Tag Archives: food

Going away and not going crazy

W and I are going away this weekend.  Just the two of us.  No kids.  No cats.

We only go away two or three times a year, so it’s a pretty big deal.

The last time that we went away for the weekend?  October.  We spent Saturday night at a local casino with friends.

In the days prior to that get-away weekend, I over thought the whole trip.  What if the food isn’t any good?  What if our room is dirty?  What if we can’t find a thing to talk about?  What if my expectations are too high?  What if we get in a fight?  What if the weekend is a total bust?

With these get aways coming every five months or so, everything seemed to be riding on this one weekend.  Fun times or bust.

Turns out that we had a great time.  We always do, despite my anxiety.

Heidi KlumThis time, I thought I’d try a different strategy.  Like just go with the flow and trust that everything will be as silky smooth as satin sheets or Heidi Klum’s legs.

So our trip itinerary — which features 24 hours without a single child (two legged or four legged) — includes The Addams Family musical and dinner at a fancy restaurant.  We have dinner reservations for 11:00 p.m., which I think makes us hipsters, at least for the night, or at least really, really cool like P!nk or Bruno Mars.  I bet they always eat dinner after 10:00 p.m.

I was thinking today that the infrequency of these get aways might actually make them a little more special.  A little more shiny and new.  If you got a new car twice a year, would you really care after year two?

Which, in turn, got me thinking about the things in life that you really only want to do once, or at most, twice a year.

My List

  • Vacations.  Not weekend trips but week-long trips that involve stopping the mail and the newspaper, finding someone to care for the pets and buying a new bathing suit.  For one thing, I stress over what books to bring, one for each flannel-covered personality.  And no, I don’t believe in Kindles or Nooks.
  • Eat corned beef and cabbage, preferably on or around St. Patrick’s Day.
  • Eat a candy cane.  I have one every Christmas and then ask myself what all the fuss is about.  How did these crooked mint sticks ever catch on?
  • Go to a parade.  Once a year is enough to see all of the fire trucks within 20 miles of your hometown.
  • Watch a classic tear jerker in which someone dies of a terrible illness like Steel Magnolias, Beaches or Terms of Endearment.
  • Partake of jelly beans or candy corn.  These foods are only appropriate eating on their respective holidays.
  • Order an egg cream.  I think I like the idea of egg creams better than the actual drink.  I mean, it sounds like a good idea, all classic and vintage and cool.  Oh, soda jerk, I’ll have the vanilla egg cream and make it snappy.  But then I look around at everyone drinking much more satisfying milkshakes at nearby tables.  My son had a sip of my egg cream and said it tasted like air.

Ok, spill.  What things do you think should be given once-a-year status?

Cavebutch versus the birthday cake

I’m on day four of operation caveman (switching over to a Paleo/Primal diet).

So far, so good.

My body was positioned horizontally but not in a fun way

I only had one really terrible day this week.  On Tuesday, I laid on the couch with a heating paid wrapped around my head like Olivia Newton-John in the Physical music video and watched hour after hour of the Rachel Zoe Project because my head hurt way too much to change the channel.

I’m still getting acclimated to the Paleo way of life and figuring out what to eat.  I think I need to load up on veggies to get the kind of weight loss results that I want.  In the long run, bacon and bananas will only get you so far.  Ask Elvis.

But making the decision to clean up my diet is a big step.  A first step.  I have to learn to be patient with myself and ok with the me that exists right now at this very moment.

I should mention that I’ve scored one notable victory already.

Middle-age cavebutch 1

Birthday cake 0

W got me a birthday cake for my birthday on Saturday.  It was delicious.

Super-size me, Beyonce

I had a generous slice on Saturday, a big ass slice (Beyonce size) Sunday morning and a bigger ass slice (think Kim Kardashian) Sunday evening.  It was my last meal after all.  Dead butch walking was going to have chips and birthday cake and a Coke before no-carb/no-sugar Monday rolled around.

On Monday, I failed to do what all good dieters do and throw away the rest of the cake.

This gave the leftover cake an opportunity to tease and tempt me.  About one-fifth of the cake remained, and it sang out:

“C’mon, you know you want me,” it said in its sexy voice.  “I’ve got buttercream in all of the right places.”

Butch, darling. I want you to know I love you. I’ve loved you more than any woman’s ever loved a butch.

“I’m not bad, I was just baked this way,” it purred in its best Jessica Rabbit voice.

It was a cocky son-of-a-bitch.  And damn fine.  Foxy Brown superfine.  But Middle-age butch has resisted more tempting bounty over the years.

Somehow, I resisted the siren call of moist white cake and sweet, sweet icing.

When Tuesday rolled around, I was hurting.  My body craved sugar.  Please.  Just a teaspoon of the white stuff.  A cookie?  Half an Oreo?  The half with the Double-Stuf filing?  The other half?  Anything, for the love of Little Debbie.  Or what about that leftover birthday cake?  Just a slice.  A single spoonful of icing.

I contemplated eating a piece for medicinal purposes.  Rx cake.  Yeah, just one piece to stop my head from throbbing.  One sliver.  A few bites.  A lick of the icing.  God, I wanted it.  I needed it.

But, I decided to white knuckle it.  If I eat the cake, it’ll just elongate the detox process, I told myself.

On Wednesday, the cake sat there in its round plastic dome and taunted me.  You know what they say about baked goods in glass houses.  This one was pelting me with pieces of icing that it had molded into tiny projectiles.

“Why are you keeping me around, butch?” it asked in its sugary voice.

“If you didn’t want me, you would have tossed me out last night with the leftover spaghetti and that wilted romaine.”

“C’mon, take a bite.  Just one nibble.  You won’t regret it.  I’ve been saving myself for you.  Only you, stud.”

Whoa, this cake was good.  Such a sweet talker.

By the power of Greyskull, Middle-age butch resisted.  I was a cavebutch after all.  I beat my chest and gave my best jungle call.  The cats hid.

On Wednesday night, one of the kids ate half of the leftover cake.  The same kid finished off the rest tonight.

The bitch begged.  I heard it.

The icing left around the edge of the cardboard cake plate made one last-ditch plea.

“Give us a lick.  Please,” it begged.

Middle-age butch felt all powerful and primal and proud.

The allure of the sweet stuff was greatly diminished.  It was sad.  And pathetic, really.

After all, it was just a blob of sugar.  It was no match for this Paleo-butch.

Going Primal

I’m an all-or-nothing kind of gal.

Remember that recent post about making gradual, healthy lifestyle changes? Baby steps in big bad butch boots?

Blew that bitch out of the water.  Already.  And it’s only been three days.

I’d pretend to be embarrassed, but what’s the point?  That’s just me.

Slow and steady?  That’s for other  people.  And turtles.

I need a plan.  And a matching checklist.

The plan has to be sexy and new.  Something that I can commit to with every single fiber of my impulsive being.

I asked W which diet plan sounds better. 

  • Atkins. 
  • Clean Eating. 
  • Primal/Paleo. 
  • Weight Watchers. 
  • Dukan. 
  • South Beach. 
  • Low carb.

She said Clean Eating.

I told her that she was wrong.

It’s Primal.  Without a doubt.

Think cave women.  Tiger-striped loin cloths.  Hunting for your own food.  Living off the land.  Long, wild sexy hair.   Tossing your woman over your shoulder and heading back to the cave after sunset for something really primal.

I did Atkins about two years ago and lost a considerable amount of weight in a relatively short period of time.  W and I were having a commitment ceremony, so I wanted to look good in my pinstriped pants and vest.

I found that I could live without bread and pasta.  I also discovered that I had incredible amounts of energy when I stopped eating carbs and sugar.

Like energy to paint a small house or perhaps start my own cat farm.

But this time around I thought I’d go Primal.  It’s not as restrictive as Atkins (at least the early stages of Atkins).  For those of you who aren’t familiar with Primal or Paleo, plan participants eat meat, fish, vegetables, fruits, nuts and seeds.  Processed foods, grains, legumes and most dairy are no-nos. 

Quite frankly, I like the idea of going all Tarzan with my food choices.  Something about beating my chest and swinging from a vine appeals to me.  Maybe it’s the whole taking control of my life thing in a very forceful  way.

What can I say, I like a good gimmick.  Especially when its wearing a loin cloth.  And a bikini top.

Cave Woman

The bitter taste of fish sandwiches and disappointment

As I mentioned in my previous post, W and I are going away for the night on Saturday.  We will be gambling, drinking alcohol, engaging in adult conversation and eating food that doesn’t come in disposable cardboard boxes or with a side of Ranch.

As 2012 is winding down, this is probably it for us for the year as far as nights out without the kids.  So, there is a whole lot riding on this weekend.  We have to cram gobs of fun and romance and sexiness in a single night.  It’s a tall order.

I asked W if she thought the weekend would fall short of our sky-high expectations.

“Definitely not,” she said.

She is an optimist.

Me, not so much.

My meal came without a happy ending.

High expectations and disappointment bring me back to the 80s.  (Everything brings me back to the 80s, if you haven’t noticed.)  I’m on a road trip with my college friends.  Hung-over in a major way.  We decide to stop at Friendly’s for lunch.

If you have ever had a serious hang-over (or a touch of “flu,” as we refer to it within my circle of friends), you know the importance of filling your tank with just the right food and beverage post why-did-I-wash-down-a-six-pack-of- pounders-with-that-bottle-of-Boone’s-Farm.

World’s greatest hang-over beverage: Yoo-Hoo

World’s greatest hang-over food: Wendy’s single, ketchup only

At Friendly’s, I carefully scour the menu.  I need protein.  And, liquid.  Lots of liquid.

Disappointment on a plate

I spot Friendly’s Fish-a-majig sandwich.  The name is jaunty and whimsical.  Just saying “Fish-a-majig” brings a slight smile to my lips that are still stained red from way too much sloe gin.  A fried fish sandwich would work, I think.  Yes, a Fish-a-majig.  That’s what I’ll have.  “A Fish-a-majig,” I say to myself with conviction.  I’m starting to rally already.

I order a Fish-a-majig, a vanilla Fribble and a bucket of water and wait for my fried fish sandwich to come.  I can already taste the soft, warm bun, the tang of tartar sauce, the crispy fish filet.

Fifteen minutes later when the waitress places a sad, flat sandwich in front of me, I tell her that she must be mistaken.  “I have ordered the Fish-a-majig,” I announce.  “You know, crisp, golden breaded fish,” I say.

Apparently, I’m the one who is mistaken.

The Fish-a-majig is a piece of fish bookended by two pieces of toasted white bread.  No soft, warm bun for this hung-over college student.

I can still taste the disappointment to this day.  It’s tart and tangy like tartar sauce.

Never mention Friendly’s Fish-a-majig sandwich to my college friends.  “If we have to hear about that fucking fish sandwich one more time,” they will tell you.  They are equal parts over dramatic and unsupportive.

I’m hoping that the weekend doesn’t turn out to be a 2012 Fish-a-majig.  So many high hopes and expectations, but in the end you’re left with nothing but toast and a soggy piece of processed fish.

I know what you’re all thinking.  If you think the weekend will be a Fish-a-majig, it will be a Fish-a-majig.  Self-fulfilling fish sandwiches and all.

You’re a human Fish-a-majig, Joe Carter

It’s funny that when I think of my top disappointments in life, the Fish-a-majig always swims to the top.  Not the nine-year marriage that ended in divorce.  Or even the 1993 World Series when Joe Carter ended the Philadelphia Phillies’ magical lightning-in-a-bottle season with a single swing of the bat.  Curse you, Joe Carter.

Truth be told, W and I have had very few Fish-a-majig moments in our relationship.  From the get-go, everything has always worked out the way that it was supposed to, which has been perfect.

And, I know the weekend will be perfect, too.

I guess I just like kvetching about a 30-year-old fish sandwich.

How about you?  Care to share a random moment of disappointment?