Winning the food wars.

breadwar If I’ve learned anything in the first few weeks of talking openly on social media about my personal journey from obesity to a healthy weight, it’s that individual opinions on food choices, diet and weight loss are so unbelievably diverse, trying to discuss them publicly is a little bit like stepping into a crowded auditorium where everybody is trying to talk at once.

No matter who has the mic, nobody gets the floor. 

That said, when we talk openly on social media about anything (yes, anything), we invite responses. Social media is nothing if not a dialogue. If you’re lucky, it’s an orderly one. No argument there.

But I have to wonder whether a journey like this may be too personal to share quite so openly.

My choices will never line up completely with anybody else’s. My food choices are of the most interest and consequence to precisely three people: me, myself and I. Even my fellow “winners at losing” in Weight Watchers have to find their own way, within a program that affords so much flexibility of choice.

Sharing our successes is a good thing. We can encourage and inspire one another, learn by watching other people figure out what works for them, and go on to find what works for us, through trial and error. I’ve a hunch this is something done most successfully in the company of like minded people, narrowing the universe of opinions on What To Eat to a handful.

For me, fewer competing voices = less anxiety. If I am anxious and can’t get un-anxious, I will probably overeat. A lot. A LOT a lot. 

The more I can focus on my individual approach, defining and refining it in the company of others who also move in the Weight Watchers universe, the less distracted I’ll be. (As previously noted in this this blog, I go all ADD around food). I’ve got to be able to make inquiries and mistakes in a room where one person at a time gets the mic.

In other words, not on social media. 

Yes, believe I can do this, lose a hundred pounds or more, but for a while it’s going to be a private battle. When I have a success story worth sharing, three months or three years from now, odds are I’ll be up for talking about it more openly, in hopes of inspiring other people in their own journey back to health. There will be no woo-woo science or shortcuts to share when I get where I’m going. I like major change about as much as the next late-forty-something person. Tried bariatric surgery once, but it didn’t stick. (I secretly expected a cure.) Knowing what doesn’t work is at least as valuable as knowing what does. The forty pounds I lost, well, I found them again in a year’s time.

So that’s not my path. It may be yours, and if so, HOORAY!

There is room enough for all of us to find what works.

No more food wars. There is no win or lose.

Find YOUR food sanity and follow it.

Peace for the journey, friends.


image: Dzine Blog


Little Debbie is my pusher.


I’ve never been one to go to the grocery store without a list in hand. All that food in one place just overwhelms me.

I go all ADD in the supermarket. 

Back in my Big Girl Pants and Still Don’t Care days (a mere month and a half ago), there’d be times when half that handy list consisted of the unhealthy foods I planned to bring home and inhale.

Shopping and eating like that is a dramatically mood altering experience. 

Don’t let them tell you food isn’t a drug for some of us. That’s BUNK. For folks hooked on sugar, fat and refined flour (me and quite possibly you) in large quantities, these things go straight to the pleasure centers in the brain. The same hippy-happy places that respond to recreational drugs.

For us, my dumplings, they are drugs. And the supermarket is full of them.

So your grocery list is a necessary bit of armor. Your pal and protector. Sure, you might exit the store looking like a deer caught in klieg lights, but you’re less likely to be packing contraband carbohydrates. And if they aren’t in your kitchen (or hidden beneath your bed or stashed in any of your favorite secret places), you can’t eat them.

I know. All of this is scary. I’m goose bumping right now, and not in a good way.

Truth? I eat an occasional donut if I’m out, but I no longer bring them home. I count and log the Weight Watchers points and am relieved to remember that pastry is NOT better than kisses, or the love of a friend, the pleasure of a nap or the feel of summer grass beneath my feet. .

Not by a longshot.

So hang on. It gets better.

The scale, she lies.


That’s right, you heard me.

The scale lies.

I have daintily survived on little more than mouthfuls of air and water for the last 10 hours. How is it possible I am five pounds heavier now than I was at 7 a.m.?

What kind of voodoo science is that?

I barely passed high school science. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around whatever twist of diabolical biochemistry explains this. Yes, I was warned that weight fluctuates. As much as five pounds, depending on the time of day. But whatever gremlins live in my scale are having a fancy pants field day with me.

Forget science, it’s gremlins. Gremlins, I tell ya!

Time to put the scale away, maybe. This is not about the numbers on the scale. It’s bigger than that. Yes it is.

Speaking of which, how big AM I anyway? If this is a blog about weight loss, why haven’t I disclosed that yet? It’s coming. For now, let’s say I’m closer to 300 pounds to 200 pounds.

And that’s saying a lot.

Come Saturday morning, the good folks at Weight Watchers will measure the effect of gravity on my body. Maybe those scale gremlins are nicer than the ones at my house. If not, there’s a knuckle sandwich with their name on it.

Open wide, suckers!

It’s enough to make a vegetable blush.


The world is full of veggie fans and fanatics. Bless their hearts.

I hate vegetables.

Make that most vegetables.

The way these Veg Heads rhapsodize over Plants You Can Eat, why it’s enough to make a vegetable positively blush. “Make your plate a beautiful rainbow!” they hoot. “This season’s rhurbab is positively gorgeous!” they purr, high-fiving one another in their sincere and utterly un-ironic praise of Plants You Can Eat.

Fine. Put it in a pie and we’ll talk.

I realize that owning up to lifelong hatred of vegetables, especially the green ones (shudder), is publicly outing myself as at least a little bit cranky, fussy, and probably petulant. Truth? I would rather eat chocolate anything, any day of the week, than a Plant That Still Looks Like A Plant.

Bread is technically made of plants (wheat), but you don’t SEE the wheat. They process the pants off it before it ever sees the likes of a twist tie. The way God intended!

No, overly processed foods aren’t generally good for you. But those are the foods that make ME blush. Put down my pasta and you might make it out alive.

Even you unrepentant Veg Heads. 

Friends, I pledge honesty on My Big Girl Pants. If I can’t be real with you, delivering the straight dope, why are we even here?

No, really. Why?

This is a journey. My journey, plantar warts and all. Sinatra sang “I Did It My Way”, and if it’s good enough for the Chairman of the Board, it’s good enough for me. There will be more Sinatra quotes. You’ve been warned.

My Big Girl is hat is on, the fat phasers set to stun.

Dare to dream with me of a day when I willingly eat Plants That Still Look Like Plants. I may never make a vegetable blush, but I can introduce it to some sinful chocolate sauce and see what happens.

After all, even a rutabaga has to live a little.

image: LiveJournal

I am the Donut Queen.


I’d like to live in a house made of donuts.

Yes, those deep-fried, hole in the middle, doughy cakes made for dunking. Why not? A very large house of donuts, thank you very much. A mansion, even! With a garden made of donuts, and a pond nearby for a proper dunking, al fresco.

Donuts may be the fare of the common man, but I’ve never aspired to highfalutin’ food. The cheaper the better. Cheaper by the dozen, in fact.

I’ve earned the Donut Queen crown. I shall wear it with pride, and a side of baby carrots. It’s perfectly OK to think about donuts, my dears. Daydreams never hurt a girl, did they?

I just don’t HAVE to eat donuts every day anymore. Seriously? It’s a relief.

Lose along with me, the best is yet to be!

Photo: Pinterest

Big jeans, bile beans and me.


At 49, I’ve been wearing big girl pants for most of my adult life.

Big girl jeans.

Big girl sweatpants.

Big girl leggings.

Big girl jeggings. (About as scary as they sound).

Frankly, I’m tired of the big girl pants.

No more bile beans for ME, mister!

Follow along as I chronicle the changing of my pants.

Photo: Pinterest