It's the New Splenda Lady Come to Call

MathMan and I are attempting a low carb lifestyle. Attempting is, of course, the operative word. Goodness knows the world is dark place of hidden sugars and sweet sabotage.

We're on day three and we've already, both of us, fallen off the turnip truck. Wait - are turnips considered safe foundation vegetables with Atkins? My brain is too busy coping with DTs to suss it out so let's do this - we've both tumbled belly fat first from the meat wagon. I licked my way to nirvana with a lemon custard ice cream cone and MathMan succumbed to the Blackberry Mountain Pie singing its siren song from the kitchen counter.

I ask you though, can you blame him?

This is so easy to make. And delicious.

Anyway, we realize we're on a collision course with reality. We either rid this house of all white products and listen to the wailing from the battlements when our children discover that there's not one speck of milk chocolate, nary a crumb of cupcake, not a single Cheez-It left behind OR we accept the fact that we're doing a modified Atkins which includes some whole grains, some dairy and wine for Lisa. A mash up of Atkins, low-glycemic, Weight Watchers and South Beach. Save us, Dan Marino! Won't you help us, Valerie Bertinelli? Have mercy on our fatty deposits, Marie Osmond. Rescue us from ourselves, Nutri-system and Jenny Craig! (for free)

Atkins. How very unsustainable. It's one thing to require me to stop propping up the refined sugar industry each time I drink a cup of coffee. It's altogether cruel to expect me to forgo some half and half or cream, too.

Our discussions focus around what we're eating, how much we're working out and the effect it's all having on our slap and tickle. One reason we've decided to take this route (again) is because MathMan doesn't find my admonition to not come into contact with my fat tummy much of an aphrodisiac.

We're competitive, comparing what we weigh and how much we've lost or gained. For the first time in memory, we're both in need of lifestyle changes at the same time. So often one of us has lost weight while the other has gained. It's very frustrating.

Even as we're in the battle together, we irritate the other. He's trying to undermine me so that I stress eat and I'm jealous of his ability to do pull ups and to make slight modifications in his diet and lose fast and his lack of hormonal issues like PMS that make sticking to Atkins especially tricky.

Yesterday, he was doing pull ups on the contraption that fits over the door frame and I walked by chewing on a celery stalk. "Now there's a sight," he huffed. "You don't even like celery."

"Shut up. This isn't celery. This is a Marathon Bar."

"They don't even make those anymore."

"You realize you're in a rather vulnerable position hanging there, don't you?"

I know the low carb thing makes me moody. I'm an addict, after all. My love of sugary things is inherited and began when I was quite young. I learned to count to ten putting teaspoons of sugar on my Puffed Wheat and Cheerios. There was always more jelly than peanut butter on my PBandJs. When I made the ice tea for my mom, she'd remind me to add some tea to the sugar. My dad, the guy whose daily breakfast was a tall glass of 2% milk with a quarter of the can of Hershey's syrup, used Brach's Malted Milk Balls and gallons of Meadow Gold Ice Cream to show his love and taught us to put milk and sugar on our cherry Jello. Imagine - sugar on...sugar. I'd say blech, but it would be a lie. I'd still eat my Jello like that if I could do it in private.

So here I am again, trying to change my ways without killing someone during a sugar-free rage. If only I could be dealt with like a heroin addict. Lock me in a room with nothing but black decaf, water, and three pounds of beef jerky and I'd get beyond the rough part. I don't even care if I hallucinate babies crawling across the ceiling, just release me from the gritty clutches of sugar, please.

Also, what was I thinking to begin this lifestyle caper over a holiday weekend while I'm experiencing those aforementioned hormonal issues? Madness. The kids aren't helping either. Chloe made owl cupcakes to take to a birthday party and the leftovers are in the fridge mocking me with their owl eyes.

So, listen, if you see me out there on the internets bumping into walls or showing my butt, as we say down here, please take no offense. It's a phase. Just shove an Oreo in my direction and get away fast before I say or do anything else obnoxious.

All of this is good for me, I know. When I'm seventy-two and not taking ten different prescriptions I can't afford, I'll look at MathMan, still fit and trim MathMan, over our 9 Lives entrees and be glad for every day we did better than worse when it came to moving more and eating better - more vegetables, more lean protein and less processed junk except for those fabulous Atkins high protein, low-carb bars which I can, given enough vodka in my system, convince myself taste just like Baby Ruth bars.

In the meantime, I think my brother said it best - if vegetables tasted like Ho Hos, I'd be a vegetarian.

What's your poison? Points to anyone who gets the title reference. I'll send you some sugar. Or rather "sugar."