us last year. I fell in love. Now every time I slice one up and throw it on my salad (which is almost every day), I think of Heather. Do any of you have people/food associations like that? Come to think of it, when I shave my legs I think of my junior high choir director. I have no idea why. It’s not sexual or anything, just an odd association.

See how my mind wanders? It’s a wonder I get anything done sometimes.

Anyway…When I followed Jess back to the “discontinued items” section, the guy I’d originally talked to about the hearts of palm was close behind.

“So, do they taste like anything ‘normal’?” he asked.

I felt like an evangelical preacher reaching out to a lost soul looking for salvation. I could have a hearts of palm convert on my hands, right there in Podunk Wal-Mart! I was a little nervous. How do I describe them well yet vaguely enough to get him to try them?

“Do you like canned marinated artichoke hearts?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“Well, they’re kind of like artichoke hearts with a smoother texture,” I said. “Here. Have one of my cans.”

“No, that’s OK,” he said.

Dammmit. I lost him. Either he didn’t want to make the $2 investment or he was being a good Wal-Mart employee by not taking anything away from the customer. I’m new at this conversion thing, but I realize I should have gone back to see him after paying for my groceries and slipped him a can of hearts of palm.

Maybe next time.

In the meantime, I’ve got some hummus to make. And Swiss chard soup. And chili. And pickled beets. Yup. I said pickled beets. I’ll let you know how that goes.

On the Cusp of Change.

Aaron came back from CA, and has moved me into an apartment with a month-to-month lease on the east side of Madison. Most of our belongs are in boxes, only the essentials are out.We still have a lot of purging to do before the big move.We are in a holding pattern right now. It is hard not knowing how long it will be until the proverbial ship comes in.I am trying to stay positive but it's been a

One Week? Establish Food Boundaries

Everything and nothing was on my mind yesterday. You know how you can be discontented for no apparent reason? Yesterday was one of those days that in the past I’d have mindlessly eaten whatever – and lots of it – just because I was bored/stressed/fill-in-the-blank. Instead, I got a haircut and a pedicure (my feet look like a Florida Christmas tree!).

A few hours at the salon shook off the food demons and I felt like a new woman by dinner. I made the spinach salad I’d planned and all was right in my food world. (BTW, you can get a haircut and pedicure in my little Podunkville for $60. My friends in a very large city that I won’t name here but is located in the midwest and on a lake could pay for roundtrip airfare to Pittsburgh and still get their hair cut and a pedi cheaper than their salon downtown big city. //word)

Anyway…defeating the food demons made me think about an article I read on CNN a few weeks ago: “One week to a slimmer you: Focus on the little things.” It recommends small strategies you can use to lose weight like yogic breathing during cravings, eating more colorful foods and foods with vitamin C, and taking a photo of your meal before you eat. But it wasn’t the strategies part that made me remember the article. It was the headline, specifically the “One week to a slimmer you” part.

One week.

What’s one week? When I was 300 pounds, one week of dieting didn’t make a visible difference, even when I lost 5 pounds. But it was that first week that laid the groundwork for success this millionth time down the scale.

In 2005, I didn’t know about yogic breathing or eating a rainbow, but I did know that in order to do it right this time – to make it my last time losing a large amount of weight – I had to have a much clearer goal and the mental tenacity to overcome those moments when I’d otherwise cave in to the cookie/crackers/ice cream/chicken nuggets…and the list goes on.

One week.

For me, the first week was the most important and the most dangerous. I call it the honeymoon phase. It’s the week you feel really good about your decision and think nothing can stop you because you’re so gosh darn enthusiastic. This is the last time! This is it! I can do this! Then real life sets in and you begin to wonder and wander. The new pedicurist at the salon reminded me of this yesterday when she told me how she’s lost and gained a lot of weight because she was so enthusiastic the first week and then old thought patterns slipped in again. “Just one cookie won’t hurt. I worked out all week…” You know the story.

So I started thinking, “What was different for me this last time? What was different that first week of my ‘diet?’” And I realized (and this shouldn’t surprise me, but identifying it and giving it words did) that I established “food boundaries,” which is WAY different than demonizing certain foods. I didn’t rule anything out. I didn’t say, “I can’t have _________! I’m on a diet!” I simply established boundaries. I’d tell myself: “I can eat ______ in a reasonable amount if it’s what I really want to eat.” Just saying this opened up the space for me to think about my relationship to food, something I’d never done before. In the past I would set up a list of things I “could” eat and disregard the rest. That is, until I made my “goal,” and then every food was game again. Thus the cycle.

Beginning with that first week in 2005, I remain living week to week, planning what I’ll eat and eating what I plan (for the most part – life does throw us curve balls now and again, does it not?). I still “crave” chicken nuggets, but I know they’d make me sick so I don’t eat them. I still love my mother’s chocolate cake and so I eat a small portion and am satisfied because it’s special. I adore mashed potatoes. But I also love roasted cauliflower and parsnips and carrots and broccoli; and they give me as much “comfort” as my old standard.

One week. If anyone asks me what made it “different” for me this time, I’ll tell them it’s food boundaries.

Amazing what you can learn while getting a haircut and pedicure, isn’t it?

Purging (no, not THAT kind of purging)

Sometimes a girl just needs to purge. To send stuff packing. Create space and start fresh.

Purging, at least for me, isn’t usually planned. It comes from an overwhelming desire to clean, toss and reorder after coming off a particularly stressful period (or sometimes right smack dab in the middle of one). A good purge can involve things like cleaning out a file cabinet, clearing your Internet browsing history, or having a garage sale and taking what doesn’t sell to Goodwill. It just feels good. The space you created is physically visible, yet it’s also like you’ve opened up space in your head.

I had no particular plans yesterday. I met a stressful deadline last Tuesday and so I’m in that place where I’m lost for a few days. Never sure what to do with myself as I try to acclimate to my surroundings. I walked to the farmer’s market, hauled produce home on my back like a pack mule, and then rather than stare at the computer all day, I took out my four homemade cookbooks and purged.

As I wrote back in February, I own a lot of cookbooks. Most are in a big box ‘o books in the basement. Before I store them, I tag the recipes I make the most and make copies at Staples. Then I put them in the corresponding homemade recipe binders I created.

These three-ring gems save me from recipe hell. You know the place: that abyss of clipped snippets of recipes from magazines, soup cans, applesauce jars, flour bags, the underside of Cool-Whip or yogurt containers, and the sides of rice, pasta and cereal boxes? All those recipes you say you want to try just pile up in the junk drawer until you practically go insane trying to find “that one recipe” ten times a week. You can also go insane promising yourself you’ll try all the recipes you save and never do. And so I purged.

I probably tossed 100 recipes. Recipes that I forget why I found them appealing (they sounded good at the time, I suppose) and recipes I tried and thought, “Well, maybe if I change this or that…” knowing full well I’d forget about them like the garbage. It took four hours, but my cookbooks are now lean, mean fightin’ machines – ready to give me the perfect recipe when I need it.

The best part was that I discovered some old favorites, like the WW roasted potatoes recipe. Mix Dijon mustard with some olive oil, oregano, rosemary, pepper and salt. Stick some wedged potatoes in a plastic bag. Add the mixture and shake. Put on a cookie sheet sprayed with Pam and roast for awhile. I forgot how much I loved this recipe. I forgot because it was lost among the minutia and forgettable recipes I didn’t need anymore.

Purging is what energized me to cook this weekend. I roasted the roma tomatoes I bought after my bike ride this morning and they’re now in a sauce on the stove (for the recipe, see “Chillaxin’ With Some Old Recipes”). After attending my neighbor’s piano recital (which was spot on and gave me goose bumps: see “Even Blythe Danner Makes Mistakes Sometimes”), I threw together my veggie chili with butternut squash, zucchini, carrots, red peppers, fresh tomatoes and mushrooms. It involved a lot of chopping, but my iPod kept me company. My husband watched the Steelers’ game, but was serenaded by my rendition of David Cook songs.

It might sound silly, but I feel rejuvenated. In control. I cut through the mass of unappealing recipes, leaving in my books the ones that mean the most. Do you ever go through your “favorite” websites that you’ve stored on your internet browser and think, “Why was that site important?” It’s kind of like that. Sometimes you have to clear things out so you can breathe again and see what’s really important.

I have to go check the sauce and chili. That’s all that’s on my agenda tonight. That and eating the chili. And maybe checking Facebook. I feel back to earth. Don’t know how long this post-purge feeling will last, but I’m grateful for the time I have with it now.

Searching For My Inner BadAss

Here I sit in Starbucks listening to John Coltrane and wondering where my BadAss went. Was it something I did? Something I said?

I didn’t realize how quiet BadAss had gotten until I read Shelley’s latest blog entry over at A Forty-Somethings Weight Loss Journey. She says she feels like a badass when she lifts weights. I used to, too. …sigh… I miss BadAss and I want her back.

BadAss has been my companion ever since the day in 2006 I walked a 12-minute mile. BadAss was with me when I joined a gym and the first time I got on the elliptical and arc trainers. BadAss dared me to get off the Nautilus equipment and walk into the macho muscle-filled weight room and lift. BadAss fed me adrenaline at my rehab appointments in April when I learned how to use TheraBand and the proper push up to strengthen the muscles around my shoulder and tendon injuries.

BadAss doesn’t want to hear my excuses. She’s only interested in my full attention and dedication to my goals. So maybe that’s why she’s gone. My attention and dedication have waned a bit lately, as my weight and lack of enthusiasm for exercise attests.

BadAss was with me last weekend, so I know she’s not gone far. She made me walk to the farmer’s market and carry beets, carrots, apples, broccoli, lettuce and red onions in my backpack on the way home and then get on the elliptical for another 20 minutes just because. She made sure I averaged 13 mph on the bike trail on Sunday and not be shy to tie my TheraBand to a post at the trailhead and do my routine no matter who walked, drove or rode by. I got a lot of funny looks, but my BadAss said, “Hey, see these biceps? Yeah…they could kick yer ass!”

Nonetheless, BadAss has been unusually quiet. I will log my usual 300+ workout minutes this week, but the feeling isn’t the same. Too much on my mind, maybe? Too much attention paid to the scale? I’m up four pounds since May and I’m determined to lose them by Thanksgiving (down .8 for the week as of today), but when I dug out my Guess Daredevil low-rise boot cut yesterday – my favorite jeans of all time – and they were a little snug around the middle, I got really sad. (Why do I always accumulate fat in my gut? Why can’t it go to my boobs just this once?) Then I did something I haven’t done in years. I went online and ordered a pair of jeans one size bigger.

I’m sure that didn’t make BadAss very happy.

I eat about the same. I work out the same. So what’s caused the scale to go up this summer? I’m guessing it’s my age and (probably) my hormone levels. I think I’m turning into the quintessential poster child for perimenopause. BadAss isn’t sure how to handle that.

I won’t freak out. I mean, I’m fine with my age and body circumstances (except maybe the boobage issue). But when I ask myself, “What do I do?” I mean, do I reduce calories? Work out more? Both? Join a convent? Seriously. This is uncharted territory for me.

There’s so much out there about menopause and weight gain and how to avoid it. But I’m already DOING all I can to avoid it (weight gain, not menopause). At least I thought I was. I read today that being a thin vegetarian with hypothyroidism can cause early menopause. But I won’t not be thin, I won’t eat meat, and other than take Synthroid religiously, like I do, I can’t do anything more for the thyroid. (And before you write and tell me all about soy and its potential affects on thyroid function, trust me, I’m well aware of the studies. I don’t eat enough soy to warrant concern.)

Since I can’t do anything about my age, then it must be my mood that has scared away my beloved BadAss. Time for an attitude adjustment, I suppose. Or perhaps your inner BadAss could talk to my inner BadAss. Any words of wisdom? Thanks in advance. Or as the “kids” say nowadays: KTHXBYE! (Decoded, it means “OK, thanks! Bye!” Who knew?)

Even Blythe Danner Makes Mistakes Sometimes

My next-door neighbor, Paula, is a music professor at our local university. Her specialty is the piano.

During summer break, she was visiting her family in Memphis. Driving around one day, she heard Chopin’s “Barcarolle,” a piece she’d played in college, and decided she’d give a recital in the fall semester showcasing it.

It seemed like a simple enough idea at the time, but now, several weeks into her decision and just six days from her performance, she’s exhausted from practicing 3-4 hours a day and teaching a full schedule on top of it. She says she’s “not as young” as she used to be. But she’s a professional and as such, is committed to giving a spot-on performance on Sunday.

Aside from a major malfunction, if Paula makes a mistake, only the most trained ear will notice. The recital audience will hear each song nearly flawlessly from start to finish. However, what I hear next door every time she practices is something quite different.

To memorize a song, Paula plays a section over and over again until it’s familiar. If she messes up, I hear her say, “Ack!” and give the keys a quick smack before going right back to the section. When she needs a break, she mows the lawn or waters the flowers along her deck or logs on to Facebook to see who’s there, but always she goes back to the piano.

During one of her breaks yesterday, we were talking about making mistakes during a performance and she told me about a play she went to in NYC in which Blythe Danner was starring. She went with some friends including a drama professor, who’d gone along reluctantly.

The play was going along smoothly until out of the blue, Danner completely forgot her line. It stunned everyone, especially Danner. She called for “Line!” and got right back into the play, but Paula said it was clear that in that moment, Danner was disgusted with herself. However, Danner’s mistake was exactly what the reluctant drama professor needed to experience to help her understand that even the most seasoned veterans screw up sometimes.

There are days I get so stuck on a section of my book that I just want to delete the file, log out of Word and become a plumber. There are days I get so tired of caring about every stinkin’ thing I put in my mouth that I just want to eat cake all day and never weigh in again. But as the Buddha and my mother say, this too shall pass.

We all yell “Ack!” or “Line!” sometimes, especially when we’re losing weight or maintaining weight loss. How ridiculous would it have been if Blythe Danner walked off the stage in the middle of a play just because she messed up a line? Or if Paula quit playing because she missed a note? Or if you and I stopped paying attention to our fitness goals just because one morning (or four) we ate a bagel with cream cheese when we “planned” to eat grapes or took a day (or four) off from the gym? Is it worth chucking everything because we made a few “mistakes?”

It’s not easy, by any means, to ride out the feelings, validate the frustration and keep doing what you were doing. It sometimes takes the mistakes of others to help us see that even the most enthusiastic losers and maintainers among us lose their grip sometimes. I learn the most from bloggers and others who share their gains and weaknesses as well as their successes.

This little pep talk, in fact, is me trying to learn from…well…me. Sometimes I have to keep my own faith, or at least remind myself I have it. A few days of water weight, an undeserved gain, and an unexplained pain in my left shoulder have me frustrated right now. But I’m bigger, so to speak, than my scale, and I’ll work out the shoulder thing. I just have to trust that I am a “professional.” A professional of me. I won’t walk off stage or stop playing. I might wallow in a cup of vanilla rooibos tea and bitch about it with a good friend when we meet for coffee in a few hours, but I’ll get back on that maintenance pony and ride on.

I found this lovely performance of Chopin’s “Barcarolle” on YouTube. This is what I’ve been hearing, in fits and starts, for several weeks, but will hear all the way through (nearly) flawlessly on Sunday. (Wait till you hear what happens around minute 7. Oh. My.)

Love Is Like Oxygen (and a good work out...you can’t lift a 2-year-old with it)

I cannot for the life of me get the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse "Hot Dog Song" out of my head. So in honor of Claire (and to share the “love”), here’s the song I’ve heard at least 100 times in the last 36 hours.

I officially took two days “off” from exercise, but my muscles want an official ruling on the meaning of “off.” They seem to think that “life” constitutes exercise. A few years ago I would have begged to differ because I was convinced that what we do in real life isn’t exercise, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t lift babies every day.

Grandbaby Luca now weighs 13 pounds. Claire is almost 30. I took care of them yesterday morning while their mom went to a meeting, then Claire came home with me and spent the night.

Luca, Claire and I had a three-hour sleep/play/run-around-like-crazy/drooly (that would be Luca) morning. Luca likes to be held high up on your shoulder so his head is even with your ears. Do that for a half hour while walking around and building a “fort” with a 2-year-old and you’ve got yourself a workout. I don’t normally sweat when I watch the kids, but yesterday they put me through my paces (in a good way).

When Claire was born almost two year ago, my arthritic wrists and torn rotator cuffs were so sore I had a hard time holding her. I often worried I’d drop her. My “only” option, according to the surgeon, was surgery. But I said no and opted for exercise instead. I’ve “buffed up” my upper arms and back, so to speak, and have strengthened the muscles around my wrists and forearms so I can hold Luca like a champ and take Claire where we need to go. (Note: This does not mean that surgery isn’t still an option, just not yet.)

When Claire comes to visit, we go places. Lots of places – the library and Wal-Mart because I have business there, and the hair salon, coffee shop and post office just so I can show her off. This means Claire needs to be lifted a lot – in and out of her car seat and then the cart at the grocery store, not to mention lifting her on to and out of her chair at the table for meals, helping her up on to the couch, and the always present “uppie peeez” (translated: pick me up, please) that I can’t resist. Lifting 30 pounds dozens of times in the course of 36 hours makes my muscles say “WTF?”, no matter how hard I work out. But the fact that I can do it each time without thinking twice makes me happier than anything I put in my mouth or any excuse I might use to not exercise.

I stay healthy for me – sure, yeah, whatever – but really I do it for my grandkids.

I know this isn’t the first time I’ve said that, and perhaps ya’ll are getting tired of hearing it, but seriously, every time I’m with them I am more convinced that what I’m doing to stay healthy is the right thing for me to do. I’ve never felt so sure of anything.

Dedication and commitment are key to diet and fitness. No doubt. But so is love. Have you ever told someone: “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?” I’ve said it many times, but I never meant that I’d get or stay fit. Until recently. Now when I say “I’d do anything for you,” it includes staying as healthy as my body will let me. There’s no turning back.

I love me. How often do you say you love yourself? There’s nothing wrong with it. It doesn’t make you narcissistic. I used to think it did, and so not loving myself caused me to do a lot of dumbass things.

I love myself AND I love Claire and Luca a whole bunch, and because I do, I lift weights and take my blood pressure meds, and eat right, and get my ass on the elliptical/bike/treadmill – day after day after day.

OK, the “Hot Dog Song” is STILL going through my head, but unlike a really bad “juke box from hell” 70s song that gets lodged in my head, it makes me miss Claire. She really REALLY likes that song. It makes her smile soooo big and dance and concentrate on playing her little bongo drum. How can I not love that more than I not love “Hot Diggity Dog”?

I have to take Claire to Disney World now just to thank that damn mouse for making her so happy.

Letting Go, Part II

And I thought signing the papers was hard.

Cassie was 17 when she joined the Army Reserves. I signed the papers in December 2001 giving the government permission to send my kid through a gas chamber. June seemed so far away and nine weeks didn’t seem that long. But June soon arrived and 9 weeks became an eternity.

Her grandpa was taking her to the recruiting station because I knew he’d be stronger than me and she needed someone to send her off with a smile and some confidence. Dad was in the Navy before the Korean War so he was just the person to give her the “You can do it!” pep talk. Not her blubbering mother.

I can still bring up that ache in my gut as I hugged her. She didn’t want to go, I didn’t want her to go, but a deal is a deal and we had to say goodbye. The worst part was that I knew I wouldn’t hear her voice for at least two weeks. It would be like flying around the dark side of the moon.

Week two, I brought the phone with me everywhere (this was back in the days before cell phones). Still, I missed her first call and I felt like the worst mother in the world. When she finally called back, here’s the transcript of our conversation:

Me: Hello?
Cassie: Mommy?
Me: Cassie? (tears)
Cassie: (tears)
Me: (tears…sniff…sniff)
Cassie: (tears…sniff…sniff)
(This went on, I’m not kidding you, for five minutes.)
Cassie: I have to go. I love you, Mommy. I miss you. (more tears)
Me: I miss you so much, baby. I love you. I love you. (more tears) I’ll see you in a few weeks, I promise.

That promise, that I’d see her in a few weeks, I was NOT going to break, despite the fact that I was almost 300 pounds and had stopped going anywhere too far from home. She was in Missouri and by god I was going to be there when the Army said she could go home.

I was never so proud of her as I was on Family Day when she marched out with her unit. And I was never so happy as when I finally got my hands on her. Here we are:



I had a hard time walking around the base. My back and knees hurt, and it was 90+ degrees. But I downed a bunch of Advil because I wanted to see everything she wanted to show me.

So much has happened in 7 years. She’s married and has the g-babies. I’m 160 pounds lighter and can wear her Army pants:

But no matter how much time goes by or how much we change, I still love her the same.

Cassie and her sister started a blog called “Sisters From Different Misters,” and she recently wrote a piece about her basic training days. Here it is, “The Basics of Basic”:

I was in the Army once. The Reserves to be exact. I was an 88M in the 298th Transportation Company in Franklin, PA. It’s a little fuzzy now why I even decided to join. I’m guessing that at the time I thought it was a brilliant idea, and unfortunately, once I get an idea in my head, there’s no getting it out.

One of my favorite things about having been in the Army is that I can say I was in the Army. I mean, regardless of what your political background is, the Army is tough shit. Any one who has ever been to Basic Training will agree. And I have yet to meet someone who’s gone through it to say it’s easy. Because it sure as hell isn’t.

For those of you who have never had the Army experience, let me explain some basics of Basic. Let’s start at the beginning.

I was assigned to go to Ft. Leonard Wood, MO. When I got there, I was prepared for the worst. I imagined that I was going to be yelled at from the get-go. But it didn’t happen. Instead a Sergeant came aboard our bus and told us to file into the building and sit on the benches. There were Capri Suns and granola bars waiting for us. What? I thought to myself. They’re supposed to be super mean to me! Did I miss something?

That night, they had us line up to assign us to our barracks for the night. I quickly learned that for the next 10 weeks I’d be lining up for EVERYTHING. While standing there I remember being exhausted and woke up on the ground, face full of gravel. Nice. Great first impression…check.

For the next two days we were processed in, received our uniforms, did our PT tests and got our vision tested, got 12 different vaccines in our butts, new shoes and IDs. We were allowed to talk during meals and they tried to yell at us, but it just didn’t really stick.

The day we left reception changed my entire life. I remember every detail like it was yesterday. We were given random numbers on our duffels and were told to stand in line quietly. Again, they tried to yell at us, but we didn’t really listen. Then the strangest thing happened. Cattle trucks pulled up. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought.

The doors opened and out stepped two of the meanest looking sons-a bitches I’ve ever seen and they started SCREAMING. “Get your asses on this truck NOW!” I bear hugged my 50 pound duffel and we all filed in and immediately were told to get our heads down. Actually it was more, “Get your f***ing head down in your duffel! If I so as much see one eye ball, I will physically remove it from your socket!” Thanks to my God awful BCG’s (birth control glasses,) I was able to see their reflections. I was standing right next to the door and the Drill Sergeants. They were smiling and mouthing things to each other and silently laughing. This must be Christmas morning to them, I thought, and relaxed for a half of a second and thought that they were just all talk. I mean, c’mon, they’re laughing and stuff. It won’t be so bad.

We got to where our Basic would take place and here is where I officially met “The Pit.” The doors to the cattle truck opened up and I was yanked out by my cuff by another Drill Sergeant and told to get my ass moving.

The Pit is a space between all 3 other barracks and the road. It is roughly the size of a football field and was filled with mulch dirt and rocks. Some big rocks. Technically The Pit was divided into 3 smaller pits, but we used all of the area that morning. There was a stage set up at the far end in the middle and after four hours of running, jumping, rolling, crawling…everything, we were told to stand ‘at ease’ and meet our Drill Sergeants. Remember those random numbers I told you about? Well that number decided what platoon we’d be in. I had a number 4. As they introduced the Drill Sergeants, I kept thinking to myself, Good, I’m glad that’s not MY Drill Sergeant.. When they announced ours, we only had two where all the others had three. DS Daily and DS Robling. Ebony and Ivory. And Ivory had braces. Sweet.

I could go on forever and talk about my 10 weeks of hell, er fun, but I’ll give you the highlights:

*I got the bottom bunk. My battle buddy was obviously a pampered princess back home, so watching her drag her tired butt in and out of that top bunk cracked me up every morning.

*My battle buddy was afraid that she had a tick in the crack of her butt, so she made me check.

*I broke my hip, but being the stubborn lady I am, ran on it for another 5 weeks. Yay, Army!

*I shot expert in every single practice range but the day we qualified, I forgot to put my earplugs in. While the 10 practice rounds were going on I was attempting to save what little hearing I had left to get them in and ended up royally screwing up and only shot sharp shooter.

*We would get Snickers bars as a treat for good behavior.

*I kept small pieces of paper in my front pocket so that when we had ‘down’ time at the ranges I could write letters home.

*My last name at the time was Reed. So was our First Sergeant’s. You do the math.

*They learned I could type and was constantly put on administrative duty while the others had to sit in a stuffy class room and learn about important Army stuff. I on the other hand typed up letters to home regarding up coming graduation. I vaguely remember addressing the envelope to my parents and wanted to cry.

*Donating blood during basic isn’t a volunteering situation. You do or you don’t. If you don’t you go to the pit. If you do you get out of pushups for 24 hours. I donated like a champ.

*On the 4th of July we watched Black Hawk Down. It’s like the Army-man’s chick flick. Still one of my favorites today.

*Also on the 4th of July, I learned were our extra tax dollars go to. That was the awesomest display of fireworks I have ever seen. Ever.

*I ate Cocoa Puffs every morning.

*Because the Army is now trying to be PC they found out I was a partial vegetarian and always offered me first pick of our field meals. The one with cheese ravioli had skittles in it.

*My best girl friend I made there was from the Philippines and tried to teach me how to speak Tagalog (pronounced Ta-ga-la.) All I remember is Mahal Kita which means I love you. Aw.

*I learned that cadences are fun to say. My favorite was the one about bubbles in beer.

*I was a Renegade. No really. 4th Platoon Renegades!

*The gas chamber is not a fun place. CS gas is mean. However, after completing that task, I had the clearest sinuses to date.

*When you go through the gas chamber, they make you flap your arms when you walk out. They say it’s to get the CS gas off of your uniform, I think it’s because one of the DS wanted to sing, “I believe I can fly.”

*I signed every letter to my Mom “Don’t forget the peanut M&M’s.” She didn’t forget them.

*Climbing 100 feet into the air on a giant ladder, then scaling over the top and climbing back down isn’t fun. Our DS got to be clipped in at the top and thought it was fun to shake and sway the entire structure. Bastard.

*The Pit really sucks. Especially at midnight.

*Fire duty is so much nicer towards the end of basic when you can wear your pj’s instead of your entire battle uniform. (Fire duty is where you and your battle buddy take turns being up during hour increments during the night to make sure we don’t come under attack. Typically this time is spent cleaning or buffing the floors.)

*I could run 2 miles on a broken hip in 17 minutes. I’m just that awesome.

*Staying in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a porta potty, a sheet for a tent and a gas mask isn’t my idea of roughing it. It’s torture. Especially when they made us stay in our gas masks for 7 hours. The only good part about that was I actually could fall asleep in it and no one was the wiser. Plus my best friend Brown was our platoon leader and warned me when DS was coming. He also helped me dig my fox hole. Sucker.

*Fold up shovels don’t work.

*The Rites of Passage that happens after the 15k march from our 3 days in the field was the coolest bon fire I have ever been to. I have never been more full of pride than that exact moment. Plus they blasted Bon Jovi and other late 80’s hard rock. And it was 3 in the morning. I was livin’ on a prayer and adrenaline.

*Running through a crowd of hundreds while frantically searching for my family isn’t like you’d see in the movies. It’s hot, people are sweaty and you just want to see your Mom, damnit.

*After hearing, “Mom! I found her!” I realized it was Carly’s voice and she had found me. I had been found!

*We get a full afternoon to spend with our families off base the day before graduation. It’s really actually very cruel, because you have to return to your barracks for one last night. You can do anything you want during this time away except we can’t drink, smoke, do illegal drugs or get tattoos. I chose to sleep.

*In the bathroom of whatever restaurant we ate lunch at, Carly made me lift up my shirt because she wanted to see how skinny I had become. I didn’t find it the slightest bit creepy. But I think the woman who entered right as I was lifting my shirt up did.

*At graduation we stood on stage and introduced ourselves. I had to say, “Private Reed from Pennsylvania.” That was my shining moment.

*The morning after graduation in the hotel room, when me and the fam were driving back to PA, I heard Larry (my step-dad) say something quietly to Mom and I immediately jumped out of bed and started to make it with Carly still inside. Then I proceeded to cry. This would begin the long adjustment period in my life.

*I bought a pair of size 5 jeans. This would be the first and last time that would ever happen.

*While I wasn’t in the Navy, I did get a Sailor Mouth. I still have that memento.
I can safely say I’m not the same person from when I first entered. I don’t think any one in my family is. The Army made me a better person and for that, I’m forever indebted to it.

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.’

3 weeks....

The lease is up on our current apartment this month, and the Manager asked if we would be willing to move out early (9/24/09). They want to put in new carpet for the next tenant, paint etc... She then said we could prorate our last months rent so we only pay for the days we are here! Sweet.Aaron has been in San Francisco since 8/8/09 and it has been really hard living without him.Aaron is still

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