Today is the second day of my road to recovery. I’ve signed up for Weight Watchers Online — and I’m actually logging every bite that goes in my mouth. Since yesterday, I’ve discovered a major source of previously unidentified calories — the boys’ leftovers. Case in point: I had to force myself to march to the garbage with a completely untouched warm brownie earlier today. Sam insisted it was the only thing he could stomach for lunch, then took one look, wrinkled his nose and asked, “It’s chocolate?”

“Yes, son…It’s a brownie,” I said flatly. “They’re always chocolate.”

“I not like it,” he shrugged. Turning away, he tossed over his shoulder, “Just throw it away.”

I stared down at its warm, gooey, goodness. It begged me to take just one tiny bite. I picked up the carton and read the completely sickening nutritional information. How many calories for this one (giant) brownie??? One forkful would pack at least 50 calories. Hmmm…I grabbed a fork, took one quick bite (What? Am I made of stone?), then I flipped the bowl upside down and squashed it deep into the garbage can. Disaster averted. Well…mostly. It could definitely have been worse.

Tonight we’re having a Mexican-inspired brown rice casserole with grilled pork tenderloin. Tomorrow night, I think I’ll add a few veggies, the leftover pork, some garlic, ginger and soy sauce to the plain rice I set aside and tell the boys it’s pork fried rice — while I make do with mostly veggies.

With a little luck and a LOT of willpower, I plan to be back in my cute jeans by fall. Twenty pounds is a big scary number, but at least I’ve stopped the downhill slide and am on my way back to a healthier, more comfortable me.

Got any favorite healthy recipes or diet tips? I’m all ears. In the same boat and want a buddy? Shoot me an e-mail and we’ll suffer through together. I may be too late to salvage swimsuit season, but just watch me rock a turtleneck this winter.

Jack ended my trip down memory lane when he looked up at me and said in an awestruck voice, “Mom, you were so beautiful when you were young!”

Standing there in my oversized pajamas with my head full of unwashed hair, I managed to muster a grin and say, “Thank you, baby. That’s so sweet of you to say.”

Now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to go book a facelift and full-body liposuction. Barring that, looks like a diet and exercise regimen is definitely on my New Year’s To-Do List.

After I gave my mom the Beachcomber Shawl that I miraculously churned out in 6 short days of frantic knitting (worked in between wiping bottoms and folding laundry, so it looks like it was knitted by a highly distracted 8-year-old), I gave her a little gift-tin of Rosebud Salve. I thought she might enjoy it, since I’m pretty sure I have her to thank for my propensity toward chapped lips and sandpaper hands. Well, she was more appreciative than I expected. In fact, she actually gasped and said she couldn’t wait to show her brother and sister what I’d given her.

“They won’t believe you found this after all these years!” she exclaimed happily.

“You mean you’ve used this before?” I asked. Here I was thinking I’d practically invented the stuff, and she proceeds to tell me that growing up in the years prior to the discovery of antibiotics, Rosebud Salve had functioned as the closest thing people had to medicine. It was used for minor cuts, burns, and general skin complaints due to extreme heat or cold. ***

I don’t know about you, but anything that’s been awesome for over 100 years deserves to be on your list of staple items. I keep a stockpile on hand at all times, because you never know when a chapped lip will strike. It’s also fantastic for cracked cuticles, chapped hands, rough heels and elbows, and helps sooth most minor cuts, scratches and burns. If it did laundry and wiped bottoms……………….

Whoops! Sorry for the pause there, but I was lost in a happy daydream. Anyhow, you can find it on Amazon by itself or in the cutesy tin I gave mother. Throw out the Carmex and give your Chapstick the boot. Once you try this stuff, please feel free to come back and thank me for the awesome recommendation. I promise not to say I told you so.

***I’d just like to point out that having a mother who lived through the Great Depression made typical teen complaints absolutely impossible. “But mama, EVERYBODY has a [insert overpriced fad item here]” was met with a snort of derision followed by a listing of what she got for Christmas in 1934 — a peppermint stick (still her favorite candy), her own tin cup (so she didn’t have to share with her brothers and sisters at meal times) and a rubber ball (hands down the best toy you can ever present to any kid, male or female). On the bright side, I do appreciate the little things more. In fact, when I say my prayers of thanksgiving, I have to tell myself that God probably doesn’t need to be reminded of how much I appreciate toilet paper and central heating. But occasionally I throw that in anyway, because I’d hate for Him to think they were optional for me. Thanks for the added quirks, Mom!!!

Ungaro Spring 2010 | Tom and Lorenzo – The #1 Project Runway Blog.

I bought a pair of tall boots today and some closed-toed flats, determined that this year would be the year I managed to stay one step ahead of the weather. My usual m.o. is to wait until the first cold snap, frantically dig through my closet for warm clothes, choose the least stained, least faded ones with the fewest holes and then use them to limp through until the first big sale of the season. Then I skim through everyone else’s leftovers hoping there’s something left in my size. If it’s remotely flattering, I consider it a bonus.

Not this year! I declared. This year will be different. And it certainly has been, but not in a good way. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve found a few things (primarily in the shoe department), but for the most part I’ve held myself back. Not only because there’s a whole heck of a lot of fugly out there, but also because I’ve gained some weight — quite a bit of weight, in fact. Enough to take me up an entire size from where I was at this time last year.

I wish I could say it’s the first time such a thing has happened to me. But it isn’t. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not. In fact, I’m just as surprised this go round as I have been every time I’ve discovered that those sneaky little pounds have once again crept back around my mid-section.

I’ll pause here to acknowledge what some of you are saying:

“Stop trying to look like a movie star or a model. They’re airbrushed to unattainable perfection.” Agreed, and that’s never been an aspiration of mine.

“Well then, you should just learn to accept yourself as you are and tell yourself that you’re beautiful at any size.” This is a lovely thought, and I absolutely agree with it in principle. In fact, it’s the philosophy I adopted for most of my twenties. I tried not to think about my weight as a number on the scale, going so far as to refuse to own one for many years. But as my pants size crept from 10 to 12 to 14, I started to feel slightly alarmed. And when my largest pants would no longer button, I realized I was on a slippery slope to obesity, and worried about the health problems that awaited me if I didn’t stop myself from continuing down this path.

Why can’t I find a happy medium and stick with it? I’m not sure, but I can tell you one thing. I have never in my life felt full. I’ve felt bloated. I’ve felt overstuffed. I’ve even felt sick from overeating. But at each of those stages, there was always room for just one more bite. A bit of dessert. A sip of Mountain Dew. Or just one more taste of the oversized entree that should have served two, but instead stuffed one.

Of course stress is a factor — if for no other reason than the stressor occupies my thoughts to such a degree that it inhibits my paying attention to what I’ve eaten. But to blame stress entirely is to allay responsibility…and ultimately I can control my weight. I just don’t always choose to put in the effort it requires.

I’ve gone through my closet, found the least faded, least stained items with the fewest holes only to realize — surprise, surprise — they don’t fit!! And I keep refusing to buy new warm clothes because I don’t want to have to buy a larger size. Such a quandary! What on earth is a big girl to do?

My current answer is Weight Watchers Online, coupled with a removal of all simple sugars (Yes, I’m talking about my Fountain Mountain Dew — and chocolate. GAH! The sacrifice). And I’m also crossing my fingers that the weather holds out long enough for me to make it back to last year’s level of fluff.

I have no intention of going to extremes. I like food far too much to give it up indefinitely. But I have a lot of reasons to stay healthy, and four of them are asleep downstairs.

I was introduced to this at Sephora yesterday, and thought it might just be my best beauty find all year. My friend Tricia completely validated that thought over lunch today when she asked me if I’d started using Latisse, the prescription eyelash lengthener that Brook Shields is hawking (more on that another day).

To be honest, I’d seen this product months ago and thought, “That is the dumbest brush ever. I’d totally poke my eye out. Why on earth did they model it after a mace? Do I color my lashes with it or use it to club small animals and children? Hmm…

But I digress. Thanks to Keshia at  Sephora — and if you live in Birmingham, promise not to let anyone else help you– anyway, Keshia told me it was her personal favorite and convinced me with a tester brush that I could, indeed, use the product without blinding myself.

First impressions

Positives:

This brush/product curled my lashes like crazy. Mine are pretty straight and I use an eyelash curler religiously. I swear it is completely unnecessary with this product. Bonus points for eliminating the obligatory tears when I pinch the bejeesus out of my eyelid each morning. Also, this is a really nice black. Very dramatic. If you’re going for a natural look, keep on going. This is high drama, and of course I love that in a product (not so much in other people as that tends to siphon attention away from me).

Negatives:

Honestly, there aren’t many. The brush takes some getting used to, but is really easy to use once you get the hang of it. I think I may have spent a little extra time on my lashes this morning, but part of that was just goofing off to see what I could achieve. Don’t spring for the additional extender formula. This is in a separate tube and looks identical to the first. You apply it over the first coat and it’s supposed to give you the look of false eyelashes. I think it just turns great eyes into a clumpy mess. One coat of the original formula is sufficient, but I would guess that more than one might present a clumping issue as this is a thick mascara.

In my opinion, well worth the $27 price tag, cause a little goes a long way. That comes to about $9 a month on mascara. Which is $108 over the course of a year — roughly equivalent to one month of Latisse. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone up close who uses Latisse, but the results are dramatic. But certainly for the price, I think Givenchy’s Phenomen’Eyes is an excellent budget alternative.

I’ll be honest, I’ve gone round and round with this decision myself. I’m definitely having a tummy tuck to repair all the damage the triplets left behind — right after I lose 10 more pounds. And it seems like a shame to waste all that perfectly good anesthesia and not come out of it with a pair of pert, perky poodles in the process (O.k. seriously, I couldn’t come up with a p-word for boobs). So I decided the time had come to visit my friendly, neighborhood plastic surgeon…just to see what I might be in for should I choose to go for the gusto when I have my tuck.

If you’re one of the many who have never had reason to consult with a plastic surgeon, allow me to enlighten you on the process. You simply call them up and make an appointment. The initial consult is completely free and you have no obligation. Sounds pretty sweet right?

The first guy I went to obviously had aspirations to be the next Dr. 90210. There were cheesy pictures in his waiting area, most of the staff had obviously been taking advantage of their employee discount. And I swear to you, there was a rack in one corner where he was selling purses. You know the ones — lots of animal print and maribou. I felt unsettled, but I figured “in for a penny, in for a pound” and decided to see if things got better on the other side of the waiting room door.

Nope!! Once I was invited back to the holding area treatment rooms, I was assailed by a bevy of beauty school drop outs that passed for nursing staff. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have 6 weeks of nursing experience between the 10 of them, but it was way too late to turn back now.

Once in the room, Beauty School Dropout #1 ran through a list of standard questions including “Which parts of yourself are you least satisfied with?” She had trouble reading some of the words, but dutifully noted my answers using a pen topped with a puff of pink maribou. I wondered if she knew there was a matching purse in the waiting room.

Once she crossed the last T and dotted the last I (I’m sure I saw a heart), she shoved a paper gown and a black string bikini top at me. I was pretty sure of how to use the gown, but what was I supposed to do with half a swimsuit? “Will there be complementary tanning?” I asked Maribou Barbie.  She never cracked a smile. Maybe the botox wouldn’t let her use those muscles. It had to be something like that, because let’s face it — I’m freakin’ hilarious!

Unsmiling, unamused, possibly botoxed Maribou Barbie opened a nearby drawer to reveal an assortment of implants — none of which were the same size. They ranged from 250 ccs (which will take the average person up roughly one cup size) all the way to 500 ccs (picture a very large grapefruit, or a very small cantaloupe — then picture yourself working a pole at the nearest strip club because God knows implants this big will completely negate your education). I was instructed to don the bikini top and try on implants until I found a size I liked. Sound easy? It wasn’t. Here’s why.

Implants are surprisingly weighty. String bikini tops are unbelievably stretchy. Inserting heavy implants into a stretchy bikini top results in something you might expect to see in a funhouse mirror — if you visited the funhouse wearing a black bikini top and a paper nightgown.

The smallest implant wasn’t that bad, but remember that none of them were the same size. So I dropped a 250cc implant on the left and a 300cc implant on the right, then turned this way and that to get an idea of which one might look reasonably lifelike if it were made to hover somewhere over my chest wall, rather than halfway to my navel as was currently the case.

I ditched both those implants and tied the bikini top up as tightly as I could. I dropped a 475cc globe in the left triangle of the bikini top and balanced a 500cc globe in the other. It was so big, it kept trying to topple out, but I figured that much was at least anatomically accurate. I let go of both implants at once and almost snotted myself laughing. I looked like a slutty Ma Kettle.

About that time King Sleaze entered and proceeded to rob me of every shred of hard won self-esteem. He pointed out flaws I’d never noticed, urged procedures I’d never even considered. And when I told him I wanted a smaller, more natural outcome up top, assured me I would never be happy with an implant smaller than 450 ccs.

Now, I’m not naive. Plastic surgery is a pay for play game, and I’d already heard that some guys work harder than others to assure repeat business. But I have to say that this guy’s tactics completely backfired. Instead of leaving thinking, “Oh my gosh! I’m a bigger wreck than I thought. I really need this guy’s help!” I left thinking, “This @#$%#$ is lucky I didn’t set the whole @#$%ing place on fire!” Because I don’t believe in self-esteem. It’s mutable and fleeting. A simple hormone shift can rob you of it just as surely as a sleazeball plastic surgeon. Instead, I bank on self-delusion — meaning that most of the time I think I look good despite all evidence to the contrary.   Delusional? Yes. But you don’t mess with a crazy woman’s delusions. This guy very nearly got shanked with an eyebrow pencil.

The one good thing that came of it? I became aware of something called The Rice Test. And this is actually kind of fun. Get some cheap knee-high pantyhose, a pair of scissors and a bargain bag of rice and you’re well on your way to boobalicious fun.

My second consult with another physician was completely different than the first, and I left with a very favorable impression of that doctor and his staff. But I still plan to shop around a bit more before a make a final decision. I strongly urge anyone considering a plastic surgery procedure to research not only the procedure itself, but the doctor performing it as well. Be advised that not all pictures featured on a surgeon’s site are necessarily their own work. Sometimes stock pictures are used to illustrate what you can generally expect, but make sure you ask to see pictures specifically of his or her own work before you make your final decision.

Just because it’s voluntary doesn’t mean it isn’t MAJOR surgery, and I waffle from one day until the next over what I will or will not have done when the time comes. But once I do make up my mind, I promise to share all the goriest (or at least the funniest) details.

But this morning, I’ve decided to go a different route. Today, instead of my usual yumminess, I’m sporting a scent we’ve experienced all too often this past weekend. A warning to any potential visitors, today’s fragrance is L’eau de Toddler — a mixture of vomit and orange pedialyte with top notes of last night’s hamburgers. I doubt it’s going to be a crowd favorite.

It’s safe to say I’ve spent more than my fair share of time and money searching for the Holy Grail of concealers — that miracle product that provided coverage without being cake-y. Throw in the fact that I needed it to last all day in the Alabama heat and humidity, and it seemed that I was dreaming an impossible dream. Then, in my late 20’s, I stumbled across Laura Mercier’s Secret Camouflage. The sales staff at Laura Mercier tends to plug it as a blemish cover only. But allow me to clue you in on the true awesomeness of this makeup miracle.

Secret Camouflage comes in several shades — each containing two tones (which also eliminates the need for a summer and winter palette). The concealer itself is of a pancake consistency rather than a liquid, so it has the staying power you need to ensure you’re not looking haggard by mid-afternoon. Using a concealer brush, you custom blend your shade and apply it only to the dark areas under your eye. Most of the blending is done with the brush. But with a quick pat of your ring finger and a light dusting of loose powder, Secret Camouflage can take you from Undead to Drop Dead Gorgeous in a matter of seconds.

I really can’t say enough good things about this product, and it works very well with the Olay Definity Tinted Moisturizer I mentioned last week. But don’t just take my word for it…try it yourself, then come back here and tell me what you think.