September 26, 2008 at 7:30 am
We’ve merged with another department at work, and not since the Indians threw a party for the Pilgrims has there been this much food proffered as a greeting. At the meeting announcing the merger there were chocolate-iced donuts sitting in a pink box at the back of the room. At the new monthly departmental meeting there were cookies passed around the table, sweet chocolate wafting right past my nose as I passed them on. Last week there were bagels (a shitload of bagels, like bagel diarrhea) on the kitchenette table all day long to entice the departments to mingle. And yesterday, I got an email announcing the monthly pitch-in that is a tradition in the other department. God only knows how we’ll celebrate birthdays, but I’m assuming it will involve several sticks of butter and a defibrillator in the corner in case of emergency. The pitch-in announcement said something like, “Who doesn’t want an excuse for a pitch in?” PastaQueen raises her hand.
I’d like to take this opportunity to announce that I am anti-cake [...]
August 27, 2008 at 8:05 am
On my recent Blog Indiana post, Casey commented about meeting me:
I loved LOVED that you have a book out about losing more than half of yourself and yet you ate. Food. Like real food. Silly huh?
No, it’s not silly. Of course, not everyone is happy to hear that I don’t subsist solely on salads and rice cakes. Last year I posted about eating half a Dairy Queen cake on my birthday and one reader sent me a really angry email. If this blog had a door, she would have slammed it as she stormed off in a rage. The ire ice cream inspires on this blog surprises me. (BTW, I just searched for “Dairy Queen” to find that entry and found 10 entries. Maybe I should change my nickname from PQ to DQ?)
I’m not ashamed to eat food. When I was losing weight, I was hyper-aware of what I was eating and what others were eating. I wondered what people would think of my lunch choices. When I wasn’t wondering that, I wondered what other [...]
August 25, 2008 at 7:39 am
After a high-stress day, I came home to a box of ice cream in the mail. Was the universe sending me hate mail or a love letter? I couldn’t tell. I was sent the ice cream so I could sample it and write about it on the blog. I usually turn down offers like these because I don’t want to be seen as a corporate shill. However, she among us who can turn down chocolate fudge brownie is a better woman than I.
Only, the ice cream wasn’t at my front door. It was at the FedEx depot.
All I had was a claim sticker stuck to my door and the knowledge that a box of dry ice was sitting on a shelf somewhere near 90th street and I-69 (the highway of love). So, I drove about 8 miles, missed my turn and got lost in a corporate office park until I finally found the FedEx depot tucked behind a landscaping company that had a sign taped to their door which said, “This is not FedEx.”
When I [...]
July 11, 2008 at 7:44 am
I’m glad my headache doctor opens at seven o’clock in the morning, because no one is awake to see me entering his office. I’m not ashamed to be seeing a neurologist, however he works in a large medical complex occupied mainly by another unrelated practice. That is the reason, and I swear the ONLY reason, I was entering a building Wednesday morning labeled, “St. Censored-For-My-Privacy’s Bariatric Weight Loss Center.” I feel paranoid visiting that complex, because I know if someone were to snap a photo of me entering the front door for the interwebs, I would be accused of being a big (skinny) fraud. I only have the most recent issue of Neurology Now with Morgan Fairchild on the cover that I stole from his office to prove where I really was.
I was at the doctor because all the IV treatments and medications we’ve tried lately haven’t done anything except make me poorer. I could have paid off my car by now with the money I’ve spent. So, we’re adjusting my medications again, which means [...]
June 30, 2008 at 7:57 am
“Opa!” Our waitress exclaimed and then she lit our cheese on fire.
This was one of two reasons my mother and my brother had decided to go to the Greek restaurant to celebrate his birthday (the other being the rumor of a belly dancer that remained a rumor). We never miss an opportunity to set dairy products ablaze, especially if we’re not the ones risking 3rd degrees burns on our forearms.
After the flames died down in the silver platter of cheese in our waitress’s hand, she set it on the table and placed a basket of bread right under my nose. After she walked away, I picked up the basket and placed it as far away as my unburned forearms would reach.
“No cheese for me,” I said before anyone could ask. I kept my hands folded in my lap, waiting for the salad I had ordered earlier. I stared at the map of Greece on the far wall next to the CD player who’s LCD let me know track number fourteen was playing. The three-tiered [...]