Wednesday Weigh-in

You can't help but become obsessed with the scale when you do W.W. That probably isn't good, because the point should be health, not pounds, but let's face it: we all compete with ourselves to lose just a little more.  So this week, it was two pounds gone. With Mother's Day brunch and our wedding anniversary in there, that's not bad.

I've learned in these five months that variety isn't my friend. A few things work for me, and if I don't stick with them, I stall or go backwards. For instance, an English muffin with real, unsalted butter and sugar free orange marmalade is breakfast.  That would seem to contradict most diet advice, except the one that says eat your bread for the day in the morning.  I don't eat margarine. Keep your body as chemical free as you can. A little butter, and I do mean little, is OK for me. And hot tea. Irish Breakfast Tea (Twinings) is delicious. You do not need sugar or milk. In fact, let your taste buds learn the taste of real tea, hot or cold, not sweet tea, and especially not tea with a chemical sweetener.

You would think fruit, orange juice, yogurt, oatmeal, etc. would be better. I've tried to cut out milk products (all those vitamins can be obtained in a healthier way in vegetables,) and milk contributes to swelling and bloat. Orange juice is generally a diet advice no-no (eat an orange,) and I do eat fruit, mostly apples and berries, throughout the day. 

By the way, I am definitely not a diet guru, unlike that wonderful Dr. Oz. who hustles coffee pills on-line (what a scam) and that dear Katy Holmes who shills for coffee pills, too. (Katy, really, how could you? I was 100% behind you in that Tom Cruise debacle, but I guess a girl needs to make a buck where she can. But coffee pills?) I am just telling you what has worked for me.

You can Google, so be proactive and check out everything for yourself. Doctors seldom learn much about diet and nutrition in med school, so it is fair to check what they tell you (if they tell you anything at all) for yourself. If they tell you nothing and offer you a new pill FOR ANYTHING, its time to teach yourself about your body chemistry. Pills have their place, but they aren't a cure-all or health substitute. But you knew that already.

 I am thinking of my dear friend recovering from chemo, who no longer produces enough white blood cells to fight off infection, and whose heart is pumping at about 50%. This lovely lady spends most of her days in bed, dowses all food in salt, and prefers red meat, fried foods, and everything eggy and cheesy. And she is tiny, so it is not a weight issue - it is a nutrition issue, exactly the one that killed my father at a young age and will get her if she  just waits to be given another pill. That's what she is doing now. She had a heart attack preceding this cancer, and swears no one lectured her about the role of salt. Lordy, lordy. Maybe so, maybe not. There is also willful ignorance.

I am less hungry than I used to be. I am satisfied with a lot less food, which is probably because my stomach has shrunk and also because  my brain  expects less after five months of repetition.It was a nice surprise.

Enough  rants from me. In the future, lunch, dinner, snacks, chocolate and the Nutri-Bullet, not necessarily in that order.  For now, it's a beautiful day!

I'm baaaack...and yes, it has been a long time

     Monday:     Last December 20( my birthday) I committed my life to Weight Watchers, and I was born again, to a world of counting points, portion control, and joy and grief over a couple of ounces gained or lost. Thus is my blog reborn, to follow my trials, tribulations and insights gained from eating more spinach and apples than I thought grew on this planet and connecting with the vast sister and brotherhood slogging their way through body change with me, which seems to be nearly everyone.

       I did WW before, at meetings, getting on their scales, etc, but this is on-line and as anonymous

as you want it to be, which is perfect for me. In just under five months (today is May 13) I have lost 37 pounds, which isn't too impressive when you consider that is less than half my goal, but I now wear a 14 instead of a 24, lost a shoe size (!) and a couple of ring sizes.  The epiphany that got me started? The announcement of my high school 50th reunion on Oct 5, 2013.

       You have to understand that when I was in high school. I didn't break the 100 lb. mark until my senior year.  For years, going over 103 meant it was time to put on my "fat" clothes, and years later- in my early 30's, in fact, I was still buying size 6 and sometimes shopping in the children's department. By the time I was pregnant with my first child (I was pushing 40,) I bought regular size 10's as maternity clothes, and those full, Laura Ashley bloomer-ish jumper suits, with their fluffy roses that made me look like a small sofa, carried me all the way to my second child at 41.

         Then all hell broke loose. Off and on, up and down, once even 60 pounds off on some crazy pills-and protein bars regimen, but finally, just up, up and away.

         I won't be the fattest woman in the room at my 50th.  At my 45th,  although everyone was very nice, not being recognized because of my weight was awful. You have to understand that I had the misfortune to go to high school with many beauties, and age did not wreak havoc on many of them.  Most, in fact. 

          My goal is definitely not my high school weight.  Not only would that be impossible, but downright unhealthy. A nice size 10 will be fine.

 See you Wednesday!

Pick Up Your Feet, Mother

     I viewed this trip to England and Ireland with some trepidation, considering my decline in agility and my use of a cane. Surely the land of Miss Marple would be prepared for the plucky senior citizens out there who could not vault over waist high hotel bathtubs or sprint down and endless airport hall to the recorded voice telling her that in ten minutes, if you she has not  reached the gate, the poor old thing's  bags will be removed from the plane.  That from the amazingly hostile Dublin airport.
     So, it is a mixed review. London cabs are almost unbroachable without humiliating yourself, but that's O.K., because you can't flag one down anyway, and if you do, they are beyond expensive.
Hurling yourself upward and onto the jump seat can work minimally, in that you will be inside the cab when it moves forward, but barely.
     Elevator options for access to places like subway platforms are at best here and there.  A major tube stop will begin with an optional elevator down to the first level platform, but the next level is accessed by escalator.  Great. And the next level?  Steep long stairs only.  Go figure.  And an accessible hotel room?  An elevator, of course, followed by stairs down the to the room's doorway.
     Tops for grin and bear it situations are restaurant bathrooms. Of course there are stairs up to dining, since the ground floor is often the pub level. And from there to the restrooms?  Often laughably narrow and steep stairs - and perhaps circular to add insult to injury -  dating back a couple of centuries  or more.  The prize winner was in a very stylish restaurant and inn on the site of the former royal goat pasture in the heart of London. The youthful staff looked at me with such horror that they must never have had to deal with such a circumstance.  But in true British fashion, they recovered nicely and followed me up and preceded me down from the loo, in case I should fall.  I guess then only the help would be harmed, should I topple .
     Perhaps the most culturally eye opening moment was on may way into Ireland, where the airline employees - those who weren't tongue tied by self-importance - addressed me as "Mother."  Old Mother McCree, do ya think, now? Really, they need to get over it.
     In spite of the reality of the inconvenience, a cane had some very self serving benefits. Beginning in  Atlanta airport security, and continuing through Heathrow passport control, we were advanced to the head of every line. Whenever we were faced with a line, my husband began whispering "wave the cane,"as the open sesame. It generally worked, and "Mother" was not above playing her trump card every time. 
    

I forgot the most important part !

     In my saga of the last few days, reported in part in the previous blog, I forgot Ava! Smart Ava! House manager Ava! Our black lab, who keeps us running  and organized, became ill on the day we viewed the house we are buying.  Really ill.  Throwing up and everything else for two days.  To the hospital, i.v.'s, tests, prayers, hand wringing. Not only do we need her, our other dog, Timmy needs her.  Ava is the alpha dog. Timmy can't eat without her.  He waits patiently while she finishes her dinner before approaching the dog dish.  When it's his turn,  he methodically cleans his plate, just as she taught him. Without anyone to tell him when it was his mealtime, he was perplexed. His sad face was sadder than ever. He picked at his food, and with Ava spending the night at the vet's, he burrowed under a quilt and slept. He had no pal to offer the priceless gift of his beloved owl toy, or a friend for a bedtime tug of war.

     A virus. No blockage, no cancer, nothing that medicine and a few days won't cure. Joyous homecoming. Ava slept on my feet, her four paws sticking up in the air in her posture of bliss. Timmy pushed his blunt little nose onto my pillow, snoring peacefully.  The world was back on its axis. I clung to the edge of the mattress.  There are more important things than a good night's sleep.

I'm baaaack....

     Actually, I have been back for about two weeks, but I guess life was just waiting around to pounce on me. Hence the long  blogging delay.
       London was fun, but so overbuilt and overcrowded that I hardly knew it. And we moved fast. No opportunity for jet lag. Did I say "move fast ?" Our "friends lunch" began the visit with 3 hours of food and conversation ( at the Grazing Goat Inn) followed by a flash cab trip (if 30 minutes can be called flash) to the Tate Modern to see the Edvard Munch exhibit. Then another race across London for another firiend's get together  dinner before collapsing. More details about the England segment later, including Stonehenge and Salisbury. And photos, as soon as I learn how to insert them.
      On to Ireland. Gatwick: patrolling phalanxes of police in body armor, bearing full automatic weapons and accompanied by German shepherds.  Standard, we were told. Arriving in tiny Knock Ireland, a different story. We are ushered through the airport, not much more than a doublewide, as the lights are turned off behind us as we go.  Customs?  Passport control?  Don't bother.

And then the drive to our hosts home, somewhere near Ballinifad (A bend, literally, in the road on the western coast).  Let's just say our hosts are athletic. They ski. He bikes, they hike. Everywhere. South America, Canada, Taos, you name it.  If I thought about a cozy chair by a peat fire was in my future, forget it.  Also visiting at the same time, a pro skier who was off into the mountains for a couple of hours on a bike every morning. And these are  lovely, kind, generous people. Just really, really energetic people. And the land... Beautiful and wild doesn't describe it.  The mountains strewn with tumbled jutting rocks, the Atlantic, a fiord, of all things, and sheep, sheep, and more sheep.  The wild ponies of Connemara. Details in the future.
       I am finally getting to the point of this blog, about what held me up during these two weeks at home post trip. About a day and a half after returning home, we found that the property next door was for sale.  We have suffered for years with a  bad owner and a succession of worse renters. I longed and prayed to own this house and it's acre of woods.  The seller had just dropped the price by a whopping amount.  A bad sign, and a strong clue she wanted a bidding war, to pay off an unmanageable mortgage debt. 
     That Sunday (last Sunday, actually) we got our realtor and took a tour of the poor misused little place.  Sunday we also wrote an earnest money check. Monday - no go. She wants all cash. There is already someone who will pay it. And they want to flip it.  No!  More headaches for us, guaranteed. Could we beat their cash offer?  Of course no one tells you what it is. Could we pull that kind of cash out of our assets on short notice? And so close to retirement, too. I felt like I was being asked to ransom a family member.  That property shares our  property line on the south, with the house so close to the common fence that it feels related anyway.
       Yeah, we gave in. I wonder if we are expected to attend the closing with a suitcase stuffed with  cash.

Lots more to come.
     

D (depart) Day

     Two and a half hours before we leave for the airport for our flight to London. My husband has just put his giant load of laundry in the dryer.  Laundry that he plans to wear on the trip. Laundry that has to dry and be packed. Meanwhile, I am packed, dressed, even wearing makeup. Estee Lauder 16 Hour - safe to wear this early because you have to crack it like a three minute egg to make it move. The husband in question is in search of a present for our hostess in Ireland (I suggested a Georgia wine a few weeks ago.  He hated the idea but didn't come up with anything else, so Kennesaw's finest it is.)
     By the time we leave, I will be a nervous wreck and my husband will be calm and relaxed. Au revoir, y'all.  Be back with you all too soon!

From the Inconstant Blogger (Didn't Spencer say that?)

    Regrettably, that title is too accurate. I have been distracted from my blogging and almost everything else lately by travel plans. I would almost always prefer to plan a trip than do anything else - even write.
     Some time ago, one of my husband's friends began to encourage us to come visit him and his wife at their "getaway", which he built near a remote village in western Ireland.  A getaway from his places in Paris and New England, that is. After much waffling (not by me) so that the trip would include visits to as many of my husband's U.K. friends as possible, we picked the fairly short notice date of midSeptember, when Ireland was assured of being windy, wet and chilly, just as it is the other  twelve months of the year, but when London friends would also be available.
     I have been to to the U.K. several times, went to Exeter U. for some International Law studies, and traveled pretty much the length and breadth of that beautiful island, but my husband has been once, and only to London, which is like saying that you've been to America, and only New York City.
      This time we will go on the train to Salisbury to visit the Cathedral and marvel at the original Magna Carta and the first clock, and make a side trip to Stonehenge. We will dine with a vicar friend in a poor parish somewhat south and west of that, in his 500 year old farmhouse.
      Let's hope the household plumbing has been updated.  I cringe at sounding like a prissy tourist. I have traveled to places where the "loo" is a hole in the floor, so this will be better. And my daughter tops that, reminding me of the months she lived in remote Sikkim, high in the Himalayas, with only an unlit "pee ravine" where one balanced on two boards above a rocky-sided ravine, day or night, all weather.
     But, not to dwell on plumbing. I am already packing my bags because it takes a lot more planning and materiel than it did when I threw a few things in a bag just hours before departure. I expect I will be on a travel thread for awhile before I refocus on writing issues. Consider it research.