Eschewing the Fat

I'm overweight.

There. I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I particularly proud of it. It's just what I am. Always have been, as long as I can remember anyway. First of all, from birth, I was destined to be forever among those who claim "big boned" as a reason for needing bigger sizes. My birth weight was ten pounds, four ounces. Chubby? Yeah. But cute as hell. By the time I was in school, I was also in "husky" sized pants (which I guess isn't as bad as the heavier girls having to wear the un-PC "chubby" sizes, as they were called back then) Among my friends, I was always the funny, roly-poly guy. I was the likable, "teddy bear" type among the girls in high school. All the '80s teen movies had the guy like me. The funny fat guy who never got laid. The one who always wound up with the chunky girl with glasses. Because, according to those movies, if you're overweight and wear glasses, the only women who are attracted to you are nerdy, overweight and wear glasses. Unless you're Peter Griffin, and he's a cartoon. Or Fred Flintstone. Yeah, Wilma was pretty hot. Not Betty-hot, but hot for a guy like Fred. Again, though, a cartoon. Although, King of Queens isn't a cartoon, and his wife is hot. But it's not real, it's a sitcom. Thankfully, some women enjoy my sense of humor and think I'm kinda cute, despite my chubbiness.

Okay, enough about that.

Who's to blame for the blubber? Oh, I could blame myself, but that's too easy, isn't it? I think it was my upbringing. Yeah, that's it. Hey, I'm Italian, we like to eat. And my mother liked putting butter on everything. Everything. So I inherited that butter-loving gene. Butter on graham crackers. Butter on Melba Toast. Butter on biscotti, on bread, on Stella D'oro treats, on butter cookies, on margarine, on low-fat snacks, because those things taste like shit if they're not slathered in butter. (I just love the word 'slathered') Okay, I will blame myself too. I was on a regimen of walking. (See: http://livemusingsnightly.blogspot.com/2007/11/fat-squirrels-and-other-distractions.html). But once the weather got too cold, I gave up walking for sleeping in an extra hour, and somehow, it doesn't have the same calorie-burning effects. Too damn bad. So, the calories needed someplace to go, since they weren't being burned by my powerful thighs rubbing together while I walked. They decided to take up residence in the flesh under my neck, along with assorted places around my body. Like my gut, my ass, and my thighs.

Okay, I'm not horribly slovenly or sloppy fat, but I have extra poundage. Probably about 40 or so pounds extra. I have decided that I would like to live for a while longer. After all, I've been smoke-free for two years this month, satanic second-wife-free for two years this month, and butter-slathering-free for a couple days (It was Easter, and we had dessert at my mother's house, so sue me.). If I want to do all those things on my bucket list (see previous post), I need to drop some of the weight that could crush my already overworked heart.

Hell, I even visited my cardiologist. You know what he told me? That I'm overweight. Oh, ya think? Gee, thanks for that completely surprising insight, Mr. Cardiac Care, Degrees-on-the-wall, $60 a visit, top heart doc. He wants me to have a stress test. I told him I had one already, It was called a second marriage. He wasn't very sympathetic. He still wants me to have one. I've had them before, and they're not fun. A lot of grunting and sweating, heavy breathing and leg cramps. Kind of like sex, without the big payoff.

One thing I don't get, and I'm sure I'm not alone here, is why I always weigh more on the doctor's scale than the one I have at home. Okay, so their scale is a finely tuned, medically certified, $400 piece of equipment. Mine was four bucks at IKEA. But come on, it's a difference of ten pounds! TEN POUNDS! Christ, that's a lot of weight. Which one do I go by? Sure, I'd choose my scale, but is theirs more accurate? I weighed myself at home before going, just to compare. Did I mention it's a TEN POUND difference? That's a whole ass cheek right there.

Today, I'm kick-starting a diet and exercise program. Why today? Because besides seeing my cardiologist yesterday, I also went to my gastroenterologist. Yeah, I'm like an old hypochondriac lady with time on her hands. He suggested that I'm at the age for a colonoscopy. Having something shoved in my butt was not on my "to do" list for that day. I told him about my second marriage and how I got screwed everyday on that decision. He wasn't sympathetic either. I'm having a colonscopy tomorrow. So I have to fast all day today and do some, shall we say, "prep" cleansing tonight. The perfect way to start a weight loss program is after you've completely emptied your bowels of everything that's in there. I'm sure in the middle of the night, I'll finally get back that penny I swallowed in first grade, and the bowl of cheddar cheese I ate as a dare in freshman year of college. So far, it's going well. I haven't eaten anything since the Dunkin' Donuts bagel and coffee almost four hours ago, except for some Italian Lemon Ice. Tonight is really going to suck. I'm not Ghandi for crying out loud. I'm a healthy male who needs food, not some already malnutritioned do-gooder in a burlap smock.

So, I'm fasting today, pooping a lot tonight, and being probed tomorrow. I'm hoping that after all this colon probing, (which I'd really prefer to have done by an alien abductor; at least I'd have an amazing story to tell afterwards) I'll start my walking regimen and watching the diet. Then I go for the stress test, and hopefully, I won't need my chest cracked open and all sorts of plastic stents and balloons and such to keep my aorta from choking like Michael Hutchens in a self-inflicted asphyxiation game.

And I guess what's most important is that I get healthy. I can do without the extra helping of rigatoni or that chocolate cupcake if it means a few extra years with the kids, a few more years to complain about crappy music, another decade or so of nut-scratching life. I don't think I'll ever be trim and svelte, but it'll be nice to once again see what I'm scratching.

Wish me luck on my adventure.

My Bucket List is rather pail.

I'm at that point in my life where I've been thinking about all the things I want to do before I die. You know, like that movie with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman that was in theaters for about 35 seconds.

I know, 44 isn't that old, but my dad died at 60, and hopefully, age of death is not a genetic trait, but if it is, that gives me less than 20 years to do a bunch of shit that I've always wanted to do. It's not a crazy list, because I'm just not that kind of person. For example, skydiving, bungee jumping and generally anything else that can kill me is not on this list. Nor would it be on any list I ever make. Personally, I seriously just don't understand the thrill of doing something that could potentially end my life. Paratroopers over Nazi Germany in WWII had no choice. I have a choice, and I choose not to fall thousands of feet, a piece of silk tied to my back or not. I'm not planning on eating poisonous blowfish or swimming with sharks or walking through West Philly wearing a pointy white hood over my head. No, my things are all kind of boring actually. And that's just fine with me.

So here are ten things I hope to do before I'm planted 'neath the old oak tree. I could probably come up with more than ten, but, I'll topline for ya, just to make the whole idea digestible.


1. I could probably make a list of dozens of places I want to see before dying, but there are a few standouts. I will go to Italy. Sure, I could get on a plane and go, right? Not that simple. I have bills and kids. Not necessarily in that order. But I will get to the country that spawned pizza, great art and the DiMeos. And I'm not going to wait until I'm so old, I have to take the escalator when I visit the Spanish Steps in Rome. Oh, and England. Why merry ole' England? I like the way they talk. And maybe even France. I know, the whole ugly American thing they have for us, but jeez...Paris? Lautrec, Moulin Rouge, Amelie! Oh, and get back to Graceland. Thankya, thankyaverymuch.

2. Walk my daughter down the aisle. I hope to live that long. She's eight, so I'm guessing another 20 years before that happens. Okay, kind of a sappy thing, and there's all those psychological Freudian implications of handing my little girl over to another man. Things I never, ever want to even think about. But to see my princess dressed like one, and dancing with her at her wedding will be a hell of an emotional rollercoaster. Of course, I want to see my boy happy as well, which doesn't necessarily mean 'married."

3. Sing with a band. I'm talking, a big, Vegas-style orchestra. I'd do the whole black tux, scotch on the rocks, rat pack thing. Maybe swing some Sinatra or Bobby Darin. I've done the poor man's version, on a karaoke stage, and done the band thing for several years with my brothers. But nothing like a cabaret revue. "Swing it, baby..."

4. Get published. Seriously, soon. I've started a few kid's books projects, and have some illustrators who have expressed interest, so this one could actually happen soon. I have one book that's about a kid who is too fat to do stuff other kids do, but finds his real place in life...yeah, it's a bit autobiographical. Another one is about a little girl tormented by her own finickiness. Have I mentioned my daughter would live on macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets if we let her? Hmmm.

5. Find true love. I know, I'm a sappy wuss. Sue me.

6. Make the perfect pot of gravy. And for you non-Italians, I mean tomato sauce. My grandmother made a kick-ass gravy that no one has ever matched. My first wife made a really good gravy. My brother makes a good gravy. I make shit. And the problem is, there's no real way to learn it, because it's all trial and error. There's no careful measurement of ingredients, there's no heat level or secret stirring technique. It's a pinch of this, some of that, turn up the heat, turn down the heat, cover it, don't cover it. One thing I have learned is how to make store bought sauce tolerable. Maybe I'll share that with you sometime. But it's just not the same as the homemade stuff. Now, I want ravioli.

7. Learn to swing dance as good as my dad. He was Mr. Rubberlegs. It was a spectacle to watch. The upper half of his body was smooth and straight, while his legs would whip around the dancefloor like a tornado. He could spin his partner, twirling her like a dervish, and pull her back into his arms like nobody's business. I watch movies like "Swingers" and the urge hits me again. I want to dance like that. Thankfully, I did get some of my dad's finesse, but it's the moves that elude me. Anyone have the number for Arthur Murray?

8. Go to a real movie premiere. Red carpet, celebrities, paparazzi, the whole glittery, Hollywood, spotlight cheeseball thing. And hopefully it won't be some crappy movie. I'm just a sucker for this kind of thing. God, I'm such a friggin' geek.

9. Find Nicole Brown Simpson's real killer. Oh, wait, sorry. That's O.J.'s list.

9a. Own a really nice car. I'm not that into the big showy automobile thing, but most of my cars have been used, or small, or a minivan. I just want to own something that I really love and feel comfortable driving. I'm not talking expensive. It doesn't need to be a Mercedes or a Jag, and definitely not one of those big SUV glacier-killers, just a car that's me.

10. I want to wake up, feel completely comfortable in my life. Not worry about money, health, or work. Now THAT would be something that would allow me croak happily. Hopefully both not on the same day. I've heard stories about guys that die the day after their retirement. My dad was just starting to really enjoy life when he was diagnosed with cancer. Not for me, thanks.

So, maybe now I can start getting to work on some of these things. Right after I do number 11 on the list, which is to stop procrastinating.

Agita! The Conclusion.

It is now a week or so after the TV shopping debacle with dear ole mom. And I can look back on it and still not laugh or reminisce fondly. Maybe after I get the whole story written, only then, can I move on with my life. And so, I give you part two, and the conclusion, of the "New TV for Mom" saga: The Hook-Up.

I arrive with my mom and the TV at her house. My brother, Mike, is already there. We carry the television in. The box is a bit dented, but since it was the last one in the store, we took it with the salesperson's assurance that the set itself was fine. If not, we could return it. Yeah, that wasn't happening in my lifetime. That TV could have had human feces smeared across the screen and I was shoving it into its spot, plugging it in and going home to a large vodka tonic.

My brother had already removed the infamous "black & white picture" set from the infamous entertainment center. The dust was as thick as a mink stole. So my mother comes over and pushed the gigantic dust gophers around with a fuzzy duster. Well, that was pretty useless.

We open the box and inspect the TV.

When you were a child, did you ever have a dog that died? Did you ever lose a favorite toy? Did you ever shop for a TV with your mom, only to find a crack in plastic console of it when you opened it?

Yeah, all three of those really sucked. And the last one happened that day. A crack in the TV. Thoughts of packing it up and driving back to Best Buy clouded my head and sucked out any bit of life left in me. My brother spoke up first, "I think we should put it in the center, make sure it works, because that crack will be unnoticeable once we get it in there." My mother agreed. A small sliver of light pierced through the window and gave me hope that maybe the ordeal would be over soon. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions.

To my mother's glee, and our thankful predictions, the TV fit just fine in the entertainment center. In fact, it was perfect. You couldn't see the small crack in the plastic at all. And so we begin the confusing job of "what wire goes where." To compound the confusion, we were also going to hook up the new DVD player my brother gave her for Christmas, that my mother so vehemently opposed getting. Too bad. We're hooking up that sucker, and going home for a tall rum and Coke. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. That's two.

After some unscrewing and screwing of cables, wires and whatnot, the TV flickered on to a beautiful picture. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. Yeah. Are you keeping count? She tells me the cable guy left no instruction book. I tell her that I'll check mine and next time I come over, I'll program it. In the meantime, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's medulla oblongata explodes.

Mike and I figured out how to hook up the DVD player, since we couldn't do it directly through the cable box, it had to go directly into the TV. A minor inconvenience that would make my mother more confused if she ever watches any one of the six disk set of musicals I bought her for Christmas. You know, that really expensive box set of musicals? The really expensive one, that is. My mother asked how long she'll have to use two remotes to work the TV and cable. I remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's cerebral cortex explodes. I'm ready for a pitcher of rum and coke and vodka and tonic.

We start putting away the packing materials and trash, and my mother is still quite confused about the two remotes. Mind you, for about 10 years before the last TV, she was using TWO FUCKING REMOTES. Finally, the pressure cooker that is my mind goes off. The lid explodes sending beef stew all over the kitchen cabinets and ceiling. I grit my teeth and speak to her as if she's a 12-year-old who can't tie his shoes, or a 70-year old who just asked five or six times about the remote. Oh, yeah, she did. I loudly, slowly, deliberately remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote, just as she did for the 10 years before the last television.

I go to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, go back down, apologize and wish her much happiness with her new TV. She asks if I'm coming over tomorrow with the instruction book for the remote.

Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop beating the elderly.

Agita! In Living Color.

Italians have this word we use for certain occasions. It's "agita." If you've never heard it, you've either been under your rock too long, or have never seen an episode of the Sopranos. So, if you don't know what it means, the next sentence should sum it up pretty well.

I took my mother shopping for a new television.



Okay, so here's how it started. A couple weeks ago, I got a desperate phone call from my mother, in the middle of my work day. She sounded very upset. I had thought that maybe someone died or she was sick or anything other than the fact that her TV picture had lost color. Maybe one of my brothers had an accident, or her roof caved in. Anything. But not that her color TV was now black and white. Stop the presses! Call the fire department! Dial 911! All My Children is monochromatic! And thus, her world stopped. Life suddenly came to a screeching halt. Nothing in the entire universe would matter now that my mother's television set HAD LOST IT'S ABILITY TO PROJECT IMAGES IN COLOR!

At first, she blamed the cable guy who recently installed a new cable box. Once I assured her that cable would not affect the color of the set, she put that idea away in her mind, until she was ready to mention it again on the next distressed phone call and the next. She asked if she should call a TV repairman. Now, in my mind, a TV repairman in this day and age is like the Fuller Brush Man showing up at your door, or a second anus on a fish. In other words, completely anachronistic and unnecessary. Both of my brothers told her not to get a TV repairman, because when a TV goes, it's time to get a new one. BUT some 85-year-old woman, farting dust and dying her hair blue at the hairdresser (my mother doesn't go to "salons," she goes to a woman's basement to get her hair done...every Friday.) gave her the number of a "reliable" TV repairman. Because, after all, a repairman would NEVER take advantage of a woman old enough to have banged DaVinci and living alone to boot.

So naturally, my mother listened to the logic of those who know what they're talking about. She called the TV repairman.

$95 and two visits later, the television still has no color. Too bad my brothers and I didn't tell her not to get a repairman. Oh, wait, WE DID TELL HER. So, it was time to get a new TV. And I, the single son, volunteered my services. Did I mention I'm into self-mutilation and mentally torturing myself?

TRIP #1. (Oh, yes. It took two trips. Two trips. Did I mention, it took TWO TRIPS?) I pick her up, first, carefully measuring the space in the entertainment center. She's got a 27" screen which is fine for her. Good so far, but somewhere in the back of my brain, I know that it won't all be this easy. We go to Best Buy. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. No! There is no way she is spending that kind of money on a TV. Now, manufacturers are pretty friggin' smart. They know that if they convince the "U.S. consumer lemmings waving credit cards with massive debt" that the only TVs worth having are the more expensive flat panel, flat screen hi-def, high-priced sets, they can do away with the outdated monstrosities called tube sets. SO, they only make a few of these models for people not quite ready to spend a couple grand on a TV, namely me (I have a 32" tube TV that suits me fine), my mother and probably the old bat who convinced my mother to get the repairman. So, we go look at the few dinosaurs in the tube TV aisle. There's a flat screen tube TV by Best Buy's brand for $300 and a rounded tube Sanyo TV for $270. To me, both viable candidates. She's not happy. She's never heard of Insignia. I measure them. Either will fit in her entertainment center. She's still not sure. I tell her the flat screen would be perfect, and it's a better picture for a few bucks more. She's still not convinced. After all, it's a whopping $300 for a brand she hasn't heard of. She asks a sales person if there are any sales going on. Like he's going to pull a perfect 27" inch TV out of his pocket and say, "Oh, yeah, here's a top of the line Sony and it's only $25!" He looks incredulously at her and tells her that anything on sale is marked. I assure my mother that if there are any sales, Best Buy is not hiding them from us. She's worried they look too big to fit. I measure again, and assure her they will.

We go home empty handed.

After a week or so of her commenting on how she has to watch everything in black and white, and wondering if it's the new cable box, which I assure her again it isn't, I tell her we'll go shopping again. Did I mention I also like anal fissures and drill bits shoved in my ears?

TRIP #2. (Yeah, two trips. I said that before didn't I? Two trips...)I picked up my mom and we drove over to Jersey to first visit the Best Buy there. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. No! There is no way she is spending that kind of money on a TV. Wait, didn't I already say that in the Trip #1 story? YES! But that trip was a week or so earlier. Surely, the prices on those flat panels wouldn't be as ludicrous as before. Surely, they would have dropped hundreds of dollars. Surely, she's a 70-year-old woman who heeds the advice of living fossils in basements turned into beauty parlors. Anyway, Best Buy in New Jersey has the same two TVs as the one in Philly. Still, she's not sure. There must be some TV out there better. Maybe we should look to the skies and follow the star. We'll find the perfect TV somewhere in a manger.

So we head over to Circuit City. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. Yes, I needed to repeat that again, because it's exactly what I fucking heard. It's all part of the experience, you see. Oh, and by the way, I had taken a laxative the night before, due to a little constipation I had been having. So in between the TV discussions, I'm running to the bathroom with the squirts. Somehow, it all made sense. Shopping for a TV for my mother and stomach distress. Yeah, all good.

Well, she's not impressed with the selection at Circuit City. Of the massive collection of two tube TVs they have, only one is a brand she recognizes, and she's worried it won't fit into her entertainment center. Oh shit. I forgot the dimensions. I forgot a tape measure. Suddenly, I'm in full panic mode. Oh dear sweet Lord baby Jesus, my world is collapsing around me. I can't measure it to assure her that either one of these will fit. They will FIT!

My mind is slowly disintegrating into a powdered substance. "Let's go back to Best Buy and get the $300 flat screen tube TV," I say. She's not sure it will fit and she doesn't know the brand. She's almost in tears on the ride back to Best Buy. I'm not kidding. She's crying over the decision to buy a $300 TV. I assure her it will fit, because it's the SAME TV I MEASURED THE WEEK BEFORE! We look at it again. From every angle. I tell her this is the one, and to buy it now. She's still a bit unsure. I call my brother and tell him I think we're close to buying one and ask him to meet us at her house to help carry and hook up the TV. First, he has to assure her that it will fit. I tell him to bring a hammer. Not for the TV or the entertainment center. But to hit me on the back of the head as hard as he could.

SHE BUYS THE TV. Oh, thank you God.

If you think it's over, it's not. In the next blog, I'll tell you about hooking up the TV.

So now you know what agita means.

Ode To My Belly

Every once in a while, I look through a folder of stuff I wrote or worked on years ago. Well, I was going through an old portfolio of work I did way back in the late '80s, when hair was still big and movie popcorn was still made with heart-stopping oil and real butter. One of the things I found was a folder of short stories and poems I had written for a creative writing course I had taken for fun. And so, in the interest of sharing the pain, I've decided to release one of the more tolerable poems to you, my dear readers. Of course, while others in the class were writing poems about nature and love and pain, I was writing about Marilyn Monroe, buses, bills and this; my belly. I decided not to share the short story about the voyeuristic psycho. Some things are better left in a folder, buried under junk. (I was in a weird place at that time.) Enjoy.

ODE TO MY BELLY

Is there any part of me more obvious than you?
Hiding my buckle under your bulk,
And straining to free yourself from the confines of buttons.
Your firm roundness, ever salient,
Becoming more and more difficult to hide under the bagginess of a sweater.

An insufferable breadbasket,
Basking at the beach.
Flaunting your prominence,
And quickly contracting for the bikini-clad beauty.

Just a rotund tummy are you,
Prodding me to the larger sizes,
The way you forced me into the husky section,
When we were both young, but just as prolific.

What a cantankerous protuberance,
Making your presence known at the most inopportune times.
A romantic tryst, a job interview, or a quiet moment
Is not the proper place to sing your song,
My dear gurgling gullet.

You are my meal clock,
Alerting me to feeding time.
And I, your slave, generously oblige.
With wine and ravioli,
With pizza and beer,
or a thick slab of Italian cream cake.
And only rarely do you complain afterwards,
Gripping my innards with your sinewy fingers
As the rest of you flops and flounders.

I look at you, my grand belly,
Thinking of the wondrous buffets we've shared,
Of the hearty laughs that left you all a-jiggle,
And the smoothness of your skin laid upon hers as we love.

You, the buttoned maw of my jolly rotundity,
That, by a life sustaining cord did you unite me to a mother,
You that delegates the vital nutrients to the proper parts of me.
Would it be fair to diet you with Tofu and cottage cheese?
I should say not.

Do you care for fries with that Whopper?

by Steve DiMeo

P.S. The picture is not representative of my current belly, nor should it be considered as anything but a photo illustration of the title of this blog. Thank you for your consideration. -The Management.