Everyday Italian...

Ah, winter dieting has approached once again. Every year at this time I take stock and realize I cannot zip my pants, and the fear sets in over what I will look like when the sun hits my face... ( i.e. thighs).

It is a bit of an obsession of mine.. this body. I realize now that the experience of being checked out naked in the shower by a bunch of teenage boys was (as I look back) like thirteen year-old rape, and so my body image has been distorted over the years. I was born with a beautiful body, but like all women, I pick it apart, analyze it, drag it in the mud, take it to lunch and then feel guilty that I ever let it eat a thing. It's a vicious cycle, but most women understand the pain and confusion. Perhaps, I a little more so.

I went through periods of anorexia and bulimia most of my early life trying to attain a level of perfection that no one but Barbie and Giada seem to have. The illusion of the beauty-obsessed media, an over-zealous skinny model-type mother with an attitude, and the horrific thought of leering shower stares at my prepubescent nakedness have left me perplexed and raw about what I look like today. I don't know anymore and (frankly) have stopped really giving a shit. Having white hair is disheartening enough without this strange pre-geriatric, post lymphomatic girth and so... I continue to lie about not caring, fight the fight, be hungry, work out like it is my profession and...   watch cooking shows to ease my sorrow. As I plan a September trip to Italy, I am practicing my Italiano and watch Everyday Italian... my favorite. It is what I do in the winter frost when I am hungry and wait for the thaw of spring. I watch her show, go grocery shopping and whip up my version that same evening. I, of course, am not allowed to overeat any of it and so I continue to inflict wanton mental suffering upon myself... as I smell the fragrant garlic in olive oil and fresh basil while deliberating the wearing of shorts in the upcoming warmer months.

I do love that sexpot Giada.  After my demise, I am reincarnating as her life partner.

Ciao. A più tarrrrrrrdi.

All I need is a mustache and a plane ticket...

Friday is just Tuesday with a drinking problem.

Why should I be afraid of dying of cancer? A meteor could hit my house any second now.

What me worry?

For the record, I don't believe in funerals or burials. I think taking room up in a cemetery on Earth is just ridiculous. Viewings are grotesque. Depressing black clothes reflect sadness and do not celebrate a beautiful, joyful life. Instead of all that insane hoopla, I am having a very large party at the dance studio with all my favorite hip-hop music. I may request a signature drink, line dances and balloon rides. If my kids insist on having a traditional funeral, I simply refuse to be a part of it.

Smack it up, flip it, rub it down.

a decision...

When I was twenty-seven years-old, I had my first baby. When he was two years-old, I decided to take him to a mother's day-out. I had trepidation because I knew that no one loved him like I did. I dropped him off anyway because all the mothers did it. He cried.and.cried. I went out to run errands thinking about nothing but him the entire two hours I was away.

Anxiously, I parked the car when I returned, walked up the daycare stairs, wondering how my sweet little baby boy had faired without me. There was a door with a small round window in the middle like something in a restaurant kitchen. I looked inside the window which was about as tall as I was. As I looked around the room there were about twenty highchairs lined up.  I was looking for my baby in the lineup. I found him. He was around seventh from the left of the twenty in the highchair parade. He looked vacant. Sad. Lost. Alone. I had never seen him look this way, and it was an earth-shattering, life-changing moment.

As I looked inside the round window his eyes met mine, and it was at that moment that I realized that I would never leave him (or any of my babies) in public daycare again. He raised is arms up to me as to say..."where have you been?... I love you so much... you are the love of my life, Mommy...  please get me the hell out of here now."

I did. I never looked back.

If I had been a single mother, my choice may have been different out of necessity. I am the mother of a two income family who lived with one income because of this experience. I was broke, lived within a very small budget and rarely had anything for myself even though I had three more babies. I don't live with one regret having made this decision. It was all due to that one afternoon.

A decision. The right one for me.

12 days...

Live it. Believe it.