Weekly Pick or Pan

Jeffrey Cohen has written three books in his Aaron Tucker mystery series. For Whom the Minivan Rolls was the first. Next came A Farewell to Legs and then As Dog as My Witness. I highly recommend all of them. Main character Aaron Tucker is a sarcastic, witty stay-at-home dad who dabbles in solving mysteries.

If you do read his books, make sure you send Jeffrey an email letting him know how much you enjoy them (if you don't enjoy them, just keep that to yourself, you heartless bitch). He's a great guy and loves compliments and good reviews (or else he wouldn't be an author, now, would he?) He can be reached through his website at www.aarontucker.com.

Confessions of a Halloween Scrooge

Since I reached what can tenuously be called my 'adulthood', I've never been into Halloween. Maybe it's the costumes. If a woman dresses up, she looks either disgusting, stupid or slutty, three things I usually try my best to avoid looking like. Maybe it's the fact that it's a holiday that is celebrated by decorating with dead bodies, gravestones and other things that are intended to scare the living poop out people. I'm not quite sure, but the fact remains that it's just not a time of the year I get into.

A couple years ago, I decided to actually try to celebrate Halloween, so hubby Kirk and I planned a Halloween party. Everything was looking great. We invited a bunch of Kirk's friends who work at the Penitentiary (big partiers), we decorated and we even had fun costumes. I was a pimp, complete with purple velvet and zebra print suit, and Kirk and Hercules were my prostitutes. I even drew a mustache and goatee on with my black eyeliner.

Things started to go wrong when I allowed Kirk to make the punch. The idea was to mix grape kool-aid, soda, vodka and a little bit of Everclear. Well, in Kirk's mind, a drink isn't a drink unless the taste of it can strip the lining from your esophagus, so he continued to add liquor until we had both an entire bottle of vodka and a whole bottle of Everclear in the punch. It tasted deceptively sweet, but could knock the ugly off a rhino.

Things went more wrong when half the people we invited didn't show up. We were bored and a little disappointed, so we drank the punch. Lots of the punch. Then Hercules kept pulling his slutty skirt off and licking all his makeup off. Guests started to get sick from the punch. Of those of us who stuck around, we ended up hanging out in the living room watching television. We couldn't even eat our snacks because Hercules had jumped on the table and eaten it all while we weren't looking.

So the party sucked. And I didn't even think to take pictures, which is sad because you don't often see my six foot, 250 pound husband in panty hose, heavy makeup and a Tina Turner glitter wig. The next morning was even worse. Kirk and I were deathly hung over and somehow, the pores in my chin sucked up all the black eyeliner and I had a colony of horrendous blackheads that would not budge no matter what I did.

We haven't bothered celebrating Halloween since then. This year, the holiday is on a Monday, which means Kirk will be at work and I will be at home alone. I plan on keeping the porch light off and hiding in my bedroom with a good book. I tell myself it's because I can't handle Hercules by myself when greeting trick or treaters at the door (which is true--he lunges and barks like a lunatic) and because our doorbell doesn't work. But the truth is, I just don't want to deal with Halloween. Give me Christmas any time, but I am and will probably always remain a Halloween Scrooge.

Weekly Pick or Pan

Instead of posting a weekly photo, I've decided instead to post a weekly pick or pan of a book I've recently read. Because really, wouldn't you rather know what books to read/avoid than look at pictures of my damn dog with my damn bra on his damn head?

I just finished this book this weekend. Although it took me an unheard of amount of time to read it (about two weeks, when I usually polish off a book in three days), it was definitely worth it. It's the story of a three-year-old half Finnish, half Chinese girl named Ursula who falls down an abandoned mine shaft. Every other chapter goes back and explores one of Ursula's ancestors, showing how much history has come together to form this one little girl.

Read it because it's interesting. Read it because it will touch your heart. Read it because the author has twelve children and needs all the help she can get, people!

Adventures in Dieting

After years of unhealthy and crazy, erratic eating habits, I've finally done a semi-decent job of settling down into a way of eating that works for me. It's basically South Beach, with a few I-Lost-My-Head-And-Scarfed-Every-Damn-Thing-In-Sight moments sprinkled throughout. Although I'm trying to erradicate the Scarf moments, I broke down and had one yesterday. We're talking chocolate and beer and eggrolls and drumsticks (the chicken kind, not the percussion kind, because wouldn't that kind of make me like Animal from the muppets? Except I don't think he actually ever ate his drumsticks, though he seems like the type that would. Anyway.) The key rule to my Eating Plan is to get right back on track the next day with no cheating whatsoever. If you've never had problems with food, you might not understand how important these little rules are. If you break one of these rules, you have it in your head that the heavens will cave in, your ass will explode to twice its normal size and Tom Cruise will become president and declare Scientology the national religion. It's that important.

So things were going along swimmingly this morning with everything on track. And then it happened. The Dieting Nightmare. I was making a sales call to a client who makes their own chocolate. Yes, I can see you already have an inkling where this story is headed. Anyway, everyone who works in this candy store is OLD. Put it this way: the owner has been making candy for 70 years. And his name is Clive. How cute is that? When Elderly Clive asks you to please try his chocolate, you don't say no. It would be like throwing a kitten through a window. I was hoping to take a nibble and slip the chocolate into my purse, but Clive and his Geriatric Posse were watching me like hawks, and I had to eat it all. And then they gave me more. And then of course I had to buy some because oh! The looks on their cute wrinkled faces!! And because they bought an ad. That's important, too.

So I left with illicit chocolate in my belly, a ruined day of dieting on my hands and a lot of guilt. But then I thought of the sweet old people whose only wish in life was to have me enjoy their chocolate and I was able to put it in perspective. Maybe I am getting smarter as I age after all.

Commercial I Hate

Does anyone else have a problem with the new Burger King Commercial for the MeatNormous sandwich? Meat...on top of meat...on top of meat.... Not only does it sound more than a little explicity homosexual, but also--MY GOD, would you like a triple bypass with that order? And what's up with the logger? Do loggers love meat? I guess I was never aware of this fact. Environmentalists love trees, bibliophiles love books and loggers love meat! And this is not even going into the whole issue of the crazy Burger King with the plastic face who is thisclose to giving me pants-pissingly scary nightmares.

Burger King? Hello? Get yourself a new ad agency. And lay off the meat. You're frightening me.

Picture of the Week

This, as you see, is one pissed off kitty. Is she pissed because her name is, poor thing, Shitty? Or maybe because she has to live with an enormous dog who likes to roll her end over end, a look of doggie glee on his face? Then again, it could be because she has been put on a restrictive diet due to the fact that Her Chubbiness could no longer clean her own back and was getting hair clumps. Whatever the reason, I'm quite surprised she hasn't yet jumped on the bed and clawed my eyes out in the middle of the night.

Bitch Sighting: Outback

So the hubby and I went to eat at Outback Steakhouse tonight. Bloomin' Onion! Crikey!! Anyway. I was totally watching what another table of diners was doing, as I'm wont to do (I blame it on my inquisitive writer's nature), when the sighting occured. Let me set the scene: It's a table of five. You've got what is probably the mother, an aunt, an uncle or older brother and what I'm guessing are the son and daughter, both in their mid to late teens. There is a huge difference between the three older diners and the teens. Mom's dressed in a ratty sweatsuit. Auntie looks like she hasn't gotten her hair cut since 1979. Uncle/Brother is also shoddily clad and I'll bet if I got any closer to him, there would have been an odor. (I didn't get any closer. Not just because I didn't want to spoil my Bloomin' Onion-Crikey!!--but also because that would be rude. As if eavesdropping isn't. Moving on.) What I'm trying to get at is the older members of the family obviously are not rolling in the dough and don't spend a lot of money on themselves.

So it's obviously the daughter's birthday as the other members of the family are giving her gifts. I don't see the first few gifts, but I do notice Little Miss Snippy Pants' attitude, which is not good. The only one she seems to want to talk to is her equally pissy teenage brother. But lo and behold! Guess what she pulls out of the gift bag from her mom? A Dooney & Burke purse. That's right, my friends. Mom, who is wearing a $15 WalMart sweat suit and generic white tennies on the verge of falling apart, has given her snooty little daughter a purse that cost nearly $200 (yes, I looked it up. Yes, I'm obsessive. Yes, my husband was quite annoyed with me.)

This, in and of itself, isn't that bad. Maybe Mom has been saving for a long time to give her daughter this. Maybe it makes her happy to give daughter what she herself never had. Fine. Great. What's not great is the daughter's reaction. Faced with this gorgeous $200 bag that Mom obviously can't afford, Bitchy Ass turns up her nose. She inspects the bag with distaste, as if a rotting warthog carcass has been placed on the table in front of her. She has this pinched, disapproving look on her face and people! I watched this little turd for a good who knows how long, waiting for even a terse little 'thank you'. Nothing. NOT EVEN A THANK YOU!!! By the time they left fifteen or twenty minutes later, I was ready to club the little whore over the head with my Bloomin' Onion (Crikey!!), steal the bag (thank her Mom) and run like a bat out of hell.

What is wrong with kids these days?? What, I ask you? I was grateful for every gift I got growing up. Whether I liked it or not, I damn well pretended I loved it and thanked the giver profusely. If I would have received a $200 purse when I was sixteen years old, I probably would have pissed my pants and fainted dead away (not necessarily in that order).

So after the rant hubby endured from me (he's still amazed I can spot a pricey handbag at fifty paces), we finished our dinner and came home, away from the scene of the Ungrateful Crime. But let me tell you, if I see that bitch in a dark alley, she'd better not be carrying the Dooney. Because Bloomin' Onion--crikey--or not, I'm-a-gettin' that bag.

Numbers

I got on the scale this morning. While this may seem like a completely normal activity for most people, it has always been fraught with danger for me. It all started when I was in the 8th grade and my mom told me I was getting chubby. I got on the scale and it read 140. While I was already near my full-grown height of 5'7 by that time, the weight did not look right on my adolescent body and I was getting teased for it. So I went on a diet. At the age of 13. By using diet pills and a Slim-Fast like meal replacement called DynaTrim, I started losing weight. Only problem was, I couldn't stop.

I went through the healthy 130s. Zipped right past the thin 120s. Even skipped the too thin 110s. Finally landed at 105 pounds, though our scale said I was 100 pounds even (my Mom swore it was five pounds heavy). I was wearing a size three, which was loose on me. My period stopped. I was cold all of the time. Looking back on it, I must have looked like a bag of bones. But it's amazing how much positive reinforcement I got from my Skeletor appearance. Other than a few people, including my best friend, who were worried about me, I got lots of compliments on the weight loss.

By this time, I was eating a total of 400-450 calories a day. I even remember what I would eat. A slice and a half of 45-calorie bread in the morning. A piece of fruit for lunch. A 300 calorie TV dinner for supper. If my stomach would growl, I would eat a tiny piece of candy until it stopped. I was in trouble, but few people seemed to realize it.

Throughout high school, my weight fluctuated greatly. After the initial huge weight loss, which lasted through my freshman year, I found myself gaining weight during the school year and losing it again in the summer. This was usually a 20-30 pound fluctuation. My wardrobe was all over the place. More importantly, my emotions were all over the place. I felt awful when I gained the weight. I would hide in baggy clothing. I would find excuses not to leave the house. My relationships suffered.

Around this time, what I have come to realize as a binge/compensate eating disorder had taken hold. I would cheat one day (and by cheat I mean eat everything in sight, long after I was hungry, until I was physically ill), then starve myself for the next two or three days to compensate for it. The thought of what I would eat, when I would eat and how much I would eat was taking over my life. I planned everything around eating or not eating. I thought of it constantly.

As I entered college, the disorder ebbed and flowed. There would be months where I would be completely normal, then months where I would be completely out of control. I gained weight. I lost weight. My self-esteem pinged around like a crazy rubber ball.

Now, as I begin to approach my 30s, I tell myself that I am better. I have found a way of eating that works for me, my weight is relatively stable and my diet is healthier than most people's. Does the disorder sometimes rear it's ugly head? You bet. Sometimes I find myself shoving Bugles into my mouth for no reason at all, eating until I'm so physically sick I can only go to sleep. I wake up bloated, ill, and remember how bad this once was. And then there's the scale. That awful scale that, with just a glance, can make or break my day, can make me feel like a success or failure. But why? Why is that number so important? I met my husband, the love of my life, when that number was 150, the highest it's ever been. Throughout our relationship, that number has fluctuated as much as 20 pounds, but he's never loved me more or less for it. When my weight is down, my life is not better. But I sure seem to think it will be. Will I ever learn?

So what was the number this morning? 135. And as I begin work this morning, it has taken root in my brain. I am a 135-pound woman. It shouldn't matter this much. I shouldn't be a 135-pound woman, I should just be a woman. A woman who has her faults, but who's just trying to do the best she can.

Picture of the Week

Yes, it's Hercules. With my bra on his head. Ho, ho, I'm a freakin' genius.

Crazy People at the Gym Tonight

The anorexic on the treadmill This girl was about twenty pounds underweight (although her hair probably made up for ten of that) and was running on the treadmill on the absolute highest incline. So high she had to hold on for dear life lest she get ejected off the end. This led to her little birdfeet making huge STOMP STOMP noises each time they hit. The poor normal-sized-on-a-normal-treadmill-setting girl beside her kept glancing over at her with a 'What the fuck?!' look.

The way too image conscious guy Ah, the perfectly gelled hair and the t-shirt tucked into the gym shorts, creating what looked like a big roll of butt fat. You're at the gym, buddy. Muss up the hair and pull that damn shirt out! I almost went over there and did it for him. That wouldn't have been inappropriate. Not at all.

The a-hole Apparently, my gym etiquette is not up to snuff. I guess I thought that when you walk across the gym and start working on another machine, you're actually done with the machine you just finished with. Oh, how wrong I am. I dared to use the newly abandoned tricep machine (and even changed the weight on it--gasp!) while this guy was on the bicep machine. If looks could kill...

Me I had on my Eeyore t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up (I was hot, bitches!) and these awful black shorts that not only are too short and expose my cellulite, but are also covered with white hair from the Dog Who Should Be Bald He Sheds So Damn Much. Pair this with my newfangled armband radio I just purchased tonight and CANNOT figure out that kept sliding willy nilly around my arm and my lumpy, half-hearted ponytail. I was one sexy mama.

Things I'll Never Do When I'm Pregnant

As I reach the time in my life when I'm beginning to think about starting a family, I find myself watching other pregnant women. Sometimes, they make me happy and excited. Most of the time, they make me roll my eyes and reconsider my notion of procreating. So here, to remind myself when the time comes, is a list of things I'll never do when I'm pregnant.

1. Assume that every person who comes within twenty feet of me wants to see my ultrasounds. Yes, I understand it's an exciting time. However, there are only a select few people who actually want to see your ultrasound. That would be you, your significant other, the grandparents and maybe a very close friend or two. The same thing applies to vacation pictures. Unless you've been somewhere really awesome, like George Clooney's pants, most people couldn't give a shit less.

2. Refer to the baby as 'baby' as soon as it's conceived. This would be saying things like, "Baby is hungry" even though you're two months pregnant and the baby is smaller than your thumb, or "baby likes that" when you eat something that makes your bloated gut gurgle. Until we know if "baby" is a he or a she (and can refer to it as such), I don't see any reason to call it anything other than "it".

3. Wear maternity clothes just so everyone knows I'm pregnant. Maternity clothes are meant for one thing--to wear when your fat ass is too large to fit into regular clothes. They are not meant to wear during your second week of pregnancy for the sole reason of getting people to ask if you're pregnant.

4. Bring my pregnancy into every conversation. If someone offers me a drink, there's no reason to say, "I can't, I'm pregnant". A 'no thanks' will do just fine. Someone talking about bringing ice cream into the office? I won't say, "Don't tempt this pregnant woman!" I also won't break every 5 minutes of silence with "The baby moved!" or "I think the baby is angry with me today!" just so everyone remembers that I am, in fact, pregnant.

5. Pretend like I know every last damn thing about pregnancy. Guess what? Just because you're pregnant does not mean you are the authority on every pregnancy that came before yours and every pregnancy that will come after yours for all the dawn of time. I will know that I'm not even an expert on my own pregnancy and that we're all just learning the best we can.