An Ode To Coke

I could spend this time writing about missing the American Idol finale because cable was out. And then being glued to the idol on fox web page waiting for them to post the winner when the power went out. But instead...

My cousin (who I adore more than almost everybody on the face of this planet and vice versa, God love her!) lost 50 pounds. I hate her. No, I love her and I'm happy for her because this is something she really wanted to do for herself (and because she wants cool clothes and stuff), her health, her kids, etc. And she worked hard at it. She's the only person I know who actually stayed on the South Beach diet well over a year. I'm not sure that's even human. Personally, I think she's beautiful no matter how much she weighs, and it's not like she weighed all that much to begin with. After four kids, she was still 5' 9 and weighing...she'll kill me if I tell you...less than me (always!) and I thought she looked just fine. But then, I always see her beautiful insides first, I think. That's what makes the outsides look extra beautiful.

Anyway, I hate her.

I can't lose 50 pounds. Fifty pounds puts me at the weight I was in New York during my acting days when I ate one meal a day and used cigarettes in place of food. Granted, I looked good on camera, but come on, people! What's life without good food and plenty of it?!?!

But I gained quite a bit when I quit smoking - seven years now, thank you very much. Then I gained a bit more when I started actually cooking for my family. Then quite a bit more after the miscarriage. And, even though I've lost almost all of the weight I gained during my pregnancy, it's still about 30 pounds more than what I'm used to, feel comfortable with and look great at.

So I hate her. I tried the South Beach diet. I actually still use a lot of its principals. But I love fruits and veggies and you can't make me give those up! I also love meat. I am the omnivore/carnivore God made me - who am I to say he was wrong? But I've cut way back on sugar, processed grains. I love whole grain bread - mmmm, that peasant bread from the Depot dipped in a little EVOO? Yum-my! Sweet potatoes instead of russets? Sure. For me, at least. Don't expect my husband to eat anything except his 12 preferred foods - all with ketchup. I've increased my exercise, both at home and out and about - as anyone who has seen me in the big green ugly pushing the stroller on the beach can attest. I drink plenty of water, blah, blah, blah.

I know exactly what the big problem is. (Besides the southern fried cooking, but that's the later step, I think) Soda. Coke. Diet Coke. Stewart's Root Beer. But mostly Coke. Can't help myself. I am as addicted to Coke as some people are to sex, drugs and Rolling Rock. I start my day with a Coke. Faster and easier than brewing coffee. And since our power supply is so very iffy, setting the brew timer the night before no longer guarantees coffee when I wake up.

Oh, I love Coke. I love the syrupy sweet taste of it. The fizz on my tongue, the tiny little burn in the back of my throat if I gulp it. I love the way it goes with chocolate and bagels equally well. I love the pick me up of the caffeine and sugar...I love Coke. Love it, love it, love it. And yet, if I love myself more (and I'm not sure I've ever sung an ode to myself that can equal this affirmation of soda), I must give it up. I must say good-bye, never to see it again. Don't even think of suggesting moderation. That's like telling an alcoholic to just have a glass of wine with dinner. It is a sickness with me. I am powerless over the soda. I cannot control the soda. If it is in the house with me, I will drink it. If it is an option at the restaurant, I will order it. If it were a man, I'd marry it. In fact, just writing this makes me yearn for a Coke the same way I could taste that need for a cigarette the first two weeks after I quit smoking. You can taste it right there on your tongue. You can feel it rolling around your mouth. You can imagine your lungs expanding as you let the silky smoothness glide down your throat.

Anyway, I hate her.

There's No Place Like...

I try to take the baby for a walk every day. Usually we head up to the Post Office, then down to the bank, maybe stop by the beach via the Surf and come out by the Beachhead, then down to the bank, then home. Sometimes he'll (Blessed Mother!) still sleep when we've arrived safe and sound and I'll sit on the front steps while he snoozes his sweet little snooze.

Today we simply went to the beach. It wasn't that warm. It wasn't that sunny. But it was brilliant. We stood at the edge of the ocean with the seagulls, sandpipers and dead crab claws and we realized just how really small and insignificant we really are. I say 'we' more in the Royal sense. I think Walker, like most babies, are content with the world and their place in it. It takes parents and societies to mess it up for them and I'm sure I'll be no exception. Then we walked to the Pavillion and back up Surf way because the trench across from the Beachhead was more like the Mariannas (did I spell that right?). As we finally - blissfully - edged off the sand and onto the harder surface, we recognized Molly walking down the street toward her store, but she missed us waving at her. Red was up in the cherry picker working on the lines. I waited to cross the street when...I'm sorry, I couldn't really see inside the car to whoever it was but it looked like Mrs. Hassinger...stopped for us and let us cross with a merry little wave and smile. I walked along the road, both hands on the stroller, smiling at those who waved at me...Dick, my husband, Lillian. And as I turned the corner to head past Three Sisters, an incredible rush of panic hit me. The kind of fight or flight panic I haven't felt in a while.

If it were a choice between Block Island and Home...well, I think y'all are aware that as sweet as the folks are here, it's Home all the way. But if it's a choice between Maine and Block Island. Like I said, panic hit me.

BI's not my home, but it has become a home. And I remembered that, once I get to Maine, I can't take the baby for a walk on the beach without driving to get there. I'm not gonna wave at every car that goes by or smile like an idiot. I'm not gonna see Red (because I don't think he needs to be named) and think..."Hmmm....I wonder what ever happened to that cute little co-worker of his..."

Right now, folks, we've got a situation. And it's a doozy. But I can't discuss it without humiliating myself or shaming my husband and I can't/won't do that to my poor husband. But I'd take a bone. Throw me one. Find a way for me to pay rent and two mortgages, stay here and send my teen away to a school more suited to her particular needs and strengths, stay home and raise my baby while working full time as a Theatre Manager with pay and benefits, and my husband the time and money to finish that damn house on Old Town Road - shall we just call it Albatross Cottage? - and not have to work 7 days a week, 10 - 14 hours a day at manual labor just to ensure the survival of his family. Please, please, please, throw me that big ol' juicy bone. No? Not happening? Then I ask for prayers, good energy and kindness to my family because they - my worked to exhaustion husband, in particular - need it for putting up with me.

I've tried clicking my heels three times. It ain't working.