Revolutionary Diet Plan

I’m pleased to announce that due to a miraculous life changing event that occurred this week, I am currently in negotiations with four different publishing houses for my new book Get Sick and Lose the Weight.


Last week was not the first time I became aware of the strange and yet natural connection between physical illness and weight loss. My sister lost an amazing seven pounds in four days because she was fortunate enough to contract the stomach flu.

But it wasn’t until last week when a pain motivated trip to the ER led to a 2:30 am appendix removal surgery, that the idea really began to take shape. Getting sick, really sick, almost always results in weight loss.

I’ll admit, I don’t understand how the weight loss community has missed this loop hole for so long, but their oversight simply translates into my success.

Once the anesthesia wore off and the morphine had dulled the pain of having a puss filled appendix pulled out through a small hernia in my belly button, I found that the selection of liquids I was offered for breakfast, tea, bullion, clear juice and green jello, had no appeal. Really, I wasn’t even hungry.

It’s been four days now, and the phenomenon continues. Most foods taste bland and uninviting and after a few bites I don’t want to eat any more.

I have watched with satisfaction as the numbers on the scale seem to be falling away at an unbelievable pace. What can I say, I’ve discovered the secret to successful weight loss.

Now I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that there are one or two negative sides to this eating plan, but hey, what diet worth its carbs and fiber doesn’t?

There is a certain degree of discomfort associated with things like surgery and illness, but as the old saying goes, ‘No Pain, No Gain’ or loss as in this example.

And with the pain comes a certain amount of financial output for such things as medical care, pharmaceuticals and loss of productive activity… but just remember that it’s all for a good cause, a bum that looks hot in a pair of tight jeans.

The real tricky part, is acquiring the medical emergency in the first place. I should also point out that problems requiring surgery aren’t always appropriate for weightless. A coma for example might work for dropping a few dress sizes, but since you’re unconscious, it’s not like you can enjoy it.

In my new book, I recommend illness instead. Keep your ears open for friends and loved ones who are fortunate enough to catch some debilitation and highly contagious illness, then offer to nurse them back to health. Avoid hand washing, touch your own face often and if appropriate kissing is highly effective for sharing germs.

Now, I need to caution that this diet is not doctor recommended, and if you are one of those wimps who avoid pain and aren’t willing to be laid up for days and weeks of recovery time, then I can only suggest you stick with the old fashioned method of less calories in and more energy out. But for the few adventurers who are willing to risk it all for a half inch less around your waist, my new weight loss plan is guaranteed to work… (or kill you).

Falling off the Wagon

Okay, it happened and I’m ready to admit it. I took a nose dive off the wagon of my diet this last week and broke my fall on a package of double stuffed Oreo cookies, a cube of butter mixed with a little bit of baked potato and a peppermint shake from my favorite fast food restaurant.


It’s a tough world out there for those of us who were blessed with a little more fat than everybody else, although according to statistics (and I always believe those things) our numbers are growing.

Sometimes it feels like there is an army of marketers out there with the singal minded goal to keep us chubby and eating.

Case in point, it’s almost impossible to watch a TV program without being inundated with ads for fat laden, calorie horrific foods, being daintily eaten by super models with thighs so thin, they could thread them through the eye of a needle. Just what I need while I’m munching on my after dinner snack of raw carrots and water.

And when I’m feeling discouraged or overwhelmed or discouraged and overwhelmed which is more often the case, I don’t crave an apple or a nice green salad without dressing. No, I want pasta and brownies. Sugar, simple carbs and chocolate.

I don’t know why the stuff I love like See’s candy and double bacon cheese burgers with a side of steak cut fries has to be so unhealthy. If we can send a man to the moon, we ought to be able to invent food that tastes decadent but is actually good for you!

A lovely dream, but not very realistic. The facts are the facts, if I want to lose weight and be healthier (and I do), I have to eat fewer calories than I expend. End of discussion… sigh.

So where does that leave me? Sitting in the mud of my over indulgence with a sore tummy and jeans so tight I have to unzip them to breath? Or ready to rise again, dust the cookie crumbs from my face and hands and get back into the wagon of self control and healthy choices?

As Mary Anne Radmacher say’s – “Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow.”” And since she’s the same author who said, “Begin each day as if it were on purpose” I think she knows what she’s talking about.

The Scale of the Scale

So, after nearly two months of relatively strenuous dieting, with only a few (well maybe more than a few) slips off the wagon, I am down 6 pounds, or maybe 8 pounds or perhaps 4.5 depending on whether I’m weighing myself on the doctor’s balance beam scale, my daughter’s precision digital scale or the WII fit action board scale . This opens up the obvious question, if the scales of justice are blind why aren’t the scales of fat?


All weight measurement appliances are not created equal, and can vary as much as five pounds. Plus the time of day, and the current temperature in the room can also affect results of the machine. And let’s not even go into the difference between weight based and spring based machines. The point is, some scales weigh you less than others.

With this in mind, I decided to go shopping for the most weight favorable scale on the market.

“You could always just set our bathroom scale lower than 0,” suggested my husband.

I shook my head and smiled. He just didn’t get it. I wasn’t looking to cheat by making 395 (basically -5) my starting point. No I wanted the confidence of knowing that my scale was honest and true… but lighter.

I approached a clerk in a high end department store and asked for their most user friendly scale. “I’m looking for something that will match a sky blue bathroom. I’d like the weight displayed in numbers that are positioned well in front so that I don’t have to pull back my breasts and belly just to see them, and since my eyesight isn’t what it used to be I need print that is large and bright.

“I’d prefer a voice enhanced model that would say something encouraging each time I weighed myself. Perhaps ‘Well beautiful, look who got up this morning. I’m so proud of you.’ And if a little electronic smiley face appeared, well that would be great too.

“I’m searching for a scale with some degree of artificial intelligence, so that on those days when I’m a little down or overly hormonal, the scale can take that into consideration. Then, rather than giving me my weight, it could politely suggest that my day would go better if I pass on the weigh-in and go straight to the chocolate.”

The cashier, a fellow woman with a few pounds to lose herself, was nodding her head understandingly.

“And most importantly,” I continued. “I’m looking for a product that weighs on the light side.”

The saleswoman put a gentle hand on my shoulder, her eyes full of sympathy and compassion. “I know just what you mean. The problem is we don’t have any scales like that, and I’ll tell you why.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Bathroom scales are designed by men.”

Ahhhh that explained it. How could any man, regardless of how in touch with his feminine side he claimed to be, ever understand the weight measurement needs of a woman. Perhaps some day when girls choose science class in high school over creative dating, a woman will design the scale of our dreams.

In the mean time, I’ve devised my own scientific system for weight-loss accuracy. I now weigh myself in kilograms, and at 104 K I’m feeling pretty darn hot.

The Skinny on Wieght-loss

You know what’s funny about going on a diet? The HUGE number of people, out to make a buck, who think that fat people are either naive or desperate enough to buy their outrageous claims. The other day I saw an ad on TV that promised me rapid and easy weight loss, and all I had to do was rub a special cream made of whale eyeballs and spotted owl feathers on my pockets of fat seven times a day….

Where do I sign up?

Another clever weight-loss guru suggested eating cotton balls. Yes, those little puffy white things you use to remove nail polish and mascara. The idea was that with your stomach full of indigestible fiber filaments, there wouldn’t be room for anything else … like say food. It makes me gag even to think about it.

I loved the diet that promised you could sleep your fat away.

Now there’s a lot of scientific evidence that getting a full eight hours of shut-eye a night helps control chemicals and hormones in your body related to over-eating. But this clown suggested something more along the line of hibernation. Cause see – if you’re asleep you can’t eat, just ask a bear.

Perhaps my favorite was the diet that recommended eating anything you want on even days and then fasting on odd days. As if the body didn’t understand the concept of roll-over calories.

Believe it or not, the best diet advice I got came from my son’s basketball coach and he wasn’t even talking to me. The eighth grade team was playing against a team from a neighboring town. This was the third time the two had been matched up, and both times the other team had won. The boys were hungry to even the score and the parents even more so.

Right from the start there was something different in that game. The ball seemed to be charmed and the team jumped ahead quickly. The score for our side soared, and at half time one of the happy fathers pulled the coach aside and asked him what the boys were doing differently this game.

His answer?

“This time we are trying to win not trying not to lose.”

I thought about that a lot, and I realized there is a subtle difference between the effort to win and the effort to avoid losing.

Applying it to my weight loss efforts, I’ve tried to look at this whole experience as a journey toward better health, not an attempt to shed a quarter of my body weight. I’m focusing on the foods I should eat that will give me energy and health and provide the most bang for the least calories.

The second best diet advice I got came from a conference I attended, where the speaker explained that when we stay focused on a goal or an idea, our body naturally works toward that same goal.

So in other words, my body is not the enemy and isn't purposely trying to thwart my dieting attempts by subterfuge and manipulation? Wow, what a relief.

Okay so none of those tips will help me shed seven pounds in seven days, or allow me to “think” the fat away, but maybe they will help me face this experience more honestly. I didn’t get fat in seven days, what makes me think I could get thin in that same amount of time?

Oh dear, I just looked at the clock and it’s time to rub whale eye/spotted owl cream on my pockets of fat again… gotta go.

To Starve or Not to Starve

Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake.  ~Author Unknown

 When I was young there were certain foods one would associate with going on a diet. For example, breakfast might consist of a half a grapefruit sprinkled with fake sugar and a side of hard, dry, toasted wheat bread. Lunch could be a scoop of non-fat cottage cheese, some carrot sticks and a couple of melba toast crackers. At dinner a moderate green salad, filled with raw vegetables and drenched in a tablespoon of gelatin filled fat free dressing and half of a boiled chicken breast were expected to hold one over till the next morning. No wonder I grew up to be fat.

The problem is, I enjoy eating. A night out at a good restaurant gives me more pleasure than fitting into a pair of skinny jeans… not that I’ve ever actually fit into skinny jeans but I can imagine how it would feel. I crave things that burst with flavor, creaminess that comes from honest to goodness real cream and sugary sweetness with no strange aspartame after taste.

Still, I’m way overweight. How overweight, you ask… well according to the free online weight program Fitday that I use, if I get too much fatter I will move past the Body Mass Index of obese and fall into the black hole of BMI hell. That is bad! My feet get sore each night after carrying around my bulk all day, and I had to buy a second full length mirror just to make sure that I was wearing the same shoe on both feet.

To make matters worse, losing weight is hard. According to one expert, the number of people who go on diets compared to those who actually lose and then keep off the weight is so low, it is statistically impossible. And if you add on the sluggish metabolism that comes after menopause… not that I’m admitting to any such age related situation myself… well, you might have a better chance just playing the lottery.

Oh sure you can down pills or liquids that make your heart race and trade in sleep for early morning reruns of I Dream of Jeannie, or you can buy yourself a gym membership and live there all day for months, camping out in the parking lot during the four or five hours when they shut down. You can even subsist on cabbage soup and lemon water for 42 days… well I couldn’t but perhaps you can. The problem is that the weight lost with these methods isn’t actually lost as much as it’s hidden behind your couch cushions waiting to spring back onto your hips and thighs the second you stop.

So what’s a girl to do?

I suppose that once again I am called upon to execute the impossible. To find a way to please my palate, shed that unwanted baby fat (the baby just turned twenty), and beat the odds. I must be the next bulbous shinning light, the portly purveyor of truth, the overflowing full figured freedom from fat fighter!

In other words, they might want to start looking for someone else to play Santa Claus next Christmas.

This is the first in a series of humorous looks at the mission to find and release the skinny hostage held against her will within the fat inflated body of her charming but overweight captor.

Mother – Keeper of the Family’s Guilt

Sorry for the blog delays. I was under the gun with a project that just refused to get done...

Have you ever noticed how easy it is for many mom’s to take responsibility for all the problems that occur in their homes, regardless of whether they are actually at fault or not? As if somehow being the all knowing all wise matriarchs implies that we should be able to control the painful influences that affect our families.

Much like the Lady of the Lake in Arthurian legend, we hang onto the Excalibur of guilt, as if by doing so we somehow protect our families from its heartrending sting.

Perhaps it starts off in the early days when as a young mother, we discover that our lips have the magic power to remove the smart from skinned knees and scratched elbows. Or that a chocolate chip cookie and a few well placed tickles can ease the hurt of a playground rejection.

However, as the children grow, so do the complexities of their suffering. A kiss and a cookie don’t cut it when a bully is picking on them after school. And there isn’t a mother alive who’s figured out how to repair a heart broken during the throes of rebuffed first love.

It’s nearly impossible to stand by and watch those we love suffer and not do something to take away the pain, so instead we take on the guilt. We stay up at night worrying, exhausting our brains as we struggle for the solution that will make it all better.

A few weeks ago my husband complained that the numbers on the scale were creeping up at and unexpected and completely unacceptable rate.

“Perhaps if I started buying more healthy foods,” I said, “And if we took walks after dinner, and if I used less oil when I cook maybe…”

“You’re doing it again,” he said with a smile.

“Doing what?”

“You’re feeling guilty for me.”

And he was right. I was taking responsibility for the food and exercise choices he was making. I was feeling guilty, as if somehow I had control.

“You’ve got to stop that,” he said gently. “You’ll drive yourself nuts.”

But how does one stop a feeling, even one as negative and destructive as guilt when it has become equated with motherhood? How does one walk into a parent-teacher conference for the class your high school daughter is failing without the fear that somehow you must be at fault. And how do you stand by and watch as your child suffers the repercussions of their own foolish choices without jumping in with both feet and trying to make it go away?

Then I met a woman whose child lay sick in a hospital bed, suffering from a debilitation disease and I asked her the question, “How do you handle the guilt?”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “I have to fight it every day because, if I don’t, it will consume me and then I won’t be of use to my child.”

I nodded as she continued. “I remind myself that there’s nothing I can do, things happen as they will and my anxiety won’t make a difference. Then I pretend that I’m letting it go.”

“You pretend?” I said in surprise.

She laughed. “And you know what, it isn’t long before the guilt is really gone, and I can be there to enjoy the good hours and be a strength in the bad.”

The old fake it till you make it ploy. I’d never thought of that before, but I guess it makes sense.

So, just as the Lady of the Lake happily relinquished her hold on Excalibur, I’m ready to turn the family guilt back to the family where it belongs. How about you?

How do Kids Think up These Things?

As parents we can’t, in good faith, condone our children’s devious behavior… no matter how cleverly they pull it off. However once the kids are asleep, and the bedroom door is shut, it’s sometimes tempting to snicker admiringly at their clever, if ill begotten escapades.

Sometimes they’re just little things, like the time my oldest son poured a whole bottle of white glue into his younger brother’s underwear drawer, and I didn’t realize it for three days.

Or when my daughter got on her eleven-year-old brother’s Facebook account and, pretending to be him, started flirting with all the girls on his page. He was so embarrassed he refused to go to school the next day.

But every now and then someone will pull off such a huge, amazing and creative misdeed, it goes down into the annals of family history, to be brought up and recounted for years and years of family reunions and Christmas dinners to come.

Take the clever young man who, in a fit of anger, tore apart his younger brother’s bedroom. Once the crime was committed and the possible repercussions assessed this same genius managed to convince his whole family and the local police, that a burglar had broken into the house and ransacked the place. It was years and years later before he finally confessed, and when he did, the story became an instant classic.

One of my favorites is the case of the mysterious kitchen hole. A teenager was goofing off with his friends one morning in the family kitchen, and as often happens, things got out of hand and a hole the size of a rolling-pin ended up marring the otherwise perfect yellow wall.

Being a quick thinker, the young man grabbed a calendar and tacked it up precisely over the unsightly gap. Fortunately it was April at the time and by the end of December when the calendar was taken down and the hole discovered, no one even thought to suspect him.

An eight-year-old girl will never live down the tale of pushing her even younger brother off the second floor of the backyard play house in a box. She convinced him to participate by assuring him that the box would glide gently to the ground like a kite. They both learned an important lesson in physics that day and created their own permanent place in the chronicles of family legend.

However, if tales could be rated on complexity and sheer chutzpah then the golden banana story would surely be the winner.

Our parents were out-of-town, and my brother was home alone. Despite the strict rules about no social gathering, he planned an elaborate party that included setting up the camping tent in the back yard, an adventure that led completely through the house including the garage and attic and ultimately the digging for buried treasure in the school playground across the street.

When the police pulled up to the school at eleven-thirty that night, they were convinced that the crazy teenagers tunneling through the tan bark must be either high or drunk. And when my brother explained that they were searching for the Golden Banana, they weren’t reassured.

However when he produced an actual banana, spray painted metallic gold and resting in my mother’s chest shaped jewelry box, the police dispersed the group quickly with a severe warning about breaking curfew.

How long this famous event would have remained a secret is unknown if it hadn’t been for the unexpectedly early arrival home of my parents. Telltale clues of dirty dishes in the kitchen, melted candle wax and black crepe paper in the bathroom and the unexpected appearance of the family tent set up on the left side of the house eventually forced a confession.

I believe my brother was grounded for the better part of his fifteenth year, but the story remained well after his own children were grown; a small price to pay for infamy.

So the next time your toddler runs out of the bathroom and into the living room where you are entertaining guests, with Kotex pads stuffed into his diaper, or your second grader rips open a double bean bag chair and sprinkles a billion tiny white pellets throughout her room because she wants to pretend it’s snowing, take a deep breath. Remember that these are the moment’s family memories are made of. Then punish them.