I have been banned!!! Like Howard Stern. Or Kathy Griffin. Except this wasn't from the airwaves or the Apollo. No...I've been banned from 3 Fat Chicks.

In my quest to discover all things blogging, I find myself at the crest of an insane learning curve. In Blogsville, people throw around terms like RSS, widgets and pings like they make sense to the rest of us. Well, the last time I checked, a widget was the infomerical sensation you paid $9.95 for to scrape gunk off your windows. And while I love to play the occasional game of body slam ping pong, I had no idea what a ping was until yesterday.

So now my publicist (AKA my best friend and svelte librarian, Kara) tells me I need to find blog rolls to join. Rolls I know: Charmin, Tootsie, and Pillsbury crescent. Blog rolls, not so much.

So I go to the 3 Fat Chicks blog directory. Surely they'd love to hear about the hilarity of grunting and crying my way through 60 pounds. I register, create my profile, and am ready to spread the word. Not so fast, fat chick! Turns out, you have to have posted 25 times before you can post a link. 25 times?!? On top of learning a new language, grunting and crying my way through 60 pounds, and writing about it?!? How can it be?

No worries, I say. There are a gazillion Fat Chicks forums. I'll just introduce myself and talk about the general idea in 25 different forums. Great idea.

Seven forums later, I get a nasty automated message saying that I've been banned. But wait...it gets better. When is the ban to be lifted? In black and white, the automated robot spells it out for me. Never.

So I call friend, publicist and partner-in-crime Kara, who is now just good, not best, and not looking as svelte now that I think about it. She explains that they probably thought I was a...I can't even say it...(whispering) a spammer.

A spammer?!? Me??? I still write handwritten thank-you notes. Text my mom 10 times a day. Sit outside dog parks just to watch the dogs play. I have 411 children who are going to be filled with glee when they see me on Thursday (and trust me, I'll be filled with more glee than a chocolate eclair myself). I am not that filthy word you think I am, Fat Chicks!

I tried the bad girl thing a couple of times. Once, my mom took me to the grocery store before preschool. I spotted an orange chapstick. It had to be mine. I pined for the orange chapstick. I begged for the orange chapstick. To no avail...we left the store sans tube a l'orange. Or so my mom thought. Truth be told...I pocketed the orange chapstick. It was the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten---I mean applied. 

Here's where the story takes its turn. I was so happy when my mom came to get me that day, I forgot to hide the evidence. After having a mini meltdown at how her single parenting and my life without a father figure had turned me to a life of crime, she marched me back to the store...a blue and white Albertson's...and made me go right up to the cashier (who was very tall and menacing), confess my crime, and fork over the money (from my mom's purse, of course). I was horrified. HORRIFIED. But I've never shoplifted, or used orange chapstick, again.

Here's how I looked at the time of the incident. My Olan Mills mug shot. Notice the clenched hands...I think I was hiding the chapstick in question.

And then there have been several incidents of snack sneaking into the movies, including one time when I almost got myself and a group of my closest friends kicked out of a Harry Potter premier after insisting it would be okay to eat a full-on buffet in the front row.

But besides that, I've lived an Ovaltine life. 

So beware, readers. You are traveling with the wrong crowd. With a recovering shoplifter who gets banned from fat circles and STILL sneaks snacks into the movies. Are you still with me?!?

I love sweet potatoes so much I would marry them. Seriously, sweet potatoes are the new crack. Not unlike the first time I discovered iTunes. Also like crack. I remember several late nights sitting in the Whole Foods parking lot after they closed, using their free wi-fi to score my latest hit. After I discovered iTunes I started running. Like the wind. More like an occasional, slow moving breeze. I would trek up the hill near my house and run back down. Have you ever run downhill? If not, I highly recommend it. It's deceptively fast. By the time you get to the bottom, you look around, expecting to see the line of cars that have stopped to witness this display of lighting fast speed, convinced you've broken several records and are, in fact, ready to quit your day job. Then you turn around to see the hill you've just run down, consider for a moment how it would feel to run UP it, and decide instead to go in and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

But no more ice cream for me, America. At least not until I can reign in the Elizabeast. No, from now on, it's sweet potatoes instead. My new drug of choice. I've figured out that the magic is in the baking of these little ocherous gems. Within an inch of their lives, I say...at a low temperature for three or four hours. Then, I gleefully skin 'em, pour in some melted Brummel and Brown's, add somewhere between a pinch and a handful of cinnamon and, set the speed on the hand mixer to "lighting"...and voila! Perfection.     

There have been many casualities on my path to clean eating. First, it was Diet Cokes. A love from which I thought I'd never recover. To this day, I'll see someone carrying a 44 oz. fast food cup, the surface just beginning to sweat as the ice melts inside...and sigh. I am convinced there should be a 12 step program for Diet Coke addicts. Only I've never hurt anyone in my quest to score one. Oh, wait a minute. That's not true.

Then it was refined sugar, which includes...I can't even say it. Chocolate. For the last two weeks, I've felt like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. Before the rock hammer.

And now...artificial sweeteners. No more sugar-free substitutes. If I can't have the real thing, I'll do without. And complain all the way. While eating fruit. That's right, I said it. Nothing but fruit sugar, people. And not fruit cups, Fruit Roll-Ups, or Fruity Pebbles. I mean the stuff you find in something called a produce section. A mysterious place I only venture through on my way to the turkey bacon.

On top of all this...Cathe and her crew tortured me today with a workout they call Butts and Guts but I call I Hate You and I Know Where You Parked. There they were...the five of them. Doing each excruciating exercise with perfect form and precision, smiling all the while. My face looked not unlike someone giving birth. Oh...the abs were my favorite. We started off with a move called a Superman, where you lie face down on a stability ball and then arch your back like you're flying. I almost felt like Superman for a minute. But then all hell broke loose and Cathe unleashed one impossible move after another. First of all, I'm not sure I even have abs at this point. Now you want me to make my body into a V-shape while holding a gigantic ball with my feet?!? By the time we got to the stretching section and child's pose, I was in a fetal position crying like a baby (Turns out, that's not what child's pose looks like).

But tomorrow is a new day----------And I've ordered a rock hammer.

WOW!!! I got my first fan letter yesterday. From Flower Mound, Texas...all the more sweet. And another reader paid me the ultimate compliment, assuming I was a writing coach. A writing coach?!? I never thought about that before. Let's see...I've been a dog bather, an ice cream scooper, a McDonald's party clown, the world's chattiest waitress, a Boy Scout recruiter, a professional student (my favorite job), a film editor, and a high school teacher/UFC referee. And then there were a couple of dark years when I worked as a community educator in a little town called Tahoka, Texas. In a sponge painted office (it was sponged before I got there, people). My job was to develop and deliver programs to anyone in the community who needed them. I might be teaching low-income families how to stretch their food dollar one day and computer literacy to a group of feisty (and wickedly funny) senior citizens the next. But the biggest part of my job was making nice with the people of Tahoka. And let me tell you, it's all fun and games until someone hears you say "damn it" at the stock show concession stand. Or you teach a dating etiquette class to a group of middle schoolers and don't include the "Don't have sex, kids, or you'll go straight to hell" talk. I was run out of there faster than the Dixie Chicks.

I had dinner with the Louie-formerly-known-as-boyfriend last night. We split a sandwich (he got the fries), a piece of sugar-free cheesecake, and the check. Splitting the check marked the official transition into "We're just friends" land, I suppose. The waiter (A delightful boy named Mark) thought it was someone's birthday because we both showed up with presents. Actually, it was our first time getting together since we ended the relationship five months ago. For us, it meant gifts. I gave him a set of Lucha Libre key covers. And he gave me a Chewbacca bobble head to put on my desk at school. Now anyone that knows me knows I campaign against clutter. And I worship sugar, not sci-fi. But Louie also knew my lifelong love for Chewbacca. Not Han, Luke or even the wise Yoda. No. It was always Chewbacca for me. I first saw him when I was five. And it was love at first sight. He was like a gigantic dog that didn't shed, always protected his master, and made funny noises to break the intergalactic tension. I was also obsessed with the Ewoks. But Chewie was cute AND carried an automatic weapon. Who could ask for anything more?

That's Louie for you. He always had me in stitches, laughing so hard I peed in my pants. Like when he laughs in slow motion or does funny voices. But a funny boyfriend and a lifetime supply of Depends do not a romance make. You say potato, I say patatta? It was more like "If you say that one more time, I'm going to shank ya." "I mean it...I am going to whittle a blade out of this sofa leg and cut you if you do not stop it right now." And so it appears Louie and I are destined to be BFFs instead. Good thing, because I stocked up on Depends.

When I met Louie, I weighed 157 pounds and was wearing skinny jeans and Diesel shoes. Two years, 45 pounds and a couple of mumus later, I'm wondering what the hell happened. It wasn't his fault. It's kind of been my M.O.

It goes something like this:

1. Girl works out, eats salmon all day, loses weight, feels on top of the world and decides to rejoin society

2. Boy meets girl

3. Girl convinces herself and boy that she wants nothing more than to please him, that she coincidentally likes all the things he likes, and abandons all personal endeavors to focus all her energy thinking about him

Some of the things I've "had in common" with the men of romance past include: Listening to country music, bird hunting, camping (nowhere near an electrical outlet for my hair dryer), fishing, watching sports on TV, dancing (badly), eating fried chicken at 11:00 at night, and going to classic car shows.  

Ask me how many times I've listened to country music, camped, fished, shot a gun, watched sports on TV, gone clubbing or to a classic car show since. ZERO. Although I have made a late night run to KFC a few times.

I can't help but feel a little like I did when I was 12 and stuffing candy boxes under the TV so no one would find out. I have never embraced discipline, exercise, nutrition or that on-top-of-the-world feeling as an INTERNAL feeling. I mean, if a tree falls in the forest and no one's there to hear it...well, if I lose the weight and no one is there to see it, will it matter?

Of course, the answer is yes. And so I must go on. This time it will be:

1. Girl works out, eats salmon all day, loses weight, feels on top of the world

2. Girl leads a life fully lived, amazed at what she's been missing, and reaches every bit of her potential

3. Perhaps girl meets tall boy with great hair. Boy makes girl laugh. And likes working out, eating salmon, the occasional Baskin-Robbins run, and all things Chewbacca. And both feel on top of the world...without wanting to stab one another. Either way, girl reaches potential.

Temperature on the sun…approximately 6000 degrees Celcius. Temperature in Los Angeles today…12 degrees cooler. To make matters worse, who forgot to leave the AC on before heading for Texas two weeks ago? That would be moi. So working out was a little like Bikram yoga, minus the Downward Dog. I was definitely shvitzing.

Ok…I’ve been working out for what? 20 years?  But it wasn’t until today that I realized every DVD I own stars one of three Kathys (Or two Kathys and one Cathe). Kathy Kaehler was first. Kathy Kaehler is a friendly, girl-next-door personal trainer to the stars. Pop in her 90 minute DVD and you get to work out with Jamie Gertz, Justine Bateman, Julianne Phillips, Penelope Ann Miller, Beverly Di’Angelo and Tawny Kitaen. Tawny, Kathy and I do abs together. Ohhh...what I wouldn't do to be on set that day, working out with the two of them. In between Tawny asking Kathy whether or not she should continue to breathe and thanking her for putting up with her little dog, I'd make my move, asking the questions everyone wants to know. What really happened that night in the car when she opened a can of crazy and came at her husband with the stilettos? And WHAT happened with Florence Henderson in the infamous Surreal Life season? Who hates Florence Henderson?!? Who?!?!?! In any event, Kathy Kaehler is the one you want to work out with if you've had an especially hard day...or just scarfed a ho-ho. I don't know her personally but I'd bet my last paycheck that she's very understanding...and a hugger. 

Then there is Kathy Smith. With her flowing blond hair and purple unitard, she also has the best taste in set design I’ve ever seen. It always feels like we’re working out in someone’s chic downtown loft. Exposed brick. High ceilings. And Kathy wearing the unitard and a smile. My favorite is her classic step workout.  I especially love the people in her class. Like Richard, a man possessed. He wears blue short shorts and cranks his step up to the highest possible height. Then there is the future Dancing with the Stars contestant who does every move with jazz hands. I can’t help but wonder where these people are now. There should be a reunion show.

And last but not least is Cathe Friedrich. I own 48 of her workouts. Four-Eight. Maybe it's because she has 3% body fat. Maybe it's because she does things that seem humanly impossible, like stability ball jackknifes...moves I aspire to but can't quite do yet without the stability ball shooting out from underneath me like a missile. And she does boy pushups. Like 147 of them in one upper body workout. But I think it's because Cathe and every one of her cohorts has BIG hair. South Jersey hair. And perfect form. I just bought something called an STS series. I think STS stands for strength training system. But I call it the the sheer torture series. 41 sheer torture workouts. I LOVE IT!!! 

Speaking of big hair, I saw a Secret Lives of Women last night that featured four women on "extreme diets." There was the dumpster diver, a self-proclaimed "Freegan," who carefully combed through restaurant garbage to find perfectly good food in her commitment to fight consumerism and gross American waste. There was the glowing raw foodist, who'd stopped using cocaine, eating pasta and arguing with her Italian pasta-is-everything mother. There was the couple on the restrictive calorie diet who preferred walking hand-in-hand over eating dinner. And then there was Gwen Shamblin. Gwen is the founder of the Weigh-Down Diet, which is based on the philosophy that "chocolate and lasagna weren't put on this earth to torture us, but to give us pleasure" and that we would be happier worshipping God instead of brownies. I think I actually worshipped a pan of brownies once. And I'm convinced that if the Bible were written today, it would be a plate of hot Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies the Israelites were worshipping when Moses wasn't looking. But you know the best thing? Gwen Shamblin is the queen of big hair. It's like double Bump-Its big. Not since Priscilla Presley have I seen such bigness. Dear God and Gwen, I am prepared to sacrifice chocolate at the next sacrificial slaughter/neighborhood bar-b-que...if it means bigger hair, higher cheekbones and a clean conscience. Can you pencil me in?    

Lose 60 Pounds

Find Self

Rejoin Society

And go on House Hunters

Possibly the most addictive series on HGTV, it speaks to the very core of my being. The voyeuristic being who loves to peer into the nooks and crannies of other people's lives while threatening the TV, "Pick number threeeeeee!!!!!!!!!." Oh yes, when I buy my second home, I'm definitely calling House Hunters. Peer away, America.

Every buyer on House Hunters falls into one of three categories:

1) The people who, thank God, have the same taste as you

2) The people who choose the prefab house with the 70's wallpaper and shag carpet over the remodeled cottage with hardwood floors and to-die-for kitchen

and 3) the people you thought had the same great taste as you and picked the perfect place. Only to discover on reveal day that they've covered the hardwood floors with shag carpet, painted every room some variation of puce, and amassed a sea of tchotchkes, including one jellies of the world collection, to occupy every surface in the once to-die-for kitchen. Why, Suzanne Whong?!? Why don't you stop them?

Speaking of homes...

Whoever said you can't go home again didn't live in West Texas. Here I sit by the fireplace in the Market Street grocery store across the street from my family home. That's right...I said fireplace. In the grocery store. Where people buy groceries. Only this grocery store is 63,000 square feet of coffee house, gift shop, restaurant, sushi bar, bakery-and-cheese-lollapalooza, and a piano player playing Christmas songs at Christmas. Oh, and groceries. And, get this...shiny happy people bag your groceries AND take them out to your car. They do not, I repeat, do not let you get away carrying your own bags. I was chased down by an overzealous high school kid once...trust me.  

Lubbock is my first love. West Texas gave life to lots of first loves, actually. My family, of course. Astro Jones. Buddy Holly*. My first boyfriend, who taught me how to kiss, how to shoot a gun and how to drive a four-wheeler (into a tree, by the way). If I'd married him (at the wise age of 15), my name would be Elizabeth Taylor. It's also where I learned to love big hair, thunderstorms, Blue Bell ice cream, Sonic drive-ins, and fried okra. I can tell you the precise moment I met every one of my BFFs and every class I took at Texas Tech. And tomorrow, when I take off and look down at the wide open expanse of West Texas, I will be sad. 

*This is my friend, Keith, and I in front of the Buddy Holly Museum. PS...I had glasses about this big in 4th grade. 

But I'm a bi-coastal girl now. A world traveler. And as I land at the Bob Hope Airport, in the state that has become my second home, greeted at baggage claim by my second parents, I'll remember what I love about L.A. Dog boutiques, for one. And the most fabulous dog groomer...that listens to techno music with my Willoughby. TECHNO! A gaggle of friends, adopted family, and a couple of cohorts I might consider committing petty misdeameanors with, if I wasn't so afraid of jail time (You have to potty in front of people...the horror!). And a job that isn't a job, really, but something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. At a school that welcomes me with open arms. And children that run towards me with g-l-e-e, screaming "Ms. Jones!!!" at the top of their lungs. Have low self-esteem? Work with 40 1st graders and watch what happens. Oh...and one more thing. Need a mani/pedi, cellulite smoothing, colonic, eyelash extensions, kickboxing gym, lip plumping, steam room, or naked-lady-Korean-spa where complete strangers scrub every dead skin cell from your body? If you can imagine it, L.A. has it.

So it's 26 days until Hair Appointment #2. School is starting next week. It's going to be a month o' stress. But I laugh in the face of danger. Ha! I'm going to wrestle fat AND the Elizabeast this round. Place your bets, people, and bet on me.