Mayday! Mayday! I'm goin' down! 

I'm in Texas for Spring Break. West Texas to be exact. Lubbock, Texas. Birthplace of "If you can wolf down that 72 ounce slab o' meat in an hour or less...it's free."

NEVER piggyback an impossibly perfect wedding/family reunion with a week long trip home. I'm just sayin.' Despite my mom's best efforts to keep all junk food out of the house, there is something about returning to the scene of my fat crimes that just triggers the you-know-what out of me. You know that saying? "You can't go home again?" What it should say is "No matter how far you think you've come, baby, you can't go home again without hitting Orlando's, Abuelo's, Tom and Bingo's, and Gordito's." PS...Apparently every restaurant in Lubbock, Texas, ends in "O." Or at least every one I'm interested in. 

I have 4 1/2 more days on this landlocked island I call paradise. And to prove I can exist in this town without committing a food felony every time I cross the state line, I AM going to spend every minute of the next 108 hours eating like I'm in a convent. I am going to be a food nun. Minus the vow of silence. 

Speaking of nun, I sat across the aisle on the plane from a Gregorian monk. Literally...Gregorian. And monk. I was SO tempted to tell him about all those nights in my 15-year-old bedroom listening to Enigma. Or ask if he'd contributed to the first album. But then I wondered what face my BFF, Kara, would make...and decided against it. As I don't possess a social filter, I have to gauge things by the faces Kara makes when I say them. It's a twist on "What would Jesus do"..."What face would Kara make?" Sometimes her Cosmo-reading-librarian face contorts into the same face one makes when eating a grapefruit. That usually means "I can't believe that just came out of your mouth. I'm going to act like I don't know you. Meet you at the car." This, I fear, would have been one of those moments. Except "meet you at baggage claim."

Speaking of baggage claim!...I flew into Lubbock International on Thursday night. My bags, on the other hand, flew in on Friday. There I was...in the baggage carousel at 5:48 a.m. California time. It was the Apocalypse in Lubbock that day, with 95-mile-per-hour winds. I kept expecting to see Demi Moore run by. But instead, it was just a couple of tumbleweeds and Dallas commuters, who were obviously elated they'd chosen that day to do business in West Texas.

In other news, I met the first cute single boy in a long time yesterday. OK...can someone please explain WHY you always run into potentials looking the worst you can possibly look? I actually had a scrunchie in my hair...sporting workout clothes and 20 pounds of excess water weight. And thinking "Do I have salmon in my teeth?!?..." having just consumed at the Outback half-an-hour before. O.M.G. I was visiting a friend at the college she works for. I say friend but I mean "friend." Who lured me there under false pretenses and told me Monday night was a good time to visit her because it was "so quiet." In reality, Monday night was the night she knew he would be there...the 36-year-old single and available cutie with three college degrees who takes his SHOES OFF on the carpet (Hello, lover) and has a sense of humor, "once you get to know him." 

Oy. Vey.

If Shoeless Joe ends up calling...I'm definitely whipping out my just-cleaned-Chiclet-white teeth, big hair, and best outfit. Minus the scrunchie and social filter.  

Where do I start? I feel like SO much has happened in the last four days. Believe it or not, I've lived in California for over four years and have never been to the San Diego area. I LOVED it. It reminded me of my beloved Dallas and Fort Worth. Well, except for the trees. And the hills. Oh...and the gigantic body of water.

The wedding was in a little beach community north of San Diego...called Carlsbad. I was the first one to arrive at the hotel and had the unpleasant but necessary task of choosing the right room for my parents. It was my job to do since their plane would not be arriving for another few hours. And as annoying as I must have seemed to the perky 23-year-old behind the front desk, it was either me or my two, even more particular (when it comes to hotel rooms and restaurant seating, at least), parents. After looking at room #3, I could see the perky's smile go from automatic...to forced. Me thinks Chica didn't know what I saved her from.

The next three days were a blur of family, food, fun, and food. Oh, and did I mention there was food? Thursday night was Mexican with the fam. Friday night was the rehearsal dinner at a very foo-foo "barn." Complete with ribs, cornbread and designer horses in mahogany lined stalls who, by the way, didn't even smell like horses. Obviously aware of their high falutin' surroundings and the amount of money the groom's family must have dished out for the Texas-themed fabulousness, they must have huddled pre-game and decided to hold the stink. Because the only detectable odor came from the organic hay.

And then came the wedding. Of my 6'3"-gorgeous-professional-beach-volleyball-playing niece. Related to me by love but not blood...and who obviously inherited an athletic gene I missed while I was busy looking for the electrical outlet for my hair dryer in Heaven. The wedding lasted 20 minutes. The party? It lasted for seven hours after that. I thought it was a good sign when I was the first to arrive at the tent and, despite the $100,000 price tag, the guests were being served drinks in Mason jars. Very Texas thing to do. But my hopes were quickly shattered when a)I found out we were scheduled to eat three hours later and I was expected to mingle with 250 strangers while downing Mason jars full of water for what seemed like an eternity and b)there wasn't dancing after the meal. No...there was dancing before, during and after the meal. Already cranky because I was STARVING and being the only sober one there while everyone else had had several margaritas and/or glasses of vino, I was HORRIFIED when the groomsmen and bridesmaids broke it d-o-w-n on their entrances...and then the DJ beckoned for everyone to get up and boogie at the seats. Between bites. Take a bite of chicken. Get up and shake your tail feather at the table. Cajun rice. Stand up and holla'! Corn casserole. Do the hustle. Not since Thanksgiving with Joan Crawford has the digestive process of a meal been so effed up.

PS...I didn't dare go near the bride...the woman who drags me to the dance floor on every nuptial occasion. There are two days when you just can't say no to someone...their birthday...and their wedding day. Unless they want you to be the driver on a 7-11 stick up, and then it's ok to say no. In any event, I broke outta there after the main course and before they could cut the cake...and hightailed it back to the hotel, leaving my jitterbugging parents to fend for themselves. By 9:00, I was holed up in a hotel room with my 3-year-old nephew watching Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel.      

LOOK!!! I have created FIRE! (i.e. a Twitter button!)  ------->

Ooohhh...aaahhh.

For those of you who asked to be notified when I update the blog...here you go! I'll be tweeting...yes, I said it...tweeting...every time I post. Just follow the bird.

Tweet tweet for now!

Top five signs that you are back in the saddle again. Beginning to rejoin society-slash-the dating pool:

1. The thought of clothes shopping doesn't turn you into Rain Man. Rocking and screaming "Hot water burn baby!!!"

2. Of course you want flower with pedicure. 

3. You become simultaneously fascinated and fixated on all things depilatory.

4. Out with the sports bra! You are now a total undie snob...and scoff at anything that isn't black, lacy and matching. 

And 5. You start to rate each and every guy you encounter based on what a good kisser you think he'd be.

Overnight, I went from feeling like a cross between Barney and Mr. Hanky, the Christmas poo...to the female version of Joey Tribbiani. At 3:27 p.m., I suddenly found myself very aware of the manager at Boston Market. He made a funny when, in response to his "WhatcanIgetcha?," I hungrily barked "a chicken breast...no bone, no skin, no wing!" He came back with a quick and witty "You want meat on it?" There was definitely a moment. Our eyes locked. The chicken guy was h-o-t...with his salt and pepper hair, come hither eyes and witty banter. I think I actually said "How you doin?" I was just beginning to wish I could purr like Eartha Kitt when the reality of going to first base with a man who smelled like chicken 24/7 set in.

So this is what it feels like...to re-enter the atmosphere of frisky, flirty and confident. It has begun. "Hey sleeping giant! What are you doin' here?!?"        

There's good news. And bad news. Which one do you want first? I'll start with the bad news. For two weeks, the scale has not budged. I mean, to the ounce...every.single.day...the same friggin' number. First thing in the morning, my empty stomach, empty bladder and I walk sleepily to the kitchen (the only non-carpeted spot in my apartment) pull the scale out from underneath the sofa and brace ourselves, half in hope, half in fear. And look down with bed head and squinted eyes to see the exact same digits. Thinking perhaps my scale was malfunctioning, or just punking me, I tested it on Willoughby. Depending on the amount of Shih Tzu I could manage to keep on the scale long enough to register, it was somewhere between 10.7 and 17.2. Obviously in working condition.    

Do you want to know why the scale hasn't budged? Because your poster girl for weight loss can't seem to make it through a week without succumbing to temptation. In the form of chocolate. As most of you know, I have sworn off refined sugar (yes, chocolate, that means you). For the rest of my life. But four days into the rest of my life, you might as well tell me I'm never going to see my mom again. I start fantasizing about things I wouldn't normally fantasize about. Like Alpha Bits. And Diet Dr. Pepper...which by the way, I've only had, like once in my life. Usually, I can be exorcised with the chocoholic's version of Methadone...Jello's sugar-free chocolate mousse. But this week, it was chocolate covered pretzels. The real thing.

Now, let me tell you...I have not thought about chocolate covered pretzels since I was beltin' it out to Milli Vanilli. But Thursday night, at 1:00 am...3 hours after I'd turned out the lights to go to sleep...they were ALL I could think about (the pretzels, not the pop/dance music sensation).  I finally made it to Dreamland. But woke up five hours later wanting them even more. So, at 7:00 in the morning, I got in my car, drove down to the nearest grocery store, echolocated a bag of chocolate covered pretzels, and ate the entire bag for breakfast.

I was so disgusted with myself that I decided to ride my bike to work. Most of you don't know me in person. But trust me when I say it was a sight to see. And the ONLY time I've done it in 36 years of tricycles, Pink Princess bikes, and 10-speeds.  Going TO work was fun. Because it's ALL downhill. Going back home...uh..NOT so fun! Around Orange Grove and Rosemead, I almost lost part of my lower intestine. I just tucked it into my messenger bag and kept going. Up the mile of 30-45% incline leading back to my house. I see bikers, in their black neoprene biking shorts and aerodynamic helmets, trekking up that hill almost daily. God love 'em. I had it down to the lowest gear possible. My legs were going 1000 RPM. And I was barely moving. But I made it! And then took a four hour nap.

In any event, on Saturday, I started a new diet. Something radically different from anything I've EVER done before. Something REVOLUTIONARY. PS...I lost two pounds in 48 hours. That, darlings, is the good news. 

Oh...but I'm not telling you what it is until I know for sure it's going to work. Which, in my head means 6.4 more pounds. Stay tuned!