Curse those crafty little elves

I am in so much trouble.

Like serious, intervention-required, may-never-wear-anything-but-a-muu-muu-again trouble.

Look what those damn little elves have created:

No, they have not partnered with the devil that is the girl scout cookies.

THEY HAVE MADE THEIR OWN.

Available ALL. YEAR. LONG in the store.

It's bad enough that I buy them in the spring, hide them from the kids, and eat myself sick on them every year.

But now to have unfettered access to them anytime I want?

It's like selling meth at the corner gas station. Everything you need in one stop!

Don't they realize there are people like me out there, with no self control whatsoever? People on the verge of food suicide at all times of the day and night?

I am so dead.

Just look what happened on the ride home:

I think it's pretty safe to say that the evidence will likely be gone before dinner.

Monday confessional

In honor of the fact that today is Monday (and Mondays really are the black sheep of the Day family), I feel the need to share some of the dark thoughts that are lurking in my soul.

The soul that is particularly dark and cranky on this Monday. For several reasons.

First, having just spent a small fortune to have all the trees in my yard pruned and trimmed, plus a dead one removed, it is most disheartening to have a large branch break off during a freak thunderstorm yesterday. Because really? I just love spending money on stuff like dead trees. It's way more fun than on, say, furniture and clothes. Both of which could be purchased for the same price of stupid dead trees.

Second, is it just me or does anyone else find it annoying to log onto reader and see that the Pioneer Woman (though my hero she will always be) has written like four posts by eight a.m.? I swear. I can barely crank out two or three a week. That woman writes like eight posts a day. It's driving me batty. And not because I don't enjoy reading them. But because I feel the need to compete with everyone and every thing around me.

Third, I don't know what it is about the last few months, but I CANNOT. STOP. THE. EATING. It's getting way out of control and I need help. Please. Someone at church grab me by the extra-thick arms next week and tell me you are noticing how chubby I am getting and you wish I would stop. This gravy train has bought a one-way ticket to the next size up, and I am not sure how to stop it.

Fourth, I love the fall, but I really hate raking the leaves. And since we live in Del Boca Vista, every single one of our retired neighbors is out there, morning, noon and night. Raking, trimming, weeding, mulching. And, undoubtedly, pointing at our house and cursing. Not that I blame them - the leaves are piling up. But sheesh. How can one get in all the eating if one is supposed to be outside raking?

And, last, but not least, I am sick of my hair and need a hair suicide hotline that I can call. Remember two years ago what happened when I got sick of it? Please. Someone stop me before I do something drastic, like run into the salon, a Twinkee in each hand, and beg to get the Bruce Jenner.

Yeah. It's that bad.

Happy Effing Monday.

Eating our way through Beantown

Our trip to Boston was a return to what had once been our home. It was the place our family went from four to five. It was where we bought our first home, and lovingly furnished each tiny room with care. We have many cherished memories, each tucked away in the file cabinets of our hearts.

Eh, who are we kidding?

It was the place where I discovered this store:

Which sells the likes of these:

That alone is reason enough to visit.

I literally ate my way through Boston on this trip (and have the pounds on the scale to prove it). All the places I wanted to be sure and hit were restaurants and/or bakeries. Any historical landmarks or cultural exhibits were merely a secondary consideration.

We were there to eat, baby.

While walking through the North End with a box (and a belly) full of cannolis from the famous Mike's Pastry Shop, the heat became a little too much for Miss Hannah. We had been walking the Freedom Trail for what seemed like an eternity, and she had reached her breaking point.

When Josh spied a pedicab on the street, he wisely put his two girls in it - opting to walk back to the hotel with the boys, who immediately began complaining vigorously at the injustice of it all.

Eyeballing the rather slender form of our pedicab driver, the following conversation took place:

Me: Are you sure I'm not too heavy for this thing?

Him: Nah. Are you underestimating these thighs?

Me: No. I think you are underestimating these thighs.

Him: Yeah, that box of cannolis can really weigh you down.

Me: You have no idea.

But he huffed and he puffed, and got us back to our hotel without collapsing or needing to call an ambulance.

Though I am pretty sure that any more days there and I would have needed one myself.

Food heaven, food coma, food baby.

Yum.

Help me, please

I have lost something of critical value and I have no idea where it went.

What did I lose, you ask?

I have lost my Motivation.

And I can't seem to find it, no matter how hard I look. I know it's around here somewhere. The last I saw of it was right around the 1st of January, but it definitely hasn't been seen much since. I've looked in all the usual places -- in my ever-tightening pants, in my bulging muffin top, and even in my backside in the full-length mirror.

And still, that wily Motivation is nowhere to be found.

Some days I do pretty well without it. I almost always start the day off on the right foot. I have a bowl of healthy cereal, and follow that up by a sweaty run on the treadmill. But then at about ten-thirty (or eleven-thirty, or two-thirty, or really any-thirty...), all sense of strength leaves me as I remember the leftover cake in the freezer. Or when I see the pan of brownies on the counter. Or when I have a party made up entirely of desserts, come to think of it.

And, lord help me, but I know those girl scout cookies I ordered are going to be in my pantry any day now.

So if you see my Motivation anywhere, please let me know. I really need to find her soon. I know she'll want to be here to help when her step-cousin, Regret, shows up to visit this summer at the pool.

And it goes without saying that Regret is the worst house guest of them all.

**What do you do to keep your Motivation from sneaking off for a six-month holiday?

My Alibi

We interrupt the smorgasbord of photos this week to bring you up to speed on a crime that has occurred in the Casa de Stie.

You see, there was one last slice of red velvet cake (delicious recipe courtesy of the Pioneer Woman Cookbook) left sitting on my kitchen counter.

I was not tempted to eat it because I was swamped this morning.

I was out. Yeah, that's it.

It's been so busy around here - what with me running five half-marathons to raise money for the American Cafeteria Worker's Association.

As you can see, someone snuck into our house and nibbled a corner off the top, right by the delicious chocolate bits.

I didn't see a thing. I was teaching a seminar at Harvard on the importance of flossing.

And then, just when we thought they were done, it happened again.

While I was out last night helping to deliver my friend Maren's new (and very unexpected) baby, suddenly, and without warning, the criminal came back to even out the missing bite in a vain attempt to hide their crime.

FOR SHAME.

Taking an even bolder step, our shameless perpetrator returns ONCE AGAIN to the scene of the crime and steals a little bit more, not bothering at all this time to disguise the thievery. If only I could provide you a description so a sketch could be made and a nationwide search undertaken.

But I was busy giving singing lessons to Zach Effron. He really needed someone with vocal talents like mine to help his weak and untrained voice take song.

Alas! Today when I got home from building the new children's hospital all by myself, I noticed that the remaining lovely chocolate bits were gone. The delicious cream cheese frosting-covered cake is but a remnant of her former red velvety self. WHAT TO DO? Will this madness ever stop?

Ladies and gentlemen, I fear for the safety of food in my kitchen. For as I was working on a cure for cancer in Tanzania, we were robbed again. Who is this horrible person? Plowing through our lives and leaving a ragged wake of gluttony behind?

WILL WE EVER FEEL SAFE AGAIN?

I am afraid there is no hope left at this point. All is lost. What would have been a delicious after-dinner treat is now nothing but a lone bite on a platter. But who, WHO would do such a thing? I only wish I'd been here to see something. But I was at the local animal shelter, helping to pioneer a new surgery for dogs that will allow them to learn how to read. It's going to be quite groundbreaking, you know.

BUT THE CAKE? WHO KEEPS EATING THE CAKE?

Oh dear. It's all over now. If only I hadn't decided to donate my kidney this morning to Severus Snape. And if only I hadn't been asked at the last minute to perform BOTH operations while juggling for the Ringling Brothers circus, I might have been here to stop the devilish mastermind from stealing the last bite.

WOE IS ME.

Wait. What's that, you say? I have something red in my teeth?

Oh, well, it's probably just that, uh, um...apple I ate earlier. Yeah, that's it. An apple. It was delicious, too. I got it from the President in recognition for my great work with the new program I developed to help homeless veterans become zoo workers across America.

I love my charity work. It's so rewarding. Helps comfort me in these difficult times.

[Note to self: They're on to you. Best be baking up another one to throw them off the case.]

I am three days sober. Pass me a celebratory donut, will you?

Hi. My name is Christie, and I am a food-a-holic.

Hi, Christie.

(That was your line, by the way)

I have spent the better part of the last six months indulging my inner she-devil. You know the one. The one that convinces you it will be okay to make just one more batch of cookies. Or brownies. Or an 8,000-calorie coconut cake, for that matter.

I have also given her full reign over the restaurant menus and ordered things that were decidedly not green. Things that were chock-full of delicious carbs and fat. Things that were served with a side order of french fries. Buried under a mound of cheese. Topped with a half-gallon of sauce. Smothered in sugar and ice cream. Deep fried and wrapped in a chocolate burrito.

You get the point.

She has been my long-time companion, sitting idly on my shoulder, shouting out her temptations. And, true to form, that devilish fiend was nowhere to be found one morning when I questioned her judgement after not being able to button up my favorite jeans. She's such a fair weather companion, that one. Always ready to help me pile on the pounds; not around to take any of the blame.

So, I boldly stared at my chubby face in the mirror, and said ENOUGH.

And that was three days ago.

With three days under my belt, I can now remember that it feels good to eat well. I find myself much more able to crawl out of bed in the morning to face life (and the scale) when I'm eating healthy. I have more energy. I feel prettier. And let's face it: I'm a nicer wife and mom.

I know that I am a food addict. I crave the bad food. I dream about it. I experience a rush of pleasure every time I indulge myself in it. And, sadly, when the rush ends and all that remains is a belly ache, I feel the guilt. I feel sick. I hate myself. I have battled this demon most of my life and know how the cycle plays itself out. And still, knowing that never seems to make it any easier. It's just hard.

When your penchant runs to food, you can't eliminate the addiction from your life. You have to manage it, reason with it, and keep it in bounds. It's hard to abstain when you have to eat a little of your drug of choice every day to survive. When you have to prepare it for others.

So I'm taking it one day at a time (and sometimes, one hour at a time). I'm determined to do this. I'm going to get this beast back in her cage before the real demon rears its ugly head: HALLOWEEN CANDY BARS.

Lord give me strength.

"Ugh, I think I can actually hear you getting fatter"

[Anyone know the classic movie where that line comes from? I do. And every time I watch it, it makes me laugh so hard a little pee comes out.]

To say the scale has not been my friend the last few days would be a bit of an understatement.

That damn thing hasn't been my friend for a good two weeks.

It really isn't shocking or unexpected. There have been more than a few rounds of cookie dough. There have been cakes and pans of brownies. There have been endless bowls of my fabulous homemade guacamole (a recipe which I really ought to share with you one of these days). And I'm not sure, but I think I may or may not have eaten 1,873 pounds of M&Ms.

I am feeling it and I am not happy with that feeling. To make matters worse, we leave in three days for a little vacay in Hawaii wherein I was planning on looking seductive and trampy on the beach. Not lumpy and fat on the beach.

But, I've not lost heart. I am going to give the next three days my best effort and see if I can drop a pound or two.

Failing that, I'll just drown my sorrows in a super-sized tub of cookie dough, buy a muu-muu, and tell my trainer it wasn't my fault when I get back.

Sound good?

Shut up.

What's the cure for a sugar hangover?

Let's just say there's a football game on television that happens once a year. You invite some friends over to watch it on your husband's ridiculously large t.v. You spend the day filling your belly with things like fresh guacamole, sugar cookies, Swedish meatballs, and chocolate cake. [Curse that Pioneer Woman and her satanically-delicious chocolate sheet cake.]

You then plant yourself in front of the television, balancing a large plate of food on your knees. You have foolishly left your buffet unattended, knowing the pitter-patter of little feet overhead is the children gorging themselves on sugar.

And about thirty minutes into the game, the shrieking and fits of hysterical laughter coming from their direction confirms this very thing.

But you allow it because, after all, it's the Super Bowl. It's a once-a-year phenomenon. It's the only time you ever sit down in front of a football game with your husband (but let's be honest, you're really only there for for the commercials). You pretend to care about field goals and touch downs while you daydream and drool over the back and front sides of Kurt Warner.

You cheer when that one guy goes running across the big green field and scores some points. You feel mildly annoyed when there's a pit in your stomach, as you root for the guys in the red and white uniforms to win.

You console your husband when they don't.

Then you send your husband off on a business trip with a plate full of snacks for the ride. You happily start chatting with your friend Shiloh, and look up to find that the clock says almost two in the morning. You mentally count the hours until you have to be up and going, and realize it's very few.

You decide to eat one last sugar cookie. Because at two in the morning? Sugar cookies are always a good idea.

You go to bed with horrible heartburn and swear yourself off sugar forever. Then after what feels like minutes, your alarm is startling you from sleep. You rouse the troops and find they are faring no better than you:


Except for one, who has the constitution of his father and doesn't seem to need, require, or care for little trifles like sleep:

[ Seen here opening his birthday presents yesterday - a few days early due to the Husband's trip this week]

You forget your self-imposed ban against sugar and decide a cookie for breakfast is the cure for what ails you. You wash it down with a diet coke.

Oddly, it doesn't make you feel any better.

You pledge to never combine football and sugar cookies again, and wonder if your friend Becky would lend you her extra special elastic-waist pants.

And that, dear friends, is how you experience the Super Bowl. In case you were wondering.