I haven’t posted recently because I’ve been totally focused on my new rules.

Hubby announced the other day that we would be dieting. Said diet consists of alarming restrictions about food and beverages. “No drinking on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two drink Wednesdays and Fridays.” I think I blacked out about then because I have no idea what Saturday and Sunday are supposed to be. I’m thinking “Make up for lost time” weekends.

In his usual organized way of pursuing a goal, he made out menus that involved cereal and lots of chicken. And veggies.

It’s a nightmare.

On Monday he sent me to work with a grocery bag full of snack items that would answer  the “Eat five times a day” requirement. Lots of granola bars, cereal bars, peanut butter crackers and flavored cardboard. I mean rice cakes.


Life is no longer worth living.

By Friday I was starting to fantasize about pizza. I saw someone walk into the kitchen at the office with a bag from Whataburger. I almost tackled him. The rest of the afternoon I could swear I smelled cheeseburger.

Say hello to 620 calories. And that’s just the burger.

In an unsually cooperative mood, I incorporated working out into this little farce. I mean healthy new routine. I have always hated going to the gym, and my first visit back in years was exactly what I expected. Annoying and pointless. I am mechanically challenged when it comes to gym equipment. I found myself atop a treadmill thinking, “How hard can this be?” Well, either the gym is rigged for people over 90, or I am even worse at this stuff than I thought. Even the pre-set cardio routine challenge was no challenge. At the low end, it had me walking  at 2.0 miles per hour. When it ramped up to the highest rate, it was 2.8 miles per hour. I thought maybe I had to crank the speed up myself to set a baseline, but after going through each cycle, it dropped back down to 2 again. Even I can walk at 2 mph without effort – other than maintaining my balance.

After wrestling through the routine and upping the speed each time, I managed to burn all of 54 calories in 20 minutes. A huge disappointment for a girl who measures her calorie loss in terms of Chardonnay (1 glass = 120 calories).

The treadmill is definitely NOT going to do the trick. Unless I plan to spend 24 hours a day on it. In desperation, I looked around the gym and spotted the rowing machine. Rowing. Potentially interesting. Not a bike. Not a treadmill.

I tried it. Mostly because at this point the gym was completely empty. No witnesses if I had an experience reminiscent of my first time on an elliptical machine. (I now refer to it as an epileptic machine because while on it I look like I’m having a seizure.)  I am not at the gym to amuse others. I am at the gym to punish myself for liking butter and bread and wine.

I tried a couple of different settings on the rower and imagined I wasn’t embarrassing myself too badly. I would be proved wrong later when I got home and pulled up some rowing videos on YouTube. Apparently, the normal level of resistance for rowing on water is a setting between 3 and 5. (I was rowing at the resistance of 10.)  So, basically rowing through mud.

I studied the videos, then went back the next day. Warily, I eyed the rowing machine, determined to psych it out. 30 minutes later I had burned 220 calories. That’s almost two glasses of wine! Apparently, going full tilt, you can burn 800 calories an hour. (Of course, that’s if you’re an Olympic rower.) I am not an Olympic rower, nor will I ever be. But how great would it be to be able to burn off 6 glasses of wine in an hour? 

I can dream, can’t I?



There is a plot afoot to starve me to death. I can tell because usually, we HAVE food in the house. Typically, the only issue is that I get a handful of chips or crackers or what-have-you and the rest gets sucked into the gaping maws of Hubby and his partner in crime – Austin – the minute I leave the house.

But this is different. Hubby has NOT gone to the store AT ALL. In at least a week. I’ve decided it must be some sort of last-ditch diet effort before we go to the beachy family reunion. The problem is, the lack of sustenance is making me a very dangerous human being. (Forget beachy, I’m leaning way more toward bitchy.)

Yesterday for breakfast, I had a trail mix bar that had been in the bottom of my purse for 2 months. For lunch, Hubby sent me to work with a Lean Cuisine. Chicken. It had the consistency of…let’s just say…NOT chicken. I popped a Valium and an anti-inflammatory just to get something on my stomach.

I SHOULD have had a good breakfast this morning. My co-workers and I take turns on Friday – as a little motivational treat. Usually, it’s some variety of breakfast tacos (from different origins). Thanks to the Jenny Craig Circle of Hell at home, I was a bit obsessed with the idea of food this morning. So what happens when I throw my stuff down at my desk and race over to where my co-worker has deposited his loot? I find the smallest damn breakfast tacos I have ever seen. One for each of us. One.

After inhaling the “teaser” tacos we pondered voting our inferior breakfast supplier out of our little club. Sure, it will be painful for him at first, but it may just save his life. You do NOT want to deal with four hungry (possibly hung over) women, one of whom is already undergoing a war of attrition on the home front.

So now, I am hunkered down at my desk with room temperature venison sausage and a handful of crackers that somehow escaped the cupboard embargo. Things are not looking hopeful for the afternoon.

We ARE, however, sporting a new motto in the marketing department:

Don’t mess with breakfast.


My husband and I have been gaining weight. He’s gained in the double digits x (I’m not telling – I have to live with him) since we got married and I’ve gained “none of your f-ing business” lbs. As a guy, of course, the weight gain is pretty much fine and dandy. As a woman, the “slight” weight gain is totally unacceptable, a disaster, and will potentially result in a lawsuit against my doctor. He’s the smart guy that told me hysterectomies don’t cause weight gain, Haagen Dazs does. If there’s one thing you want in an OB/GYN, it’s a snappy sense of humor.

In an attempt to lose some weight and gain some health, hubby has decided to give up adult beverages for a month. I applauded his determination and was suitably impressed until he suggested I give up adult beverages for a month as well. After I caught my breath from laughing hysterically, I told him, “No way, Jose.” (I believe in teamwork and mutual support, but there are some things that are sacred and unbreakable – like my relationship with Chardonnay.)

(Does this make me look fat?)

In my own defense, I HAVE cut down on my adult beverage intake. I’m also drinking vodka/sodas because they have a lot less sugar than my Chard. The point is, (as I remind hubby when he glares at me and my bottle of Svedka) I FEEL as though I am suffering. The pounds should be practically dripping off me, but they’re not.

In the good old days of my youth, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, all it took for me to lose weight was one small adjustment like that. Maybe I’d stop ordering fries or onion rings with my cheeseburger, or stop buying chips with a sandwich. (Don’t hate on me. I have LOTS of other challenges in life that make up for 35+ years without weight issues. LOTS.) No one – especially Dr. Wisecrack (no pun intended) ever warned me I’d eventually lose that glorious weight shedding capability. The bastard.

So, here we are, hubby and I – one of us sobering up, and one of us having sobering thoughts about having to be in a swimsuit in a mere three weeks. Maybe I should quit drinking after all. Maybe I should get that stupid jump rope back out and jump my ass off. Literally.

Or, maybe I should stop eating and JUST drink.

I’ll think about it at Happy Hour.