It's a kind of magic

Another year, another set of resolution.  I, for one, this year decided to make only one resolution: to gain weight.  Yep, that's right!  It's a win-win.  If I gain weight, and judging by the historical trend there's a very good chance of gaining, I would have finally kept a resolution.  If I lose weight, I still win because of all this medical nonsense about healthy weight increasing one's life span, which might not even be true.

So I was on my merry way of keeping my resolution, indulging in post-holiday semi-binge of leftover and on sale chocolate, which skinny people in our office put out  as part of their evil plot to keep me fat, when I read an article about the best apps to for DIY weight loss.  Since my hubby bought me an iPod Touch on the occasion of Black Friday, I decided to download the app, MyFitnessPal, just to see what this is all about.

Ladies and gentleman, there is nothing miraculous about that app.  MyFitnessPal is on my iPod for the last 14 hours, and I still haven't lost an inch or a pound.  There was something magical about it though.  Upon entering my weight and height, I was given allowance of over 2500 calories a day, roughly twice my usual on any low calorie diet.  Now that's magic!  I was so ecstatic, I even forgot to overeat.  But then I grew suspicious and upon further investigation discovered that my weight in kilos had been translated into pounds, but the translated number remained somehow as my weight in kilos. A quick adjustment brought down my daily allowable calories to a very, very little over 1300.  There's nothing magical about that.

But...it has been fourteen hours and I can say that there's something about this app that I cannot explain.  I had kept food diaries, recorded points and calories and fat and blah blah, at times obsessively, but I always knew there was no way I could sustain that for more than a week, even if that.  My inner gut tells me that this has a chance of sticking.  It could be the magic of Apple though.  Also?  That number of remaining allowable calories is somehow more difficult to ignore than a piece of paper with points.  I don't know why.

And finally, yes, I still take my weight in kilos, even after living in this wonderful country of ours for more than 15 years.  I still am more comfortable with metric system and haven't given up hope that Americans will eventually come to their senses and switch just like the rest of the world.  I also know that the minute I fully acclimate myself to pounds and inches and Fahrenheit, the switch will be finally made and I would have to relearn the old way, so I resist being the victim of Murphy's Law.  The biggest bonus though - my weight in kilos is 2.2 times less than in pounds!  It just sounds and looks less scary on the scale.  One would say that the weight loss is also 2.2 times smaller in klos, but I got it covered!  I measure my weight loss as a percentage of total body weight!  On the Excel spreadsheet.

Yes, I am an accountant.  Did you even need to ask?

Guess whose mother is getting him an R/C monster truck?

(This picture contains Amazon affiliate link.)

DS was supposed to have a special speaker come into his class.

SubWife:  DS, did the special teacher come to school to today?
DS:  Who?
SW:  You know, the special lady who was supposed to come and talk to you guys?
DS:  Ah, the skinny lady?
SW:  What?  Skinny lady?
DS:  Yeah, skinny lady.  She is very skinny.  She is much skinnier that my teacher.
SW:  And you notice these things?
DS:  Yeah, her stomach is like this, - and he shows concave stomach.  - She is very skinny.  Like you.

I have to wrap up here because I am busy searching for a blue R/C monster truck.

One could see this as reason to lose weight #69, you know, to have less ways to be manipulated by your 5 year old, but I am a glass half full person and no longer see any reason to lose weight.  Now, where's my chocolate stash?

Reason to lose weight #68

DD:  Mommy, why do you have a big stomach?
Me:  Ahem, because mommy was eating too much for far too long.
DD:  Oh, and I was hoping it was a baby...  I want a big family, Mommy.  Can we have another baby?  Please, please, please?

Reason to lose weight #67

A few weeks ago I got my kids these absolutely adorable mice.




(clicking on the image will bring you to Amazon.com page).



They were an instant hit, but of course two weeks later cheese got lost somewhere in action and I kept finding mice in all the weird places.  Tonight, as I was sweeping around our eating area, I noticed this tiny little mouse shaking on the table next to the cereal bowl.  "Oh, why is this cute little creature shivering?" I thought  And then it hit me.  My walking around was shaking the table that much.  Ouch.

What were they thinking

I'm on Weight Watchers.  Again.  Unofficially.  I start every Monday since the end of Passover, only to fall off the wagon by Thursday.  Recently I have become even more efficient and some weeks last only until Monday night.

I am persuaded it is not my weak will, but faulty WW system.  Seriously, let me walk you through this.  The allowed daily food points are allotted based on current weight and work like this:  you starve for a few weeks, drop some weight, hopefully, and as a reward you lose one point worth of food for every ten pounds lost.  Imagine the horror of losing 60 pounds!

What were they thinking?  Where is the incentive here?  If WW offered unlimited cheesecake or ice cream or eclairs or preferably all three, I could see myself following through.  Otherwise, it's like I starve only to starve even more once I lose the weight?  It's like you get punished and not rewarded for actually following the diet.  Why would I do that?

Out of the mouth of the babe...

DS, patting his protruding ribs and concave tummy after lunch, "I have a big tummy, just like Mommy and ___." There were quite a few other names, but I won't mention that...

Currently trying to decide whether to multiply this year's goal for weight loss by 3 or by 4. Baby steps are obviously not working.

Today is SubHistory's Mysteries

Mystery #1.

I just looked over my blog and realized that I have misspelled the title of my previous entry. It was supposed to be "it" not "I". But even spelled correctly, the title still made little sense. What I really meant was ,"She could've been so much worse", but something tells me that even that is not very right, so I am leaving things as they are. Let the title remain a mystery of some sort.

Mystery #2.

When DD still wore size 2 diapers, our pediatrician recommended Triple Paste diaper ointment. We followed with the recommendation and bought a 1 pound jar, which lasted throughout DS's diaper years and was finally finished last week. A few weeks ago, anticipating the ultimate demise of the jar that lasted 4+ years, I bought another one in Target. The jar was exactly the same, and the price, though still rather steep, didn't change since our last purchase. Upon closer examination though, I found that the jar war marked as a 10 oz, not 1 pound. Here's what I find fascinating: the jars are identical and the 10 oz jar is filled to the top and not half empty as I have expected. I was so intrigued, I went on company's website only to find out that they don't manufacture 10 oz jars, only 8 oz and 1 pound. So is Target selling counterfeit butt cream?

Mystery #3.

I am still on Weight Watchers. (How I haven't stopped is a mystery on in itself.) After starving for a week, I lost 3 pounds, only to regain 2 pounds a day of starvation later. How, I ask you, how???? On the other hand, after allowing myself to "live" on Shavuos, cheesecake and all, I only gained a pound. I guess stuffing myself pays off better than starving. And so much more enjoyable!

On that note I am off to solve yet another mystery: is there any leftover cheesecake?

On importance of being able to count

This is a public service announcement brought to you be a very hungry SubWife. Not being able to count can lead to starvation.

Ever since I came back to work, I started Weight Watchers. I was miserable any way, so why not? Those unfamiliar with the program - 1) eat a sandwich and gain some weight like the rest of the country, 2) all food on Weight Watchers is translated into points, which take into account calories, fiber and fat content of the given food, and each dieter is allowed a certain amount of points per day.

Last night after coming home from work, I was very, very hungry. So hungry I couldn't wait for dinner to be ready, so I made myself scrambled eggs. Together with a dinner roll, that meal was about 10 points. So I subtracted 10 from 29.5 points I had left, and came up with 9.5 points. It seemed a bit low, but hey, it's a diet, you are supposed to starve. To say that I was starving last night is a huge understatement.Long story short, I lost 10 points worth of food for no good reason, other than another psychotic moment involving math, and only discovered the loss this morning. In my boss's office. And made her aware of the tragic loss of yesterday. Repeatedly. Despite important matters that were discussed.

I can feel my promotion is coming any minute now. And by promotion I mean a coupon to a local pizza shop.

Wake up and smell your BMI

I don't know if you are aware, but there has been a lot of fuss over some Australian beauty contestant Stephanie Naumoska whose height is 5'11" while her weight is only 108 pounds (BMI is around 15.1). I will not post pictures; those who are interested can easily find them on the net. They look scary, no healthy human being looks like that, whether she does or does not have an eating disorder.

While browsing CNN news clips, I accidentally stumbled upon the one with comments from a model Roshumba Williams about this situation. She said that the girl might not realize that she is underweight and might be in denial. Aside from the self-promoting and self-congratulatory tone of a very annoying Ms. Williams, who is not only a model, but also - get this? - a life style expert and an author of 2 books, Ms. Williams said that while being 5'11'', her healthy weight is 125 pounds. That's when the fatty accountant in me smelled something fishy, and I quickly crunched the numbers.

Drumroll!!! With these figures Ms. Williams' BMI is 17.4, well below 18.5, which is a cut-off for normal weight, and also below 18, a cut-off established by the Madrid fashion show a few years ago. So, in fact Ms. Williams is underweight, and as a life style expert, should know that. To be considered at healthy weight, Ms. Willaims needs to be at least 10 pounds heavier. While I will not tell her to eat a sandwich and claim that she is, in fact, unhealthy (after all, BMI is not fool proof in assessing health), presenting her weight as healthy is very misleading to the audience. The whole thing cemented my belief that the entire industry is in denial about their weight, health and self-image.

And by the way, what IS a life style expert?

Everybody loves fruit

I have tried to write a serious post for about a week, but whatever I wrote came out to be incomprehensible not to my satisfaction. And it's one of those posts: if I can't say it right, then I shouldn't say it at all. I'll come back to it some other time and give it a shot when my head is clearer or my writing abilities improve, which will happen ... well, probably never.

So I decided to go back to the basics and write not about politics, current events, or anything requiring any serious brain ability, but about what's eating me inside. Well, actually, this post is about what I am eating.

I have found myself consuming an inordinate amount of sugar recently. It has actually become a compulsion, and I was unable to stop. Then I had an epiphany: maybe, I am missing fruit! So the next time I went weekly shopping, I picked up a few pomegranates and a couple of mangoes. I don't particularly care for winter apples, and generally anything bought out of season is a waste of money, as far as I am concerned. I am not sure if pomegranates and mangoes are in season, but I rarely indulge in those fruits; however, the one I picked looked good, and there was nothing better, except for apples.

I was not disappointed. Pomegranate was delicious (and on sale, might I add).


It was awesome and very ripe. AND aesthetically very pleasing. I just lo-o-ove looking at pomegranates, right before viciously consuming them. The repeat though was not as successful. The next time I bought pomegranates, they were a bit overripe, but still quite good and still on sale .
Doesn't that look awesome? And it tasted awesome too. So good that I ran to the grocery store the next day to buy some more. So good that even DS, who normally avoids fruits and veggies like plague, had some and liked it. So good that I am thinking of taking out a second mortgage on our house and buying some more. Ok, so we don't have a house and a mortgage, but if we did... the price of fruit had become truly outrageous, in my opinion.

And yesterday I went to the store to pick up some basic stuff, and ran into cherries. I don't think I have ever seen cherries in December, so naturally I couldn't resist.



And they were pretty decent, especially for December. Kids really enjoyed them, well, adults too.

Now I am waiting for these beauties.



Right now every time I am in a store, they are still not ripe, but hopefully soon. Otherwise, it might be this:



And the aftermath of it won't be as pretty as the pictures above. Not that right now it's an eye candy or anything... Sigh... Deep sigh...

This is at least a mildly amusing post, right?

Every night I leave the office, there is a bunch of young volunteers trying to sign pedestrians up for the Save the Child Fund or something like that. Usually they approach you, and if you don’t seem interested or refuse to engage into a conversation, they stop harassing you. Last night I was rushing home to make it to DS’s allergist appointment when I witnessed one of those young people trying to talk to a very attractive pedestrian in a mini-skirt and a tank top. The guy simply refused to take no for an answer and kept on pursuing the woman for about half a block. It was quite obvious that the woman was singled out for her looks and not because of the volunteer’s burning desire (well, that also maybe true) to save the kids. I gleefully thought, “That serves you right, wearing a mini and looking all hot and slutty. That would never, ever happen to me, any more.” No man will ever chase me to engage into a conversation, ask for my phone number or beg to save a child in Africa. No man will ever chase me for any reason. Period. And that’s a good thing, right?

Well, that might not be entirely true. I know one man who would chase me to wash his dirty socks and another one, no quite man yet, to make him chocolate milk, but that’s about it. Eat this, you mini skirt clad model! I bet you don't get to wash anyone’s dirty socks! And that’s a bad thing, right?

Well, my suspicions were confirmed that same night when I was playing with the kids. I didn’t want to sit on the floor, so I took one of their little chairs and was about to sit on it when DD said indignantly, “Mommy, you have a bit butt!” To my, “What?” she replied, “I have a small butt, so I can sit on a kiddie chair, and you have a big butt, so you can’t.” I guess I found a reason why little girls would chase me: to prevent destruction of their little chairs. And that’s a funny thing, right?

Well,someone didn’t get her chocolate milk that night. And that’s not being petty or vindictive, right?

Don't go changing

Day Care Center my kids go to has seen a lot of changes in personnel recently, with a quite a few new teachers coming in. We probably don’t know half of them in face because we pick up our kids so late in the day when only one or two babysitters stay to supervise the kids. Our son’s group got a new afternoon babysitter/teacher, but we haven’t actually met her until very recently, and of course under peculiar circumstances.

When SubHub went to pick kiddos last night, he discovered that our little man had dropped a huge stink bomb in his diaper. He often does that right before he’s picked from daycare/we need to leave/we are in the middle of dinner with guests/he had his diaper changed three minutes ago. Long story short, his timing is almost always off, as if he senses when changing his stinky diaper would cause the most amount of disgust, inconvenience, and loss of appetite. (On the other hand, good dieting idea! Though I’m afraid that I would be so distraught by the loss of appetite that I might double up on emotional binging. Still, worth exploring.) But, thank God, everything works in that department, so I am not complaining.

But back to daycare. Hubs was in a rush and started looking for someone to change DS. He asked another teacher in the room where DS’s babysitter was. She looked at him a bit strange and asked who DS (insert the name) was. When hubs pointed at the little stinker, the teacher said that she didn’t know the whereabouts of his babysitter. Hubby thought to himself “Newbie”, but was a little ticked off that this new babysitter didn’t volunteer to change DS herself (something she was supposed to do in the absence of her colleague). He was about to ask her to do just that, when he was distracted by DD. And thank God!

DD was pointing to something on the street, and hubby noticed a double-parked car in front of the entrance. Then he saw DS’s babysitter entering the room with a diaper and changing him. He saw that other teacher chasing two older boys and promising to leave without them… As if in a slow motion, pieces of the puzzle started coming together. That other teacher was not a teacher at all, she was another parent picking up her kids from daycare!

When SubHub told me this story I asked him to describe that woman to me. That’s when I realized to my horror (and maniacal giggles) that she and I are well acquainted, and we often bump into each other on the street, at day care, while grocery shopping and during social events. She usually picks up her kids an hour earlier (when and if I pick them up), and that’s why my hubs never met her there. Even though SubHub doesn’t know this woman, she knows me and the kids (at least in face) and can easily make all the necessary connections. Imagine the embarrassment every time I would see her!

Spring is in the air!

I was getting really tired of the cold. I love winter, but I love real winter, i.e. with snow. Not necessarily lots of it, but some and on a regular basis. This year winter seemed to be snowless and endless, and it seemed really unfair. All the cold and no fun. Winter jackets in April were starting to annoy me, and I began craving change, any change.

Well, be careful what you wish for. While all I was hoping for was maybe a new pair of shoes and purse to boot, life proved to be a little more creative. Two weeks ago we decided to move (AGAIN, might I add), and it seemed like I would be changing jobs. Last week was VERY full of excitement: we saw an apartment we really liked (and it was only the second one we looked at), and I had a job interview that went really well (and I wasn't even looking for a new job). My adrenaline was pumping, life seemed beautiful and exciting.

And then I crashed: the apartment we loved was taken by someone else; my column in our department newsletter was rejected; after the initial excitement wore off, the new job opportunity that seemed so good didn't look this way any more; and Pesach cleaning began. To top it all off, I went clothes shopping... I don't know why I did this to myself, since this is a sure recipe for depression, and I was already not in the greatest spirits. Long story short, lots of changes and changing (in the dressing room) = depressed SubWife.

As I was lying in bed this early Tuesday morning, exhausted, but unable to fall asleep, thoughts buzzing in my head keeping me awake, I slightly cracked the window open. And then...almost everything changed! I smelled spring in the air, and heard birds chirping, and felt much, much better. After all, the apartment that we have is not THAT bad, and the job that I have is pretty good, and Pesach cleaning will get done like it always does. Change is good, but if it doesn't happen, life is still good! And Spring is finally here!

I took a deep cleansing breath, filling my lungs to the fullest with warm, flower-scented spring air, and felt completely rejuvenated.

And then I started sneezing, and sneezing, and sneezing... Yep, spring is here...

7 things I gained from going to the gym

7. Headache/phone calls to customer service with holding time of 45 minutes or more/monthly dues until the year 2035 - but I was prepared for this one because gyms are notorious for their poor billing/deceptive contract practices, and my health is worth it, right? Unless stress of dealing the the gym negates the positive effects of workouts...OK too much thinking...

6. Improved ability to catch the morning train - Eat that, mean train conductor and the organization guru who says that I simply need to leave my house earlier!

5. Stinky clothes in my gym bag and more dirty laundry on the weekend.

4. Realization that even though I carry around two toddlers, 35 lbs each, in both hands most of the weekend, it is still hard to keep up with the upper body toning part of the class - really, what gives? Are they secretly training us to be commandos?

3. A bruise on my backside - from falling off the step. Yep, I am that uncoordinated and have some sort of spatial sensory disorder, or whatever the pros call it (us, common folk refer to it as "clumsiness"). It probably stems from the lack of crawling in early childhood.
3a) A bill from Burger King (located on the first floor, while gym is on the second) for all the drinks they had to replace due to my fall. Apparently, customers don’t like ceiling paint in their diet cola. Who would’ve thought?

2. Severely bruised ego - from realizing how many women my mother's age are in a better physical and aesthetic shape than me.

*****drumroll******

1. 3 pounds! - Yes, I think I have finally found my calling, and it is gaining weight! No, I am not pigging out, at least not more than usual, and according to some health articles it is not muscle weight either (it would take about 3 months to gain one pound in muscle weight). So I am perplexed (or at least that’s how they call it in polite circles) as to why after adding at least 3 half-hour sessions of cardio workouts per week the number on the scale is rising. I mean I know I am more than a number on the scale, but I herein lies the problem. I most definitely do not want to be more than a number on the scale, because that number is too bleeping high as is! I know, maybe my body is in shock over my decision to actually go to the gym, not just carry the membership card in the purse (which, if my calculations are correct, all by itself should yield about ½ lb weight loss in about 20 years), and just doesn't know how to react to that yet. Sigh…

10 things I learned from going to the gym

Yes, I have joined a gym... Today was my first time going there, I took a group class and these are the things I have learned (at least the ones I can put in print):

10. They lie. Blatantly. And assume you are completely stupid. When you consider joining, you will be told many, many things that differ from the actual contract. My favorite one? "You have to sign up today if you want the discount because today is the last day of the sale." Really? Then why is it called President's Day Sale? Why should it be over a week before President's Day? Also, they don't really expect you to come after you sign up because then you would see the 10 foot poster advertising the sale that is still miraculously going on after "the last day."

9. Russians already came. There's no hiding from them. They are everywhere, my gym included.

8. When I decided to join, I told myself, "Don't be embarrassed. There's always someone bigger than you." I was wrong.

7. I also thought there would be someone less coordinated. Wrong again.

6. When choosing the type of exercise, priority should be given to Kiegels. Apparently, exercise is also a form of "stress", not just laughing and sneezing.

5. I need to lose 50 pounds just to be able to keep up with the class.

4. Not being able to keep up with the instructor feels OK. Not so when I can't keep up with women in their 50s.

3. Remember #4? Triple that for the 7 month preggie who had more stamina than me. What was she doing there anyway? Shouldn't she be eating for two, not jumping for three? Did she come to embarrass people like me? Does she have Energizer batteries instead of a bun in her oven? Or was she unable to cancel even though pregnant, and came in out of spite to get her monies worth? Something to ponder about while I still can cancel.

2. What's with being located on top of Burger King and across from Starbucks? Thank G-d I keep kosher.

1. The most pleasant experience so far was my combination lock for the gym locker. I got it for my high school gym, haven't used it since, and thirteen years later still remember the combination!!! On the down side, why do I still have it???

The magical mystery pain

January was a medically interesting month. First, I had vertigo a few times, then I woke up with the unexplained pain in my ribs, which was followed by a long and nasty cold; as a cherry on this sundae of medical events I woke up with a pain in my right middle finger, arguably the most important finger for anyone living in NYC. Maybe it was a message from my body: you treat me badly, here's what I have to show you... My own body cursing me out...

But back to the mysterious ribcage problem. I woke up one January Sunday with the pain, and either I was having a deja vu, or this had happened before. I decided to ignore it fairly sure that it would go away on its own like the last time, but on Monday it actually got worse to a point where I couldn't take deep breaths and started waddling (I am sure that waddling and clutching my stomach didn't help dissuade the pregnancy rumors already circulating at work). All of a sudden everyone had a theory to explain it. My favorite one was given by my male colleague who jokingly suggested that when asleep I was kicked in the ribs by my husband. Yes, I could barely contain myself because spousal abuse is soooo funny. I was tempted to say that unlike my colleague, my husband prefers kicking me when I am awake, so this way I can share all the juicy details with my girlfriends. I didn't say it because the male colleague was higher than me on the food chain, though honestly that rarely stopped me. My own best theory was that I got so fat, I crushed my own ribs in my sleep.

Putting the kids to bed on Monday was sheer agony (which it almost always is), accompanied by lots of screaming (also not unusual). Every time I stretched out my arm to put on a diaper or pj's, my side would get so painful that I simply couldn't hold the scream in. Kids actually felt bad for me and almost behaved like humans. When rolling in bed became more painful than giving birth (with an epidural, of course), I realized it might be time to see a doctor. Herein was the problem: I see a few good specialists, but I do not know of any good internist. The last one I knew left family medicine to specialize in something else. And his partner, Dr. L who always gave out antibiotics for good behavior the way pediatricians give out lollypops, was advertising a new service last time I visited his office - Botox injections! So I wasn't going to Dr. L just in case the theory about crushing ribs with my own weight was right. If I were to trust my intuition, he most likely mastered the art of liposuction by now and undoubtedly would recommend that to treat my problem. Unless, of course, I preferred the course of antibiotics.

I called a few doctors close to the office from my insurance list, but the earliest appointment I would be able to get was in a week. One office promised to squeeze me in in about month and a half. When I would tell them that I couldn't wait because of pain, they would all say one thing: go to the clinic or ER. Why didn't I think of it myself? Here's why: I would not set foot in either unless my life depended on it. And then I remembered that years ago I went to one highly recommended doctor to get my health exam and shots done for college, so I decided to call there. Since I technically was not a new patient, they could squeeze me in for an emergency visit the very next day!

The visit didn't go smoothly. Even though I was the only patient in the waiting room, I had to wait about an hour to be seen. The nurse, a 60-something Russian woman, who probably received her training in Gulag, refused to answer any questions and viewed them as personal insults. She also strongly believed that wearing gloves was for suckers and wouldn't wear them even for drawing blood. I wondered if she ever heard of HIV or thought that any normal Russian could just sleep off that pesky virus after a few shots of vodka. Then the doctor came in and told me that I had nothing to worry about. However, I was to get five different tests no later than the very next day and was to report to the emergency room immediately if I had any difficulty breathing. He reiterated that tests had to be done the very first thing next morning and the labs were to submit results by 3 p.m., just in case. When I asked what that "just in case" meant, he said "a possibility of blood clot in your lung." A-ha...

So I did just that, and got all tests done right away. At four I called the good doctor to get the results and was told that he would call me back. He didn't. He didn't call me back on Friday, and on Monday I found out that he was on vacation all next week. That made me wonder whether the urgency of obtaining tests was due to his taking a vacation and covering his behind, '"just in case," not having my best interests in mind. Finally, next Monday the receptionist called me back, after I left yet another message, to say that all tests came out normal, something I already knew because the pain went away on its own. Also, had I been dying, he probably would've called. I hope. Now the physical pain is being substituted by the financial - the bills for my lab co-pays ended up being over $200, and that's before x-rays and sono because those did't come in yet.

So after all the time and money spent on this mystery, I am not a step closer to knowing why I had that horrible pain. Maybe the doctor knows, but he wouldn't tell me.

What will countess Marya Aleksevna say to this ?

I went to a wedding this Thursday. It was one of my husband's old friends, who finally found his other half. I wish them happily ever after.

During the main course I took my little one to the restroom, where a woman heard me speaking Russian to DD, and in turn started a conversation in Russian with me. Turned out she was from Baltimore; we had a few friends in common. During the conversation this woman mentioned that Baltimore has a lot of available guys, and she wanted to know if I knew any single girls. I had a few names ready, and we were going through the regular questions: age, ever been married, where from, appearance. The last question inevitably led to the discussion of weight, at which point this woman sighed and said, "Guys nowadays only want thin girls." No kidding, I think I can write a book on the topic that could rival War and Peace in its length. (Don't worry, this post will not be that long.) At least this woman was nice about it and actually sided with us, pleasantly plumped female population.

This brought me back to about five years ago, when I myself made a call to some matchmaker, who was recommended to me by an older acquaintance from the synagogue. After a short introduction and a few questions, I was asked about my weight and was told that girls over size 8 needed not apply for her services. That included me. In a few very short words I was rendered unmarriageable and hopeless. In five short minutes my spirit was crushed without much consideration. There was no sympathy, apology or compassion in her voice. You are fat, you deserve to stay single. Sometimes I think that a convicted murdered would have received more support from this woman. After that conversation, I immediately called back my acquaintance, and very indignantly recounted what had happened. I was in for another shock. My acquaintance told me, "Call her back. Tell her you are size 8." "But won't she notice that I am not?" I asked. I got an exasperated, "Then you should get to size 8!" I expected more understanding, especially from someone whose own daughter struggled with weight. But then again, due to a medical condition my acquaintance never was an ounce over size zero, so she would never, ever understand what it felt like to be told to lose six dress sizes in two weeks, especially when you tried for the past two years. She would never, ever know how insulting it was to have had your personal worth measured in pounds and dress sizes. For the first time in my life I was grateful to come from a family of full-bodied women; I might have gotten a fat gene or a lifetime of bad eating habits, but I also had my mother's understanding in this area. Somehow, I think that the daughter of my acquaintance was sorely lacking it.

Now, after getting married, I got my own window into the male psyche. I once broached this subject with my hubby, and received a confirmation to my long held belief. There truly are men who cannot be attracted to a woman over a certain size. And there are others, greater in number than the first group, who might not personally object to the looks of someone size 12. However, they are concerned about their friends' opinions. Since thinness is "in", having a fiancee or wife over a certain size is a sign that they have settled for someone sub-par.

And there it goes: there are tons and tons of men in their thirties claiming to be willing to do anything to find their better half who all the while not able to risk dating someone not picture perfect. They are searching for years, not getting a clue from the experiences of their married friends most of whose wives gained a dress size or two (at the very least) after marriage. Not getting at all that maybe, just maybe they themselves are not greatest catches (often time themselves lacking in appearance department as well as other areas), and adjusting their (or actually their friends') expectations to reality might be the only way to ever get married. (By the way, most of these friends whose opinion is oh so important don't really care what the girl looks like as long as she makes the guy happy.) If you ask me, these morons are probably doing us fatties a huge favor by refusing to meet/date our kind. Because living a life where "keeping up with the Kohens" is a norm is not my idea of happiness. On the other hand, some women may prefer this over staying single...

But back to the guy who got married on Thursday. He was looking to get married close to ten years. He had his list, and would not consider compromising. I don't know at which point be broke down, but the girl he married is definitely someone he would never consider dating only three years ago. No, the girl was not overweight, but that's not the point. He finally got over the fear of what some people might say, and now found someone with whom he wants to spend the rest of his life. So there are happy endings, and I hope that all my friends get their own happy endings too.

D'oh!

Chanukah is over, actually it was over on Tuesday. I await it with great anticipation, mainly because of the donuts. For eight days and nights I turn into Homer Simpson and unpack nightly packages from bakery with trembling hands. And then I indulge.

So, after eating about three dozen of the bakery-made donuts by day two, I had obtained a recipe that was simple yet delicious from the my kids' daycare center owner, and of course I made two or three batches. I don't remember exactly since I had severely OD'ed on powdered sugar and blacked out a few times. Thank you, Mrs. V for your wonderful recipe! Now my butt resembles a giant donut that is big enough to feed a family of four for about a week. Again, thank you, Mrs. V...

And that how it always ends: I wake up the first day after Chanukah with sugar withdrawal symptoms and tremendous amount of self-loathing. Why did I need to eat all those donuts? Why?

Just went on a scale. D'oh!

Side note: I do exaggerate, though only a bit...

OK?

Saturday night we went out to buy a few things for the kids. At the end of the trip I suggested to treat the kids, who behaved reasonably well, with going to the family restaurant and ordering pancakes. I am holding Sally Hazel partially responsible because her going out to eat with the well-behaved child story was partially the inspiration for this trip. Also, I was going back to dieting on Monday, and this was my last chance to get pancakes for a long, long time, like a week. (I rarely stick with the diet for more than a week). Somehow, on Saturday night, a week seemed to be too long to be pancake-deprived. Just don't tell my husband that eating out was for me, not the kids, and we'll all be fine, OK?

My daughter was excited, but the baby fell asleep on the way to the restaurant. We gently woke him up, and despite of my fear that he will be extremely cranky, he was quite happy and smiley. All was well. That should've been my first hint that things will not go so smooth. Nothing that starts well and without any hiccups ends well in our house. Nothing... I need a bump here and there for comfort, just to know that I am fulfilling my quota of annoyances in small areas, not in major ones. But on Saturday I was lulled in a false sense of security by pancake anticipation. I have my faults, OK?

We were seated in comfy seat next to the wall. This was very convenient because the kids couldn't run out on us. The walls also had big mirrors, so the baby took the lead and started entertaining himself by making crazy faces. I will not describe in great detail, but only a mother could find chewed up food poking out of his mouth cute. You had to be there; on the other hand, my husband who was there, didn't find that to be cute at all. OK, like I said, you have to be a mother.

Then we ordered. I ordered soup, of course, to mask the real reason why we were in the restaurant. I knew there would be leftovers of pancakes from kids, there had to be... (You don't need to say this, I know I am pathetic and desperate, OK?) This was when the real fun started - waiting for food to arrive. My daughter, the frugal one, started stuffing my bag with packages of Equal and Sweet'n'Low, no matter how many times I had asked her to stop doing it. The baby got way too hyper and started jumping up and down in his seat, getting cuter and more annoying by the minute. At some point he even started squealing with delight. When the food arrived, kids barely touched it - they were too busy making monkey faced in the mirror. I think I swallowed my soup in record time, ditto for hubby. We asked the waitress to pack everything else in the doggy bag to take with us. But not before I indulged in some pancakes. Oh, sweet memories...

Overall, I would call this trip a success. 1. - We went out to eat, which we didn't do in over a year, probably even more. 2. - Even though kids misbehaved, no one got hurt, and no serious damages to the restaurant took place. 3. - I got to eat pancakes while still officially on the diet, he he. 4. - Leftovers, always good. 5. - The only people I really feel bad for are not my husband and I. They are two women who sat behind us, who most likely were taking a break from their own kids. They came to relax, not to watch other kids' antics and being flashed with our camera. I give them full credit, they didn't give us the evil eye even once, something I probably would have indulged in if I were in their place. On the other hand, my kids provided those poor women a reminder as to why they had to get out in the first place and served as an antidote for feeling guilty. Public service, if you look at it closely. The only serious down side - hubby got hearburn.

At the end hubby said that next time we are eating out alone. At the rate at which we are going out now, I think "next time" we will be eating apple sauce in the nursing home. But one shouldn't be too picky, right? OK, I'll take mine strawberry flavored, and preferably with pancakes.

You are beautiful no matter what they say

Yesterday hubby told me that I looked beautiful. Isn't that sweet? Now I can breathe the sigh of relief - I am a not just a whale, I am a beautiful whale.