Hot Dogs are Diet Food

Acknowledgements

Sharon, for listening to me babble constantly about imaginary friends as though they are real, your enthusiasm, editing skills, reminders, encouragement, and most of all, your friendship. I’m privileged to have you in my life.

Kirstin, for helping me research fad diets, providing insight on good nutrition and keeping me, and so many others, motivated at the gym.

Joanne, for all your creative energy. I still hold you responsible for this journey I’ve embarked on.

Susan, Kim, Melissa, Clair, Andrea, Jennifer, Jo, Sharon, and Mary: my Beta Readers. You’re a special group and I couldn’t have polished the book without you.

Jaime and Riley, the two most beautiful models.

Olga, for making me look good.

Special thanks to all my wonderful friends and family who helped along the way, with support, encouragement and patience.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the wonderful women in my life.

You are strong, intelligent, giving, loving, beautiful people who never cease to amaze me.

~

Also, to my wonderful family.

Your love and laughter keep me going.

~

Most importantly for my husband.

I love you.

Chapter One

True Lies I Tell Myself

Today, my thirteen-year-old daughter caught me struggling to fasten the stubborn button on my once-favourite jeans. I was lying on my bed, squirming my way into the stiff fabric and sucking in my jiggling belly fat in the hopes of being able to mush it into the way too tight waist-band. This was not the first time she had been the unfortunate witness to the ongoing conflict with my wardrobe. Last week I had fought with a side-zipper in a simple black dress. I only conceded that battle when the zipper pinched the delicate skin along my ribcage, leaving an angry welt. The real kicker was that I had only worn the dress once. It must have shrunk in the wash.

Mom, Calleigh said gently. I think it’s time to go shopping.

I sighed and struggled into a sitting position. Even unfastened, these jeans were something less than comfortable. I have other jeans, I replied. I just really like the look of these ones.

Calleigh lifted one golden eyebrow in a look that clearly stated disbelief. I knew my thighs looked like two over-stuffed sausages in their too-tight casings; I just refused to believe they would not look less ridiculous once I got the jeans buttoned and I was in a standing position. Surely gravity would help to even things out.

Look, they’re just a little snug. I think I might have put them in the dryer when they should have hung to dry. They’ll stretch out.

If possible, that one eyebrow lifted higher into her fringed bangs. She’s such a pretty girl. To this day I’m not sure how I ended up with this lovely thirteen-year old. I might not have done much right in my life, but this one accomplishment was something, or rather someone, I could take pride in. There are days when I look at her and wonder how she could be a part of me. We are nothing alike. Where her hair is golden, mine is mousy-not-quite-blond. Where her eyes are a light sky-blue, mine are a murky blue-grey, where she is slender and petite, I am frumpy. It’s almost as though upon her birth all the beauty that might have been a part of me surged forth to create this lovely fairy-tale princess.

Let’s go on Saturday, she suggested, as she leaned forward and pulled me to my feet. I need a few things for school, anyway.

Okay, okay. But remember, we’re on a budget. I’m not buying designer jeans for you.

This trip isn’t for me, she pointed out as she watched me shimmy out of my too-tight jeans. Damn dryer. I could feel my thighs wobbling as I wriggled and twisted until I was free of the offensive material. I would need to go to plan B for today’s outfit.

Satisfied, Calleigh left me to my sadly lacking wardrobe. I assumed she headed down for breakfast. At thirteen I hardly needed to monitor her every move. Having an independent child was such a relief. So many of my friends have little ones who require constant attention, and while I remember those days fondly, I’m also glad to be out of that phase of my life. I honestly can’t remember the last time I fixed breakfast for my daughter on a school day or even made her lunch. Often, she would gobble up some sort of cereal and clear away her dishes long before I ever made my way to the kitchen.

I glanced at the clock on my bedside table and kicked myself into high gear. I would be late again, I wasn’t exactly making a good impression during my first month of work. Lucky for me no one really cared what I looked like at this new job. I grabbed a pair of dress trousers, a turtle neck and matching jacket. The ensemble was probably a better choice than jeans, even if today was casual Friday. Plus, the elastic waist meant I would be comfortable all day, and the long jacket would camouflage any wayward bulges that were threatening to appear under my clothes. One week before my period was about to start and I was already feeling bloated. Being female was just so much fun.

There wouldn’t be time for breakfast, so I grabbed a banana and a yogurt tube and stuffed them both in my purse. For good measure, I also tossed in a chocolate dipped peanut butter granola bar. One of the benefits of having a growing child in the house was that we always had easy snacks on hand. This sure made breakfast on the go so much easier.

My drive to work took a bit longer than usual. I munched on my banana, slurped back the yogurt tube and decided to save the granola bar for later. Of course, I wasn’t counting on getting stuck in traffic. While my car was idling, and I was getting more and more fidgety with the delay, I decided to occupy myself with the chocolaty treat. Of course, we all know that chocolate is actually good for you. It comes from a bean. Beans are legumes: legumes are like vegetables and therefore full of vitamins and nutrients your body needs. One could almost call it a healthy start to the day, much better than all those sugary cereals that are on the market.

Upon arriving at work, I booted up my computer and quickly checked my phone messages. I have this great new job. I can already see there may days when it could be a little on the boring side, but for the most part it’s almost a luxury compared to my last place of employment. I have this little cubicle all to myself, very neat and tidy because we aren’t allowed to clutter it up or have any personal items showing. It’s almost like it needs to look like you aren’t working, even though you are. It’s a bit refreshing to look at in the morning, since it is the complete opposite from the chaos of my house. I guess the idea is you can focus more on getting your work done than on other small distractions, like pictures of your family, religious symbols or any hobbies or interests that might you have.

You’re late, and we have a meeting in ten minutes, I heard from the other side of my cubicle. Lucy was already hard at work; she had probably arrived an hour early and was busy preparing her day. I have never in my life met anyone more efficient or organized. It scares me, how orderly she keeps everything. After knowing her for just one month I knew there was no way our personalities would ever mesh. She is far too systematic in her ways and I’m simply a muddled mess of confusion.

I know; there was traffic. I could just hear her thinking, ‘There is always traffic, that’s why you should give yourself extra time.’ But the disembodied voice from the other side of the partition stayed blissfully quiet.

Okay, I announced, I’m ready—let’s go.

Lucy magically appeared in front of my cubicle. In addition to being freakishly organized, she is also very fast, (probably because she is so very organized—but I would hate to admit it). She handed me a folder from out of my own in-box, one I would have forgotten and had to return for, then led the way towards the meeting room. Not only did she take care of her own business, she was perfectly capable of handling other people’s as well. There were times when I wondered if she was even human.

I finished the edits on Drew’s piece, but there’s so much missing. It makes me wonder if he even looked at the specs, Lucy commented as we navigated the maze of corridors. I hate receiving work that’s so unprofessional. He’s been hired to do a job, so he should do his job.

Hmmm… I had no other response for her. She had yet to edit any of my work, since I was relatively new to the company, but I knew my day was coming. I was dreading getting feedback from her on my own writing since she had an awful lot to say about those whose work she considered to be sub-par. This was my first office experience since Calleigh’s father died; until now, I had conveniently been working freelance from home. For all I knew, Lucy was right about the quality of the writing she had been reviewing; she usually ended up with editing assignments submitted by the most junior writers. While I came with years of experience, I was still nervous about the quality of what I put forward.

As a technical writer, I am used to spending my day relaxing at my desk, and working on documentation that is thrown my way. Working in an office environment isn’t so very different from working at home. The primary difference is the in-person interaction that happens on a daily basis. We have regularly scheduled meetings to discuss how any given project is going and what direction to take with various issues. These meetings tend to run into lunch, and because we are working so hard without time for breaks, lunch is ordered in. The trend lean towards healthy choices, like Deli sandwiches, complimented by pasta salads and veggies and dip. The best lunch so far was when we ordered Italian on Tuesday. I think Italian food has to be my absolute favourite. All that yummy, fresh pasta, flavourful cheeses and scrumptious sauces—it’s just plain irresistible. I was hoping today would be a Cheese Cappelletti day.

It turned out it wasn’t a Cheese Cappelletti day, but we did have donuts and café mochas, which was an equally nice treat to break up the morning. Actually, it was Lucy who suggested the fancy coffee, which was a bit of a surprise. I had pictured her as a water or milk kind of girl. Slim, lithe and attractive with her Asian features, there was no way I pictured her as the kind of person who would be lured by decadent treats. Of course, mocha is just another word for chocolate—and we all know that chocolate comes from a bean…

Hey Foxy-Roxy, what’s for dinner, Chris asked as she came in through the front door. I was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. It wasn’t my first choice, but it would do.

Spaghetti, garlic bread and Caesar salad, I answered absently, ignoring her use of my childhood nickname. Very few people could get away with using that one.

Ugh, Calleigh grimaced. Can I just have the salad? I don’t feel like spaghetti tonight.

I’ll admit it, my daughter is spoiled. When Calleigh was small, I would often make her completely separate meals because she was such a picky eater. As she got older, my concessions leaned more towards ‘make your own dinner if you don’t like what I have slaved over after a full day of work’. Of course, since it was usually just the three of us, I rarely made something she found unappealing. Chris never complained about my cooking, she was happy to eat whatever was put in front of her provided she was expected to cook it.

Whatever makes you happy, I sighed, it wasn’t worth the fight with a teenager. If she wanted to starve herself, that was her problem. Like all children, she would eat when she was hungry.

I set the steaming plates on the table and inhaled the sweet smell of tomato sauce. Spaghetti is a comfort food.

Like a hearty stew, it’s just perfect on a brisk January day.

Smells good, Chris said as she piled her plate high. I smiled fondly at my sister, older than me by only four minutes. She was almost my opposite—taller, slimmer, darker—and she ate whatever she wanted without regret or conscious. Of course, her body type allowed for it, whereas mine—well—let’s just say the expression ‘once on the lips forever on the hips’ really does apply. Unfortunately, cooking is a bit of a passion with me, so it’s far too easy for me to over-indulge in my favourite foods.

The sauce was in the freezer, so it was an easy meal for a busy day, I commented dismissively. How was your day?

Chris shrugged her shoulders, Same old, same old. Not really much to say.

She is a teacher at an elementary school, so even if she did have something to say, I probably didn’t want to hear about it anyway. I love my own child, but can just as easily do without other people’s kids.

You?

Mmmm… it was ok—another long meeting that didn’t go anywhere.

I got ninety-six percent on my math test, Calleigh announced through a mouthful of romaine lettuce. I looked at her with such pride, I’m sure my heart was about to burst. She really was a special kind of kid; always striving for perfection and often succeeding. But… I didn’t do so well on my English essay—only got an eighty-two.

That’s ok, honey, you’ll do better next time, Chris acknowledged.

I looked at her in astonishment. Eighty-two was perfectly acceptable, she didn’t need to do better, even though I knew she would work harder on the next one.

Well, I’m proud of you. In fact, I think marks like that call for chocolate cake. I’ll whip one up right after supper!

Oh, Roxy… I don’t think it’s necessary—we have some low-fat yogurt in the freezer, that’ll do nicely for a little celebratory dessert, Chris countered. Especially after a hearty meal like this one.

It’s okay, mom, I don’t want chocolate cake. I would rather just have some fruit.

Was she insane? Since when did thirteen-year-olds choose fruit over cake?

Sounds like a plan to me, Chris agreed with a nod of her head. We do have fruit, don’t we? It’s been awhile since that fruit bowl has been filled…

We have fruit; it’s just in the fridge. I don’t buy a lot of it this time of year because it’s not very good quality; it’s expensive and doesn’t keep very long. Besides, nobody eats it very quickly.

No big deal, it was just a question, Chris insisted as she polished off her spaghetti. It turns out we didn’t have any fresh fruit in the house. I tried to remember when I last bought groceries, we couldn’t be out of all the fresh stuff already, could we? It turned out we only had one can of fruit salad hidden at the back of the cupboard. The fact that the fruit had all blended into a nondescript mass of yellow mush didn’t put Calleigh off at all, but I found it sadly unappealing. I’m not at all sure how she managed to down the three spoonfuls she did before proclaiming she was full.

Popcorn? Chris asked me, glaring at the offending bowl. I sat on the couch beside her with a warm bowl of the fluffy white stuff. The salty smell of the butter had me drooling. An icy coke to go with it would be fabulous, but we were all out. I had considered hot chocolate, but decided that I didn’t need the caffeine so close to bedtime.

I shrugged, We’ll call it dessert. Besides, I can’t watch my show without popcorn. I made enough for two.

She reached over, took a handful and kissed my cheek all in one fluid motion. That’s one of the things I love about you, Roxy.

I looked at her questioningly. You don’t stress about how you look, or what other people think about you.

Ah… well, I do care, I insisted as I curled my feet up under me and snuggled under an old blanket. But I also know there are some things I just can’t change.

Menu du Jour

Breakfast: yogurt tube, banana, chocolate dipped granola bar and 2 cups of coffee

Mid-morning snack: donut, café mocha

Lunch: Deli Sandwich (and a healthy selection of salads—macaroni, coleslaw, potato)

Mid-afternoon snack: bag of chips and a coke Late-afternoon snack: 3 cookies, coffee (in my defence, it was a long afternoon)

Supper: Spaghetti, garlic bread and Caesar salad

Dessert: Fruit Salad from a can (in light syrup) Early evening snack: popcorn

Bedtime snack: 2 cookies

Total Calories consumed: 4104 (huh?—according to a calorie counter I found on the internet)

Total Calories burnt: 1426.75 (that’s it? I guess typing doesn’t take all that much energy)

Chapter Two

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I stared at my butt in the warped glass of my bedroom mirror. There was nothing to do for it. Every pair of jeans I tried to squeeze into just made the gelatinous mass worse. You know when you get that little roll that seeps over the edge of the waistband—it kind of looks like cake batter that has expanded past the edge of the pan? Except, with cake batter, you can scrape off the excess and salvage the cake. There was no hope for these jeans, or any other in my wardrobe. Calleigh was right; it was time to go shopping.

I sighed as I squirmed out of the offensive jeans and tossed them into the growing pile for the Salvation Army.

There was no point in keeping clothing I would never be able to squeeze into again. Let’s face it, at some point a woman’s middle-aged body just spreads and spreads and spreads - especially one who has had kids. I am short and frumpy, as my mother had been before me, and her mother before her. I just hope that Calleigh will have better luck as her body matures. Maybe she will be lucky and take after her Aunt Chris.

You need an intervention, Calleigh declared as she entered the bedroom and took in the pile of discarded clothing. She looked very sweet in her stylish leggings and long sweater which she had layered with a contrasting long vest. Somehow, she had developed a great sense of fashion, which did not come from me. Even when the clothes are set out in perfectly matched sets in the store, I can’t possibly throw a decent outfit together. Of course, if I wore an outfit like that I would no doubt resemble a walking rolled up ball of wool that was unfortunately cinched at the middle.

Be nice, I admonished. She might be right, but she was still my daughter and needed to be respectful.

Calleigh gave me one of those teenager-looks that basically said: ‘C’mon, mom, that was nice.’

You two going shopping today? Chris asked as she came into the room. She had been out shovelling the driveway. Her cheeks were rosy, her hazel eyes sparkled and her dark blond curls had that tousled look models sport in magazines, only Chris’ were a result of the wind. Even dishevelled she looked good, which made me feel all the more dowdy.

Yup, Calleigh cheered. Mom needs new clothes. Yes, she does, Chris agreed as she took in the growing mountain of cast-offs. A few things that fit better would be good. Lucky for you, our little mall has a pretty good selection of plus-size and full-figure boutiques.

Ouch. I know she didn’t mean it, but it hurt when those comments snuck out. I have a mirror; I can see what I look like. The last thing I needed was my genetic nemesis pointing out my shortcomings.

Oooh, you should try this on, Calleigh insisted as she held up a hot-pink, jersey-knit shirt for my perusal.

I shook my head at her bizarre taste in clothing. I don’t think so, sweetie.

The shirt would be cute on her, but on me I would only look like a giant wad of Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum. I was examining a plain black pair of trousers, size 10. Not exactly plus-size, but this was my first venture into trying on double digit clothing and I was devastated. Why couldn’t clothing sizes be consistent? All my life I have fluctuated between a generous size six or eight. Just the thought of that double-digit number dampened my spirits and put a pall on this entire shopping trip.

What made matters worse was that my thirteen-year-old was having trouble finding things that fit because she was just too thin. Who decided to create a clothing size ‘00’ anyway? It was just absurd—how could you physically be two times less than zero? And did anyone ever stop to think about how that would affect the moral of the mommy who was wading through the double-digit dress sizes? Of course not.

How about these? Calleigh suggested. She was holding a pair of brown cords. They were plain, wide legged and just the thing I thought I was looking for.

They have your size, even.

My size—great, I muttered. I took them from her and examined the cut. They looked really, really low at the waist. You know, the ‘I don’t dare bend over for fear of showing my panties, or revealing a plumber’s crack’ kind of low rise. Why wasn’t this expression gender neutral? Today alone, despite the bitter cold outside I had seen more pastel pink and blue thongs than one person should have to endure while shopping.

Just try them on, my daughter urged. She held up three more pairs of non-descript trousers. At least she wasn’t trying to squeeze me into leggings. I had already done leggings in the early 90’s. At 33, I’m way too old to pull them off now.

I took the pants into the change room and grimaced as I shimmied out of my too-tight jeans. The button had left an indentation on my soft belly, and I rubbed it in an attempt to smooth away the angry mark. The cords were a disaster… The promise of a wide leg was nothing but an illusion. I could barely get them over my hips. Just in case, I double checked the tag and then frowned in dismay. Size 10—they had to be