Hello. My name is Elizabeth. And I'm a chocoholic.

I mean, I WORSHIP it. I am not exaggerating when I say chocolate is like a member of my family. The favorite sibling you never have to buy a Christmas gift for, but who always gives you EXACTLY what you wanted (and in the prettiest packages). I can't remember the first time I was introduced to sugar, in all its sweet glory. But I do remember that there's NEVER been a time a) when I could control myself around it and b) when eating it didn't make me feel ashamed.

The summer before my 5th grade year, my family purchased property on a fishing resort. It included a motel, laundrymat, gift shop, cafe...and convenience store/bait and tackle shop.  Candy, soft drinks, milk...and minnows. After spending half an hour commiserating with the minnows over there impending doom, I liked to peruse the candy aisle. On more than one occasion, I would come home with two or three candy bars and immediately run to my room to consume them before anyone knew. I vividly remember stuffing my Junior Mint boxes under the TV console in my bedroom so my grandmother wouldn't know how gluttonous I'd been. I think she found them a couple of years later when we moved away.

When I was 15, I was determined to lose weight and be thin for the first time in my life. Determined. Nothing sweet touched these lips for 10 months. Not even sugar-free gum. I remember making dozens of homemade chocolate chip cookies for my driver's ed instructor and not even licking the beater. PS...I lost ALL the weight...and then some. I weighed 105 pounds my sophomore year. Then, my first love's grandmother presented me with a store-bought birthday cake. I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I ate one piece. And promised myself it would only be ONE piece. I still remember what flavor it was. Chocolate with vanilla buttercream frosting...the kind that makes your stomach feel like it's on a roller coaster. And it wasn't even that good. But it was chocolate. And that marked the day when I re-entered my love/hate relationship with sugar.

When I first started this project, I pledged to be sugar-free. And I was. Until Thanksgiving. And Christmas. So then I thought I would just have one "cheat" day a month. That worked for one month. Then it became one small package of M&M's a day. Which leads me to yesterday, which was one small package of M&M's followed by two bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios. Today, I had to stop myself from yelling "Get in my belly!" at the homemade cookies of an unsuspecting first grader.    

I don't want to be one of the unfortunate relapsed you see on Intervention...or Clean House...or Biggest Loser. The one who NEVER gets it together. The one everyone's yelling at from their living room "For chrissakes, Elizabeth, look what you're doing to yourself!" I'm hoping to be more like Robert Downey, Jr., who finally exorcised his personal demons and is now better than freakin' ever.

So...I have started my own intervention. By ordering a book called The Sugar Addict's Total Recovery Program by Kathleen DesMaisons, PhD. After grad school, and Systems Theory, I was convinced I would never read again. But this book came highly recommended, so I decided to at least order it. It arrived yesterday. And unlike the other books on my shelf that sit there and look pretty, I couldn't put this one down. It was like Kathleen (we're already on a first name basis...in my head, at least) was READING my thoughts. Listen to this: "The sugar-sensitive person...feels like she died and went to heaven after a hot fudge sundae, while her friend simply thinks it tasted good. She devours a whole bag of chocolate chip cookies; her friend can eat one bite and leave the rest." It's true, Kathleen, it's true! One time, I almost made a cookie levitate and fly through the air towards my open trap using only my intensely focused mind.

I'm only halfway through...and Kathleen reminds me that it is a slow but steady one-step-at-a-time program (despite the fact that I want to do it now, right now!)...but I know she's going to get to the part where I say goodbye to chocolate forever. At this point, I can't imagine a life without it. Will I be like the jilted girlfriend who shows up on her ex-boyfriend's doorstep with one more desperate "can't we work it out" plea? (Not that I've done that) Or will I be the Hershey version of Robert Downey, Jr. and finally get my you-know-what together?

Stay tuned.

My mother said...

I can't even say it out loud. My mother said the word...(whispering)..."rubbers."  Just as I thought...it looks as horrifying typed out as it did when she texted me.  She texted me, by the way, after the Word to Ya Mutha post.  "I can't believe you wrote about me in the same post as Trojan...[me whispering again]...rubbers!" Only with her West Texas accent and gentility, I imagined how it actually would have sounded coming out of her mouth. "I can't believe you wrote about me in the same post as Trojan rubbas!" And she would have whispered the word, too.  

Half horrified that my mother even knew what that meant and half almost peeing in my pants with laughter, I responded immediately. "Mom, NO ONE uses that word anymore. Unless you are a 12-year-old boy."

I was a high school sex ed. teacher for several years. It wasn't unusual to see teenagers emerging from my classroom wearing the "pregnancy belly" or carrying faux babies. In college, one of my favorite classes was a human sexuality class taught by a husband and wife therapy team. Maybe because it was the only husband and wife teaching team on campus...or maybe because it was THE most scandalous class Texas Tech and Lubbock, TX, had ever seen. I've also made a habit of surrounding myself with fabulous gay men. So I'd like to think there's not much I haven't seen or heard. But nothing prepares you for the day when you hear your mom say...(whispering)..."rubbers." It was only slightly less shocking than the time I made the tragic mistake, in my 4th grade ignorant bliss, of asking where babies come from. I consider it the day my Common Era calendar changed. There was BT and AT...Before Talk and After Talk. 

You know your weight loss is beginning to show when people start asking if you've done something different with your hair. I've had about seven people ask me if I've done something different with my hair this week. I want to say "Yes, I've lost 20 pounds from my face" but opt for a smile and polite sing-song-y "No, nothing" instead.

OK...WHAT happened?!? I posted the Word to Ya Mutha post around midnight on Sunday. By 1:30 a.m., 300 people had read it. By close at the end of the day, over 600 people had logged in to read. Keep in mind, I've had some days when 80 or so people were reading my blog. Some 60-something days. Some days over 100...and even a couple in the low teens. But I've NEVER had 600-plus people reading in one day. And who is reading me in the wee hours of the night?!? Either my Macbook is lulling me into a false sense of security for our four year anniversary, I'm big with the vampire crowd (in which case, I'm still on the fence as to whether I'm Team Edward or Team Jacob), or people are reading from their living rooms in a VERY different time zone.

In any event, I took a photo (a grainy iPhone photo) to mark the momentous occasion.  Take a look.

 

The first photo is a photo of my traffic overview page. Notice the number...606!!! (This was before the 629 end-of-day total). And the second photo is a bar graph, with the bar for that day's traffic peaking high above the previous days. It was a feeling I imagine the shoemaker must have felt when he awoke the next day to find the elves had magically finished all the shoes. I must have slept three hours that night, I was so excited. Overnight, my readership shot off the chart. 

So...I am going to ask a BIG favor of you, beloved readers. I want to know where you're reading from...all 629 of you.  If you're in Denmark, I want to know...because a) Oprah says you are the happiest people on Earth and b) you are the fount of the world's best techno. In Australia, because I'm convinced my future husband lives there. And everywhere else because I'm wildly curious and want to riddle you with a barrage of questions about your life and customs abroad. And here's the deal...I'm going to send a thank you gift to the person who responds and lives the farthest from Los Angeles, CA.

But wait...this doesn't mean you're off the hook if you live in California...or anywhere else in the 50 states. You're just as important to me...and it will be fun to know where YOU are reading from.

That means, if you are READING THESE WORDS, I am asking you to post in the comment section. I know I know, you resist. But por favor...it's simple. Just post your first name, your city, state and country. And then watch for the winner to be announced on le blog.   

And before I close, I just have to say to each and everyone of you...the magical elves who made me feel like the shoemaker...THANK YOU for reading.

I am honored.   

"A common phrase used between only the best of friends to indicate a well-wishing to one's family."  This is the Urban Dictionary's definition of [translated] "word to your mother." Just looking it up increased my "street cred." I feel...credible.  

But I'd like to say a word (or several) about my mother. She flew to Houston this weekend to attend a funeral. For a family member of a family member. So I was surprised to hear from her on Friday night. It came in the form of a text that read "Is my phone working...emptied a bottle of water in purse...at funeral home...thanks for protective cover." The protective cover was one "Otterbox"...a clunky, some think ugly, iPhone case. An accessory that appeals to the scratchaphobes of the world (i.e. me). And completely protects iPhone owners from themselves. Apparently, Trojan is for condoms what the Otterbox is for iPhones. The ultimate in protection. (PS...at least this is what I gather from the hundreds of Trojan ads that find their way into my commercial breaks and magazine fluffage). 

The last cell phone my mom had took a nose dive into a red Solo cup, filled with ice water, that lives omnipresently in her SUV cupholder. Two minutes after the $300 iPhone purchase, I clicked the "complete purchase" button on my Amazon cart and sealed the deal for two matching Otterboxes. What's the saying? "Fool me once, shame on you? Fool me twice, shame on me?" The same holds true for water damage. And I wasn't taking any chances.

This time, the watershed moment occurred inside the funeral home, during a time that is meant to somber and sacred, when a full bottle o' water mysteriously ended up without a lid in my mom's handbag. She only noticed it after she felt something dripping on her foot. Only to open the offending bag and find it three inches deep with Dasani. No telling how many people she'd dripped upon. She squeaked and ran to the back of the room to minimize the damage. I haven't heard the whole story yet. I don't know if she poured it into a ficus or guzzled it before anyone noticed. But the visual fills me with glee.

This is the same woman who spit gum on a priest. Her gum. During...or after...a wedding in Canada. Apparently, she was talking to said holy man when the gum popped out of her mouth. The best part? He caught it. And discreetly handed it back to her. Continue conversation.

And still the same woman who tossed her cookies in the back seat of a relative stranger's car in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Into a plastic bag which she then held in her lap until they made it to a trash can. Did I mention my mom gets carsick driving from the house to the grocery store across the street? If she's in the back seat? Well, on this day, she was coming back from dinner with some business associates. A man she'd met during that trip was driving...with respective spouses in tow...driving along a long, winding road that was apparently the only way from point A to point B. I'm sure it was only a few minutes in when the cookie tossing occurred. As there were no shoulders, or trash cans, to speak of, she thought it the polite thing to hold the bag in her lap until she could discreetly empty it at the hotel. OK...I abhor littering. But if I've got a bag o' barf in my hands, I wouldn't be able to toss it out of the window fast enough. Plastic ozone-depleting bag and all.

But wait, there's more. The driver, unsympathetic to my mother's plight and only thinking of himself, turned ghost white and immediately asked "Do you think it was something we ate?" As if it was going to turn into the Family Guy ipecac episode at any moment. She assured him it wasn't. I would have played that for all it was worth. "I totally think it was the filet mignon. Are you feeling funny?"

PS...I've obviously inherited some of these quirks from my mother. I too, am dangerous around water. Ask Kara how many times I've knocked a full glass of ice water (usually hers) into her side of the booth at a restaurant. I think four. Each time more hilarious (for me, at least) than the last. Not so hilarious for her, apparently. I can't describe the look an only-child-Cosmo-reading-librarian can give at times like this, but it's the closest to death I've ever come. But we can laugh now, right?!?

Right?

Speaking of Kara, I was thinking of her today. She's my #1 reader. So, I'd like to send a shout out to her. Hi Kara Mae! I'd also like to send a shout out (I feel like I'm calling Rick Dees on the Weekly Top 40) to Nancy, Susi, Erin, Chris, Cooper, Gordo, Louie, Hunter (and baby Misa), Mari D. and Anya...who I know, for a fact, are everyday readers and supporters. I couldn't adore you more!

And I know there are more friends and family out there who stop by on occasion (usually to relive with me a post I've written about them). You know who you are. I adore you, too. Obviously so...you are post-worthy.

To the people who have loved my writing enough to feature my blog on their blogrolls...I am truly honored.

Another shout out to Kate, a friend I've met on a fitness forum called The Cathe Nation. Who feeds her one-year-old in the wee hours of the night and reads my blog. God love ya, Kate. I can barely handle an obstinate Shih Tzu, let alone three kids under the age of 10.

And one to Katie (I hope it is, in fact, spelled with an "ie")...Simon and Schuster Katie...who somehow found my friend, Kara, in Boston, Massachusetts, while she was attending a Cosmo-reading librarian's conference (Ok...I added the Cosmo-reading). I don't know HOW in the world you found my Kara, in a restaurant, no less...but it filled me with GLEE to know you talked about my blog with my best friend in my favorite city. GLEE. PS...she is the source of much of my inspiration, or at least the mayhem and foolishness that seems to spontaneously combust when we are together.

And finally, the biggest shout out of all...to my MOM! You are my Lucy Ricardo, kid. Thanks for picking me to be your Ethel Mertz. Let's see what mischief we can get into in the next episode.

It is MONSOON season in Pasadena this week. I have never seen it rain like this (in SO CAL, at least). I'm in (with singsong voice) HEAVEN! I always wondered how the locals can stand 364 days of sunny weather. Not me. I need me some severe weather to keep things interesting. Thunder and lightning! Well, I got that and then some this week. This marks day #4 of torrential rains. I've ordered Building an Ark...for Dummies. I just hope it gets here in time.

People are not afraid of lightning out here. In West Texas, you can't throw a rock without hitting someone whose been hit by lightning...sorry...lightnin.' I had a pedicurist who was missing several toes because she'd been hit. I never asked to see her feet. But I always wanted to ask how she kept her balance. And did she get pedicures herself? Inquiring minds wanna know. She also had a story about an ill-fated boat excursion on a girl's trip to Mexico that involved seasickness, too much sun and strawberry daiquiris, and a hungry school of fish. God, I miss that woman. You can't find pedicurists like that out here.

Speaking of beauty professionals I can't find, I had Hair Appointment #3 a few days ago. I have found my new color specialist, a woman named Shauna. Referred to me by the same Nancy who I almost threw down with in the Olive Garden over the "no sugar added" dessert. Here is what is fabulous about Shauna. A)She actually listens when words are coming out of my mouth, especially in reference to things I do and don't want done to my hair. B)She will gossip with me to just the right amount of satiation. Often, as I am processing, we sit side by side reading the latest edition of In Touch and talking about things like how much Kevin Federline has let himself go. And C)She makes my hair look like it grew out of my head this way. Remember those baby dolls...when you cranked their arm, their hair would grow longer? That is how Shauna makes me look. Crank, crank...and presto!

Here is what is not fabulous. The salon where Shauna moonlights is NOT fabulous. It is one step up from a Supercuts. Very similar to a Fantastic Sam's. I suppose I've become a salon snob. I fall on a spectrum somewhere below foo-foo and obnoxious, but where I'm still offered hot tea, can't get in without an appointment, and can ooh and aah over the exposed brick that is exposing itself somewhere inside. And did I mention, I need a gay man in the equation somewhere...a Carson Kressley type. Or Carson Kressley himself.

Soooooo...I'm keeping Shauna because she's made a science of introducing my hair to just the right mix of 510 and 9A. And I'm Internet dating for Carson Kressley with scissors. 

PS...I've got to stop weighing everyday. I'm making myself crazy. I'll be updating the chick ticker (see bottom of page) weekly instead. Meanwhile I was craving sugar so badly today that I ate a tub of Cool Whip Lite for lunch. And skipped dinner. Don't try this at home.

I went to Olive Garden for dinner last night. And guess how many calories I consumed? Guess!

260.

That's right. 260. Before you say "Shutupnoyoudi'ent!," I did. As I slid over in a booth made for six but currently only accommodating my friend, Nancy, her husband, Steve, and myself...I was already eyeing my favorite "no sugar-added" dessert. And bragging to Nancy about how sinless it was. Or so I thought. In my attempt to prove Nancy wrong after a spirited debate over the real meaning of "no sugar-added," our waiter directed me to the OG's newest thing...their nutritional guide. In a leather bound notebook, no less. And located on every table. How convenient!

You can imagine my horror when I discovered a) I was wrong and b) the "no sugar added" chocolate cake with cream sauce and fresh strawberries has 800 calories! Aaahhhhhhh!!! It was the third most fattening dessert on the menu. Surprisingly, the tiramisu was the healthiest choice, with only 510 calories.

Dejected and also a little empowered, I began scouring the nutrition guide and shouting out calorie counts for all to hear. I used to hate those people. Now I am those people. Before my Olive Garden awakening last night, my typical meal was soup, breadsticks and the no-sugar added bull#@$*. That's two bowls of pasta e fagioli soup, three or four breadsticks and the dessert. I added it up last night. Do you know how many calories that is? 1, 660!

But here's the best news. The pasta e fagioli soup, a soup I've come to love over the years more than 7 of my 8 ex-boyfriends, is only 130 calories per serving. With 2.5 grams of fat and 6 grams of fiber (the highest fiber content of any soup the OG serves). I was in heaven. As I happily consumed my two bowls of fagioli topped off with a vat of unsweetened iced tea (extra ice, please).

PS...the waiters - it took two - were DE-lightful. As was the manager we called over to tell about the service outstanding.

PSS...I am now obsessed with nutritional guides and will a) be bugging every waiter from now to eternity about them or b) be printing them off in advance. I'm coming prepared, people, with just the right mix of obnoxious and charming to make it interesting.

PSSS...I'd like to send a special shout out to Olive Garden and pasta e fagioli soup, whom I love more than ever. Kudos for providing nutritional info on every table, OG. And in such a pretty package. I'll see you and the soup next week and every week for the rest of my life.