Splurging in Style

The other day I had an interesting conversation with a woman who is also on diet program. We were comparing notes and she said that when we were at our “goal” weights we should go out and splurge on a really huge dinner with all our favorite foods. I told her I’d rather splurge on a fabulous pair of shoes or a mountain of makeup at  Sephora.

It’s now been 2 months that I’ve been on my food plan. If you recall, I started on Jan. 2. At this writing I’ve lost 24 lbs. and I have every intention of staying with this program for the rest of my life. I’m comfortable in my own skin. Finally. I’m gaining a tremendous amount of closet space due to the clothes that are now in the give away pile.

So does this mean I’ll never eat the foods I hold dear? Ever again? The answer is no. Of course I’ll be able to eat whatever I want. Eventually. But at this point, I’m not about to.  And whatever I want has its limitations. It’s called portion control and occasionally.

In a few days I’ll be off to Trieste, Italy for some concerts with my jazz band and visiting with my dearest friends. Some of my friends here are actually freaking out that I won’t be eating pasta, pizza, risotto and the vast amount of carbs that Italians are so famous for. How can you go to Italy and not eat they cry to me. Best answer I can give them is: been there, done that. It’s not the first time I’ll be in Italy. And certainly not the last. I’ve been there lots. Like every 4-6 months lots. This time I’m bringing my own packaged foods. The thing that makes me really smile is that my friends are so upset that I can’t eat pizza, pasta etc. I’m not upset at all. I’m looking forward to the challenge. And also shopping the sales. You knew that was coming.

Life is good. No. LIFE IS GREAT!

Stars and Stripes Forever!

I’ve never thought of myself as overly patriotic. I mean, I grew up in the rebellious anti pledge of allegiance years. Pledge allegiance to the flag? Are you kidding? The only thing I was pledging allegiance to was my music. My idols. Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. Beatles, Led Zepp and The Doors.

All of that changed when I was 15 years old. Summer of ’71. We took a trip cross country. Five of us in living in an Airstream trailer for 2 months. Airstream living is not exactly roughing it, but in 1971 it was a very hip thing to do.

My Dad was a high school chemistry teacher so he had the summers off. We traveled every summer and Dad always put in an educational element to our trips. When my parents decided to do the cross country thing, they invested in the Airstream and we did a few shakedown trips before embarking on the BIG trip. Dad put a big map of the USA on the wall in his study and spent a good year researching the places we would go. He would say to my mom...do you want to go here? Or there? And then he would stick a pushpin in the map. When the entire map was loaded with pushpins, he connected the dots with a thread. This would be our trip. Across the top of the USA, hitting the middle as well and then down through Oregon and California and coming back across the bottom of the USA and back up to New York.

We went everywhere. We avoided places like Chicago and New Orleans for the wide open spaces. The National Parks. Mt. Rushmore? Yeah, I’ve been there. The Badlands. Yep. Been there too. Rafting on the Snake River. The Corn Palace. Wall Drug. Mesa Verde. And of course-The Grand Canyon. It was incredible. We managed a trip to Disneyland and spent time in beautiful San Francisco. Saw lots of Hare Krishnas. My mother kept a tight rein on me that summer. Me in my patched bell bottomed jeans and Dr. Scholl’s was very intrigued by the goings on in San Fran.

We traveled through the Dakotas and Wyoming and Utah. We passed through tiny towns that had signs saying Population 12. We met native Americans and my Dad talked to everyone. Dad loved conversations with strangers.

My parents had us keep scrap books and to this day I still have mine. We saved ticket stubs to museums, pamphlets and candy wrappers. We wrote every day about our experiences. We had a lifetime of experiences.

I live in an amazing country. This IS THE USA. It’s beautiful. To many…the United States consists of the East Coast, West Coast and a few places in between. The vastness of America is astounding. It’s beyond words. You just don’t know until you’ve experienced it. I would never live anywhere else. I am AMERICAN. God Bless America.

And by the way…my favorite holiday is the 4^th of July.

In memory of my Daddy, Alex D. Greenblatt

Feb. 23, 2012

Preferred Seating

A few weekends ago I went to visit my mom in Florida. She is the quintessential snowbird. Happy to be in Florida in the winter and happy to be back home in New York in the summer. Her Florida residence is in a remote little town in the middle of the state. Orange groves as far as the eye can see. Her little neighborhood is lovely, but for me, boring. She has her friends, her clubs and her projects. I always try to plan a day trip to somewhere cool or exciting when I visit. One time we went to the Everglades. That was cool AND exciting.

I used to fly into Orlando, rent a car and drive the 2+ hours to Mom. I have since changed my tune. Here’s the story:

Orlando. Great airport. Beautiful really. Lots of lovely shops, restaurants and places to sit. But it’s Orlando. Who flies into Orlando? Think about it. What’s in Orlando. Oh yes. Disney. I hate Disney (see older post). Disney is actually outside of Orlando but no matter. At any given time the Orlando airport is filled with families. And kids. Lots of kids. Happy kids. Unhappy kids. SCREAMING kids. And thus, flights going to and from Orlando are filled with families and kids. Lots of kids….

Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. I was an elementary/middle school music teacher for over 30 years. Kids are the best. Just not on a flight.

I understand families need to fly. That’s a given. I would love a flight that’s restricted to kids 10 years old and older or no kids at all. I suppose that’s what first and business classes are all about. Man, there’s nothing worse than a child screaming because their ears are in a panic due to the plane descending. I know. It happens to me too. But when you are flying at an extremely high altitude, coming down takes a while (trans-Atlantic especially). I’ve been on migraine induced flights due to screaming children.

So I took a chance and booked my flight into Ft. Myers. I figured that this is not Disney and therefore limited children on board. Boy was I ever wrong. On both descents-Ft. Myers and Boston, there were screaming kids galore. Fortunately for me, my ears were so clogged I barely heard them. Unfortunately for me, it was the beginning of a weeklong cold.

So, until I can save up enough points to upgrade, I guess I’m stuck. Time to invest in some really good earplugs.

By the way, Fort Myers is a lovely little airport. I had a nice salad in a tropical restaurant. Stayed completely to plan. Go me!

Feb. 15, 2012 

Assessing the Situation

So as you may remember from earlier posts: I’m on a major quest to lose 100 pounds. I started this on Jan. 2, 2012 and so far it’s going great. Month and a half and I’m down approximately 15 lbs. It’s not really visible to innocent bystanders, but I can notice the difference by the way my clothes fit. Maybe I’ve lost more than 15 but as you know…I don’t go around jumping on my scale as if it were a pogo stick. It’s been about 2 weeks since I last stepped on the “S” word (see older post for that).

A few days ago I needed to call in sick to work. I knew a cold was coming on and as much as I resisted it, the germs said, sorry madam, you are just too good to be true. I totally apologize to the Jet Blue flight I was on (last Monday, after visiting Mom in Florida). I’m sure I infected the entire plane and cabin crew. Sorry. Drink tea.

I rarely call in sick. No work=no pay. Yes, my job has sick day benefits if you bring in a doctor’s note. I’m not going to my doctor, spending 1/3 of my paycheck on a co-pay for her to tell me to get the hell out of her office before I infect everyone. A cold is a cold. Coughing, sneezing and spewing germs galore. Getting in the car to schlep to the doctor’s office is not a way to feel better. And so...a day without pay. Several.

As long as I was home, I assessed the pants situation in my closet. OK. So the skinniest pants definitely did not fit. Yet. I slid those to the back of the closet. I’ll pull them out again in 6 months. The snug fitting pants are not so snug anymore and these are the current selections. The pants that fit perfectly several weeks ago are in the give away pile. Too big now. I’m liking this a whole lot.

Then I attacked the sweater pile. Only a few were in the give away pile. Sadly, one of my favorites was doomed. Even with washing and shrinking it was still a bit big. Looking on the bright side, next winter I’ll buy a new favorite sweater. Cashmere. There is a light at the end of the tunnel!

Next, I worked on the dresses and skirts, most of which I rarely wear. And my “gig” clothes. I didn’t mind putting some of those in the give away pile. After the dust cleared I realized how much space my closet now has. And all those empty hangers. Wow.

For now, I’m very happy I don’t need to visit the mall. I can just go shopping in my own closet!

Framed and Fuzzy

It’s been several years since I had my eyes examined, so after much procrastination (and insurance changes) I made an appointment.

I’ve been wearing glasses since I was about 8 years old. Back then I was such a geeky looking kid with powder blue cat’s eye frames. I hated my glasses. When I was old enough for contact lenses I didn’t hesitate. They were the tiddely wink kind. Hard plastic. Green to match my eyes. Big enough to play beer pong with. I wore those for years and when the soft ones came out I wore those as well. But I still had glasses for all those times when I was too lazy to mess with the contacts.

One day I finally gave up the contacts and went back to wearing glasses full time.

My frames changed with the times. Eyewear, as they now call it, goes through fashion trends. I may not be trendy with my clothes but my glasses scream out, “this chick’s got style!”

So I called up my sister who just happens to be an optician and I asked her what’s new in the world of eyewear. She informed me none too gently that MY glasses were outdated and bigger is in. OK. Bigger may be in, but bigger doesn’t work on my face. In fact, I was noticing some of my customers and their eyewear and one young woman had on these HUGE frames. I said (in my open mouth insert foot way of speaking) wow…your frames are huge. She said she doesn’t wear glasses but liked the way they look on her. Um. OK. Wearing glasses when it’s not necessary. I don’t get it. My sister calls it geek chic. Whatever. I’m not going that big.

I used to need glasses for seeing far. I still do, but now I need then for seeing close as well. They call that bifocal. Or in my case trifocal. I still need to take off my glasses when I need to read the fine print. I definitely needed an upgraded prescription.

So I went to my local optician. I had my eyes examined. Things certainly have changed in the few years since I had my last exam. Technical things. It was fascinating. I was able to look at pics of my eye inside and out. The good news is that my eyes are healthy. The bad news is that I did a really lousy job with my eyeliner. Guess the camera doesn’t lie!

After the exam came the best part: choosing new frames. Sounds simple, but it’s not. Oh, the choices. Too many choices. And colors. Browns, blacks, blues. Reds. Green too. I’d been wearing brown for so many years that I decided to shake things up a bit. Red and purple. Not really red, more like a dark pomegranate. Antioxidant frames. Trendy? Yes. Functional? Definitely. After the custom lenses discussion (ultra thin, trifocal stuff, transitions, anti glare) I nearly had to scrape myself off the floor at what it would cost me. I know people who pay less in rent than what these glasses are costing me. But hey…it would have been more without insurance.

The doctor dilated my eyes. I haven’t had that done in ages. She said it would affect my close vision (a bit fuzzy) but I would have no problems driving. She was right. I drove right to the supermarket and couldn’t read a single label. Frustrated at not being able to read the Boca Burger label (looking at the carb count) I grabbed the usual box and hightailed it out of there.

My new “eyewear” will be ready in about 3 weeks. Just look for the chic chick with the coolest glasses around!

The "S" Word

No, no…it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m talking SCALE. As in bathroom scale. As in the thing you stand on to get your weight. Or hopefully lack of weight.

I have this love/hate relationship with my scale. It used to be in my bedroom. I’ve exiled it to the basement. Since, as you know, I hate walking downstairs…it’s a perfect place for it to live.

On every food/diet program you are told to weigh yourself. Once a day. Once a week. For a while I had a scale addiction. First thing in the morning I’d wake up and hop on the scale. Not liking what I saw, I’d go to the bathroom and then get on it again. Still not happy, I’d go back to bed for a bit. One time, I did just that, got back on the scale and I had gained a pound. A pound?? From what?? Air??

Then there is the trick of moving the scale to the left or right. Automatic weight change. One inch over, three inches down. It can be a harrowing experience. This is why my scale is in the basement. I know women who jump on the scale 3-4 times a day. After workouts, after having a stomach flu. I would rather judge my weight loss by how my clothes fit.

My sister gets on the scale every day. She’s the only one I know who gets on the scale AFTER a vacation. She’s a very brave woman. I am in constant denial. I try to justify gastronomic events: I just scarfed down that pizza but hey, I walked it off shopping. Yeah, the scale doesn’t do excuses.

I think, that when I finally get within 10 pounds of my goal weight I will invest in a new scale. Then I will weigh myself every few days. I would like a talking scale that says: Ellen, you have 10 pounds to go. Atta girl! Until that time, however, I will keep the old scale in basement exile and visit it on laundry day.

And now, it’s time to try on those skinny jeans again. Who knows? One of these days they’ll fit just right. Scale? Eat your heart out!

The Cuban Way

I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba. For the music and food of course. As an American I know it’s not so easy to get there…but…I have a new friend who just happens to hail from Havana and he has some insider tips for me.

My boss (Juan) is from Cuba. I love the stories he tells us about growing up Cuban. He shows us how to create something from nothing. Like how to repair things with pieces of paper. That’s the “Cuban Way” he tells us.

Juan is the general manager of 9 stores in our airport terminal. There is only one bookstore and although he’s responsible for the well being of ALL the stores, he really prefers hanging out in our little bookshop. Sometimes he can’t tear himself away. As all good bookstore junkies, he’s quite literary. A well read book snob. Just like all of us (except me of course). He and my friend Cathy are all about the covers, which as you know I am totally against. You really CANNOT judge a book by its cover. We argue this point daily. Sometimes more than daily. I like reading the first chapter. If it catches me, great. They look at the cover and think…cool, I’m so reading this. Don’t get me wrong…a good looking book cover is a great marketing strategy. As is a good title. There’s a book I really want to read but the title completely grosses me out so I probably won’t read the book, even though I know I would enjoy it (we book junkies are so weird).

Juan has introduced me to authors I’ve heard of but never read. We in turn have introduced him to authors he’s never heard of. It’s a great learning experience. Our “to read” lists are growing longer by the minute. Sometimes I don’t even have a choice of what to read. Juan says to read a certain book because he liked it so much that I just have to read it. Now. This minute. I’m waiting for the day when he asks me to write an essay on it (Juan…ignore that last sentence).

Juan has some ideas of how to get me into Cuba. Music related of course. I love, love, love Cuban jazz. And Cuban salsa. For me, singing American jazz is classic. It feels good. Listening to Cuban jazz and salsa is electric, erotic and exciting. I can feel it from the inside out. It’s hot. I’ve never tried singing it, but there’s always a first time I suppose.

Someday I’ll get there. Sooner than later I hope. For now, I’ll remember to do things the Cuban way. No hammer? No problem. Just don’t use a heavy book.

Books are sacred!

Dear John

John, loo, WC, powder room…no matter how you say it, it’s still the bathroom. We all use it. It’s a fact of life. Some of us use it more than others. Some of us spend extraordinary amounts of time in there which result in shouting through the closed door, are you alright in there?

Let’s talk about the T word. Here in the USA most are the same. With a little flusher handle on the side. There are designer toilets, toilets in vivid hues, raised toilets. But in the end….they all do the same thing. In Italy, things are a bit different. The flusher isn’t a handle at all. It’s more like a button. In fact, there are usually two. One for a long flush and one for a shorter flush. Nice way to save on water bills. And then there’s the bidet. I SO want one of these in my home. I’m not going to explain how to use this porcelain delight because it is rather intimate. I can tell you that if you ever have the opportunity…try one.

The toilets in Japan are a multi sensory experience. Toilet and bidet in one unit along with music settings. I thought I would need a PhD to figure out how to use it. Fortunately there were instructions above the toilet paper roller in Japanese AND English. Obviously others have been stymied as well by this high tech device. Needless to say, I was fascinated by the music choices in the public restrooms. Imagine listening to pop, rock, classical or jazz while you do your thing.

Speaking of public restrooms…

I have been in some real doozies as I imagine most of you have as well. At the airport where I work, the ladies room is maintained really well. I also love the fact that you don’t need to flush. It’s automatic. Nice.

In the USA, public toilets are pretty consistent. In Italy, there’s a 50/50 chance that public toilet is in the floor. Yes, really. It’s built into the floor. I was so horrified the first time I saw one of those. For a guy…easy. Facile. For a woman…not so easy. It’s basically a porcelain hole in the floor that you straddle. The end result for women is wet pants or shoes. When I need to go to a restroom in say, a restaurant or pub I will always ask someone if it’s a real toilet. If not, I usually pass on that after meal coffee. The moral of that story is to make sure you go before you leave the house.

Yes, the bathroom is a fact of life. And happiness is having a fully stocked cabinet of toilet paper. 

Happy flushing!