The Subconscious, it will leak through...

Cooking is not my thing. Eating is. I only cook because then we get to eat. J-Man doesn't make it any easier. He is a meat and potatoes kind of guy; well, okay he likes Italian, and Chinese and he watches the Food Channel, but when it comes down to trying new recipes, his true colors come through.

I get tired of the same old same old and I have really been trying to get more vegetables and less bad carbs (like there really IS such a thing) into our diet. I need to lose a whole 'nother person--my doctor had THE TALK with me a few weeks ago--and though I once lost 40 pounds on South Beach Diet, J-Man hates most of the recipes. Since he is kind enough to provide supper the nights I work so I don't have to cut my sleep time short, and being as he is paralyzed on the left side with a back injury to boot, it would be terribly ungrateful of me to complain about the Subway, Taco Bell, Arby and Atlanta Bread Co. meals he brings home. Every week he does at least one night from Applebee's Carside to go, and now and then he brings home one of those roasted chickens from the grocery store and adds a couple of vegetables.

It just doesn't help that he also brings home wonderful cranberry-orange muffins, and Little Debbie snacks, and chocolate fudgie dessert things. Not that I want him to have to do without just because I do...oh who am I kidding? Of course I want him to do without. Because I am such a weakling, I'd just rather not have it there, as the stuff knows my name and calls to me in the nighttime. You'd think I lived through the Depression, or some Third World Country (which, BTW, leads me to ask if there are Second World Countries and what are they?--but I am chasing rabbits here) the way that I can't leave the yummies alone.

Hmmm. I did not intend to go down this path. I started this post thinking I'd share a couple of recipes I've tried lately, but here I am confessing deep dark faults to cyberfriends on a screen. My fingers have totally bypassed my conscious thoughts. I made myself take a 15-minute walk over slightly hilly streets in my neighborhood, which left my knee and hips complaining about the abuse, and yet, what I realllly want right now is a bowl of Breyer's naural vanilla ice cream with Sugar-Free Hershey's chocolate syrup drizzled artistically over those little hills and valleys. That is so self-destructive.

So now there is a counter at the bottom of my blog for all the world to see how much weight I need to lose. It's called accountability. I believe I need a double handful of that, thank you very much.

So. Before I cave to the crave, I'm going to sign off and go to bed and take a quilty magazine or a paperback with me--something that won't have food advertisements--strap on the C-PAP (because it's too much effort to do this more than once, thereby keeping me from sneaking a snack), and hope sleep comes quickly.