Weight Watchers: the never-ending story

My family at Disneyland in December 2012 from left: son-in-law Patrick, daughter  Allison,
 daughter Megan, son-in-law Christopher, husband Jim, and my chubby self.
 Charlotte is in front doing some weird shoulder thing. I'm going to use this as my "before" picture.

I'm back at Weight Watchers. Again.

Actually, this is the 41st year of my association with that organization. I started back when I didn't actually have enough weight to lose to qualify for the program. Used to be, if you didn't have 20 or 25 pounds to lose (I can't remember), you had to have a note from your doctor.

So I got my family physician to write me a letter saying my health would improve if I lost 18 pounds. Now, all these years later, I would kill to only have 20 pounds to lose. I'm far, far away from that and have been since I had children.

I like to tease my daughters that they ruined my figure. I had just dieted my way into a size 11 when I got pregnant. I still have that dress that I wore to a friend's wedding, just to prove to myself that it actually happened. I quit smoking as soon as I found out I was pregnant, so I attribute about 30 pounds of the weight gain to that. I eventually was 70 pounds overweight when I delivered.

The truth is, I was never thin. I was a chubby child, which never bothered me until I hit sixth-grade and became aware that other people were judging me. I was wearing go-go boots and hip-hugger skirts, and though I looked fantastic. Developing self-consciousness is a bitch. From that early 1960s realization on, never a day went by that I didn't worry about how I looked or mourn how fat I was.

In junior high and high school, it was only 20 pounds too many, but it seemed like 100. Now, I mourn all the hours I spent worrying about those measly 20 pounds, especially when I know exactly how bad it can get.

I know I'm insane for going public with this, because announcing you're on a diet usually dooms you to failure. Consider Kirstie Alley, Wynonna Judd, Carnie Wilson. They make public pronouncements, then fall off the wagon and end up packing the pounds back on. I've sat next to enough gastric-bypass patients in WW meetings to know that's not a silver bullet, either.

In Weight Watcher meetings, I'm a pain in the ass. I crack jokes and quote so many Alcoholic Anonymous slogans that members must think I'm in recovery. Think about it, those slogans are applicable to many endeavors in life: One Day at a Time, Easy Does It, Keep it Simple Stupid, and my favorite, It Works if you Work It.

Pretty much any plan works if you work it, but WW works better than others. I've lost 23 pounds since I started about eight weeks ago. I'm doing water aerobics three times a week at the gym. I feel better and have a lot more energy.

The plan is much better than it was in the late 60s and early 70s when I started. A woman found some Weight Watcher recipe cards from 1974 in her mother's basement, including many for mackerel, and put them on the internet with some very funny comments. Back then, the plan was based on the diabetic exchange program. We used to talk about eating "boxes" because each food group had little squares after it that stood for one unit of that food.

The program back then called for you to eat a certain amount of tuna and liver every week. I was okay with the tuna, but I'd rather be fat the rest of my life than eat liver. Just the smell of it makes me want to retch. Seriously, when we have iron supplements, why would anyone eat that disgusting stuff? My dad liked it, but he had to order liver and onions in restaurants, so we didn't have to cook it at home.

This time, I really believe I'm going all the way, because I'm scared. Fear is a fantastic motivator. Every single health problem I have would be eliminated or made better by losing weight and a better diet: bad knees, acid reflux, sleep apnea, and high blood pressure. I'm not getting any younger, and I want to be able to run after Charlotte and her soon-to-be born baby brother.

I always had people who loved me and found me attractive at any size, and the weight never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do, but I had to overcome a degree of humiliation. Like having to wear a man's wetsuit and fold up the legs and sleeves because I was too fat to fit into a woman's version. The same thing happened in fencing: my fencing jacket sleeves practically hung to my calves because I had to wear a man's size.

Many of the health habits I acquired from Weight Watchers stuck with me in-between the times I actually was working the program. I almost always substituted something for fries when eating out, and I never eat hamburgers. But birthday cake is my bete noire; I will scrape off the buttercream icing and eat it with a spoon.

If I don't arrive early enough to my Tuesday night meeting I won't get a seat because of all the New Year's resolution newcomers. I wish them the best, but I know from my years of experience, that the herd will be considerably thinner by Easter. With any luck, I'll still be there, learning how to avoid my Easter temptations: chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, and yellow Peeps.

Then the pre-bathing-suit crowd will show up at meetings, and for once, looking for a suit might not be the tremendous ordeal it has been in the past. By then, I should be considerably smaller. I am resigned to the fact that like alcoholics, I'm never going to be done with meetings. Maybe I'll apply to be a leader when I get to goal, since I have to be there anyway. Might as well get paid for it.

Tacos at a filling station and another, better, used bookstore

The front window of Book Alley, 1252 E. Colorado Blvd., Pasadena, 91106,
an amazing used bookstore that is a browser's delight.

Even though last weekend was supposed to be the book trip, we found a used bookstore on Saturday that has all the Hollywood places beat: Book Alley, in Pasadena. We had tickets for Noises Off, at the A Noise Within theater, and my husband Jim (the cruise director and master of the revels) thought that we should hit this bookstore he had read about in his research for a recent newspaper story.

Jim in the children's section at Book Alley.

In case you forgot that the New Year's Rose Parade goes down Colorado Blvd., the remains of Silly String on the road and sidewalks are a colorful reminder. Spraying Silly String became illegal in 1992 with a city ordinance, but lots of people remain scofflaws.

We parked on a side street, and the neon green, pink and blue stains got more Jackson Pollock-like the closer we got to Colorado. We noticed a place with sidewalk umbrellas the block behind the store, and made a note to check it out for lunch.

Book Alley's welcoming entrance immediately placed it well above the places we saw last week. I hadn't been in it but a few minutes, when I whispered to my husband: "I love this place!" There were lots of interesting books faced out on easels that drew me in, but also books stacked on the floor.

In fact, it's the perfect combination of organization and clutter, much like my own systems. The shelves are arranged into categories and alphabetized, but there are books on the floor, on the counters — hell, on every flat surface. The lady who helped us said it wasn't usually that messy, they were doing a reorganization, but that's my excuse to drop-in guests, too.

Don't you just want to know
what's in those stacks?

If you want something specific (Jim was looking for John Fante), you can find it, but there is enough randomness in other parts of the store to satisfy the bibliophile's urge to root around and seek out titles you didn't know you needed until you see it.

Another wonderful touch for English majors is that they file biographies and literary analyses right with the author's work, which makes for some wonderful discoveries. For $15, I picked up Feasting with Panthers: A New Consideration of Some Late Victorian Writers, by Rupert Croft-Cooke, written in 1967.

I must admit that this examination of how Charles Swinburne, John Addington Symonds and Oscar Wilde "made a cult out of their own sexual idiosyncrasies" appealed to my prurient fascination. But I've read a number of more mannered biographies about Wilde, including one that argued he was a better Catholic than anyone supposed, so I feel entitled.

They were out of Ask the Dust (it is Fante's best-known work), but they did have Dreams of Bunker Hill, so Jim bought that. I bought a first edition of Falling Man, by Don DeLillo, for $5, probably because the reviews were lukewarm. I figure that DeLillo, who was a 21st century author well before the millennium, was the ideal man to write about 9/11, about which I haven't read any fiction. The critics probably wanted another White Noise, and what author has more than one of those in him or her?

This cabinet has drawers of programs,
guide books, and other cool
ephemera for sale.

The store has more books than you see on the selling floor; they also have a huge space that I can only suppose is a staging area for books before they put them out on the shelf. The nice lady helping us gave a peek into this room, and just looking at the floor to ceiling shelves and piles upon piles of books gave me an overwhelmed feeling.

I was glad to get back to the less-chaotic sales floor. When we checked out, I found a stack of old children's books on the counter waiting to be priced, including a facsimile reprint of a book my mother had when she was a child, Four Little Puppies.

Her copy was a 1936 original, but it had crayon markings on every page. Whether she or her younger brother did the enhancing, I can't say, but I loved it as a child, and was happy to pay $4 for the new edition.

The Coca-Cola wonderland that is Norma's Tacos,
a block off Colorado right behind Book Alley.

Book Alley had some of the other titles in the series, featuring cats and bunnies dressed up in clothes doing things normal families do: kids play in the yard, mom cooks in the kitchen, and dad sits in his chair smoking a pipe. Really cute stuff if you don't think about it too hard.

I fear for all bookstores these days, but Book Alley has an online component, which might help them beat the odds. If you are looking for something specific, you can go to their website, search for it and buy it online. Now that I have discovered them, I never want them to close, and I regret every dime I spent at Cosmopolitan.

We went back to the joint on the corner we had spied, which turned out to be Norma's Tacos, a walk-up taqueria made out of a vintage gas station. I don't know if the red and silver pumps are the same ones as when it dispensed gasoline, but it is really charming. The food is fantastic, and reasonably priced, especially important if you've just blown your wad on books. I had carne asada tacos, which were great, but I regretted not getting the tacos with crispy potatoes inside. Ah well, next time.

The combo of Book Alley, Comics Factory (just a few doors down from Book Alley, where Jim bought Fatale, a new noir comic book), Norma's Tacos, and a matinee at A Noise Within made for a satisfying Pasadena outing away from the bustle of downtown. It could be a reasonably priced excursion, depending on how well you can control your book habit.

World-famous martinis, books, books, and more books

Manny, Musso and Frank's bartender, pouring one of their famous martinis.

I walked back from Musso and Frank's ladies room yesterday and whispered in my husband's ear, "There are only two stalls in there."
"Yeah, and?" he replied.
"That means there's a 50% chance that I just used the same stall as Dorothy Parker."
His raucous laugh made more than a few patrons look around.

S.Z. Sakall, also known as Cuddles.
Doesn't he resemble Manny?
Manny sounds a little like him, too.

It was a nostalgic kind of day. We had been in the bar where we drank Musso and Frank's signature martinis, and now we were having lunch. Manny the bartender, has been stirring up the iconic cocktails since 1984.

I had heard people rave about the restaurant's martinis, so for once, I didn't call for Bombay Sapphire, my favorite gin. I wanted to have the whole Musso and Frank's experience, to have a cocktail the way they've been making them for years, just like the ones they made for Fitzgerald, Chandler, Parker, Hemingway, and all the other writers who have drunk, fought, recovered from hangovers, and oh, yeah, written there.

We climbed onto barstools, and I was disconcerted by my reflection in the bar mirror. I forgot that old-fashioned bars have huge mirrors running the length of them. Manny the bartender approached, and I told we wanted his famous martinis.

He searched our faces, and said, "You know our martinis are made with gin, right?"

I felt wounded. Didn't I look like a martini drinker?
"Is there any other kind?"was my reply. His smile brightened, and he bustled about making our drinks.

This is how your martini will arrive; the little
carafe is the rest of your drink. Kinda like
milkshakes at Bob's Big Boy.

The only martinis are gin martinis. That is an article of faith so strong with me that even people who know little about me know it. Nothing pisses me off faster than to order a martini and have the bartender ask, "Gin or vodka?"

You can put vodka in a martini glass, spike it with an olive or onion, and even splash a little vermouth in there, but that doesn't make it a martini. If you ask for a martini, you should get gin. If you want vodka, order a vodka martini. Gin drinkers were here first. Manny told us that he had to start asking, because people (probably young people) were ordering martinis and sending them back because they wanted vodka.

He poured Gordons gin into a glass cocktail shaker, added the vermouth and stirred. Manny said, "Some people say, hold the vermouth. I put a little in anyway." Of course, because otherwise, that's just gin in a glass. They stir martinis at Musso and Frank's because they think it waters down your drink to shake it.



The presentation is lovely: Manny lines up the glasses and carafes, then makes a big show of pouring equal amounts in each glass. He goes back and forth a few times, evening up the amounts, saying, "This way, there will be no arguments."

The Central Library's rotunda, with its stained glass globe chandelier
and murals depicting the opening of the West.

The rest he pours into the carafes, and later will come by to fill our glasses. Ah yes, a full-service bartender.
The drink can't be faulted: the olives come with toothpicks in them so you don't have to fish them out with your fingers (believe me, I will, and have). It is impeccably mixed, presented, and poured, and only costs $9.50. There's only one problem: it's still just Gordons gin.

My husband loved it, but he's not a dyed-in-the-wool gin drinker, like me. Let me put it this way: when you're drinking a martini, it's pure alcohol. So the gin matters. I don't order martinis in some places because they don't know how to make them, and even in places I do order them, I'll drink something else if I can't get Bombay or Hendricks gin.

So now I've had the Musso and Frank's experience: next time I'll call for Bombay, and then it will be a perfect martini.

The atrium joins the old and new wings of the library,
 with whimsical chandeliers.

The unremarkable lunch (the wedge salad made me yearn for the Lemon Leaf's) was the mid-part of our day, which began at the Central Library, and continued at bookstores. The library is amazing; I take my students there, and I had never seen the fabulous things I saw on this tour. Our guide was a sweet little lady named Selma, who was knowledgeable, and liked to give us little quizzes. She was amused by the rivalry between me and my husband when it came to answering questions. In the final tally, he was more observant than me, dammit.

Then it was off to Larry Edmunds, which specializes in books on film, television, and the stage, where I found a German Expressionist poster for the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and the owner bitched at us because we wandered upstairs, where his office is. (We didn't know, he forgot to put his rope up across the stairs.)

I wander though the amazing mess of Cosmopolitan,
the bookstore seen in the Ewan McGregor
film Beginners, feeling like Indiana Jones.

We really wanted to see Cosmopolitan, the bookstore shown in the movie Beginners, with Ewan McGregor, Christopher Plummer and some delectable French woman, shot in some of my favorite locations in Los Angeles, like the Biltmore hotel.

The owner is a slightly irascible old man, who, when he dies, will take this place with him. The prices are too high, and I felt like Indiana Jones maneuvering though the stacks and stacks of books that threaten to fall on you, but it was an adventure.

I found a hysterical book about real notes that English flatmates have written to one another, with the author's funny comments on the opposing page. That being said, the title, I Lick My Cheese, needs no explanation.

I also overpaid for a book of photographs by Doisneau, who captured ordinary Parisians on the street in the 1950s. We know him best from his black and white series of couples kissing, that got turned into posters.

In the end, I think I overpaid because I wanted the books, he had them, and now I can say I patronized him, much like I can now say I had lunch at Musso and Frank's, even though the food wasn't great. My husband was rather taken with the "charm" of this store, but when I think about it, the reason I didn't like it so much is that books should be treated better than this, in my opinion.

If you are a book lover, you'd be appalled by the way books are piled on every conceivable surface, crammed into every corner, and never dusted in this place. I couldn't see the owner at the cash wrap, because of the stacks on books on the counter. It was almost comical. Maybe my former identity as a bookstore manager was screaming inside me.

On the other hand, my husband kissed me in an aisle featured in the film, and whispered, "Ewan McGregor stood right here."

Yeah, that was worth the trip.

Welcome, 2012!

This may look festive, but don't let that fool you: I didn't even drink on New Year's Eve.

So— the first day of 2012.

Since I am a white Anglo Saxon Protestant of mixed indeterminate ancestry on one side, and Irish on the other, I wasn't raised with any New Year's traditions.

I used to make Hoppin' John on the first day of the new year, but as any Southerner can tell you, the best stuff is made with a shocking amount of bacon grease. Since I started back to Weight Watchers a few months ago, that ain't happening. It was a borrowed tradition, anyway.

I just looked up the Irish traditions, and they aren't too difficult. The first person to cross your threshold on New Year's has a special significance. You want it to be a tall, handsome dark-haired man for good luck, apparently. Since I'm happily married, I'm not sure why I'd want that.

Princess Merida, the latest Disney princess, from Brave,
a new Pixar movie. I'm not sure I can forgive them for trying
 to cast Reese Witherspoon, but thankfully, she was busy.
Merida is voiced by a true Scotswoman, Kelly MacDonald.

If your first threshold-crosser is a red-haired woman, that's bad luck. Guess I'd better not cross my own doorstep. According to some versions, that's because people considered gingers to be witches.

Come to think of it, maybe that's where the British prejudice about red-haired people came from. They tease them unmercifully, and discriminate against them. Not even Prince Harry is immune.

I don't find ginger men to be particularly appealing, but a strawberry-blonde girl with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose? Adorable. I can't wait to see the latest Disney princess movie, Brave.

A princess who is a crack archer, and rides a horse like she was born on one? Awesome! Now we have a princess to emulate besides Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. We really only liked her because she was a bookworm, and didn't really fall for the Beast until she saw his library.

But I digress. Apparently, the Irish clean their houses form top to bottom for New Year's. Well, that ain't happening either, but I did clean out my upstairs closet.

My friend told me that one New Year's prediction is that what you do on that day will determine what you will do the rest of the year. So at least, I organized one closet.

Our day started out at Dillard's, to take advantage of their big sale. The place was a madhouse; apparently, women wait all year long for the big Coach purse sale. They had their own line, clearly marked. We were there to buy dress shirts and ties for my husband. We bought six shirts, two ties, a belt and slippers for around $300. Not too shabby. So, I guess I will be saving (and spending) money all year.

Then we did our laundry, and washed all those shirts. If I thought I was going to get out of doing laundry all year,  I was sadly mistaken. So, laundry's going to happen in 2012.

Prime Desert Woodlands, January 1, 2012.

We took a long walk at Prime Desert Woodlands, so maybe I'm going to spend more time in nature this year. That would be good. Actually, the older I get, the better I appreciate the outdoors.

It was late afternoon, my favorite time of day, and we exchanged holiday greetings with lots of nice folks. It's a very peaceful atmosphere out there, you don't feel like you're right in the middle of lots of houses.

I also baked low-fat apple cinnamon muffins, so I might do more baking in 2012. I don't know why, since I can't eat most baked goods. I did make a pretty healthful dinner, and I know that will continue.

I talked to family on the phone, which I definitely will keep doing. I'd like to get together with family and friends more this year, and I always want to do more entertaining.

I'm writing this column, and I really want to do more writing in the coming year. I couldn't get to it the last few weeks, and I hated that.

So those are my predictions for the new year. There's still time left before midnight for me to get some other things done, if you know what I mean.

I hope 2012 will be a better year. Last year wasn't a terrible year for me, but there's always room for improvement. Of course, if the 2012 doom-sayers are right, and the world ends, 2011 is going to look pretty good about then, right?

I hope you have a wonderful, prosperous New Year!