Squish, just like grape (which I can't have, since it's not LC)

I might have cheated this weekend.

I had wine, which is a no-no. John & I went to a party that was BYOB and sorry, I wasn't about to show up with a handle of vodka and holler, "Where all the fun at?!"

Granted (or as my BFF says, granite), I considered mixing up my vodka concoction and taking it over there in one of those tree-hugger aluminum canteens, but then I decided I didn't want to look like a dick, so. Wine it was. Tacky enough that I took one of those industrial sized bottles, and worse that it was only half-full. Yes, I'm classy like that.

Normally I have the tolerance of an Irish steel worker, but on LC, there's nothing to absorb all that goodness, so you get giddy (or whatever your inebriated emotional state is -- bitchy, cage fighter, mean, screw whomever, amnesiac, sad clown, dancing fool, blabbermouth, sink pisser, what have you) all the quicker. This leads to sometimes hilarious behavior, but mostly shit you end up apologizing for the next day. Note to self: you are not a Kennedy. Stop acting like one.

 and, because it's funny:

Even before the wine, however, my weight-loss had stalled, which is not surprising. 8lbs is what you're supposed to lose the first two weeks, not the first 5 days. Annnnd I sort of factored in that I couldn't keep up that kind of loss, so really, I've stopped weighing myself every day, which is hard to do. One must also factor in the fun week that mother nature so kindly provides every month, which also doesn't help matters.

The very important point of this is that when you err, you get your fat ass up on the wagon again, even if it's for the 108th time. Tomorrow is a new day and you will start it accordingly, which I did. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Even better? I had my cat prepare it for me, so I didn't even have to get up off the couch. (She always makes my bacon just the way I like it -- extra crispy. Was there cat hair in my eggs? Yes. The good news? Cat hair? Carb free.)

When considering what patience I must have with this program, I think about my mother, who might be the worst dieter of all time. First, she's been on a diet ever since I've known her. Second, she expects results immediately. Like, next day.

"What? Damn, I'm up half a pound! I hardly ate yesterday. All I had was a little ol' piece of toast, some coffee and two bites of tuna fish. That's it! Plus, I was out in the yard for an hour picking up branches. I just don't understand this!" Mom loves recounting exactly what she ate and what she considers her physical activity of the day in question, and then becomes indignant when she's not showing a 2lb loss every day. She thinks if you hardly eat and weed the garden, you should drop down a pant size by the following day.

 ("I went from looking like a cute tubbah guy to looking like a preppy douche! You can, too, in as little as a week!")

Mom's also one of those lo-carb dieter who's...not really a lo-carb dieter. She'll keep the LC bars and shit around -- in addition to the "dairy beverage" milk -- yet, she'll gnaw on crackers later or split a baked potato with Dad for part of her dinner. LC is like what Mr. Miyagi said about karate: "You karate do yes or you karate do no. You karate do guess-so? Squish, just like grape."



Let me Americanize that for you. You decide to do lo-carb? Wicked. You decide not to do lo-carb? Whatevs. You do a little of both? Bloop! Ass gets big, just like hippopotamus. 

There's no half-assing LC. You can't fool it. Some people, after the induction period (which is incredibly important) can have up to 40 or 50 carbs a day and still lose weight or at the least, maintain. I can't. My limit's about 30. Anything higher than that and my ass just rambles in neutral. 

So. Weight loss or not, there are other things to look at here. John said he thought I looked slimmer this weekend. Bless his sweet heart, he chooses his words carefully, and he does well. And I feel less prego, which rocks. And I feel better. I used to nap every day, and I haven't the past few days. Today was a prime day, and I didn't do it. I cleaned out my closet instead. (Okay, I cleaned out a quarter of it. Better than nothing!)

I will keep on keeping on, because what's the alternative, except blowing puffing up like a toad?

There's not one. I know this is best for me. Results aren't always weight loss. At this point, I'll take feeling better as a good sign too.Take what you get, bitches. Toodles!

Among other things: Fat Monica and Ranch dressing

Well, it's been a week back on the LC wagon (and no, I don't mean Lauren Conrad) and I've lost 8lbs. Don't get all excited -- I pee every five minutes so I think that's mostly water weight. But I do feel less bloated, and  less, you know, 8 months pregnant. (I'd really like for someone to never have to play the Fat or Pregnant game with me ever again, thank you very much.)

 (the world may never know)

As I've said before, the first two weeks are the worst. John practically had to sit on me Sunday night to keep me from driving myself to Taco Bell (Toxic Hell) and ordering my weight in gorditas. And I'm not even all that fond of Taco Bell. But those cravings have subsided somewhat, which is good. Once all this sugar and carb shit washes out of my system, the better off I will be.

In the meantime, I've learned to love coffee. It's pretty much the sweetest thing I can have. I have a Keurig machine, and they have lots of flavored coffee K-cups and so I get a chocolate-yish flavor, make 2 cups, add a shitpot full of Splenda (seriously, I expect to start growing a tail or some such appendage any day now) and an obnoxious amount of whipping cream. It's tasty as hell, as it should be with that much artery-clogging shit in it. But hey -- LC is about learning to get really creative, for one thing, and learning to enjoy what you *can* have for another.

You have to have an inner monologue with yourself (yes, I read self-help books so I know all the jargon). It's not so much the cringe-inducing mantra of "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels!" (always uttered by some chipper bitch with a 22 inch waist), but rather, "I'm not eating this motherfucking cookie because I know if I do, not only will my ass explode, I'll feel sluggish and mostly ill."

I think sugar is the devil. A delicious devil, but the devil, along with most other white shit, excluding heavy cream. And milk, my beloved milk. They have a low-carb milk floating around on the market, except it's not milk. They can't even call it that. It's a "dairy beverage." I've had it, and it's nast-a-roni. Milk is one of the things I miss the most on LC. Anyway, some people can handle a little bit of sugar now and then. They can have a fun size Snickers (which is different things to different people -- for example, my idea of a fun size Snickers is one the size of my coffee table) and be done with it. Me, I'm like the Mogwai > water > Gremlins thing. I just can't have any of it or I turn into a miserable, reptilian creature. Not really. (Sort of.)

 (I feel more like The Incredible Bulk....and judging from this photo, I bet his hemorrhoids are awful.)

Is it hard to get excited about a roast and spinach salad? Yes. But at least, unlike some LC programs (I'm looking at you, South Beach), I don't have to spread fake shit on it. I can have butter, the (solid form) nectar of the gods. And real Ranch dressing, because fat free Ranch dressing should never, ever have existed. It's worse than horrible. It's an affront to all food. Like fat-Monica said about fat-free mayonnaise on Friends: "It's NOT mayonnaise!"

 (Yes. Yes, this is a ranch dressing fountain, most likely at a wedding. A few thoughts: this wedding was in the South, probably Texas. Also? I'm surprised there aren't more fat people hovering around this thing. And? I'm totally having one at my wedding.)

It is, however, easy to get excited about not looking like I belong in stirrups in a maternity ward. Now that's something to write home about.

Until next time, peace bitches.

Back on the wagon: Part II

Oh, there's a good goddamned reason I haven't posted in a while. Some of you might have though that I just gave up this whole blog, but I didn't. What I DID give up was my lo-carb lifestyle. However, I did receive something in return.

About 20 lbs.

Yikey shit, indeed.

(Reminds me of high school pool parties)

I guess I could get into all the self-psychoanalysis about why, and filling the empty pain inside and whatever, but the truth is, I'd just fucking rather have cookies than baked chicken. My will power is non-existent. If someone chose to drown me in a vat of slightly melted Pralines n' Cream Bluebell Ice Cream, that'd be fine with me. I generally don't like being sticky, but I could make an exception.

(This actually makes me weep a little)

I am just one of those people who will always have to keep certain shit away from my piehole. It's that simple. I do all of this to have a better life -- to live longer, be happier, have more confidence, not break chairs, etc. But a friend of mine posed a very interesting question to me today: Would I rather live a few years longer because I adhered to a strict diet and exercise regimen, or would I rather just eat what I wanted and be happy?

It's a tempting scenario. However, I know for me that I have a fighting weight, and I ain't at it. Not even close. Was at it once. Not at it now. I've tried the "eat whatever I wanted" -- I've been trying it all year: throwing sanity to the wind and eating like a 17 year old high school linebacker. And how do I feel? Like this:

Really. I've been moping around, feeling shitty and bloated and guilty. Wondering how gross John now thinks I am (he swears he doesn't.) More than anything, I just find myself feeling resentful (and a little sorry for myself) that this has to be my life -- the constant diligence and saying no and not indulging.

Then I think to myself how lucky I am to *have* a life, and instead of throwing myself a pity party (and I'd totally have ice cream cake at it, bitches), I turn to this blog.

My summer of eating like a field hand has come to an end. Join me on my lo-carb journey....for the 504th time.