Over-Caffeinated

You know what's weird? When one cup of coffee does you in. Utterly. Shakes in the hand, woozy feeling in the tummy, kinda wobbly on the legs.

Many many years ago, I gave up all of my caffeine. Every bit. I didn't even eat chocolate. This is because I found a lump and it scared me. I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breast disease, and I decided it was better to be safe (i.e., minimizing cysts by limiting caffeine) than sorry (mistaking a real lump for a cyst and ignoring it).

In the middle of all this decaffeinated goodness, I started dating a fellow who brewed his own beer. Very very yummy beer. He made one particularly yummy brew, a chocolate cherry stout, that we popped open on New Year's Eve. Within 30 minutes, my heart was racing and I was shaking so badly that I couldn't read the cards in my hand (yes, we celebrated the New Year with a card game because I am just that kind of party animal). I was shaking like a madwoman. From the caffeine in a chocolate beer.

Caffeine doesn't like me.

So I ignored it. For, like, six straight years. Until I had my second child, and a full-time job on Wall Street, and I realized that umpteen million years of pregnancy and breastfeeding had made all the fibrous cysty bits go the way of the dodo.

So I had some chocolate. Then I had some more. And some tea. And then, maybe four years ago, a cup of coffee. And then a cup every morning. And sometimes one in the afternoon, too, because Starbucks is just that yummy.

And it seemed to be going okay. Except that today I realized maybe it wasn't.

The past few days I've been on a bit of a nutritional cleansing exercise. It's part of my attempt to Get Healthy (yes, this deserves capital letters, because once you gain that last pound that pushes you across the line into obesity you realize you need to get serious). Getting healthy means eating much, much, much better. It means managing my stress. It means sleeping. Which, in turn, probably means a bit less blogging, but I'm gone so often now I'm sure y'all will hardly notice. I'm gone because the new au pair left, and I'm smack dab in the middle of 8 weeks with nothing but the public school system and a few stalwart friends for childcare, eagerly awaiting the arrival of au pair number 10, who is awesome and asks me questions and writes me emails and introduces me to her boyfriend.

So, the caffeine.

This morning, on Day 3 of the Big Get Healthy, I brewed up a cup of coffee. I left it black, which is just exactly not how I like it. And I drank it. All of it. Because I'd mixed my morning meal into it, and I had to finish the morning meal.

Hey, there, shaky shaky. In 30 minutes flat. Shaky and woozy and vaguely nauseated. After exactly three caffeine-free days.

Caffeine really really hates me. Probably it's time for me to realize I need to hate it right back.

Starbucks, I'm gonna miss you.

Living the Hottie Life

My San Francisco sweetie, awesome fella that he is, thinks I'm a hottie. And he tells me so, which I very much appreciate. I do, however, have mirrors in my house. And a scale. And skinny jeans that haven't fit since kid number three first made his presence felt. And while they all like me well enough - I'm a cheery gal, after all - they're a little too honest in the "hey, babe, you've let yourself go" department.

It's January, so I decided to listen. You'd think I'd listen when it's swimsuit season and I'm all exposed and everything. Not me. I decided to listen in the dead of winter, when I can hide all my rolls and flabby bits under flannel and fleece and thick wool sweaters.

I know how this works, though. It's not enough to decide a thing. You have to do it. And you have to do it right now.

So I did.

Today, I made healthier choices. I drank water. Lots of water. I ate a high-fiber, whole grain English muffin with some all-fruit spread on it for breakfast. I had plain yogurt and a pear for a snack. A baked potato with veggies and cheese for lunch. Salmon, spinach, and a bit more potato for dinner, with a half cup of blueberries for dessert. And a handful of M&Ms. Because life isn't worth living if it doesn't include chocolate.

But that's not all. I got moving. I took an actual, honest-to-goodness lunch break and exercised. Which I don't do. It's been long enough that by the end of the DVD my body was screaming at me, "Wait! Are you actually moving? Don't do that. Hey, stop that! Did you hear me? I said STOP!" And just to show me it was serious, it made me all woozy and nauseous, right at the end when I was meant to be stretching. And then it said, "I told you so."

Yeah, that was fun.

And that's when I realized I needed partners. Because there's no way I'm doing that again unless someone makes me. So I enlisted the kids. I gave them permission to wake me up (gently, mind you - I'm still not a morning person, even if they are). My oldest keeps a clock both in his head and on his wrist, so he's the Owner of the Schedule and is in charge of Waking Up Mom. Then we're all going to head down to the living room and do my little DVD workouts together. Which is a very good thing. Because today the only person in the house who can do a full push-up is my five-year-old, who was born with six-pack abs and eerie, Herculean strength. It's time to bring the rest of us in line.

After I shared this news with my kids, my oldest - I really do need to come up with blog names for these kids - said, "I know, Mom. You want to lose weight. All those New Year's resolution people want to lose weight."

But that's not it, and I told him so, very clearly. I want to be healthy. I have three little people to see into adulthood. I want to take them for hikes and bike rides and canoe trips on the Potomac. And, in 20 years or so, I want to play catch with my grandkids. If one workout - one puny little beginner's workout - can make me woozy, then I'm not going to get there.

I also want my kids to be healthy. I've been teaching them about diet, about proper nutrition and portion control. I feed them fruit and veggies and whole grains in ever increasing varieties. I pay for and drive them to sports, and I cheer my heart out when I watch them play. But I don't live that life myself.

It's high time I did. Because you don't teach by telling. You teach by showing.

I also wouldn't mind getting into a bikini again at least once before I'm 50.

Wish me luck. I had similar plans last year that were derailed by a bursitis in my hip and a change in the kids' scheduled visits with their dad. This time, though, I've got helpers. So stay tuned, and let's see if we can't make this actively sedentary family just a little bit healthier.

Killer Chocolate

It's a well-established fact that I am not so good with the waking up. Mostly I muddle vaguely through the a.m. hours until that little hand hits the 12 and my brain jumps to life with a "Hey! There's a post before that meridian. I am so in!"

This morning was no exception.

Because I am now officially middle aged, I've had plenty of time to learn this about myself. As a result, I'm usually smart enough to pass off  breakfast-making duties to my amazing au pair, who can give me lots of a.m. support now that all my kids are at school during the day. Yay, Kindergarten. She's mostly a morning person, and since breakfast usually involves such dangerous items as hot stoves and sharp knives, we're both a lot happier when she cooks and I sit at the table like a zombie mainlining coffee, staring at my ridiculously animated children and wondering how on earth I gave birth to three morning people.

I still don't get that.

Today, however, the middle schooler was home for the day, so I was forced to take morning on all by myself. No snooze button, no coffee, and I had to cook things so that my children could eat. In an effort to keep the damage to a minimum, I stuck to the breakfast of champions. Eggos and toasted frozen homemade chocolate chip pancakes. (With cheese and bananas, because even a crappy, mostly pre-packaged meal is a balanced meal in my house.)

Easy, right? Push a button. Wait. Out pops an Eggo. The crowd roars.

Not so much. Because the chocolate chips attacked me. I went to pull a nice, warm pancake from the nice, warm toaster, got two fingers full of melted chocolate ... and wound up with blistering burns on my fingertips.

From chocolate.

You know the world's gone mad when the chocolate is out to get you.

What it's done to my thighs is bad enough.

The Rose-Colored Life

You know what happens when you live a rose-colored life? Sometimes you get stressed out. Ridiculously so, to the point of total wigginess. And you're so busy being chipper and looking at the bright side that you don't even notice.

And then suddenly you're breaking into the big bag o' Nerds Jelly Beans that the Easter Bunny's been storing on top of your fridge. Nerds Jelly Beans, by the way, contain no chocolate, which makes that particular behavior highly aberrant. The cheerful sound of your children singing along with that horrible Justin Bieber song sends you zooming off to testy land. And the rhythmic crunch-crunch chewing noises on the new Kit-Kat commercial drive you beyond the brink of insanity.

Why anyone would think bad manners sell chocolate is beyond me.

I want a vacation. And a margarita. And a back rub, 'cause I spent 8 hours driving on Wednesday and everything still hurts. I want to be 20 lbs lighter (40 wouldn't hurt) and able to run long distances without throwing out my hip. I want money to grow on trees. I want to sleep at night. I want to win the lottery and buy me and all my single-parent friends a house and a hybrid, and then pay someone to clean them both. I want the new season of Glee to start tomorrow. I want to be a teacher. I want to write a book, without working very hard at it. And I want it to be a bestseller. I want about 800 people to suddenly decide my blog is crack and they can't get enough of it, and then maybe someone will pay me to write it. I want my kids to grow up healthy and happy and fairly well adjusted. I want them to be good and caring people who think their mother walks on water.

And I really, really, really want the whole world to chew with their mouths closed.

Mostly I'd just like my rose-colored glasses back, please. Life works better when I have them on.

Happy Heart Day

Here's why I love Valentine's Day.

You wake up in the morning to happy, smiling children bouncing on you because there's (wait for it) ... chocolate downstairs and the big sign you left says "Wait! Don't open me yet! Go get your mom!" So they do.

You shower your kids with little Russell Stover boxes and gifties from their grandparents, and they are so overwhelmed they not only share their (wait for it) ... chocolate ... but they also run off immediately to make you all the Valentines they can think of. This resulted in one poem from the Aspie, a lovely hand-drawn card from the diva, and ... um ... a green scribble from my very proud comedian who announced, "I didn't draw you a Valentine. I scribbled it!" and then broke out into maniacal laughter.

You spend the morning playing board games and getting hugs and (wait for it) ... chocolate covered kisses.

You then get all gussied up and head out on an honest to goodness date that features not only fabulous food and the company of a fella who thinks you're kinda cute despite 40-odd years of living and three journeys through childbirth, but also (wait for it) ... well, okay, not chocolate, but flowers, the stunning kind, and really that's every bit as wonderful. Plus, there was pie.

And then you head home. And you make a family dinner that features (wait for it) ... chocolate chip pancakes and sausage and fruit and Valentine's Day cake. Big hugs on a plate. Your kids are full and happy, and your au pair is full and happy, and you are full and happy, and the world is a happy, wonderful, chocolatey place.

Yum.

I Left My Chocolate In San Francisco

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a horribly social creature. I like to talk. I like to listen. And I really really like to talk. I crave people the way a chocoholic craves, well, chocolate.

But I spend nearly every waking moment in my little house. I work here. I sleep here. I watch TV here and I eat here and I blog here. I get to talk to my three children, and to my wonderful au pair who makes my life so much easier. And they are patient souls who listen and talk and sometimes even listen a bit more.

I am, however, slowly going crazy.

So last week I got out. I got way, far out. I went to San Francisco. And then I went to Ottawa.

In both places, I met people whose names I recognize from emails, whose voices I know intimately from countless phone conversations, whose humor has been the highlight of frequent late-night chats. I was surrounded by people. I talked to them. I listened to them. I went for walks with them. I ate with them, too. And oh, was that fun! I had fresh-caught scallops (though my daughter, the wannabe marine biologist, would be disappointed because I did not first ask if they were ocean-friendly - they were too yummy to worry about). And, of course, Ghirardelli chocolate. I had brilliant, bright green olives - not the browny green you normally see, but a vibrant pine green with a surprisingly brineless, purely olive flavor. I had whole, crisp baby artichokes while my companions had pig cheek and octopus. I know, my choice sounds a little lame by comparison. I am not normally a food wimp, but I was really drawn to those artichokes.

And I had people. No, no, not for dinner. I'm not that fond of fava beans. But I got to know long-time acquaintances in a whole new way, over coffee, over cocktails, over wine. My friend Ange - that is her real fake bar name, which I promised I'd put in my blog - has even said she'd send me a list of half-decent wines so I won't continue looking like a complete ignoramus when I go out (this is what 13 years of marriage to a teetotaller will do to a girl).

I'm home now. Back at my desk. Back to my quiet little life. But that very loud chocoholic-style people craving that's been plaguing me, it's not quite so loud now. Crazy will just have wait a few more months.

Limbo Rock

I was supposed to be done this week. Out of Limbo. Into the world. Actually and finally divorced. Unmarried. Single. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Not gonna happen.

See, it goes like this. We go see the Examiner. She takes 15 minutes of her incredibly valuable time to ask embarrassing and deeply personal questions. She writes up an opinion. She sends it to my lawyer, who has me review it. Oops! I say. This examiner, she's misspelled the family name. Everywhere. So we tell her. She files the papers. We get the final judgment.

She never fixed the name.

Seriously? How on earth does that happen? Did she not like my check? Can she not read?

Now some other poor couple is walking around divorced. They don't even know it. And I've got to wait another 30 days while the papers are refiled and reofficialized.

30 days.

Cue heartfelt and fairly graphic cussing.

The nearly ex and I separated on September 15, 2008 (and not a moment sooner, despite opinions to the contrary). I've been sitting in limbo, waiting, for 451 days. Yes, I'm sure. I counted.

So, really, what's another 30?

I baked a big ol' pan of brownies. If I have to wait, I'm having chocolate.

I Love Rocky Road

Hello. My name is Rosemary. And I'm an addict.

Okay, so my name isn't really Rosemary - that's the name of my blog, or part of it anyway. Meant it to refer to an herb, but it could just as easily mean me. Right?

But I am an addict. An ice cream addict.

It's appalling, actually.

For the last four or five months I have been very capably managing my addiction. I successfully removed from my house any ice cream that is even remotely appealing to me. I have kid-friendly popsicles in a variety of neon colors and some artificially-greened up mint choco-chip - see, it's not even real chocolate! Who would eat that? Not me! No one over the age of reason, really.

I very consciously bought the Weight Watchers Giant Cookies & Cream Bars to deal with the occasional craving. They're like the patch. Not really ice cream, but I could make myself eat them because I felt fairly virtuous trying to stave off my craving for sweet and frozen with something so full of FIBER. I'd eat one. And stop. Perfect!

Then, two weeks ago, with company coming, I did the unthinkable. Breyers was on sale. And I bought one. Well, I paid for one. Really, I bought two. That's the problem with a buy-one, get-one sale. You buy two.

I know - most of you have more refined tastes. You want the Ben & Jerry's or the Hagen Dazs. Not me. I'm a Breyers girl, through and through. Love their mint chocolate chip. Real mint. No green. And their rocky road? Oooooh. They dip the almonds in chocolate. Really, need I say more?

I bought one of each.

I wish I could say I controlled myself. I wish I could say I put a single scoop in a demure bowl and ate it delicately from a demitasse spoon with my pinky extended.

That is not what I did. I took the whole carton, pried it open, plopped it next to me on the sofa as if it were my best friend, grabbed the biggest soup spoon I could find, and dug in while I watched American Idol (yes, I watch American Idol, too). I ate half of it.

The other half went during the results show.

And once that one was gone? I waited a few days. Tried to fool myself that I was back in charge. Clean and sober.

Then I ate the other one. And I baked a nice batch of brownies for my guests.

So yes, I'm an addict. And I have just fallen off the wagon. Hard.

I blame my dad for this. I love my dad. Smart man. Good man. And a good and loving dad. And when my folks divorced and he was trying to find a way to stay connected to his kids, he did a good and loving thing. He introduced the concept of Ice Cream Mondays. Every Monday, he'd pick me and my sister up at school, and we'd head off to the local deluxe ice cream shop for a decadent cone of whatever the heck we wanted. My favorite was the bubble gum ice cream. Pink and sweet and gummy. Yes, gummy, because there was real gum in it. I'd pair it with chocolate. Chocolate goes with everything.

Ice Cream Mondays were the highlight of my week. I lived for Ice Cream Mondays. Got to see my dad and feed my burgeoning addiction. I was eight. I couldn't possibly know that ice cream, for me, might as well be nicotine, Jack Daniels and crystal meth all rolled into one.

I did outgrow the bubble gum. But the chocolate ... oh the chocolate! I gave up three whole years of my life to chocolate ice cream.

That happened in college. At the start of my sophomore year, my friend Gabe had joined the student newspaper staff. I should come too, she said. No no! It was not for me. No time. But she'd been asked to do a story on the local Baskin Robbins. They were introducing 10 new flavors. And not just any 10 flavors. All 10 were variations on a single, luscious, irresistible theme. Oh, I can barely say it! They were chocolate. All 10 of them. I could not let Gabe go in there alone. So I went with her ... and spent the next three years sacrificing every one of my Wednesday and Thursday nights - and any other free time I might have - to the paper. They suckered me in with ice cream.

I have yet to forgive Gabe for that. Though I'm not sure she knows that.

Which brings me to the Breyers. I finished the second carton yesterday. I have now been clean for 24 hours. I can do this. One day at a time, right?

So, there is no more Breyers in the house. There will be no more Breyers in this house.

There are, however, Milanos.