All of my clothes are teenagers.

Hello invisible internet friends! Long time no blog at. 

So I'm back on Weight Watchers. I started the first week of December, and my sensible friends wondered why in hell I was starting a diet plan right smack in the middle of the holidays. But that's exactly why I was doing it. I figured on the days when I wasn't at a party washing down frosted Christmas cookies with gallons of eggnog, I'd be eating my sensible scrambled eggs with dry whole wheat toast, and maybe things would balance out.

Instead, I've managed to lose 10 pounds since December 3rd. Yay me for apparently having a terrible social life!

At any rate, I decided to clear out my closet because with ten fewer pounds hanging around my waist, I suspected that my clothes would fit differently. I started with pants, and let me tell you; the Weight Watchers app doesn't include "trying on pants" as a possible exercise, but try on 20 pairs of pants and you will discover that it's an aerobic activity. 

So I now have some pants put aside to donate to my church rummage sale, some set aside because they are still too tight, and a few have moved front and center because lo, they zip. 

All that is to be expected. Less expected was the realization that most of my clothes are old enough to be Bar Mitvahed or maybe to sneak one of my cigarettes (although I don't smoke, so HA, take that, stupid clothes!)

And between this blog and FaceBook memories, I have incredible amounts of evidence of how long I've owned, for example, this black Worth dress

almost 13 years

or this black Tory Burch Simone sweater

even more, because it wasn't new here.

So I guess I'm back on WW not just to slim down a bit, but to lose so much weight that I have to buy a bunch of new clothes. Because at the moment I look like a throwback to the Obama administration. Or, because I don't want to get overly political in these parlous times, like an extra from an episode of Glee.

I hereby declare 2016 the year of the low-buy

Hello, internet! Long time no blog.

Where have I been? Doing a lot of traveling. I took Young Master Buxom off for his sophomore year in Boston, and the following week, drove Miss Buxom for a post-graduate year at Interlochen in way-the-hell-up-there Michigan.

Then, just when I thought that with the younguns out of the house I could finally Do Something About It, Mr. Buxom announced that we should try living in the city for a while. I am the biggest feminist who ever feministed (for a housewife, anyway) but decided that after 18 years of the commuter train, he deserved a break. Because a couple of times in my life, I lived within walking distance of my job, and it was awesome. If Mr. Buxom wants to walk to work and back, have at it, say I.

Therefore, whenever I head to the gym or get my hair colored or decide to Do Something About the House, I'm the one who commutes. Which is fine, but eats up a bit of time.

I've also traveled back to Massachusetts and Michigan for parents' weekend visits, and been to Dallas and New York (where I had the joy of visiting with blackbird.)

Then there was Thanksgiving, and more traveling. We drove to New Hampshire, picked up our children (one from the airport, one from his dorm) and proceeded to celebrate. We also had a last minute shopping trip to J. Crew because Mr. Buxom didn't pack a suit but had to do a last minute trip to D.C. as well as Austin. So I drove the airport Buxoms to the airport and the dorm Buxom to the dorm and then drove back to Chicago by myself.

CAN YOU BELIEVE THE GLAMOUR OF IT ALL.

So now I begin my 11th year of blogging absolutely and totally pushing 60, back on Weight Watchers, up to my eyeballs in recently purchased makeup and skincare as well as clothes that are too tight, hence the Weight Watchers.

Which leads me to my title. That's quite enough shopping. I mean, yes, I intend to participate in Christmas, but that's it. I am drowning in stuff. Most of it extremely nice and lovingly selected and gloated over, but still.

Confession time: Between Birchbox, GWPs, Beauty Event bags, and the samples Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, and Sephora throw into every order, I have managed to fill one of these:

with innumerable teensy- or deluxe-sized samples of high-end skincare, makeup, hair care, body care, and fragrance products. Some of them might change my life, but who's going to know when they're just sitting there.

So. No more buying for quite a while. And I hereby declare Sample Saturdays for skincare and Sample Sunday for makeup. (Sure, the people at church might be surprised when I show up looking like a clown, but hey! Church isn't for the saved, church is for the people in need of salvation, amirate?)

Bullets Thursday

• Yow.

• Dealing with the aftermath of the condo fire is a little bit like telling time by looking at the second hand of a clock. The story keeps changing, so why bother to listen to it? Or maybe it's like a roller coaster ride. First the insurance guys were all "there's vaporized asbestos all over your apartment--unclean!!!" and then they were all "actually, it's OK," and then they were "OH NOEZ, U NEED MEN IN HAZMAT SUITS" and then they were "Hey, no problem; a specialized team can go in and wash everything."

And half of that ride happened TODAY. So that was tiring.

• High school continues to kick. my. ass. Final exams are next week. Somehow I suspect that this weekend will not be spent curled up on the brown sofa of love drinking wine and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD.

• That's OK because I'm back on Weight Watchers, so a glass of wine a day is about all I can handle. OK, maybe two. But no guzzling. Not if I want to also eat food.

• I went to the dentist today. (Yes, I'll go this low. Dental blogging. Hey, what's the internet for if not to give a rendition of the condition of my dentition?) Is the suspense killing you? Relax. They're fine. And the hygienist even complimented me on my gums.

• You know what's sad? I'm always pleased to remember that my teeth have already been flossed twice on the day I get them cleaned--once by me, once by the dental hygienist. And that means--ta da!--I don't really need to floss again before I go to bed. Which is AWESOME. And on a day with a diet, a dentist appointment, and a bunch of insurance hassles, awesome is good.

• I have not yet begun to take down Christmas decorations, mostly because long conference calls with insurance agents tire me right out and leave me looking longingly at the wine bottles. But also because I'm not sick of them yet. THEY'RE PRETTY.

• Hey, I made chicken cacciatore tonight and both of my children ate it!

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day Twelve--the OMG I've actually rejoined Weight Watchers edition

Hey, everybody! I'm fat again.

And with a BlissDom in February, a college reunion in May, and BlogHer in July, I need to get ready to deal with my public. And that means joining the gym and starting the diet.

The thing is, I'm re-joining a gym I used to go to about 10 years ago. And Weight Watchers? Wasn't it just two years ago I lost almost 20 pounds doing that?

I'm like the new Alfred E. Neuman: What me, yo-yo? God, I'm such a cliché. I feel so sheepish. Sheepish and hungry.

I'm a cliché who's lightheaded from hunger, so I'd better get on with the contest before I faint dead away.

Because it's the final day of the contest. The first person to figure out what popular Christmas song is illustrated with the following record album covers wins a Mamarazzi t-shirt.

I just hope the sound of my stomach rumbling doesn't prevent you from concentrating, that's all.

178, or, back on the wagon

Last night Susie Sunshine and I were on the phone talking about our need to get in shape.

And because I was already fed up with the way my jeans were biting me, and because I badly needed to prove the point I made earlier in our conversation (when I assured her that I am easy-going and not a bossy control-freak) I agreed to go back on Weight Watchers.

Well, of course. Susie Sunshine could talk you into doing anything. It's her way.

And so, here I go again. I'm back on the wagon, ready to count points and just say no to the snacks I supposedly buy for my children's lunch boxes.

And let me just say that I am glad I got this far in life before letting the crunchy, peanut-buttery, creaminess that is a Nutter Butter Peanut Butter cooky* into my mouth. If I had, I'd be much fatter. Because I would have wolfed down a few packages of those cute little peanut-shaped cookies. Damn skippy I would.**

OK. It begins with weighing myself. Now, my lying-sack-of-shit bathroom scale assures me that I haven't gained all that much weight. But if I haven't (and I have) it's because my jeans bit it off.

Still, this weigh-in gives me a ... a ... (damn this menopausal word retrieval problem!) baseline, like your first mammogram. Which is a very apt metaphor, because it's almost as scary.

And it said 178. It could be worse. In fact, it will be, when I get on a scale that isn't too intimidated by me to tell me the truth.

But I'm not going to any god-damned Weight Watchers meetings. My leader is annoying. You know how everyone thinks Weight Watchers meetings are nothing but a bunch of women whining and complaining?

Well, not my group. You can't get in a word edgewise around this woman. And for some reason, I don't enjoy listening to someone else dominate the conversation. So it's on line for me. And now, excuse me, I need to log on to the Weight Watchers website and log my weight. And then go do the treadmill for an hour.

* Note archaic spelling.
** (Pun intended.)

176

I went to Weight Watchers today not in fear and trembling, per se, but not feeling all that great about it, either. I haven't been tracking my food, and I certainly haven't been working out.

See, I'm still getting the house back in order after last fall's construction project. Yes, still. Not to mention Christmas. Confession time: our Christmas tree went down on January 20th, mostly because it seemed a little silly to still have a Christmas tree up on Martin Luther King Day.

It's taking so long because I wanted to do this right. Not just put everything back into the kitchen--not to shove Christmas decorations into random boxes, but do things properly. This meant I needed to do a whole shitload of some decluttering.

So I haven't been working out, per se, but I haven't been sitting around eating bonbons, either. I've cleaned out a bunch of closets and made multiple trips with a van packed with stuff to donate to the rummage sale. I've moved furniture around. I've cleaned out the storage area.

(Which badly needed cleaning. I mean, I found a box of rattles. May I remind you that my kids are not 1 and 2 but 11 and 12?)

While I've been dejunking the house, I've been pondering my clutter situation. I decided that if you want to see a house that needs attention, maybe the first person you need to talk to is a woman with a weight problem.

Marcia Cilley, a/k/a Flylady, has a book out called Body Clutter. I haven't read it, and I probably won't, because to be honest, the Flylady stuff gets on my last nerve--all that stuff about Purple Puddles is so ... how can I put this tactfully ... not me.

But. It seems to me that weight problems and clutter problems very frequently strike the same people. And the reason is Freud's Pleasure Principle. You know, where you seek pleasure and avoid pain. Because let's face it: it's much easier to let crap accumulate than pare way down. And it's much easier to have the second helping, super-size the fast-food order, and sit on the couch and watch television rather than get up and move.

In both cases, the deciding vote is cast by entropy.

This means that if you don't do anything about it, what with the gifts, the junk mail, the outgrown children's clothes and toys, the collectibles, the books you're not interested in any more, the DVDs you aren't watching, the CDs you aren't listening to, the clothes you're tired of, the stuff that doesn't fit any more, the piles of antique linens your mother foisted off on gave you--you, like me, are up to your armpits in a lot of crap you don't use or love or have any real reason to own.

And if you sit around on your ass and eat a little too much every day, and drink a little too much every day ... you are probably carrying around a bunch of clutter under your clothes.

So for the past couple of weeks, when I thought I wasn't working out? I really was. At least, I was doing something very similar to working out. I sure didn't want to do it. But once I got going, I got all energetic. And when I was done? I was exhausted, but I felt great. Also, I needed to take a shower.

So you see, decluttering really is like going to the gym.

And I think that's why I lost a pound last week.

177

This morning I went to my Weight Watchers meeting, and that's what I weighed today.

This is up from 175, which is what I weighed on December 19th, the last time I went to a meeting. In fact, I haven't weighed this much since Halloween.

But you know what? It feels great.

Because I honestly felt as though I'd gained not three pounds back, but 15. I feel seedy, all flabby and just generally icky.

It must be because I haven't been working at AT ALL. I haven't been to the gym since we all moved back into the house on December 5th. I don't have that I'm-made-of-Silly-Putty rubbery, bouncy, firm feeling you get when you're using your muscles to do something other than drink wine and eat cheese and crackers.

Still, it felt good to face the music. Especially because things weren't as bad as I imagined they'd be.

And so to help myself get back on track, I bought a WW magazine as I left the meeting, and a Shape at the supermarket (where I stocked up on broccoli, Clementines, shrimp, and Skinny Cows, OK?) I plan to steep myself in motivational literature. And start tracking my points again. And re-lose those three pounds.

As God is my witness, I'm going to get under 174 pounds. Even if I have to bore the internet into a coma.

Diet update: The good news is the scale said 174.

The bad news is the scale I used is the lying-sack-of-shit bathroom scale that I estimate is off by six pounds.

So I'll say I weigh 180. I'm actually relieved. Somehow I pictured myself as having gained every one of the 18 pounds I lost back. Mind you, that would have involved spending my Christmas vacation eating something like 3,000 extra calories a day, which, while not impossible, takes some doing. Training, even. You know, like someone getting ready to enter a pie-eating contest.

You know, I thought I was being whimsical when I typed that last sentence, but on second thought, I'm not. For a real eye-opener, check out this week's People magazine--the January 14th issue with the people on the cover who had lost half their weight. There's an article where they show what these people used to eat on a typical day, and what they eat now. Teresa Williams used to weigh 310 pounds. And Teresa Williams really did used to eat 10,000 calories a day. Want to know what that would entail? From Page 97:

Breakfast: 6 cinnamon rolls and a large chocolate milk

Lunch: 1 entire box of Lucky Charms and a half-gallon of milk

(OK, so at least she didn't have to worry about getting enough calcium. Plus, let's face it: when you weigh that much, simply walking around is weight-bearing exercise.)

Dinner: 2 Taco Bell half-pound burritos, 2 Reeses Peanut Butter Cups

Snacks: 2 brownies, 8 fried mozzarella sticks, 12 jalapeno poppers with ranch dressing, 1/2 gallon ice cream

At 5' 8", Teresa Williams now weighs 150 and is a size 8. I do not, and am not.

But I'm still down 13 pounds from when I started Weight Watchers. I don't have to panic that I've given away a lot of my size 16 clothes.

Basically, I'm only a few bowls of oatmeal--and 10,000 hours on the treadmill--away from my goal.

The Wednesday Weigh In that wasn't

You can imagine how enthusiastic I felt about heading to my Weight Watchers meeting this morning.

I just knew the meeting would be packed with all the people whose New Year Resolution was to lose weight. I knew the news from the scales was going to be bad, bad, bad. How could it not be bad when I spent the last month sitting on my ass, drinking champagne, eating chocolate, and watching House, M.D., where, for some reason, no one ever seemed to be dying of obesity-related illnesses like diabetes or hardening of the arteries or stuckinthebathtub-itis.

My weight gain? Hugh Laurie's fault. Damn him and his stubble-faced wonderfulness!

And then, at 8:00 or so this morning, when it came time to pack my daughter's backpack for school, I found a bunch of homework sheets that she had not done. So there I was, still in my pajamas, trying to get some of her homework finished and properly slotted away into the binder ... grumpy past all my abilities to describe, yet trying to sound cheerful and loving and not like the kind of mother who stomps all over her daughter's self-esteem, minces it, dips it in flour, deep fat fries it, and EATS IT.

So I sent her off to school, not in tears or anything like that. Yay. But at that point, I really didn't want to go to my meeting.

Mind you, I do want to get to the gym. I do want to re-lose the weight I just finished losing, for God's sake. I do want to be back on track. Why, on Sunday, I had sushi for lunch. On Tuesday, I had a grilled shrimp salad. Yesterday I spent 90 minutes on my new treadmill watching Bringing up Baby.

But baby steps for now.

So I'm wearing one of those god-awful Juicy Couture knock-off velour track suits. I'm going to make the beds, clean up the kitchen, and pack the van with a nice selection of rummage. If I have time, I'll get on the treadmill. (Maybe watch House, M.D.) And I will not drink champagne while I'm on it.

Tomorrow I will weigh myself on my friendly (i.e., lying sack of shit) bathroom scale. And I will post the number.

Honestly, what I do for my darling Hugh you people.

Weigh in Wednesday: 175

Today I pulled myself up by my (big, fat) bootstraps and went to a Weight Watchers meeting. It was my first since November 28th, when I discovered I had gained weight at Thanksgiving. "What a surprise!" I murmured to myself, "usually sitting around on my butt eating highly caloric food has no effect whatsoever on my weight. I'd better watch what I eat--and exercise more. Yeah, that's the ticket."

Then the madness that is part-time Christmas singing kicked in.

Accordingly, the next Wednesday, I had a lunchtime singing engagement and couldn't make my meeting.

The Wednesday after that, it was my birthday. I debated going to my meeting, but decided that the chances were extremely slim (hee!) that anyone was going to give me any cake, so I said the hell with it and stayed home. So as not to be a complete slacker, I weighed myself on my bathroom scale. I had no idea how accurate my scale is, and was therefore delighted to discover that by its very low standards of accuracy, I had lost six pounds. My jeans knew that this was obviously a big lie, bu I played along. I didn't want to injure my scale's self-esteem. And anyway, happy birthday to me, right?

This brings us up to today. I bit the bullet, went to my meeting, and got weighed. I weighed 175, which is 1.4 pounds less than the Wednesday after Thanksgiving, and is actually pretty good, considering that for weeks now, I haven't been tracking my points or working out or doing much of anything except charging around singing Christmas music--at least, when I'm not busy putting our lives back together in our new, post-renovation house.

Or getting ready for Christmas. Which--OK--all I've done is trim the tree and get cards, but still.

But anyway, there you have it. I'm still fat, but not as whale-like as I was in August, when this adventure began.

Lighting Candles

Life has been all kinds of busy, Internet, hence my lack of verbiage.

And because I could get Carpel Tunnel Syndrome trying to fill you in, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Last Saturday we realized school was about to start



and we felt pretty ambivalent about it,



so we went to Warren's in Kittery, ME for one last big-ass dessert



before packing up the car and heading back to Illinois.

On the way we spent the night in Chautauqua, which is all kinds of adorable



what with the porches bedecked with vases of gladiolas



the pedestrian-friendly streets,



the cultural offerings,



and a really good bookstore. (If you haven't heard of the Chautauqua Institute, you could read this interesting Wikipedia entry or get the brief version from me; it's a resort for intellectuals, where the focus has always been adult education.)

So that was fun.

Then it was home to inspect the damage from the big storm that struck the Chicago area while we were eating ice cream in New Hampshire. So I bid you welcome to my back yard




and you can see what my first order of business was.

It was obviously not to get my son a haircut, so he went off to school somewhat on the shaggy side but relatively cheerful about the start of the school year.



Unlike his mother, who vacillates between full-on nausea and a sense of impending doom



because my next tasks were: 1. to get the building permits that will make it legal for the construction people to rip out the kitchen and two of the bathrooms;

and 2. To join Weight Watchers. Where I got weighed in. Shall we see that again?



So now, I am figuring out this whole Weight Watchers Flex Plan Jargon Thing. And Tracking Points. And keeping the Supreme Dieting Icon candle lit:



All I need now are two more candles: St. Jude Pray for Me as I Oversee Homework and St. Joseph Watch Over My House as It Is Remodeled.