I must confess, I did cheat a bit on Sunday. On our nation’s birthday, I withstood cake, cup cakes, potato chips, potato salad, and whipped cream. I walked away from full-sugar soda pop, Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and the many offers of a Jack and Coke (ok, Pepsi but you get the idea). I was so proud. Then came the very impressive fireworks show in Palmer Lake, which would have been more impressive if I hadn’t been outside in the downpouring rain, huddled under a flannel blanket being held aloft by my tall, very nice boyfriend. We stood in a muddy puddle and watched the display while the fact that flannel is far from water proof became more and more obvious.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, the show ended. Faced with trying to get out of the crowded parking lot in the mud and the dark, we decided it would be in our best interest to find O’Malley’s, a little dive bar with great hot wings and cheap beer. Imagine our enthusiasm when, after scaling a hill made entirely of slippery dirt and a few tall weeds, we emerged to find we’d parked directly in front of the bar. Glory Hallelujah!

We thought we were so clever with this brilliant plan. We were so not clever. Or rather, we were, but so were most of the other fireworks watchers. We crept inside, slipped our way through the door blockers, and insinuated ourselves to the bar. Irving, God bless him, asked if I was still going to be dieting. I looked around, shook some rain from my hair, and ordered two Fat Tires*.

We found a place by the juke box, sipped our frothy beverages, and when we left and made our way back down the muddy, weedy, slippery hill, the parking lot was nigh unto empty. We made our escape and made it almost home when a sudden fit of ravenousness lept on top of the car, shook it around, and redirected it towards the local Taco Bell.

I’m not proud. I’m only human. Don’t begrudge me my crunchy taco and burrito supreme. Please?

So I may have stumbled. Sue me. Last night I made beef and veggie skewers with vegetables purchased at a local farmer’s market that same day. I’m back on my South Beach bandwagon and enjoying the view. You see, from up here, I can see that my scale says 4 pounds lighter than last Monday. It may not be a big victory, but a victory is a victory nonetheless.

So that’s my most recent South Beach triumph/failure/triumph. Keep sending your positive dieting thoughts my way. I need the encouragement. And I need dark chocolate. In case you were feeling generous.

*For those who don’t know, Fat Tire is an elixer from the Colorado Beer gods. It’s awesome. And not exactly low-carb. Sigh.

If I did, you would have been subject to much whimpering, some boasting, and a bit of weeping. As I’m back on South Beach, and now have said blog, brace yourselves.

For those who aren’t familiar with it, let me give you the super-short version. For two weeks, you live in sheer carb-less misery. No fruit, no grains, no alcohol, no fun of any kind. Just meat, cheese, green vegetables, and more meat. Also nuts. Yeah. That’s it. After two weeks, you start to slowly integrate healthy options back into your stomach. Things like berries and whole grains and apples can finally show up on your counters again. After you do that forever and you’re finally at a weight that works for you, you just take it easy and try not to get too carried away again.

I did this once before. Over the course of a summer I lost 30 pounds and kept it off for more than a year. Pretty friggin’ impressive, I think. Then, I got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Potato pushers. Danish dealers. Carb carriers. I was just a young, mixed up kid. I can’t be held too accountable for my missteps. Right?

So now I’m back to the starting point. This first week of carb-free living is no picnic. Not only are you irritable because you’re dieting, which is an admission that you need to be on a diet, but you’re going through a bit of withdrawal. No sugar? No bread? No pasta? No beer? Gadzooks! No wonder I have a headache and growling in my belly.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not hungry. What I love about the South Beach diet is that you can eat until you’re full. You just have to be careful about what you’re eating. It’s partially the psychological stuff, and partially the physical reaction of giving something you’ve gotten used to. It’s no fun.

But it’s effective. I’ve been on this diet for 2 1/2 days and I’m 2 1/2 pounds lighter than when I started. I’m not looking for miracles, I’m really not, but I want to take more control of my body.

The reason my first attempt was so successful (and every other attempt has been so disastrous), is that the first try was the only one where I had a support system. Johanna and I dieted together. We didn’t want to be the first to cave and let down the other one. We called each other for moral support mid-day. When I nearly ripped the head of a friend for eating a chocolate-covered donut in my presence, Johanna pulled me away to save that friendship and that woman’s life. When Johanna didn’t think she could stand one more salad, we went to Whole Foods for a fabulous antipasta platter instead. It was an essential part of the diet plan that they conveniently left out of the book.

I’ve never had that since we both dropped this diet years ago. Now, I think, I have it again. Irving, dear Irving, is dieting with me. No, he doesn’t think I’m fat. No, I don’t think he’s fat. Still, the unescapable truth is that we have put on weight. It’s not horrific, but it ain’t great.

When we were considering what our options were, I heard the dulcet tones of my sister playing in my ear. When I was in Tennessee for a certain wedding, I mentioned that I looked heavy in the mirror (obviously, hoping for a quick, “That’s nonsense! You look great” the day before putting on a bridesmaid’s dress and walking down an aisle). Her response? “Well, you do eat a lot of bacon.”

Yep.

But then I got to thinking. Was there a way to cling to my bacony preferences and still shed pounds? I thought back to the days of smaller pant sizes and flippy skirts and remembered that there had been bacon. I could have my bacon and eat it too! (It was this or invest in bacon candles and I thought that might adversly affect my furniture.)

So here we are, three days in. Bacon, several salads, and tons of cheese already and the pounds are starting to think about going elsewhere. It’s not going to be easy. I’d mug an old lady for a toasted bagel or some mac and cheese. Still, I think that having the support of Irving, the taste of bacon, and the too-small clothes hanging in the closet will help keep me motivated.

Updates to follow.

I got the Amelia Earhart toy!

I perused the menu, my eyes hoping to spot the words Grilled Cheese written in a bold, proud script.  I found them, but the description was not what I had in mind.  Their version of the grilled cheese included cheddar (yum), mozzarella (yum-er), bacon (awesome), tomato (not a fan), and lettuce (on a grilled cheese?!). 

While I normally would be on board with a bacony grilled cheese, I was craving something more traditional.  I quietly asked if it was possible to get a simple grilled cheese sandwich with no bells or whistles.  What can I say?  I like tradition.

This got me to thinking about the magic of the grilled cheese.  First of all, in my house we don’t eat grilled cheese sandwiches.  They don’t exist.  We have girl cheese and boy cheese. (Get your sexist minds out of the gutter, if you please.)

Apparently, though I was a bright and talkative child, my enunciation was not exactly top notch. “Grilled cheese” was often pronounced “girl cheese” until I didn’t know there was a distinction. A girl cheese sandwich is typically just bread and cheese, but any vegetarian option may be included.  Now, that may mean any number of combinations.  Three cheeses on sourdough bread counts as girl cheese.  Fresh mozzarella, Roma tomatoes, and basil on grilled ciabatta still counts as a girl cheese, albeit a pretty darn fancy one.

Boy cheese in a girl cheese sandwich with any meat addition.  Bacon, ham, and turkey are your primary choices, but don’t let yourself be limited by these obvious options.  With my definition, a Reuben, that mack daddy of all deli sandwiches, is a boy cheese.

So you have the two kinds.  Then you have to start contemplating your breads, your cheeses, your additions, your butter choices, and your diners.

Growing up I became the girl cheese maker of the family.  Not to say that the other folks didn’t excel at the sandwich, but I seemed to have a knack for getting the bread a really lovely shade of golden brown just as the cheese was getting nice and gooey.  It’s a skill I’m quite proud of.

Everyone in the family had their own girl cheese preference.  I became quite the short order cook for a while. 

Momma likes a lot of Velveeta cheese (enough to cover every inch of the bread), but it has to be melted all the way through and hopefully it will squish out a little after the first bite.  The bread has to be brown all the way to the crusts.

My two youngest sisters liked theirs with two slices of American cheese, positioned at angles so that the cheese made a star on the bread at first and then melted into all four corners.  Their sandwiches could not be toasted darkly.  In fact, the bread had to have only the slightest hint of brown.

Another younger sister was insistent on white American cheese whenever possible.  No more than one piece was ever allowed.  She liked her sandwiches toasted a little darker so that she had a crunch to the first bite.  The cheese could not ooze forth from the bread.

Given these tough criteria, it’s no wonder I take my sandwiches so seriously.  The one I was served was…ok.  The cheese had cooled a bit too much between grilling and serving.  The bread wasn’t great to begin with so did not excel once toasted.  Still, there is something about this particular sandwich that I find very reassuring.  It may dress itself up and try to be fancy or it may simply be Wonder Bread and Government-furnished “American” cheese-food.  (Those of you who’ve eaten those sandwiches understand the cheese-food reference.  Shudder.)

It doesn’t matter how you dress it up.  Grilled cheese rocks.  It makes me happy, and I felt the need to talk about it. 

Excuse me, I think I may have just drooled a little bit.

Don’t get me wrong.  My 70 calories of Campbell’s Soup at Hand was ok.  (Actually, the veggie beef is awful.  Stick to tomato or chicken with stars.)  My sugar-free instant oatmeal made a nice breakfast.  I’ve worked my way through a package of fat free pretzels and one tiny clementine. 

All of this is low-cal, tasty (minus the unfortunate soup incident), and nutritious.  And now I just want a burger!  I’d take a donut, given the opportunity.  I’d burst into song for a burrito. 

Mmmm.  I could definitely get on board with a gloopy Taco Bell burrito supreme.  Oh! Or better yet, a Taco John’s burrito.  When I was a kid there was nothing better in the world than a Taco John Burrito Supreme or a Whopper Junior with Cheese (no onion, no tomato, extra pickle.  I took that “have it your way” thing very seriously.).

I know the craving will go away if I can just stay strong, but heaven help me, I want to run down to the break room as fast as my junk food-deprived body will carry me and fill up on something microwaved and bad for me.  I’d even take a ham and cheese Hot Pocket with a smile.

Must… stay… strong… Reaching… for… granola… bar….

I started one about the recent rash of dieting attempts but I was distracted by a pile of bacon cheese fries.

Started another one about a date I had and then realized that I could just recycle any other post I’ve ever written about a blah date.

Wanted to write about work stress but I haven’t had time because I’ve been stressed about work.

Are you sensing the pattern here?  Too much to say that’s already been said.  I just didn’t want anyone thinking I’d forgotten about you.  I’m still here and still thinking about a whole variety of stuff.

For instance, why do people feel compelled to judge you for having cereal for dinner but no one questions champagne at brunch?  What does it say about me that I spent yesterday afternoon relaxing in the sun, sipping half-priced margaritas while reading a copy of The Phantom Tollbooth that I bought for my young nephew?  And how is it that after reading about how clementines never have seeds unless there has been some inappropriate cross-pollination I ended up with the bag of fruit that apparently had trampy bees?

Anyway, that’s all stuff currently moving around in my brain.  More to say as soon as I have something to say.  Honest.

Now, while I’m a big supporter of Girl Scout cookie sales, I feel compelled to confess that it is not quite the altruistic gesture it appears.  Yes, I like supporting an organization that allows girls to camp and volunteer and learn how to work together.  I’m all for all of that.

What I really like, however, is the free pass Girl Scout cookies give you to buy enough boxed cookie goodness to feel a small, underprivileged nation all at one time.  They only sell cookies once a year or so.  And the money goes to a good cause.  And you’re supporting girl power.  And the cookies kind of rock.

It’s true.  I love the cookies.  They are delicious and fattening and despite the changes in cookie names and cookie sizes and cookie prices, the traditional cookie taste has stayed consistent throughout my young life.  I genuinely believe that the Tag Along peanut butter cookies taste just as good at 26 as they did at 11. 

It’s a childhood memory that you can buy in bulk, horde all year, gorge on in secret, and still feel proud to have relived.  How many other prepackaged dessert products can you say that about?

So indulge in a little Do-Si-Do deliciousness and embrace the season of Cookiedom.

You Are Peanut Butter Sandwiches / Do-si-dos

You are easy going and naturally happy. You don’t need a lot to make you smile. You genuinely care about people and are a great friend. You’re always doing your best to make the world a better place. Even though there isn’t an immature bone in your body, you still are like a big kid sometimes. Why make life complicated when the best parts are actually quite simple? You enjoy the small joys of life.

What Girl Scout Cookie Are You?

(While not my favorite of the Girl Scout Cookies, I’m pretty ok with this description.  Someday I’ll be as cool as a Thin Mint.)

I’m talking about the oatmeal you sometimes get at a cheap diner.  The oatmeal that’s a little too gray, a little too runny, and a little too gummy.  The kind that slurps off the spoon back into the bowl.  The kind that, when left to cool for too long, becomes one solid mass that could be used to caulk a tub. 

That kind of oatmeal.  I’ve been working very long days for some time now and frankly, I don’t know how much more I can stand.  I think my scary oatmeal brain is moments away from an implosion.  It will be messy.  It will be loud.  And I will still have to work until 9:00 tonight.  Sigh.

Ok.  Just needed a moment to let the steam out.  I promise that once I have even a hint of intellect recovered from this god-awful project that is slowly sapping me of my will to live, I will come back brighter and I will share with you lots of witty comments. 

In the meantime, Oatmeal for Everyone!

Allow me to set the scene for you. First, we must take a trip back in time. Back to a simpler era. Back to the days of Nirvana (the group, not the state of mind). Back to a time when “Talk to the Hand” still made you cool. Back to a time when I was a mere 14 years old. True, my 15th birthday was just weeks away. Still, I was scarcely into my teen years and I was suddenly the Maid of Honor to my older sister and best friend. That’s a big responsibility.

As you’ve probably noticed from my excessive Maid of Honor blogging, a lot goes into that job. Dress buying, party throwing, wine drinking, toast writing… It’s exhausting. At 14 and nearing the end of my freshman year of high school, just days before leaving a tropical paradise to move to North Eastern Virginia and abandon all my friends, acting a MoH was a bit much for me.

Instead of the white lace, fancy cake, champagne flute, snooty favor shower I put on this summer, my sister’s shower was a bit smaller. In fact, I did very little to it at all as my mom had to shoulder the brunt of the responsibility. And the bachelorette party? Um, yeah, I was 14. Skittles, anyone?

So now we jump ahead by 12 years. I’m 26 and have had a few more shots at this MoH thing. I’m even willing to say that I’m pretty good at it. Still, how does one make up for a lack of MoH skills from more than a decade ago?

Enter the fondue party. My sister was in town this Christmas for a wonderful visit. There was much fun had by all and several nice holiday moments including gift buying, gift giving, and some much needed pizza and beer.

The day after Christmas I decided to throw a little shin dig for my sister to honor the age-old and time honored girl bonds of sisterhood. Since the pizza and beer had been done, I wanted to try something a little more interesting. Being a huge fan of all things cheesy (both literally and figuratively), I decided that a fondue party and movie night would make for a nice evening.

When I say fondue, I ask that you bear with my foodie-geekiness for a bit and don’t jump to the conclusion that I nuked a block of Velveeta and tossed in on the table with a loaf of bread.

Oh no.

This evening saw two cheese fondues, a beer and cheddar dip as well as a brie and white wine offering. (Admittedly, the beer/cheddar wasn’t spectacular, though I still think the flavor was good.) We weren’t content with just cheese at this fondue extravaganza. With the help of another sister, we also had a white chocolate and cranberry fondue as well as a dark chocolate and caramel dip. Yum.

As if it wasn’t tempting enough to just eat our way through the cheeses and chocolates with a few large spoons, we had to go all out with the dippers.

First, because what brie can be served without fruit, there was a plate of apples and pears. The meat tray saw German sausage, lil’ smokies, and roasted chicken. We had broccoli and cauliflower available. For funsies I bought and roasted fingerling potatoes. Aside from the fact that they’re fun to say and super quick to cook, some of them are actually purple inside and out.  What’s not to love about that?

Still, what would fondue be without bread? Let’s not forget the platter with cubes of sour dough, whole wheat baguette, and pumpernickel as well as whole wheat pitas and honey wheat pretzel twists.

And for the chocolates? Bananas, strawberries, and two kinds of pound cake sat on one platter while biscotti and chocolate mint candies sat nearby.

Add a few lemon-raspberry shortbread tartlets and a ton of liquor and you’ve got the basic idea of my kitchen table. Not bad, huh?

Well, about 45 minutes into the world o’ cheese and wine, somehow someone ended up in my closet. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know.

While there, a wedding veil was discovered tucked up on a shelf. No, I don’t just own a wedding veil in case of emergencies. After her ceremony, Johanna had left her veil at the Bed and Breakfast in Vermont and, being the good MoH I am, I brought it home with me.  We just never got around to getting it back to her.

Upon the discovery of this wonderful and magical accessory, someone jokingly suggested that my sister try it on. Which she did. Inevitably, the sight of the wedding accessory got everyone talking about the wedding events of this summer. After a wistful sigh in which my sister expressed her own longing for having had such a great experience, someone speaking from a haze of blueberry vodka and Sprite suggested that we give her a bachelorette party now.

Now? A bachelorette party? With no planning? With no set agenda? With no warning? Yep. A bachelorette party.

Before I knew it, my closet was disassembled and anything remotely sexy or fancy was tossed about and tried on a variety of different bodies until everyone was wearing red or black (the fake wedding colors), and each person was made up, curled, and decked out in Mardi Gras beads (necessary to show that we were there together). Nice bags were pulled out of the closet with reverence. The card game “Never Have I Ever” made it into a bag on the way out. A veil was pinned in the hair of our false-bride. A wedding was quickly organized. The groom, a handsome commercial pilot, was thrilled about the upcoming nuptials. The wedding would be a small, romantic affair on New Year’s Eve. Just family and a few close friends, but held in a beautiful old church with an elegant reception to follow.

The “bridesmaids” were each armed with information about the groom, the wedding, and the bride’s favorite things. When this ragtag non-wedding wedding party arrived at the bar, we marched straight into the karaoke room, grabbed a few song books, and began to fill up the song sheets.

Before we knew it, heartfelt dedications were going out to the happy couple and their future. Drinks were being downed at an alarming rate and the “Never Have I Ever” confessions began bringing blushes in the most old fashioned of the group. (Ok, so that would be basically just me, but I blushed!)

A few hours later, with everyone drunk, dizzy, and delighted, we arranged for a ride home from the bar, afraid that the seven blocks might just be too much for us in our current condition. We made it safely home, picked up a few cute guys (as is necessary for any good bachelorette party—remember, ladies that just because the bride is off the market doesn’t mean you shouldn’t all enjoy the chance to look for love yourself!), and spent the next few hours talking about a variety of subjects ranging from inappropriate to bawdy and a little touch of “awww” thrown in for good measure.

The next morning, through a fog of hangovers and headaches, we pieced the night together. Between a few sober(ish) memories and the miracle of the digital camera, soon most of the night was put together. As the bridal party slowly made their way to the shower, one sloooow and painful step at a time, I threw together a fairly nice brunch from the fondue leftovers. (Ahem, say hello to a French Toast bread pudding with white chocolate, cranberry, and a touch of caramel sauce; home fried fingerling potatoes with broccoli; and an apple, pear, and orange fruit salad with lemon curd.)

All things considered, I was pretty impressed with the event. In fact, of all the fake bachelorette parties I’ve ever thrown, this may be my favorite. After all, we started with an elegant and fun dinner, we bonded with our shared mascara and dash to accessorize, we sang our hearts out and hit several group acts giving full honor to Cyndi Lauper and the other sirens of 80’s Girl Power, and we still managed to work in two boys and a brunch. Not a bad showing.

While it wasn’t exactly the same as an elegant bridal shower, I’d like to think that in some small way I’ve reached a karmic MoH balance. Anyone else in the mood to not get married?

Still, this is one of my favorite times of year and we should make the effort to enjoy it.  I’ve decorated my Christmas tree; I’ve made a wreath; I’ve covered my house in gingerbread men. 

I’m working on getting my gifts wrapped and under the tree (which is a bit silly given that I’m transporting them all tomorrow anyway).  At least they’ve all been purchased now.  I’ve delivered most of my baked treats and tonight I am finishing up a baked surprise for my sister. 

I’ve watched Nightmare Before Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the animated version), The Bishop’s Wife, and In The Good Old Summertime (yes, it really is a sort of Christmas movie) and I’m half-way finished with White Christmas.  I’ve listened to Alvin and the Chipmunks, lots and lots of Frank Sinatra, Harry Connick Junior, Bing Crosby, and sundry others.

I’ve worn jingle bell earrings, a Santa hat, my Christmas necklace, and some very fun holiday socks.  I’ve been in two holiday shows and I’ve spent a large amount of money on decorations.  Oh, and I even mailed out a good portion of my cards. That’s pretty Christmasy, don’t you think?

It’s been an interesting holiday season.  I’m not feeling as Christmasy as I usually do and there’s no explaining why.  I hope that tomorrow I will wake up as full of the spirit as I usually do.  Christmas Eve is actually far more fun for me than Christmas.  You get all of the family and food and drinks without the drama of presents.  People are in a better mood because the bulk of the stress is over.  The tree is still lovely and full of gifts without the torn paper every where.  The tummy aches haven’t even started yet.  It’s a good day.

So with that I wish you a Merry Christmas Eve Eve.  I hope tomorrow and Christmas are wondrous and beautiful.  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.