Archive for the ‘Diet’ Category

Lordy, we could not be having a better time on this two-week half-country trek if you paid us.  After a fun family reunion in the wide open plains of Oklahoma, we’re now parked at the stunning Branson West lakeside home of Hubby’s sis.

So purty, and Hubby just jet-skiied like a rock star, thanks to his two rounds of P90X. (Grrr…show-off.)

The only cloud on the horizon? A home-made Gooey Butter Cake lying in wait for me in the kitchen. And since the kitchen is just a few feet away from the TV we’re all glued to watching the last dregs of the Casey Anthony trial, it’s literally not far from my feeble mind.

Before marrying into Hubby’s lovely family, I had never even heard of this sinfully delicious dessert. Apparently, it originated in St. Louis, where they’re from, and also goes by a glam alias: The Neiman Marcus Cake.

I don’t really know what’s in it. But basically, anything with the word “butter” attached has my name written all over it.

For the last seven days, I’ve been torn between two possible scenarios: One, throwing in the calorie towel, eating everything I damn well please and then doubling down on the portion control and exercise when I get back. Or two, sort of not going apeshit and eating sensibly, like my skinny mini sisters-in-law, both of whom I have NOT ONCE seen going anywhere near the Gooey Butter Cake.

I know: Tough life, right?

Faithful Momoverettes know I’m obsessed with de-chunkifying, hence the endless blog posts about food, weight, thighs, bellies, etc.

I think you are too. After all, that’s pretty much the mandate of this here blog. Not for any chatter about what little Sally Sue or Billy Blue has been up to, that’s for sure. It’s basically straight-up superficiality, with the occasional foray into Crunchy Country. I am a proud Crunchista.

But back to de-chunkifying.

And first, a little backstory: When we were living in Manhattan, especially in the early days of parental hell when the Wee Lass was still a Diapered Darling, we used to order in dinner literally six nights a week. (Saturdays were – and are – our mega-date, and we always go to a schmancy resty.)

Ordering in is par for the course in Gotham, for three reasons: One, there is so much amazing food within a five-block radius of your pad that you’d be insane not to. Two, kitchens are often microscopic and therefore a disincentive to actually cook. And three, most Manhattanites are complete workaholics who barely get home from the office an hour before they hit the hay.

Once we hightailed it across the Hudson, however, it was a very different story. A reverse story, essentially. One, there are verrrrry few good take-out joints by us. Two, we have a large and lovely kitchen. And three, my innate workaholism has cratered of late. Right now I’m over-employed, but that will all end shortly. And then I’m hopping in our sleek silver SUV and heading out across the heartland.

So here’s the smart thing we’ve been doing: On the one night a week (yay us!) we order in, which is typically Friday, we split one app, one salad, one entrée and one dessert among the three of us. By that time, the Wee Lass has already been fed by her nanny, but she still hounds us for a sliver and slice of this and that.

Because American restaurant portions are absolutely insanely ridiculously huge, one meal split three ways is the perfect amount of food for our family. Bonus: No leftovers to feel guilty about not eating and subsequently dumping in the trash.

I have to remember that when we slide into the sleek silver SUV. The last thing I want to bring back from our trip to the heartland is extra pounds.

When it comes to pressing life issues, like whether my “post-baby” kangaroo pouch will deflate by, say, the time the Wee Lass heads to kindergarten in September, I can totes be the Queen of Denial.

Translation: I can work out like a complete mother-effer, for an hour-plus six times a week, for THREE MONTHS and still somehow convince myself that those leftover chocolate Easter bunnies and that Wisconsin-sized block of Brie won’t undo all my hard work.

Aaaah….but something miraculous is happening: In addition to the chocolate and cheese, I’ve also been POUNDING myself with fruits, veggies and salad in the last few weeks, and I’m actually finding that the more I eat, the more I crave.

It’s uncanny. I thought that only happened with sugar.

This weird sensation couldn’t be occurring at a better time. As I wean myself off the hardcore P90X, and bury myself in work for a few months, it is imperative that I get my food act together. I’ve been doing research for a big diet story, and every single expert I speak to basically says that exercise doesn’t do jack, weightloss-wise, if you’re eating badly.

Of course, being fit has about 8 billion other benefits besides downscaling your ass, so let’s keep it movin, mamas.

Speaking of which, I gotta jet. I’m on deadline and the clock is ticking. TGIF!

In my book, I heaped a mountain of abuse on the impossibly delicious – but completely dastardly – Diet Coke. My rant was in the abs chapter, and I connected the dots between the yummy-yet-evil brew and a puffy post-baby kangaroo pouch. The expert I consulted on this all-important topic was Jackie Keller, the LA-based nutrition guru who has helped many a Hollywood hottie get her figure back after delivering a wee one.

“When you’re trying to de-bloat,” Jackie told me, “the first thing you want to do is get rid of carbonated sodas.”

After our chat, I steered clear of DC for a really long time. Not 100 percent mind you; but I cut back from an average of about one per day to one per month. Sometimes, on our Saturday afternoon movie dates, I would pilfer a sip from Hubby’s cup when he wasn’t looking.

Sure, I was worried about the puffy-tummy sitch. But I was (and am) even more concerned with the scary chemicals contained within. Not to mention that anything that comes in a can these days is entirely suspect…

Recently, though, I’ve been losing the battle and letting my guard down. I would guesstimate that I’m back up to two cans a week. Not happy about this my mama friends, no sirree.

Of course, DC isn’t the only dodgy bevvie I’ve been consuming lately. Yesterday, because I was hanging by a thread, energy-wise, I had, in addition to a DC, three cups of coffee (!), a sugar-free Red Bull (!!!!) and two glasses of Champs at the launch party for Say 100.

Is it any wonder, after all those bubbles – and all that caffeine – that I was awakened out of a dead sleep with a raging belly ache? I basically ruined today by slurping a bunch of s–t yesterday.

Momover Lady needs to get her act together. An act that doesn’t involve Diet Coke.

After attending that wellness seminar at Pure Yoga last week, I was reminded of just how sharp Oz “Nutritionist to the Fabulous” Garcia is, and how I need to listen to him on a more regular basis.

To me, and a lot of other New Yorkers, he is the original Dr. Oz. He has a bit of an edge to him, dresses like he just stepped out of the head-to-toe-black issue of GQ, and is such a go-get-em adrenaline junkie that he freely admits to being the type of “urban animal” who dives for his BlackBerry first thing in the morning.

So, in theory, he’d be totally into the Wyoming-sized “Trenta” coffees Starbucks is about to unleash on the world, right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong my dear mama friend.

In an eye-popping piece for the Huffington Post, Oz heaps abuse on the new size, which contains roughly the equivalent of four – FOUR! – 8 oz cups of java.

The problem with the larger than life Trenta, per Oz, is essentially two-fold: One, along with the coffee, you’re imbibing that much more cream and sugar (or the fakey-fake artificial sweetener stuff, which, IMHO, is actually worse), jacking up your daily calorie count. And two, you’re shooting your caffeine consumption through the freaking roof.

I always learn a lot when I read what Oz has written, but I was shocked to see him connect the medical research dots between caffeine overconsumption and possible diabetes down the road.

That’s pretty scary. And so is a 31-ounce cup of joe.

Maybe it’s because I’m constantly on the verge of hurling because of all the P90X-ing, but my sugar cravings – which were through the roof last month – have subsided big time. Let’s take right this second as an example: There’s a crème brulée in the fridge with my name written all over it (it was in the doggy bag from last night’s dinner date with Hubby), and I have zero desire to go scarf it.

And this is after the 90-minute “extreme yoga” session I just completed, twisting myself into a pretzel at the urging of our new roommate, Mr. Horton.

Considering all the sugary treats I was inhaling around Xmas and New Year’s, this is very happy news indeed.

In my book, I heap a lot of abuse on sugar and for good reason: It’s really bad for us, contributing to a long list of illnesses and diseases, including the big one, diabetes. Still, it’s sooo yummy. And it’s in almost everything these days (like freaking spaghetti sauce, whaddup with that), so it’s hard to steer clear of.

Though the jury is still out on whether sugar is actually addictive, I can unequivocally state that for me, it’s definitely a “the more I eat, the more I wanna eat” scenario. And when I cool it, the cravings aren’t anywhere near as strong.

Holistic-living guru Mariel Hemingway calls sugar a “noisy” food, and I totally get that. Along with chemical ingredients and caffeine, Hemingway writes in her “Healthy Living from the Inside Out” book, sugar “disrupts the internal calm that you can find when you follow a clean, quiet diet.”

I’m not down with messing with my internal calm. And on that note, I’m heading into my walk-in closet to meditate. Om.

I totes love all my whipsmart Mama Gurus, but sometimes they scare the bejesus out of me. Because they’re experts in their fields – and have often found great ways to just flat-out live better, with more wellness and less stress – they’re sometimes big proponents of zapping giant, ubiquitous, entire categories of stuff from our lives.

Like parabens, say, or dairy.

Well, my latest MG – the lovely and talented mega, mega makeup artist Mally Roncal – has recently parted ways with gluten, and she says she’s never felt better.

Between running her beauty empire, doing positively tons of TV and heaping buckets of love on her three wee lasses, Mally  needed more energy. So she teamed up with a great nutritionist, and, in the process, kicked gluten to the curb.

In all honesty, I don’t really know what gluten even is. I just know that I keep hearing about it c-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-l-y. When I was at Cookie magazine, my gorge assistant Katie was very much on the gluten-free bandwagon, and was forever yapping about Babycakes, the beloved vegan bakery that has a zero-gluten policy.

Of course I would gobble the treats Katie lugged into the office, but I was more into Babycakes’ cruelty-free vegan stance than the whole “no gluten” she-bang.

But I think that’s because I really didn’t know better. Increasingly, I read not-great things about gluten, so I’m slipping on my detective cap. I want to know more about whether – and how – I should at least lower my intake.

Then I’m gonna compare notes with my hot-mama pal Mally Roncal.

I’ve always owned up to my crunchy, mystical, “woo-woo” side. For years, I had a rotating team of psychics on speed-dial, and I’ve basically never met a Tarot card I didn’t like. I’m also seriously down with the concept that our thoughts are massive magnets, attracting everything we’re thinking about – good or bad.

So yesterday, when I stumbled across this nice shout-out for my book on the Weight Watchers Community blog, I took that as the bolt of lightning from above that I needed to firm up my resolve. I’ve been wanting to join WW for a while, and even found out that the local meetings are held, oh so conveniently, at a mall that’s in easy walking distance from our pad. Still, I somehow talked myself into believing I was too busy to carve out the time to go.

But the last time I checked, I wasn’t Michelle Obama. (Translation: I’m not that busy.) So I’m moving “Join Weight Watchers” to the tippity top of my To Do list. Thanks to the jacked-up thyroid meds I blogged about last week, I have fewer pounds to shed. So my main goal in joining is to learn about calorie counts, fat content and portion size, and, most importantly, to become a more conscious eater. Far too often, I just nosh away on auto-pilot.

I hear nothing but good stuff about Weight Watchers. Now it’s time for me to see for myself why it works wonders for so many mamas.

Not that I’m boasting (maybe a little…), but yesterday, on a fun trek to the not-bad-at-all day spa in our ‘hood, my facialist complimented me on my skin. “You must drink a lot of water,” she said, “because you look like you’re in your 30s.”

Faithful readers of this blog know that, for me, the 30s ship sailed off into the sunset quite some time ago. (No need to get into specifics.) But I absolutely do drink a lot of water. Quarts and quarts of it. For a few reasons. One, although I’m pretty half-assed about it, I keep trying to remember to drink 16 ounces before meals to keep the blubber at bay. And two, I’m working out so much lately that I have no choice but to hydrate – heavily.

The problem is that I’ve become sooooooo bored with “naked” water, and even my precious pH-balancing lemon H20, that I’ve resorted to buying all these extremely dodgy “enhancers” at the supermarket. Like Crystal Light, which I know has been around for eons but only recently caught my eye. I’ve grown exceedingly fond of the Raspberry Ice On the Go Packets, and just nabbed the Focus Natural Citrus Splash because I got suckered-in by the tagline that it contains “Caffeine to Help Enhance Mental Alertness.”

While I need all the “mental alertness” I can possibly beg, borrow or steal, I don’t know that I need fake sugars like aspartame and maltodextrin, and artificial colors including yellow 6 and yellow 5. (Like one cooked-up-in-a-test-tube yellow wasn’t sufficient?)

I don’t want to totally bash Crystal Light, which is an American institution and beloved throughout the land. I also bought some Propel packets, and they too are equally full of iffy, multi-syllabic ingredients you need a degree in rocket science to understand.

My fitness-fanatic friend Megan tells me I need to check out NUUN, which are these handy little tablets that you just chuck in your water bottle. According to the website, NUUN doesn’t contain any sugar, fake or real. I like the sound of that. And hopefully, after I get my hands on some, I’ll like the taste of that too.

The bad news: Hubby and I decided to stick close to home this year, so we won’t be celebrating Thanksgiving with any of our far-flung (read: Broken Arrow, St. Louis, Scottsdale, Vegas, etc.) family today.

The good news: We’re dining out with our little lady, so that means no yummy leftovers to weld themselves to my ass in the days to come.

If you ever want to stop yourself from over-eating — and it’s a personal choice, especially today, the funnest over-eating day of the entire year — have a little look-see at the calorie-counter on the elliptical or the treadmill.

This morning I was feeling so virtuous, hyperventilating through level 5 on the elliptical, set to The Hills because that’s the program that really drags you through the peaks and valleys and gets the ol’ heart pounding. After 30 minutes, I couldn’t get off that puppy fast enough.

And then I looked at the calorie meter. Drum roll…198.

Though I try really hard to live in my Barbie Bubble, a world in which no sad, depressing info ever breaks through, I’ve officially registered the fact that I can exercise super hard for half a freaking hour and still burn fewer than 200 calories.

This is why I’m not losing weight. I workout like a loony, but then I eat pretty much whatever I damn well please. Given my underactive thyroid (grrr…) and my age (double-grrr….), that isn’t a scenario that works for me anymore.

For fun (ha!), I just looked up the calorie-count of an average slice of pumpkin pie without whipped cream: 320. Then, since I was on a roll, I went ahead and sleuthed-out the calorie count of the average Thanksgiving dinner: 4500. Gross, right? So piggy-wiggy, and a total assault on your poor bod…

Seeing that makes me want to stick to Wee Lass-size portions. I can’t “just do it” in the gym, and then just undo it at the dinner table. Not if I want to be healthy, which I do. And not if I want to be a hot mama, which I totally do.