Chocolate chip pancakes are absolutely disgusting...

... and it only took me three of them to figure that out, all by myself. I am literally sitting here making gag faces as I choke down the third.

What’s that? Just don’t eat it? Pfft. CLEARLY we haven’t met.

So, I’m dieting. Or rather, trying to get to a weight that is 30‒40 pounds (or even 3‒4) below the biggest I’ve ever been, INCLUDING WHEN I WAS PREGNANT. Yes, I weigh more now than I did while I was pregnant and carrying an excess 30 pounds of amniotic fluid. Seriously.

Those who have had kids, remember that nice round bellyful of baby? I loved that.

Oddly enough, an extra 30 pounds of—oh, I don’t know, let’s take a wild stab here—chocolate chip pancakes, sausage, syrup and PC Loads of Chocolately Caramel Treats Ice Cream (real name, btw) don’t have quite the same effect on the old physique. You still get the itchy underbelly and stretch marks, but it’s all lumpy and disgusting instead of smooth and lifegiving. (If my belly emitted a “Helloooooooooo” in a cartoony English accent, it would look like a chubby Bryan Adams talking. You know what I’m sayin’.)

Back in the day, I was a stick person. I ate like a pothead on a bender and never gained much weight. I was a buck‒oh‒five soaking wet when I headed for university.

Ahhh, Beaver Foods. (Which was the name of our cafeteria food provider, not code for some exciting university-sexuality-experimentation adventure.)

      All-you-care-to-eat three times daily

  +  Obscene amounts of alcohol

  +  Not having to walk three miles to someone else’s house to smoke because you can smoke in  your own room *

  =  The Frosh 15

Now granted, that extra 15 pounds worked well for me as I was relatively scrawny. The extra 20-30-40-50, etc.? Not so pretty.

Now I have engaged my sister in a weight challenge: 20 pounds before Christmas.**

And I’m winning—I’ve gained three already!

What’s that? I’m supposed to lose them? Ah crap.  

What’s a girl who hates exercise and loves food to do? Well, I do have a great idea that should make me skinny AND rich—I’ll fill you in on that later. In the mean time, I’m open to suggestions. (And please, no “Eat less and move more” garbage. I’m fat, not developmentally delayed.)  

I’ll keep you posted on our progress as we head toward the holidays. Weigh-in is tomorrow!

**********************************

*     Yes, I’m so old that I predate several “no smoking” policies—at least we couldn’t smoke in class like in my mother’s era. (Sorry Mom, I think my hard-earned #coughdrunkenfiestacough# psychology degree would refer to that as deflection or distraction or transference or “Look over there! Chippendales!” or something.

**    A note about my efforts at weight loss: I think we should all be happy and healthy and comfortable with our bodies. I am not a fanatic dieter (obviously) or even a lukewarm exerciser (shocking). I don’t do unhealthy fad diets. I have done Weight Watchers before with great success (lost 25 pounds). I don’t want to be super skinny. Or even skinny. But the BMI jumped up recently and bitch-slapped me across the mouth with an obese label. Not overweight, mind you—obese. Plus I’m getting old, so I think it’s time to stop dickin’ around here and do something that will help ensure I’ll be here for the major events in my daughter’s life. First goal: Overweight. (How messed up is that?) Second goal: At risk. Final goal: Just a squeak inside the normal BMI limit. I’m not looking for much here people.

Release the hounds!

I promise to have at least one pop culture reference in every blog I post. Pinky swear. Not a day goes by that I don’t think, if not utter aloud, a Seinfeld reference that’s applicable to my current state of affairs. Does that say my life is really about nothing? I don’t know. Does that matter? Not so much.

Is it possible to digress before you even start? I believe I just did!

So, this blog. I used to think it was just me—that I was the only loser doing the Red Green version of life held together with duct tape and fishing line. But the more I talk to my friends, even acquaintances, it becomes apparent pdq that most women feel like this sometimes. (Some of us all the time!)

You just have to ask the right question to trigger an avalanche of laments, which pick up speed as the narrator warms to her topic.

Nine times out of ten it starts with “TELL me about it!” in response to my complaint, followed quickly with her telling me all about her thoughts on the topic. It could be about anything—cleaning, behavioural problems in kids (or husbands), boredom at work, gaining weight, etc. Almost every woman I know has at least one trigger that releases the hounds.

Whilst listening empathetically and nodding till my head threatens to bobble right off my neck, I wait, patiently, for the inevitable intake of breath (damn those synchronized swimmers though) so I can jump in with my own litany of complaints. Then we go back and forth trying to outdo each other with tales of woe and injustice like a real-life Monty Python sketch:

Serve: “The in-laws are descending like locusts this weekend so, of course, my cleaning lady chooses this particular juncture to get appendicitis and, just as I’m elbow deep in toilet cleaner, Missy hands me—at 9:45 pm—the list of materials she needs for her science project, due tomorrow!”

Volley: “Oh yah? Well my in-laws have been here for three weeks feeding Millicent a steady diet of candy and new toys, making backhanded comments about the successes of my husband’s ex-girlfriends, while my barracuda boss—single, of course—wants me to work morning, noon and night on the Stupid Co. campaign that we’ll likely lose anyway because of her incompetence. Oh, and my cleaning lady died three weeks ago—how rude!—so my toilet has been pink for ten days already!”

My wish is to extend the funny, sincere, poignant conversations we have on the playgrounds, at work, at lunch, at Chippendales (do they even still exist?). You get to listen to me bitch (lucky you), but you can complain too. You can even say something obnoxious like, “Well, Jodi, if you got up ten minutes earlier, your entire life would change. You lazy ho’.” (My inner editor is convulsing right now over the correct way to punctuate "ho" inside the quotation marks and all. Shudder.)

This could be our own modern-day red tent. (Without the polygamy, of course. Unless that’s your thing. Who am I to judge?) We can share our woes and frustrations and, hopefully, the odd bit of wisdom and advice. We may only have one worthwhile trick a piece, but hey, if we put them all together, that’s a lot of frikkin’ tips! First and foremost though, let’s have a good laugh. (That’s my special trick...)

Whaddya think?