7 pounds in 14 days...

On my return from Europe at the weekend I took the trepid step and climbed on my scales. At first I wasn’t sure if my waning old eyes were failing me further, or whether my scales had broken whilst I was away, but what was before me was worse than a national disaster. I had gained 7 pounds, yes 7 pounds. Apart from nearly fainting, the only other sign I was alive was the whimper coming from my lips. How on earth could this have happened? I mean, seriously, 7 pounds in 14 days, that’s a half a pound a day, or if you want it in real throw-up terms, seeing as 3,500 calories is equal to 1 pound fat means I ate 24,500 calories more than I normally do!!! So all the pasta, olive oil, pastry products, oh and don’t forget the wine, I consumed have now taken home in my fat store.

But the dilemma is what to do about it. Should I diet or should I not? Usually, I would immediately go on a crash diet, and as you know I am the GABY self-confessed diet freak. However, this time I am going to refrain from such drastic action and try to be rational about this. So, as one reader from our first issue and blog had inspired me to read the “Eat This Not That” book (I reviewed it this month), I am going to use this as my guru and see if my new wobbly lodgers can be shifted! I wonder, though, how come I never used to have this problem in my 20s and 30s--why could I eat and drink what I wanted without problems. I know you will all immediately say METABOLISM, but truly can it get that bad? If so, I am afraid to think what will happen next. Will I eventually put on weight as soon as I look at a pizza or take that second glass of wine? Will I be relegated to eating salads every vacation, or is there a more civilized way to overcome this little issue? Please help, any ideas and tips would be greatly received.

Yours,

Flabbier than usual,

Dawn (the GABY Diet Freak)

And the Beat Goes On by Mary Alford-Carman

So my thirteen-year-old daughter and I were tripping the light fantastic down the highway, and she had been given control of the music for the drive. Can you say time for an awkward moment? A new song comes on, you can’t read the display, the beat is great, and then the lyrics come slamming in at full speed before you can think to act. Let’s just say that while the language was not explicit, the innuendo wasn’t lacking, so much so that you might as well have stuck our faces into a preview of “Girls Gone Wild.” I wish I could remember the lyrics, but the gist was that a party was going on in the nether regions and company was wanted. The situation was in sync with my music review “Invisible Words” in February’s issue of 4gaby.com.

My daughter looked over and just changed the station. “Well, that was random,” was all she said as she looked over grinning at me. We talked about the song for a moment or two and I felt good that she really didn’t care about it but was comfortable talking with me about the song. I couldn’t help but remember lowering the volume on my stereo at home when I was sixteen and my parents where close by because the lyrics were less than stellar. The beat goes on, the cycle continues, but at least my daughter talks to me about the music she likes and dislikes…for now.

Another F Word...

Lately I've been struck by an F word that I never really considered before the F word of fifty. My new F word is a single word mantra that I keep repeating - Freedom! If you read our guest column this month, "The F Word", by Maria Pramaggiore, then you got a glimpse of the realities of being 50 in today's universe. It's not always pretty to watch others dismiss you even more quickly than they will walk away from broccoli. Now all of us have been dismissed by others. But as we age, it seems to take on a new dimension. It is just expected that we aren't up on new music or technology or anything remotely cool. Add in the mix teenagers and now you know that you're stupid, too. But I'm slowly starting to realize that at fifty, maybe I don't care so much anymore. Hey, I'm 50. Like me, don't like me, whatevah. Hey, I'm 50. I don't need the world's validation so much anymore. My momma turns 80 in a few days. She flat doesn't care what you think of her (it's a Southern saying - "flat don't care"). She doesn't like it if you say something bad about her children and grandchildren, but if you say something about her - knock yourself out. She said that as you get older, you realize that the people who care about you show up at your funeral. The others, well, if you can't say something nice, just don't say anything, and walk away. Freedom! What do you think? Are you comfortable with aging? Are you starting to feel relaxed over the whole thing?

A Good Neighbor May be Hard to Find, But the Bad One Rings Your Bell All the Time

In my February essay, “A Good Neighbor is Hard to Find,” I skewered some of the neighbors I’ve met over the years, and I’ve met a lot of them, having moved so often. So I’m an introvert, a homebody, a writer. I do not join social clubs. But I realize the importance of neighbors, of working with them, of compromise. A long marriage has taught me how to get along. I do play well with others, am a loyal friend, a good employee. I get along. I’m just picky about who I befriend.

Right now I’m listening to my stuck-in-the-80s neighbor blaring her music “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough.” If I knew her phone number, I’d call in a different request. She razed all the trees in her backyard which faces our court, opposite our front yard, so her dogs bark if anyone rears his head out the door. My son is outside all the time, hence barking is constant. She cares not, and I’ve never said anything to her about it. However she did call me out for my dog who once took himself on a run the length of her fence taunting her barking dogs. It would be cool if the neighbor up the street who punched the other neighbor over his barking dog lived here. I’d love to unleash them on each other.

My carpool friend down the street moved because her neighbor punched out her husband over another barking dogs’ issue. $30,000 worth of surgery. We’re pretty sure he dognapped one of the dogs too. I stand on the other side of the street from him at the bus stop. I just can’t make myself make nice with him.

It sounds like we’re in a real redneck place, but we’re in an old neighborhood on the lake, where modest older homes mingle with million-dollar listings. It’s a strange diverse mix, with no homeowner’s dues or association, which I love. I know we aren’t going to like everyone, but can’t we all just take a chill pill?

Laws were created to save us from our unjust impulses, our desire to knock each other’s lights out, our overwhelming compulsion to tell each other what we really think. Some of us just write it out, which I like to think is taking the higher ground. I don’t talk to most of my neighbors because I can’t think of a nice thing to say. I was raised right.

How do you get along with the neighbors?

Getting Through by Mary Alford-Carman

I got a call from an acquaintance who read “Inside An Empty Womb,” the essay I wrote for our 4gaby.com online magazine and I was touched beyond belief. We had worked together during the summer for the U.S. Census and had briefly connected, sharing our thoughts on motherhood, working and juggling schedules. She didn’t know that I had gone through the infertility process, and she was going through it for the second time around. Her first attempts were similar to mine, but she did have a child who is now a five-year-old son. They want to have another baby, and the process, while still daunting, has them excited for the future.

What caught her attention in my essay was the mention of mood swings and of the loss of a baby so dreamed about and wanted. She told me that reading the words left her feeling validated. She still mourned a loss that no one ever saw, but felt that given the opportunity she wouldn’t have changed a thing. In the day-to-day of parenting, the loss of a baby before term had made her more grateful for the child she hugs today. She, too, had those who made comments that were less than compassionate after her loss. I asked her how she handled it and she told me most of the time she just walked away. There were times when she really had to bite her tongue, because she just couldn’t deal with their lack of kindness along with her loss.

We all go through horrific hard times in life, and many times we find the support we need around us. When we don’t, it shocks and causes hurt. Have you ever been in a situation where the support you hoped for wasn’t there, or worse still, was insensitive? How did you handle it? Who helped you through it?  Sometimes, when the chips are really down, who can you rely on to “get it” and help you get through?