C is for Cooky, It's Not Good Enough for Me

I tried to eat better, get fit, and find a job. At the end, I just looked bitter, had a fit—and I’m still unemployed.  The score for the battle of the bulge—it’s a tie.  For those of you betting on this, bet on the bulge.  Betting on me is like betting on a horse named Daisy that never quite even makes it around the track.  In unrelated news, I narrowly evaded being taken into custody due to helpful suggestions from my nutty sister. I guess you can say it’s been a busy week.

Apparently, sports I excel at, like surfing channels, jumping to conclusions and diving into trouble do not count as exercise. I heard somewhere that dancing is a good work out, so today when my dutiful spouse, P, took our quirky four year old, Lanes, for her gym class, I forced myself to put on some music and get jiggy (or jiggly rather) with it.

I looked as coordinated and cumbersome as a walrus on speed.  I was also hollering, rapping and singing to my Canadian rock star loving heart’s content. It was not a good day to be my neighbor or a voyeur.  I think I need to send a letter of apology to the folks in the building overlooking our window.  I don’t know if I burned any calories or cut a rug, but I was certainly searching around the house for some Bengay and a cookie afterwards.

In my defense, I have greatly curtailed my nasty Kit Kat down the gullet habit and I have not ventured to the couch after dinner, for that is where all bad things begin.  Somewhere between 10pm and 1am, nachos, cookies, and various food items, servings the size of Nebraska, are guzzled down by me during my TV time. I had to break up with my TV. It keeps sending me flowers.

Another problem is that I believe potatoes are a food group. I feel obliged to have some rendition of them with my dinner— mashed, dashed, boiled, coiled, whatever way you slice it, I need it. I cut it out mercilessly from four of my dinners this week, and sighed pitifully as P ate his. The net result was that I spent my days rather loopy and dazed.  I could barely get through an e-mail. Potato withdrawal? 

I wish I could be more like my Lanes. She is not at all bothered about food. A few nights ago, we were engaged again in one of our dinner battles where I’m shrieking for her to eat her food while she is grinning nonchalantly in protest.

My sister, with her notorious knack for timing, called mid-battle, and stared cooing and allying herself with Lanes, which didn’t help my case at all. She told me that Lanes was just like her and that our dad used to take her to the garden and feed her dinner while she ran around being her ‘delightful’ self. She suggested that I do the same for Lanes. That’s just what I need—to run around the parking lot of our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous building.

With my luck, a neighbor will be proactive and call the authorities saying ‘there’s a fat Indian lady running outside with a plate. She appears to be trying to eat a small child! Hurry!’.  Next thing I know, some fireman (we always have one of them lurking around our dilapidated building for reasons best left undiscovered) will call to me and ask me to ‘put the fork down and step away from the child’.

Meanwhile, Lanes, as she often does when she sees a firemen, will say Betty Boop style, ‘oooh, he’s a big boy!’ and start grinning and asking to see the fire truck. With these images in mind, I bashed my nutty sister’s suggestions and hung up immediately and glared at Lanes' untouched food.  Like most South Asian moms, I feel that the UN needs to have an emergency caucus if one meal goes uneaten.

In other news, I tried to apply for writing jobs online and attempted to boost my web traffic for this site, but the words were swimming before my eyes—like alphabet soup. Everything boils down to food, and I don’t even like soup. Anyone out there who can help me with web traffic, do let me know!

The only thing I learnt in my food deprived stupor is that I need to encourage you all to leave comments for me. So please do! Meanwhile, I am dreaming of a midnight snack. I better sign off for now, otherwise I might have to make Jenny Craig my new BFF. If she can help me, I’ll rename her Genie Craig. 


In next week's episode, I have signed myself up for a fondant rolling class. Or was it cake decorating? Either way, it's funny because I couldn't tell you off hand how to bake a cake! Typical me. I better sign off.  Any old how, here’s to good habits, bad dancing, and self control…more conundrums from BC next week!  Oh yes, please give me your thoughts...so I can call myself a 'blogger'...or something like it.