Health & Fitness Tip #17

Don't rely on magic.

Between the nachos and the Kentucky pie, I had somehow convinced myself that at any moment a magical bride gene would kick in, and I'd be noshing on steamed veggies and tilapia with glee. The gene failed me folks, and today staring down the barrel of squeezing into a white dress in seventy-two days, there's a new sheriff in town. Yes. It's true. I pulled out the measuring spoons: exactly one cup of Special K wetted with exactly one half cup of skim milk.

Reminds me a bit of a man I once dated who, for breakfast, would allow me (what seemed at the time) only four Cheerios and an eyedropper-full of milk. You'd be amazed how little we truly need, he told me. I never was.

Longing #808

Sometimes I long for a driveway that curves around, a driveway that, in the late morning after having eaten fresh berries with a touch of brown sugar and cream, I can wander up with a stack of fresh envelopes--the deep blue ink barely dry--and there at the end of the driveway, a mailbox. I'd work the jaw of it open, place the notes inside and lift the red flag.


Of course, all of that would lead to the next longing: walking back up the driveway in the afternoon, opening the mailbox and finding it not empty but with a letter. Filled with good news. From you.

Something Borrowed

Looks like rain.

If I knew this woman, I'd borrow one of her umbrellas.

Sexy UPS Men

I once knew a woman who was in love with her UPS man. From what seemed like dawn till dusk, she and her little tow-headed son would sit on her porch waiting for the truck to make its way around the bend. I couldn't for the life of me understand the impulse that compelled her--and approximately 700,000 other American women--to order deliverables in hopes of simply seeing that man in brown.

Today, though, as I sit waiting for packages and desparately cranking my neck towards the window every thirty seconds or so, I think it might have more to do with guarantees than with love. How nice to know that he has to show up, how nice to know that if he doesn't you can simply call the number on the website, how nice to know that when he does finally arrive he won't be empty-handed. Lemme tell you people, one of these:

is worth a whole boatload of these:

Call for Recipes

My college friend, Elisabeth over at littlemissmel, sent me an email today asking for recipes; I'm completely terrified. Here's a woman I shared a boyfriend with (We love you, Fred Welch!); a woman I haven't laid eyes on in years but who looks more and more beautiful (and thinner!) in every internet photo I see; a woman who has a child and a husband and a heckuva sense of humor. So how do I send her a recipe that doesn't completely betray the woman I (want to) have become?

Do I confess that all of my recipes come out of the Weight Watchers Slow Good cookbook? Do I, say, let the email get lost in "the wedding shuffle" and simply not respond? Do I send the recipe for the beloved "Peanutbutter Stuff" (seemingly equal parts: peanut butter, syrup, sugar and butter; stir; chill) that I was raised on? Or do I own up to it all and write the email that admits that most nights we eat out, and the ones we don't, I (out of some caloric penance) un-thaw a piece of Sam's tilapia, throw it on aluminum foil with salt, pepper and olive oil and call it a night?

O, dear readers, although I sometimes pretend you don't exist (alas...a holdover from my poetry days!), I need you now. Send recipes. Anything. Maybe even everything. And dad, I'll be waiting for the hot dog casserole recipe--the ingredients of which, as instructed by my therapist, I blocked out.

Something Auld

Listen to my papa's tunes here: my papa's tunes.

Health & Fitness Tip #16