What a load of quark. Why I hate diets.

I’m on a diet and I’m eating sodding Quark. Things are not good.

And I don’t do diets.  I think it’s a miserable state of affairs. All that counting and measuring and recording.  Taking off all the good bits like crispy skin, singed fat and a side-order of fries, and leaving yourself with all the tasteless insipid shit.  Eating more fruit and vegetables than you’ve eaten in years, downing gallons of diet drinks in the hope they’ll fill up your grumbling tummy enough to get you through to the next yoghurt-kissed rice cake.  Dreaming of butter and  monosodium glutamate while nearly passing out with unsatiated desire.

And largely speaking, diets DON’T work.   You’re just on and off them for life. Batted between gnat tum and fat tum.

But I’ve put on a stone and a half in the 5 months after my mum died.  You’d think being a skinny bint would be payback for months of heartache, but oh no, in my case my arse just got bigger to keep my heavy heart company.

So i’m raping and pillaging the extra weight from my loins and then i’m never dieting again.  And I’m sending the half eaten packet of Quark to WeightWatcher HQ and telling them to stuff it where the sun don’t shine.  Which is probably quite rotund considering that noone at weightwatchers including the so-called “advisors” are thin.

Except me, of course. I will be thin. Honest.

Bored to tears

I don’t think there’s anything worse than being bored. Boredom destroys me.

Incidentally I also can’t stand waiting. I’ve been known to declare the end of a friendship over being kept waiting for 15 mins. Boredom and impatience; not the easiest of bedfellows.

Boredom is the reason I overeat, the reason I make lists when I’ve nothing pressing to do. It’s why I think too much, overanalyse things, invent catastrophic endings for scenarios that haven’t even happened yet. I just have to fill in the gaps, somehow, or all hell seems to break loose.

I’ve had my fair share of jobs where I’ve been paid to pretty much do nothing. In the early years anyway. A working day wiled away with the repetitive click of a mouse – click-refresh, click-refresh – like some OCD computer monkey. Other people would have bitten their hands of for a bit of time as an overpaid primate, but not me. I was utterly miserable. For me, boredom = torture.

I’m a doer, like my mum. She never stopped. Single parent, 2 jobs, dog, cats, big house. I feel extremely uncomfortable when there’s nothing to do. In fact, I’m at my happiest when doing at least 3 things simultaneously. It’s not unusual for me to be found sat on the sofa watching television while tapping away on the keyboard while simultaneously reading a newspaper or texting a long, indepth message to a friend I’ve not seen in ages. It’s like if my whole brain isn’t engaged all at the same time, if any part is left unoccupied, then I start to get very anxious. I get very low very quickly.

I’m not sure if it’s boredom or just the lack of something. But why does a gap, a break in the proceedings, a pause for breath make me so totally and disproportionately anxious? I’ve wanted to figure that one out for a very long time because a bit of relaxation, indulgent “me-time” would be quite nice once in a while. And no more so than now. But unengaged brain or body = boredom = run a frickin’ mile until you find the nearest pile of washing up.

A psychiatrist once told me it was to do with personal drivers, those pesky things that are set in place by the age of 3, are almost always destructive in some way, and seemingly impossible to change. Apparently “being busy” rates quite highly among mine. Nothing to do = bored = waste of space or something like that anyway. It has no value to me.

I think that’s why I’m struggling at the moment. At first there was an unbelievable amount of stuff that needed doing. Funerals, tax forms, property, people to advise, friends to thank. It was even kind of, dare I say it, exciting. Life wasn’t normal, mundane. Every 5 mins had a purpose.

Now, suddenly, there is nothing to do. I am bored out of my skull. I feel empty, rudderless, abandoned even.

I have so many gaps – suddenly – in my life, and I’m just not sure how to fill them.

closet fattest

As some of you may know I was “sacked” a while back from an eating disorders charity for publishing a post they believed reflected a bad attitude to people with weight issues. I still maintain that the post was against the evils of nationalist bigotry, but to be fair, I do have to admit I was banged to rights on this one.

Me: “What exactly in the post did you find offensive?”

Charity lady: “The bit where you referred to the stranger as a “fat lazy bastard”.

Me: “Oh that one.”

You see what I mean? In any case, at the time I did feel it was just a poorly chosen turn of phrase rather than a reflection of any kind of deep-seated prejudice.

However, that experience did make me start to question myself. It’s forced me to really start to question the conclusions i jump to, the thoughts I have in my head, the ways I talk about people, and I’m afraid to say, i think I might just be a teensy bit fattest after all.

Now I’ve admitted to prejudices before, so it’s not come as a shock that I have them, just that i never realised I had this particular one.  I’ve spoken before about being a bit of a fatty myself, and even I’ve had to put myself on a New Year’s diet. (big fat yawn). I do believe that I am sensitive to how difficult the issues are around weight, and to people who struggle with it. However, i’ve starting to realise that when it comes to the very obese, judgy mcjudgealot might just be rearing her ugly head again.

I can’t put hand on heart and swear that when I see someone struggling down the street with no visible ankles I don’t make some kind of judgement, even if it is just to breathe a sigh of relief that it’s not me, for without question they must be miserable. I know I frequently pass judgement on obese children and what their parents must be like,  and I most definitely don’t choose the bench in the park that is already half occupied by someone sweating and overspilling its edges.

Rereading that paragraph back to myself, and reflecting on my choice of language just proves my point.

Sometimes I think that we spend our youth trying so hard to be “okay” with everything – liberal, open-minded – that we fail to appreciate that we may carry some innate, ingrained beliefs hidden below the surface. We may think we are open/flexible/non-judgemental because that is how we want to be, but ignoring our little prejudices or pretending they’re not there doesn’t make it so. They surface in small, hardly perceptible ways – in the language we use, the looks we give, the people we choose as our friends.

My sister has always said to me that you cannot always control the thoughts in your head (I call them my “mental tourettes”), but you can choose to be aware of them. To be mindful that, considered fairly and rationally, you are wrong to believe or think that thing, and to change your behaviour accordingly. My own dad struggled to accept homosexuality as a lifestyle equal to any other, and frequently described people as “camp” with a downward flick of the wrist. Yet, what redeemed him in my eyes was that he had come to understand that his attitudes and opinions were wrong, unacceptable, and outdated. Surely we are better to acknowledge the preconceptions, judgements, attitudes that fail us rather than simply pretending they don’t exist?

Without honesty, there can never be positive change. Let’s take our heads out of the sand, stop believing that Jade Goody’s indiscretion was a one-off,  put out hands up and admit we might just need a little bit more guidance.

Wild at heart

“As tradition dictates I’ll pass it on to these five lovelies to see how wild they are..”

And so it came to pass that I was tagged in the meme “Guilty pleasures” by the naughty Scribbling Mum. Holy Christ, is this where everyone realises how boring I am?  It reminds me of Single Slummy Mummy who once replied to one of my serious, heart-felt comments with surprise, saying she’d previously had me penned as a bit of a hedonist. Hedonistic, me? Excuse me while I change my pants.  I’m the one who had the reputation for leaving student parties early without telling anyone, because I felt too drunk to have the “I’m leaving” conversation.  I’m also the one that slides off to bed during MY OWN dinner party.

So quite obviously this post is going to shame me into trying to think of 5 4 really random things that make me seem exciting, mysterious, a little bit kooky, but ending with me coming up with 5 4 dull scraps that make me look, well, just very very sad. So here goes….

No.1 – I sometimes substitute real dinners for “chocolate dinners”. This basically means I get to stuff my face with chocolate, but without all the tortuous guilt. So I stockpile – usually a large bag of Revels and another large bar of chocolate (well what great dinner has just one course?) – and then I sit on the sofa eating chocolate and watching crap tv until I feel sick. Really really sick. And then I go to bed and sleep it off.

No.2 – school dinners. Tinned macaroni with ketchup, squashed ham sandwiches, soggy fishfingers, arctic role. Put the equivalent of a school dinner in front of me and I’m like a pyromaniac in the Aussie outback.

no.3 – Britney Spears – well not Britney Spears exactly – as one of the most trashy, excrutiatingly bathetic (kerching, new word alert) records she’s ever made. The kind that would make any sane person feign puking and mock hanging simultaneously while rolling their eyes and whining “cut off my toes and stab me in the eyes”. I say this so I obviously, rationally, know the song is frickin’ awful, but I just can’t help but love a bit of a tragic story put to music.   Watch it here.

No. 4 – tracky bottoms pulled over my toes – ooh it makes my toes curl in anticipation just with the thought of it. 2 minutes in the door and I’ve changed out of any decent clothes and into the adult version of a babgro. Forget sexy or sassy. Frickin’ snug as a bug in a rug. mmmm..

So there you go, unrefined, with really questionable taste and appalling dress sense. Bit more guilty secrets than guilty pleasures, and about as “wild” as a tree in blossom on a sunny day in a cottage garden.

Oh well, Happy New Year, Happy New Hedonism?…..roll on my roaring 30s….

(And yes, I did have to go back and change this post to include 4 guilty secrets, not 5. Well I couldn’t think of a 5th, I’m that sad. So shoot me. )

To diet or not to diet

I am trying to lose half a stone. Thing is I’ve been trying to lose half a stone since 1989.

I’m not so sad that I’ve been trying to reach my prepubescent weight well into my 30s. My expectations HAVE changed with time and children. Which makes it all the more curious. Just why 7 pounds?

An 80 yr old family friend is similarly obsessed with her weight (if not more so). Forever mentioning it. Counting calories when we go for dinner. Lamenting the body she could have had. Should have had. If only she didn’t eat / drink so much.

My heart sinks every time.

I’m not being hypocritical. I just expected it to be different later on. That after middle age you somehow start to look beyond the physical. Rationalise things better. Re-order your priorities.

But the truth is. You don’t ever feel differently. You don’t stop caring what you look like just because you are older.

The critical voice inside your head is ageless.

How thoroughly depressing.

So, are we all destined to go through life wanting to lose an elusive half stone? Will we ever lose it? And more importantly, do we really need to?  Will we be happier when we get there? Or will we simply swap in another worry or wish in its place?

The likely truth is, if we’re forever chasing that ephemeral perfect number, we might just miss out on an awful lot in between.

Friday 101 (lazy *stards)

My 3 boys and I went walking last weekend. We were on our way in the car, took a wrong turn and ended up in the most beautiful little village. I say beautiful. It was magical. Idyllic. Right up until i saw the Harley’s Angel style motorbike carriage with a sticker on the back reading “There’s no law that says i need to like immigrants”.

Later that day we were walking along a stream in a beautiful wood, watching the sun stream through the trees and the dandelion fuzz floating weightless in the air, when i spied two men sitting on a bench. One was very fat. The other huge.

Both were sitting legs akimbo (to accommodate spilling overhang of gut), smoking cigarettes (polluting my peaceful idyll), chatting obscenities while their fat dogs crawled and dragged themselves around in search of a stick.

Now i’m not fattest per se. I’m a fatty myself (The difference between thinnies and fatties) but i do have an issue with extreme laziness. I go to the gym 3 times a week. Walk everywhere, and up until i had child no.2 i worked full time. I more than work the equivalent of full time now. I simply eat too much. Far too much.

These men were quite clearly fat through being lazy bastards.

I don’t usually like to make sweeping judements or generalisations but i would bank money on them having been on long term sick since 1985.

As we reached the end of the path i saw the harley’s motorcarriage again parked in the car park. Pretending to be regal with its stupid handle bars, fat arse carriage and offensive stickers.

Putting two and two together it suddenly made some kind of gross logical sense. Lazy, fat guys on bench = immigrant hating bikers.

The truth is, i would take one hard working immigrant over ten of those fat lazy bastards any day of the week.

What exactly are they contributing to my society?

The difference between thinnies and fatties

I was once interviewed about the gap between how i would like to control my eating, and how i control my eating. i found this a bit confusing at the time because, put simply, i don’t. Control my eating that is.

I am a fatty.

I’m terrible for spending ages sizing up the Guillaume’s chocolates trying to work out which shell is the biggest. Looking through the packet of pitta breads to identify which one will hold the most filling. Carrying the dinner plates to the table and wondering if i can give the smallest portion to him in a manner that looks natural and not preplanned.

I can’t be the only one that does this sort of thing?

The truth is, i have an appetite. Now, as my friends will tell you, i’m not fat. Yet…. But i owe that to a huge amount of nervous energy, borderline ocd when it comes to cleaning, and not for want of trying.

The problem is that when i start eating something delicious, i just can’t stop. Take chocolate for example. I can eat chocolate until the point where i feel so sick i think i might be sick, and have to go to bed hoping that it will have passed by morning.

Paul Mckenna tells us to “eat consciously”, get back in tune with our bodes and just stop eating when we’re full. Simple. Problem is i’ve tried this, and i just can’t tell when i’m full until i’m so full i know i should have stopped eating a while ago.

I’ve always suspected that there must be evil people in laboratories mixing ingredients in the hope of finding the perfect combination for sending our brains into meltdown. The secret behind what makes “bad food” so damn yummy, addictive, “pernicious” (a brilliant word favoured by my dad).

It turns out that i was right. It is an exact combination of fat, salt and sugar to give what they call the “bliss factor”. And not only that, but it’s designed to melt in the mouth, so that the brain misses the full signals that would normally be triggered by chewing.

How bloody sneaky is that?

The problem is, i know people who don’t have this issue. I’ve watched them. They eat exactly what they want, when they want it. They just don’t eat when they’re not hungry. They never have to “control” their eating, because their body tells them when they’ve had enough.

You know the people i mean. They’re the ones that actually have biscuits and full fat yoghurts in their trolley at the supermarket. Us fatties would never “plan” to eat junk food and so buy it at the weekly shop. Our conveyor belts are full of good intentions – weight watchers this, slimming world that, cottage cheese and rice cakes (no normal person would eat these after all).

The difference is we buy all our chocolate and crisps at the local shop, when we can’t resist the temptation any longer. And we buy twice as much. (it’s for the kids after all)

So if addiction to junk food is chemical, why don’t thinnies get sucked in? Do we have more addictive personalities? Are we more succeptible to these horror chemicals? Is our “bliss” experience more mesmeric and so difficult to control?

In any case, it seems i’m off the hook. It’s all down to genetics.

What a relief. I can now reach for the biscuit tin guilt free. Blame those sneaky scientists.

Article on Kessler

Get confessing: Part two

As if i hadn’t divulged enough in my first month of blogging , Single Slummy Mummy (check out her site – she’s one F-O-X-Y M-A-M-A) has nominated me for for a Kreativ Blogger Award and challenged me to come clean about 7 more (intimate) things people probably don’t already know.

As if i shy away from these kinds of challenges?

Having confessed to a few parental naughties in Get Confessing! i thought i would switch the focus to the person outside the parent. Even if that person can be a little bit strange at times.
So here goes a few random morsels:

1) I can’t grate cheese without counting. I suppose what i’m saying is that i think i might have a mild form of OCD, which gets worse when i’m anxious. But numerical grating is pretty much a constant. (and if you’re interested, the magic number is 20).
2) I believe i may also have a form of “mental tourettes”. Ok, so i’ve diagnosed and labelled this myself and am probably doing real sufferers of the tourettes a disservice. In any case, the voice inside my head often says unspeakable things.
3) I have a severe phobia of apple cores. I would rather sit in a bath full of maggots than a bath with one, single apple core. Strangely, my sister has the same one.
4) I have never eaten a banana. Or custard. That’s not that strange, i met a 19 yr-old girl once who’d never tried chicken.
5) I have to wear a protective mouth guard at night because i grind my teeth. It makes me lisp and feel very old. However, if i don’t wear it i will lose my teeth, so feeling 90 is better than looking 90.
6) I have an odd yet persistent jinx with regards hospitals and thongs. If i’m ever called to an outpatient’s department i invariably miscalculate the level of attire i will (justifiably, nothing suspect here) be required to remove in order to be examined. The worst case so far saw me running on a treadmill, being filmed, while wearing a rather ill-fitting g-string.
7) I proposed to my husband. I’d been telling him for years i was never getting married, so when i had a change of heart, i realised as i’d scared him off good and proper i’d have to get down on bended knee myself. The rest is history…..

At this point i believe the protocol is to pass on the challenge to some more lovely mother (or father) types, so to some of my favourite bloggers Jo Bart, Deer Baby, Thinly spread and Peta Jo, TRUTH OR DARE??

posh’s aid to slimming

Just incase you were wondering.

I’ve been trying out posh spice’s theory about running around after 2 boys (in her case now 3) meaning you can eat what you like.

She’s lying.