Sin and Vice

I am not Catholic, and I'll just be honest: I didn't really understand the concept of Lent until I was in college. I don't even think I'd heard of it. People, the crazy Christians in my homeland think Catholics are all sinning sinners who sin because they worship idols. I once attended a church service where a missionary came and talked about his trips to Spain trying to Christianize that bunch of Mary-loving sinners. Nope, I'm not kidding. Honestly, I only attended because there was a cute boy there. And thankfully, we're married now and neither one of us have been around that particular brand of crazy in years.

So my first year of college, I was astounded by the number of people asking me what I was giving up for Lent. Um, well, I don't know. I explained that I wasn't Catholic. I think at the time I was a Buddhist. Because when you're 18 and have a religion professor who looks like Morrissey, yeah, you're Buddhist. You're just waiting for some new hot guy to swoop in and explain "secular humanism." ANYWAY, I was informed that it wasn't really just a Catholic thing and that I had to give up something. So I gave up Cokes. At the time, I drank a lot of the real, sugared Cokes (and, actually, did until I went on WW when I lived in CA--my husband found a picture of me drinking one on an old memory card the other night and yelled out, "It's like seeing Big Foot!"). I think I lasted about two days before I was filling up my glass at the dining hall, saying something about sleep deprivation and FUCK IT, I'M A BUDDHIST NOW. Again, 18. And life. However, the girls on my freshman hall were not similarly deterred. There was a lot of discussion of ceasing to eat after a certain hour, or locking up chocolate or whatever.

So basically, it was a diet disguised by religion. TWO OF MY FAVORITEST THINGS, YOU GUYS. But again, we were all 18. So I won't be hatin.

Fast forward 10 years or so and immediately after the New Orleans lovefest of Mardi Gras had ended (we didn't even have time to sprinkle that sawdust stuff on the barf, ya'll!), my Facebook feed BLOWS UP with what everyone is giving up for Lent. It's chocolate, it's fast food, it's Facebook (meta, that one), it's online shopping, it's all this stuff. All stuff that no one really needs, but that make our lives better in one way or another. And the comments that people are saying about the stuff that they want to give up--it's internet self flagellation. It's "I feel horrible that I eat so much" or "McDonald's is so gross so I'm giving it up." Everyone is explaining why they have to give up something in this sick, sad tone, with this idea that they have to give this one thing up, just to try to be a little bit more perfect. Just to further fit into this narrow, constrictive role that we force ourselves into.

(It should be noted that I have never heard of a man giving up various foodstuffs for Lent. Or for any other reason, for that matter.)

Guys, it is totally ok to like things that aren't good for you. We don't have to feel guilty about it. I'm not knocking Lent if you do it for very real, religious purposes. But it's not a diet. It is not going to cure you of loving sweets. And really, you shouldn't want for it to.

Today, since it is rainy and since it is February 29 and, from what I've heard, Say Something Nice Day on the internetz, I am calling out my vices. All things that I apologetically love and that I refuse to be embarrassed by and definitely refuse to give up.

1. Diet Coke. I know it is rotting my brain. But that very first drink of a freshly opened bottle of Diet Coke--there is nothing better. I read this thing in a book by Michael Pollan once about all the gas that is used delivering and manufacturing diet sodas, and Mr. Pollan is quick to point out that this is a foodstuff that has no nutritional value at all. It should have made me feel bad, but really, I just giggled with glee and took a big swig. Sorry Michael.

2. McDonald's cheeseburgers and fries. My mom loves to tell people that as a kid, I hated McDonald's. I remember me making her take me there to purchase the Happy Meal toy and that's it. But, I don't know how or when, but somehow, I developed a taste for a plain McDonald's cheeseburger (just the cheeseburger, not a Big Mac or any of that) and an order of fries. It is the simplest thing, and it tastes so good. I have found that this, combined with a large McDonald's Diet Coke, is a cure-all to most stomach issues I might have. Eating it while hungover is also a real plus.

3. Women's magazines. When I was a freshman in college (and Buddhist!), I took a women's studies class. We only met once a week, and one week we were told to bring in women's magazines. Then we all sat around and looked at them, and talked about what they did to women. I remember saying all this crap about feeling marginalized by them. I wrote a paper about it, ya'll. All the while, I was subscribed to about 5 of them. I wish I had had the lady-balls then to just look my professor square in the eye and say, "PRETTY CLOTHES!! OOOH, SPARKLY THINGS!" Look, I know the kinds of ideas they put in women's head. But, if you look for it, there are always bits of female strength in the fashion mags. And well, sometimes a girl just needs to shut it all off and look at shoes.

4. Velveeta shells and cheese. I have made mac and cheese with gruyere, with Stilton, with artisanal cheddar from a farm I personally visited. And it's been great, I guess, but nothing compares with the taste and pure comfort of Velveeta shells and cheese. Matt agrees, and this is probably the one food thing we do agree on. I maybe only buy it once a year, but when I do, I can eat the whole box. Freaking delicious, and I love to watch the cheese come out of the little packet like the piece of some kid's rubber boot!

5. True crime dramas. I discovered the ID channel once when I was sick and unable to move off of my couch and it was all downhill from there. I love to turn on one of these while I am cleaning up the house because the repeat themselves so much that you can get the jist of some tragic, horrible tale even if you occasionally step out of the room or have to turn the vacuum up over the volume of the tv. They are also fun to watch while under something furry and with a lot of judgement: "YOU TOTALLY DID IT!" or "WHY DID YOU MARRY THAT PIECE OF CRAP?" All acceptable verbal responses. Which brings me to....

6. Lifetime Movies. For real, ya'll. TOO MUCH GOOD STUFF.

7. Intervention and Hoarders. My Monday nights are stacked, ya'll. These are the two shows, I absolutely, positively have to watch live. HAVE TO. I curl up on my couch with a Weight Watchers fudgesicle, and I watch the Hell out of those shows. Are they exploitative? Yup. Do they make a point of showing people with often debilitating mental illness at their worst points? You gotcha. And there I sit. Week after week.

8. Steak. I love a good steak. And I know cows have big eyes. I'm sorry. Those eyes are the windows to their own deliciousness. (And if you ever want to know how to make the best steak you'll ever eat in yo' own kitchen, hit me up. I'll share!)

I invite you to fess up to your own vices, whatever they may be. Perfection is a myth, but having a sweetass time with the things you love is totally not.

Princess Dress

My daughter, Alice, is off the chain. For real, you guys.

This past weekend, my mom was in. When my mom is around, we tend to do two things and two things only: 1) Eat vile, disgustingly bad for you food and 2) Go to Target where we walk around aimlessly. It is glorious. We try on things that look interesting, drink Starbucks and sometimes, buy a bag of that uber-salty popcorn they sell JUST BECAUSE.

Alice really adores my mom because my mom indulges her crazy, wild and go-go-go spirit. She knows that when Memaw is in town, there will be no quiet night at home. There will be full on, tires on the road, fun. This is best illustrated by the fact that whenever she talks to my mom on the phone, she will say, "Where we goin', Memaw?"

So we were walking around Target on a Saturday afternoon, and take a turn by the toddler girls clothes. Alice really has nothing for spring, except for a few things I picked up at the outlet malls to take to Jamaica with us. I was looking at the play-clothes table--you know, that table they have that has $4 tee-shirts and cotton shorts (all my children have had a LOT of those things)--and all of a sudden, I hear, "MOMMY, PRINCESS! I WANT PRINCESS!"

Now, if you know anything at all about me, you know that hearing that was kind of like hearing, "MOMMY, MITT ROMNEY!! I WANT MITT ROMNEY!" Princesses are just not my bag. I don't like the antiquated ideas they give girls about femininity and relationships, and well, I have a deep, inexplicable hatred for the Disney corporation that is borderline hippie and also borderline insane.

I turn around, and Alice is standing there with this amazingly fluffy pink carnation of a dress. It, even in a size 18 months, which is a few sizes down from what she actually needs, was much wider that she is. It was this pinky silk look top with a huge crinoline skirt. For real, ya'll. Go to Target and look for something that looks like cotton candy on a hanger. That is what she was holding.

I say, really noncommittally I might add, "That is a pretty dress." Alice replies by squealing with all the joy of a sailor who just received shore leave and finds that he is at a Girls Gone Wild party. "THEY HAVE A BOW MAMA!!! A PINK BOW!!!"

Gabby was not like this. Gabby was dressed like I dressed--she wore jeans and corduroys and t-shirts and little sweaters. She has been opinionated with her clothes from the very beginning, picking out her things when she was barely old enough to talk, and none of it was ever overtly feminine. Even when she went through a pink phase, it was tempered--her favorite tee had a sparkly skull and crossbones on the front. Even now, with Alice, Gabby and I tend to pick out things that are bright shades of color, not just pink. Alice doesn't like jeans--says they are "hurt-y"--so we buy jeggings and lots of black leggings to layer with dresses or t-shirts or whatever. Left to her own devices, though, Allie goes to the pink. And this is new, weird territory.

By this time, my mom is standing with Alice, and is rustling through the rack of dresses to find a 3T. And Alice is still jumping about, and somewhere in the middle of this, Mom puts a white Easter bonnet on her head. So now she is looking for a mirror and people are starting to look and and remark about the sweet little girl in the hat. One man leans down and says something to her about being cute, and she replies plaintively, "I am getting a princess dress!"

Mom gets excited about buying the dress; Gabby and I stare in disbelief. I do see her point, I guess, when she remarks that between Gabby and myself, she never got to buy pink dresses. This is new for her too, and she is happy about it. She talks Alice into the hat rather than the bow and throws the dress in the cart. I try to talk Alice into a neon yellow cardigan and skirt combo instead (so on trend!), but she's having none of it. Pink princess dress it is.

Mom reminds me that she can wear it for Easter and then around the house to have fun. Truthfully, we don't do anything for Easter outside of our house--we make eggs, and I usually buy a humongo leg of lamb that we slow grill and eat with spring-y things like asparagus and herby tabbouleh. That is Easter to me. Perhaps this year, I will be forced to find some sort of worshipful event so that Alice can wear her dress.

When we got back to the car, Alice had to call Matt and let him know about the dress, and then when we walked in the door that night, she happily eschewed the Dora MagnaDoodle that Mom had also bought in the dead run to get the dress out and show it to her daddy. He was excited, a lot more than I thought he'd be, and oohed and aahed at all the correct moments.

The next morning, Sam and Allie were laying in bed with Matt while I got ready to go to breakfast. Alice climbed on Matt's legs which were bent under the blankets and slid down them like a slide. She bounced around the bed, hitting Sam a few times and causing all manner of mayhem. Matt remarked to her, "You are awfully rough to be such a frilly girl." Alice responded in a booming yell, "I am SUPER PRINCESS!"

Super princess. Couldn't have said it better myself.

If you've ever felt bad about yourself....

....you needn't. This is an all too true account of my particular brand of crazy.

Last night, my husband wanted me to run by the store and pick up some things before coming home. On the list was a 2 liter of Sprite. Now, I don't normally allow my kids to drink sodas in the house. If we go out somewhere and they want to order one, ok, but no sitting around the house, playing Wii and becoming a human Mountain Dew sponge. But after our trip to Jamaica, I have taken to having a cranberry and vodka after the lights go out, so there's been a bunch of cranberry juice around the house (CLEAN URINARY TRACTS FOR ALL!!!). And Gabby wanted to make herself a mocktail of sorts and this required Sprite. So, yeah. I went and bought it.

ANYWAY, when I got home, I couldn't find the damn thing. I had checked out my own groceries, so I assumed I had left it sitting at the store. This is pretty regular for me--on the off chance that someone makes me go to Wal-Mart (which is the only thing in the known universe that I hate more than beets. Except for maybe the Boston Red Sox.) I ALWAYS forget something on the little turn around thing. I was pretty mad about it, cursing my forgetfulness and stupidity. I promised to go back to the store and get the Sprite.

This morning, I got the kids ready for school. I thought I smelled something weird in Sam's room, but I think that turned out to just be Sam because he's an 8 year old boy, and let me tell you--boys smell. There is this certain je ne sais quoi about a young boy's room, and if you think differently, that yours doesn't, well, you're wrong. Then we got out to the car, and I really smelled it. I asked Gabby if she did, and she said that she didn't really. It was kind of like death. Like something rotting. Like my refrigerator freshman year in college.

I dropped the kids off at school, and continued on my merry way to work. At one point, I turn from the main four lane onto this little country road. As I was turning, I heard this huge KER-CHUNK and something heavy hit the back of my seat and fell to the floorboard.

And that is when I lost my mind.

I spent the rest of the 15 minute car ride, absolutely, completely, and TOTALLY convinced that there was a dead animal in the backseat of my car. I imagined some mutant bat that had managed to squeeze in a window that wasn't shut tightly enough or perhaps a possum that had secretly been in there for a day or so and had only recently died. This horrible mutant creature had been buried under my winter coat, which was laying haphazardly in the backseat, avoiding detection by anyone. I almost convinced myself that it had three heads.

Should I pull over? No, then the THING back there might attack and I would run into the road and be hit by an eighteen wheeler. AND I'M NOT WEARING NICE UNDIES TODAY.

What was the state of The Thing? Either dead or in a coma.

How would I get it out? Someone at work would know.

Are there laws about what to do with the dead carcass of something evil that has been laying in your backseat for days? Someone at work would know.

I, no shit, turned off the radio and sat in quiet consternation for the rest of my trip. I thought about my fate, my life, and how completely convinced I was of the dead thing in my backseat.

And I realized there was no real witty way to write a Facebook status about a dead thing in your car. DRATS.

When I got to work, I got my stuff together (all in the front seat) and got out of the car. I stood beside the car, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, I lifted up the seat AND....

Yeah, it was that bottle of Sprite.

God, I'm a moron.

UHHHHH......

Yesterday my son received the Star Wars Blu-Ray movies that he has been pining for like you would not believe. It took both my husband and I calling our rural post office and insisting the package was there to which we both got the lovely and heartening response, "Ya'll get a lot of packages, but I ain't-a seen thattun." Finally, it was located, and Sam was able to actually breathe and untangle his hands from the balls of pure fury and nerdy angst that they had become.

He, of course, wanted to watch at least one of the movies, so after dinner, the boys kind of took over the living room. I disappeared to my room, hoping to be unseen with a few catalogs and my phone, but the girls decided they wanted to chill with me, so the next thing I know, we're all piled up in the bed, each girl with her own device, making stupid jokes and watching YouTube videos.

Gabby and I were discussing the case against Lana Del Rey when it got a little quiet, and the next thing I know, Alice, who had been playing Dora rather complacently, let's loose with an "OH, FUCK."

Now, my first reaction was to laugh, because I'm a horrible person and videos of children swearing get me every time. I feel the same way about old people rapping. But for all of my sailor-talk on here and everywhere else, really, I don't really swear in front of the kids. I just don't ever really have a need to. I say things to Matt, and I'm sure they've overheard me drop a few things here and there. But I just don't do it. I don't have a problem with people who do at all. To be honest, it is not something I've actively thought about--it is just something that I find myself not doing. Matt, however, has been known to drop some bombs in front of the kids, mostly because he is much easier angered than me. That, and he seems to bite his mouth a lot while eating. So I have no doubt that she's heard that word before. She could have repeated it from that, or really, she's two--she could have just been putting nonsensical things together to see how they sound. You know. Like the kids do these days.

Anyway, I finally get around to saying something to the effect of, "Alice, you shouldn't say that word. It is not nice." But Gabby was OF COURSE chortling like a maniac, so now Alice is saying "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK," just trying to get a rise out of her adored big sister. I decide to just leave it alone, and ask Gabby to do the same. She'll either forget about it, or she won't, but hopefully when she is feeling a little jocular and more removed from the situation, I can remind her that that is not a nice word and that she should never, ever, ever say it in front of my mother in law because Daddy doesn't her to know that he's the kind of pinko scum that Bill O'Reilly warned her about.

And I'll just be honest, I was laying there in bed with the two of them, Baby Fuckgate somewhat forgotten after five minutes, congratulating myself on being a pretty good parent and yes, tweeting about it. I had not let the situation get out of hand. I had remained calm. I didn't yell or blame or admonish. I just dealt with it. I was now fully qualified to write a quasi-informed article for the Wall Street Journal telling everyone else how horrible their spawn was and how much better mine are in comparison. HUZZAH!

We're back to having a jolly good time again, and Gabby is doing her newest version of Rick Rolling me, which is to play the Black Eyed Peas and do odd dances until I beg for mercy. And out of nowhere, she goes, "I heard Rihanna got back with Chris Brown."

OH. FUCK. (I MEAN FUDGE. MAPLE WALNUT FUDGE!) This is not something I want to discuss. After the beating took place way back when, I had had a series of uncomfortable conversations with Gabby about it. It is not easy to explain this kind of thing, you know. At the time, she enjoyed music by both artists, and had that weird feeling that we all get when someone we admire does not live up to our expectations or in the case of Rihanna, is harmed in some way. Plus, she had (and actually still has) a much more glamorous idea of the music business than what most adults have. She was imagining this all happening on Camp Rock soundstage--not in the gritty reality of a Los Angeles street. None of it made sense to her, and it was my job to try to explain it. Yeah. Whoever told you changing diapers was the worst part of parenting, well, they didn't know shit.

I answer that yes, I had heard that too. And of course, the next word is "Why?" Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Isn't that what we all want to know?

And of course, my answer in its abbreviated form is, "UHHHHHHHH.....well...."

Because none of us know. We don't know what makes a woman return to her abuser, what tells one human being that it is ok to be hurt horribly by another human being if that hurting is followed by a few years of distance. We don't know why a beautiful, talented and seemingly amazing lady would want to go back to a man who is, at best, a confused child and, at worse, a complete psychopath.

I pulled the marbles out of my mouth and talked to her about it, trying my best to explain that I didn't know, that relationships are all strange and different people have different reasons for being in them or staying in them. And I tried to say that I didn't know, that it was a wonderful question, perhaps one that one of the many handlers that surround Rihanna should ask. I said all that, but instead of it being one paragraph of kind-of coherent thoughts, it was a lot of "Um, well, you know...." and "Uh, I guess, um..."

I have a great relationship with my oldest daughter, one that has really (re)bloomed over the last year. She talks to me about stuff and well, last night, instead of taking the night to sit in her room and text her friends, she chose to lay about on my bed with me and her baby sister, laughing, watching the world's dumbest videos and making me question Al Gore again. But it keeps getting harder. The questions keep getting tougher. I am glad she asks them, I would never wish that she didn't. But oh my stars.

Someone should write a book. Someone should, instead of writing another tome about how bratty and horrible American children are, write a guide for parents that you could effectively flip to a chapter and have a ready made answer on any subject, complete with a list of sources for further research. Domestic violence? Page 46. Bullying? Page 3. Why the Black Eyed Peas continue to have a career? Page 124. I would memorize that book. By the time Alice is 12, I would be able to quote from it while asleep or while playing Words With Friends and braising a chicken. SOMEONE NEEDS TO GET ON THAT. PRONTO.

Bouncing

This morning, I totally wiped out on my front porch. We had our only real burst of winter on Sunday, giving us about 6 inches of wet, slushy snow to contend with on Monday. If by "contend," you mean, of course, staying inside, eschewing work and school and lamenting the lack of good daytime television programming. This morning, the kids were on a two hour delay for school, so I slept a bit later than normal and went to work on my own. In the process of scurrying out the door so as not to be late, my Fryes hit a remaining icy patch, and I ended up flat on my ass. I'm not going to front: it hurt.

When I was in college, I took this Buddhism class. I took it for two reasons: 1) It fit some random Gen Ed requirement and 2) The professor was totally smoking hot. I had had the same professor for my freshman seminar the year before, so was well aware of the hotness I was signing myself up for. (What a wonderful "WELCOME TO COLLEGE, SWEETHEART!" that was!) It sure didn't hurt that the guy liked a lot of the same bands that I liked and would play them in the morning as we all shuffled to our seats in this attic classroom of a 300 year old building. There was a lot of Morrissey, if I remember correctly, which totally gets one in the mood for an angsty, heady fantasy session wherein you write a lot of "MRS. MORGAN HOTPROFESSOR" all over your notebooks while you're supposed to be writing notes about a lack of attachment to earthly relationships. IRONY--I HAZ IT.

A big midterm for the class just happened to take place on the same day as this huge ice storm, one of the only ones we had while I was in school. I really wanted to be out of school that day. For one thing, I was somewhat unprepared and didn't want the professor to think that I was stupid and somehow undeserving of all the postcoital chocolate milkshakes I imagined him making for both of us after a particularly trying night of discussing nirvana. For the other thing, my car was completely encased in ice. It was really eerie looking, as a matter of fact, and I haven't seen anything like it before or since. After struggling mightily just to get the damn door open, I finally resorted to using a case knife and a Norton Critical Anthology as a kind of crude chisel to get the damn thing out and driveable. I finally got it out, managed to buy a bluebook and made it to the exam in time.

The professor was late that morning, and there was no Morrissey. We were all thinking about leaving, thinking he had called the whole thing off because of inclement weather, when he appeared, looking a tad roughed up and really hot in a "Where's my sexy nurse outfit???" kinda way. He told us that he had slipped on the ice of his walk that morning. He seemed kind of despondent about it; it was clearly more than "I just really bruised my ass." As he handed out the exams, he said in a sad tone that he noticed that when he fell, he did not bounce back up. "I used to bounce," he said.

(Being the kind of person who kind of cares about these things, I must add here that I got a B+ on that midterm, with the professor writing that I had very strong thoughts and ideas and writing and blah blah blah, but he only gave A's to people who showed "graduate level thinking." Which is kind of douchey, Mr. HotProfessor. I was 19. The only thing graduate level about me at 19 was my ability to construct detailed romantic and sexual fantasy.)

So, of course, this is where my mind went this morning. I don't bounce anymore either. I am no longer college age, although I get mistaken for it a lot, due to good aging genes (for real--you should see my 86 year old grandmother--I am a lucky duck) and an abject refusal not to wear beaten up boots with every ensemble. I am close to 30. And as I sat on my porch, thinking about how ungraceful the whole thing was, I realized that maybe, just maybe, it isn't such a bad place to be.

There is a weird feeling, though, when reaching a point where someone you know who once seemed so senior has been before. I googled the professor, and he is not as hot as he once was. (But who am I kidding? I'd still hit it.) If the college rumor mill is to be believed, he didn't get tenure because he got caught trying to reach nirvana with a student. He is now teaching somewhere else. I have this nearly overwhelming urge to email him and say something dumb like "Hey, remember that time you fell and how old you felt? I GET IT NOW. Where's my A in life?"

Weight Watchers Update

I suck at Weight Watchers. I really do. In total, I have signed up for the program four separate times (including this latest go-round), and every time I have had the best of intentions. But then things start getting in the way--weird work schedules, dinners out, needing to save the monthly fee to put towards trips or car repairs, moving--and nothing turns out the way that I want it to.

I originally signed up for the program (AGAIN) in the middle of January, right after my birthday. I told myself that I would track everything and really dedicate myself to it. I plunked down the fee for three months, so I wouldn't have the excuse of cancelling for that reason. But then I went to Jamaica, and then I came back to an empty refrigerator. And it was as good excuse as any not to do it fully, to kind of half-assedly eat a decent breakfast and lunch then blow everything eating too much bread at dinner. Plus, there is exercise to contend with, and it is so, so hard to motivate myself to do that stuff during the winter. It is a mental block. In the spring, summer and early Fall, I want to exercise. I crave it. I want to be outside running and walking and being active. In the winter, I want to be a garden slug. In a Snuggie.

So I have found myself this week, once again trying to rededicate myself to the program. I have tracked and planned and paid attention. And then yesterday, for the first time since maybe the very first time I started Weight Watchers (way back in '08, I think), I felt it "click." Yesterday, it finally started feeling right. And why? What was the great reason behind this?

Well, I packed my lunch.

My current job is weird in that we don't have an office microwave. We had one, and then it blew up or something and no one replaced it. I don't know why. Up until this point, frozen dinners and a cup of yogurt were my go-to work lunches. They were low in points, easy to prepare and required absolutely no effort in the morning when I am struggling to make the kids' lunches and get everyone out of the door on time. Without a microwave to work with, I just floundered. Sure, there were a couple of days where I made a sandwich for myself. But most days, I just went out to eat fast food or get Subway. And let me tell you--even if my intentions are good in what I get, I always tend to add on something totally unnecessary. Croutons on the salad, cheese on the sandwich, you name it. By the time lunch was over, I had spent a totally disproportionate number of points, and really didn't have much (nutritionally) to show for it. And then of course there were the days where I blew off the points totally and told myself I deserved a big scoop of chicken salad from the restaurant across the road because I unknowingly wore a black bra under a semi-sheer shirt/stubbed my toe/was late/had to make an unsavory phone call.

Yesterday, though, I'm not going to front, I was hungover. Too much wine the night before. And as I was getting ready for work, I thought that nothing sounded good to eat for lunch but a nice peanut butter and banana sandwich (NOT fried, for all of you Elvis fans--and btw, I have the recipe for Elvis's pb&b and yes, it is AMAZING). So I packed it up, along with an apple and some carrots I had bought for the kids. When I was eating, I realized that I enjoyed it much more--plus, I didn't have to venture out in the rain to pick it up. When I put in the points in my tracker, I was amazed at how many points were left for dinner. I even had enough for a snack (which I ended up not even eating because I fell asleep at 9 when I put Allie to bed--glamorous!).

This morning I got up and looked at myself in the mirror, and I liked what I saw. This is all a mind game, I know. But it felt good. Today I have brought a salad and some leftover brie, apples and crackers from V-Day, everything measured out and portioned. I am excited about eating it, and in fact, already would have if one of the muffins I made last night hadn't been a very feeling breakfast (when coupled with an apple and copious coffee).

Does anyone have any dyno-mite lunch ideas that don't require heating? Let me know in the comments or tweet me!

Happy Valentine's Day!

I fucking love Valentine's Day. I'm not even going to front. I think it is rad. I have always loved it, and I persist, despite the fact that it seems to be somewhat trendy to hate it, to decry it, to roll your eyes in its general direction.

Love is an awesome emotion, as countless pop songs have been telling us for years. So why not celebrate it? Celebrate it in its myriad forms--the love you have for your kids, your dog, your favorite shoes. And today, celebrate yourself too: put on your favorite lipstick, listen to your favorite songs, eat something incredible.

And if you are bored, I implore you to comment or email me or tweet me or send a fucking carrier pigeon my way with two bits of information: 1) your favorite shade of red lipstick and 2) best way to prepare kale. And no, these are not related although since I typed that, my mind is exploding with ways to combine the two.

Happy Valentine's Day and may you eat something so chocolatey that it makes you sick, but sick in a good way and not a bad one.