The Big Brown Bathing Suit

The big brown bathing suit vs. the little black dress. The all-you-can-eat Golden Corral vs. the elegant plate of sushi. The overweight children in floppy tops vs. the tween girls in sequins and Japanese straight hair. The Marine tattoos vs. the Prada eyeglasses.
One week in South Carolina vs. one afternoon at a Bar Mitzvah in New York.
Ah, but the palm trees!
The woman at the hotel water park was definitely no older than 30, but 300 pounds, I swear. The enormous bathing suit, chocolate brown, had that skirt thing attached, and inexplicably, a kind of gauzy overlay that drew attention to her massive bosom. Her gigantic and cellulite riddled thighs did not look disconnected from each other. When she walked, the friction between them caused a shaking that rippled over her entire body. She had a modern haircut and a relatively pretty face which was not distended the way some obese people’s are. Her son was young and thin. They were smiling and playing ping-pong.
I tried not to look when she bent over to get the ball.
Maybe it’s me, or maybe it’s everyone, but isn’t the thing you can’t stand most about yourself the thing you judge other people most with?
People in South Carolina are fat. Really, really fat, in a way that people in New York aren’t. When I worked in advertising and was sent to Tennessee, I now remember, I thought the women there were fat too—in a way I never saw, even in those Queens shuls that hosted the Weight Watchers meetings.
It’s a beyond fat, a gross distention of human proportions fat, a sick-smelling white feral fat. A I can’t really do anything or be taken seriously as a professional kind of fat.
A fat that makes sex horrifying and presentability problematic, to say the least.
And no way could she fit into any of those plastic armchairs.
I am on that continuum, somewhere between her and (hopefully closer to) the hot MILFs who were dancing to Sandstorm this afternoon at the Bar Mitzvah, trying to be closer and closer every day. And I want to say for the record that those very same dancing women are also women of accomplishment and education, who do not make a life tsittering over themselves but have managed to work control into their eating-- and only two of them are French.
I must also ruefully admit that no one else looked askance at that South Carolina lady in the big brown bathing suit, and that she seemed happy and well-loved enough.
Just as we were about to leave the water park, I noticed something on the floor—a driver’s license. I picked it up and had a bit of a shudder.
Did you know that in South Carolina you list eye color, height—AND WEIGHT?
I looked. 145.
Thank God it wasn’t her.
I found the owner soon enough and took one last goggle at big brown bathing suit.
I sure do feel thin in South Carolina.
But I don’t live there.

Enraged

Friends—I don’t even know what got into me these last few days, but the rage with which I stuffed—no, really stuffed, not a metaphor—my face with potato chips on Sunday night, and on Saturday night must have come from an abyss of something very, very bad.

We were playing two absolutely wonderful (if I say so myself) parties. The first was the Halloween party at our resort (ha!) complex down on the Jersey Shore and I was a fiddlin’ witch, of course. The second was a fabulous Bar Mitzvah up at a beautiful shul in White Plains, NY, where I was a klezmer violinist and party girl.

(You know the old Jewish joke—from one God you can’t make a living…)

Anyway, since I go to a lot of parties and there is a lot of party food at these things, sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose. Of course losing means gaining, ha ha again.

The rage of which I speak carried over until about two hours ago, and it’s already Tuesday. I have been withdrawn and bloated, frustrated and phlegmatic.

I think the week of “trying to be better” eating-wise has given me at best a sense of hopelessness and at worst a sense of entitlement.

I lost my sense of control and I had that fat ugly feeling of oh just give up. I took my eyes off the prize. Which is that damned red dress from Lucky that I want to wear at some damned point in my damned near future.

Sorry to be so sorrowful, and worse, tedious, but this is very very hard for me.
I have such a wonderful life (poopoopoo) in all respects and maybe it’s greedy to also want to be thin (my Diet Center lady used to say “What, so you think if you lose weight and look great you’ll get cancer or something?” And she was not Jewish!) but I know that it’s important to me—and yet I’m not doing it! What is my problem???

BUT BUT BUT. Two hours ago my little Johnny Xylo and I were out on a moonlit balcony overlooking the Myrtle Beach, South Carolina ocean. We are here for a few days because Sruli found this ridiculously fabulous deal on a ridiculously fabulous resort and, well, here we are.

I was playing my banjo uke and he asked for “bucket” so, I obliged “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza…” and when it was finished, he threw up his little hands and shouted “YAY!” and I just melted all over the floor.

Plus, Sruli said I looked thinner and gave me a squeeze.

So, life is wonderful again, I realize I was being an idiot, and I have a little more koyakh.
What a ride, eh?

Ungeshlepte Krenk-- It never ends

You’re never going to believe this, but yesterday my landlord came over to fix our shower (for the fourth time), turned off the water in the house, dismantled the faucets and the shower head, knocked a huge hole in the wall—and collapsed of a heart attack.

He had to be carried out by the EMS.

The guy is 84 God bless him, but that same God forbids he should hire a real plumber to fix things so he wouldn’t have to shlep from the basement all the way upstairs with pipes and things. His sons came by later that night to make sure we had water (amazingly, and I mean AMAZINGLY, I had once watched him turn the water back on during one of his previous attempts at plumberhood) which was very nice of them—and him.

He, from all reports, is going to be fine-ish….

We have been shleping ourselves to the basement for weeks now to shower, and the holes in the kitchen ceiling certify that room to be, I believe, a kosher sukkah.

It never ends.

Also yesterday I went to traffic court (for the second time) to try to pay my penalty for talking on a cell phone while driving. I pleaded (plead?) guilty to the judge the first time but he actually winked at me (!) and told me that I had such extenuating circumstances

(I was taking Aaron to the orthopaedist and the Dr.’s office was calling and I was pulling over to take the call) that I should come back and plead not guilty.

So I did, BUT the officer was out sick so I have to wait for them to send me my rescheduled appearance in the mail. It never ends.

Sruli’s divorce proceeding never ends. One of my favorite people in the world is on a never-ending quest to have a baby, and my heart bleeds for her. A few friends are on Odysseys to find husbands. Another acquaintance can’t seem to let go of her zero-sum-game philosophy of life, and she is always losing.

Philo of Alexandria (20BC- 50AD, Sruli just looked it up for me, thank you) said

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is in the midst of a great struggle.”

Compared to the great struggles I feel humbly lucky, but my battle of the bulge is my pekl, my burden, and I was not a great warrior today. I backslid, because I was looking better and forgot that I have to keep at it keep at it keep at it because if I take my eyes off the prize for even one second, something bad is going in my mouth.

My beautiful step-daughter (whose countdown clock by her bed is set to her emancipating 18^th birthday—NO ONE should know from this kind of hell) told me today that people who get really excited about a little thing like food are happy people. I love her even more for saying that to me, but I envy her for thinking that food is a little thing.

I had a waffle, half a wheat bagel, tuna salad, one of those Starbucks chocolate grahams, another multigrain bagel with jam, a chicken breast and 3 cups of quinoa with veggies from Trader Joes, and some frozen yogurt and 6 pomegranate-infused chocolate ball things . Last night I took my big boys to Patsys and we ate like you can’t believe.

My big boys are poopoopoo beautiful and run track so they can carbo-load. I give a little kvetch at the gym for a couple of hours each week so I can’t.

I guess I will try to internalize that stupid diet mantra—tomorrow is another day.

But really I know better—it never ends.

Sorry for the inconvenience

My gym costs me ten dollars a month (!) so you can imagine that I don’t expect much, but it’s surprisingly great.

The locker rooms have marble sinks, powerful hot showers and bathroom stalls with a good ratio of in-swinging door to placement of commode. Both husbands (sequentially, of course) have frequently heard me lament the lack of space (in so many, many places from the Metropolitan Opera to Molly Pitcher’s Rest Stop on the Jersey Turnpike) to actually enter the stall before my pants/skirt/sweater/coat is in calamitous contact with the usually-spattered front of ladies’ toilets --yuck!

Anyway, the gym also has tons of cool equipment, hot Spanish guys in wifebeaters and tattoos, treadmills and stairmaster-type machines galore, and happily available 7.5 lb weights that I use to attempt Michelle Obama arms.

They only have one scale in the ladies locker room and I decided tonight that I would alight upon it (ha ha) in order to mark for real my progress or lack thereof.

It wasn’t in the main room so I scouted and as I approached, I noticed a handwritten

note scotch-taped to the top. It was from the management.

It said: “This scale works but it adds between ten or fifteen pounds to your actual weight.

Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Since last I blogged we have been insanely busy.

Saturday we played 2 Bar Mitzvahs—(herring, one tiny potato pancake, a few bites of chicken breast and really only two bites of prime rib, and a bowl of fresh fruit cup—BarM #1; and one tiny potato pancake, 2 bites of pizza bagel, one handful of curley fries, one pile of asparagus and green beans, and one scoop of chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles and after I ate the sprinkles in the melted ice cream I dumped another huge spoonful of chocolate sprinkles over it and ate that too—oy it was already almost midnight—2 glasses of cranberry juice and one glass of Cabernet—BarM #2.

Sunday my friend came over with her fabulous new baby adopted from Ethiopia and we cooed for hours while my baby twins smiled with interest and respect. My chicken soup wasn’t ready in time so we got Chinese and I had chicken with broccoli and white rice and 2 big spoonfuls of sesame noodles. Had a waffle for breakfast—Lowfat, Eggo, whole grain. I also made one for the dogs—their FAVORITE food.

Monday we had a crazy day in the City with 4 appointments to see sites for our camp so I ate nothing all day except an iced coffee and then came home and ate tons of my chicken soup which, the babies agreed was “DEEEE-licious!”

I also discovered Turkey Hill brand low fat frozen yogurt. Had a bowl of banana split just now, but today also included tuna salad, a multigrain bagel, 2 plums, 4 or 5 Wheat Thins, chicken soup—and that is all.

I’m really gonna have to start—shoulda been doing this all along, duh-- carefully weighing myself, and carefully portioning out my food.

Sorry for the inconvenience.

Oozing

My fabulous sisters-- One, a Doctor! The other, a Professor!-- and I are making a 50th anniversary party for our parents. Actually, my parents are insisting on paying for it, which should be some indication of why my sisters turned out so fabulous-- we really got lucky with our Mom and Dad, I gotta tell you.

So-- since I don't have a real job, and because I do hang out at parties a lot, it is I who have been getting emails all day from Glatt Kosher restaurants all over the city proffering their menus and per person costs, with or without wine.

Israeli heirloom tomatoes with broccolini and roasted pine nuts!
Macadamia chicken with pineapple coconut drizzle!
Duck rillette with red onion marmalade!
Tuna tostada with mango pinwheels!
potato profiteroles!
and my favorite:
Molten chocolate cake (MOLTEN!!!)
served warm, OOZING (OOZING!!!) WITH CHOCOLATE GANACHE!!!

Ay yay yay!

Sruli says if I get turned on like this, no diet on earth will hold me.

Last night we ran to go out because Aaron was home to watch the already-sleeping twins.
I was unbelievably hungry--I had just been to the gym--and I know its bad to eat at night
but I ate roast beef and turkey and tons of beans and things at the salad bar.

This morning I had that yucky feeling of needing to eat more because my stomach
was expecting it.

I HATE that feeling and I haven't had it for a whole week.

Today I tried to relax and had some Wheat Thins (less than a serving--BTW Wheat Thins are the best cracker ever invented) with some egg salad-- a small serving of Grape Nuts
(BTW Grape Nuts are the best cereal ever invented) and then a chicken breast
with veggies for dinner.

I did have some dark chocolate--I got this great big bar for 99 cents.
It was worth it just to hear the twins clamor for "shockit."

I don't understand people who don't love food. It's like they don't love life, or have passion, or enjoy things or can ever be truly happy. I don't even trust them.

Really good food, the anticipation of it, the sitting down for it, the first bites of it-- is, to me,
one of the only two great bodily pleasures.

Food is second, BTW, but this is a food blog.

So-- G-d Willing, my sisters and I are going to make a sincerely heartfelt, warm, musical, speechiful and nachasful party for our most wonderful parents, and we are going to have molten chocolate cake, oozing with happiness.

Housewife's Lament

"Oh Life is a toil
And Love is a struggle
Beauty will Fade
and Riches will Flee
Pleasures they Dwindle
And Prices they Double
And Nothing is How
I would Wish it to Be"

I sang this English Ballad all hepped up in a hot pink feather boa with a big band behind me--the audience laughing and singing along. It's called the Housewife's Lament and it's all about-- dirt.

Spent 3 hours (3 really solid hours!) cleaning last night while Sruli took the babies (and Zachary) to the Target Mall. You should see our Klez Office-- it's glittery. You should see my living room floor-- it's glossy. Bags of stuff outta here. I feel 25 pounds lighter...
Speaking of which.

I'm really thinking before I eat, lately. Maybe because of this blog, but also because I'm beginning to notice how much better I feel.
Also that I was able to fit back into my Isaac Mizrahi skirt (from Target) after only a week.
I've been getting such nice encouragement from friends all over-- Thank You.

Today I went to Dunkin Donuts with Zachary for breakfast and I DID NOT
order anything other than an iced coffee. Ok, I did take a few bites of the twins' wheat bagel,
but that does not count at all.
I had some yummy tuna salad and for a late dinner some rotisserie chicken and one entire bottle of fancy beer from Canada.

When I was at Diet Center, way waaaaaaay back when I was 26, alchohol was strictly forbidden.
I did 8 weeks of dieting where every single thing I was allowed to eat fit on the back of a business card. Carrots weren't on the list-- too much sugar. Broccoli too-- can you imagine? Too much sugar, in broccoli? Hard core. I lost 36 pounds and I am embarrassed to admit that I even had my bosses chasing me down the halls.
(Back then I guess there was no such thing as sexual harrassment)

Anyway, alchohol was forbidden. I didn't really like alchohol much back then, so it wasn't such a big deprivation. Now-- bring it on-- especially bourbon and red wine.

Aaron, my 15 year old, who is a Men's Health Magazine maven knows the caloric content of everything. I'm going to ask him to make me a list of all my foods. He already told me about peanut butter (100 cal per tablespoon) and olive oil (140 cal per tablespoon) and I was too depressed then to ask him anything else.

Ok-- enough lollygagging: Today, I also ate some leftover eggplant stew, one slice of pizza,
and 2 squares of dark dark chocolate with sea salt.
I've been drinking lots of tea-- made the Christopher Hitchens' way, according to his memoir.
Russian Caravan-- a tremendous tea.

Haven't been to the gym in 3 days-- but cleaning last night made me sweat
as much as watching Saeb Erekat on CNN during treadmill.
Hope to go tomorrow tho' it's Sisyphean, the gym.
Which brings me back to the Housewife's Lament:

"There are worms on the cherries and slugs on the roses
And ants in the sugar and mice in the pies
The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes
And ravaging roaches and damaging flies...
With grease and with grime from corner to center
Forever at war and forever alert...
She lay down her broom, her apron she folded
She lay down and died and was buried in dirt."

Queens!

Nothin' like goin' home to Mom's for Dinner.
My family is connected by some psychic fiber optics-- I mentioned to my parents that I will drop by with the baby twins-- I show up and my ENTIRE family is there!
What a party-- my fabulous sisters! My fabulous nieces! Chicken Soup! Roast Beef! Breaded Chicken Wings! Tofutti Cuties!
Queens food is the best in the world. Mom's food is the best in the world.
Ahh.
My parents are going to be celebrating their 50th Anniversary, G'W, this December.
It's an incredible modern-day achievement-- I won't get there.
I think the secret to a good marriage, besides the wife being a good cook-- I'm serious--
is that each respects the others' spheres-- and one of the pair is easygoing.
Think around to all the good marriages you know-- right?
There was an article in the Times about this, some years ago.
The happiest marriages are when she says something and he says yes.
The LEAST happy marriages are when he says something and she says yes.
The usual marriages are when everything has to be discussed.
Oy. (I have something to discuss with Sruli when I finish this...)
People, even grown up people, tend to put their parents in hazy boxes--
Dad's a workaholic, Mom's sweet and accommodating...
When they are always together they sort of both add up to one person.
" A Parents."
My big boys are getting to know my ex and me separately-- and it must be weird
for them.
I will say on the record that I have the best divorce of anybody I know-- and probably
the best divorce in NY.
I credit my ex first, then me.
The boys are relaxed and happy, poopoopoo, and they enjoy spending time
with each of us-- I can't even breathe with how grateful I am.
Sruli's ex is a liar and a thief who stole his girls and will not let us see each other at all
and it's been almost 5 years.
(600k can do that, apparently.)
But back to my parents and the family and the food.
I tend to let it all go when I'm there-- my Mom really IS a storybook mom who is
sweet and accommodating and I've always been very close to my Dad so it's kind of like
regressing into that "I am not responsible for myself" childpose,
which is, of course what got me into trouble in the first place.
ButI didn't do too badly, this time, there, in Queens.
My sister noticed that my sweater looked loose.
Ahh.