HEY WEIGHT-WATCHERS-WATCH THIS

You know how a song gets into your head and seems to just lodge there among the synapses, playing itself over and over again? Songs like Baby Shark and Memory from the musical Cats and the William Tell Overture? The other day, just before a long-awaited lunch with friends, another song from the past presented itself, not while I was standing on the bathroom scale without a stitch of clothing in sight but immediately after. Anyway, it was that old Gene McDaniels song from 1961: “He took a hundred pounds of clay, and he said, hey listen. I’m gonna fix this world today, because I know what’s missing..and he rolled his big sleeves up and a brand new world began, he created a woman and, lots of lovin’ for a man. Yes, he did. Whoa whoa. He took a hundred pounds of clay.” Except in my mind, prompted by heaven knows what, the lyrics came out with a slight variation. “He took two hundred pounds of clay…” There are those in my life who grow impatient with my fixation on weight but they are not the people who have to keep buying larger sizes of jeans. My 100-pounds of clay hairdresser, Jen, who says, unsympathetically, “who is it that keeps shoving the wrong kinds of food in your mouth?” My 100-pounds of clay mother, Helen, who says, “any luck on the new diet?” My 100-pounds of clay daughter, Emily, who says, “could you please stop serving Boston cream pie, chocolate fudge cheesecake, and salted milk chocolate caramels for dessert on Sunday?” (Answers: me. No. I don’t think so.) Okay, so I get to lunch at Panera and, out of the blue, Judy says, “when my husband goes into a doctor’s office and is told to get up on the scale, he just does it, without removing his shoes, or his jacket or his wallet or his keys!” We gasp, momentarily suspending the intake of food, although it was fake in my case. My husband does the same thing. “My husband always challenges the nurse,” Bev said. “He tells her he weighs five pounds less at home.” Yeah. Like five pounds would make a difference. “No matter where I am weighed,” Susan says, “I take off my glasses.” “I take off my watch and earrings,” said Bev. “I take out my hearing aid,” I said. “Or, I would if I had one. As it is, I take off my wedding ring.” “Well, at least we’re all eating vegetables,” Susan says, looking with satisfaction at her soup and not at her hunk of bread. “Especially you, Ann, with all that lettuce.” I glance at my salad, a bowl of thick, ranch dressing and the BLT on the side. “And we’re having diet sodas,” Judy said. I remained silent on this, since I’d chosen lemonade. “And we had to pace around the restaurant for a good six minutes waiting for this booth,” Bev pointed out. “Think how many steps that is.” I checked my Fitbit and found the number still in double digits. “We should celebrate our efforts,” Judy said, producing a large baker’s box. “They’ve got a new fudge brownie and I got one for us to share.” “I got one, too,” Susan said, producing her own box. Bev and I said nothing but we set our own boxes on the now-crowded table. Everyone was silent for a moment. “I know,” I said, “we can make up for the brownie by walking back to the beverage bar for lattes to go with.” “Great idea,” Susan said, looking at her Fitbit. “And listen to this, girls. We’ve already been here for three hours. Just a couple more and the brownies will count as supper.” “Good plan,” Bev said. “It’s not so much what you eat as when you eat.” I wasn’t so sure. “We’ll probably be pretty hungry in another two hours,” I pointed out. “Why don’t I pick up a dinner menu when we go back to the line for coffee?” “Excellent idea,” Judy said. “And we can get another brownie, too.” On the drive home I consoled myself with this thought. By 1961 I’d already weighed more than a hundred pounds. Bring on the sculpting knife. And the Baby Shark.

CRIME SHOW CRIME

An egregious thing happened last night. It was six-thirty and spouse and I had finished our healthiest meal of the week (under-cooked salmon, leftover green beans, pre-made mashed potatoes and Boston cream cake) and, left over because I had failed to serve it to company on the weekend). Having had enough of the Trump melodrama, I clicked to Amazon Prime and a jolly little series I'd found. It's called WAKING THE DEAD.” I am okay with death and murder and blood. I’m a big fan of police procedurals and all kinds of mystery, from cozy to grim so I was not fazed by the shot of a lone gunman in three-story garage who massacred a dozen or more people on the street in the opening scene. The problem came when the cold case unit re-examined the case of the convicted murderer seven years later and, in a flashback, showed him romping on the heath with a golden retriever. The dog bounced off into the woods and there was a blind gunshot. I felt a clutch of fear and glanced at spouse who was, of course, asleep. A moment later we, the viewers, were treated to a vision of a dead golden retriever. I repeat, A DEAD GOLDEN RETRIEVER. Spouse woke, briefly, when he heard my outraged shriek. In the shock of the incident, the dog owner picked off a dozen people from a third story perch and, you know what? I did not blame him. It’s bad enough that dogs have short life spans (including the one in the television show who, while not really murdered, is no doubt dead by now of natural causes since the show was produced in 2003.) It is completely unnecessary to remind us about this evolutionary mistake. Dead dogs are out. Verboten. Unacceptable. In fact, if the show's writers had wanted to redeem themselves, they could have woken the dead dog. I am not alone in my conviction on this. I am currently reading a writing process book called Save the Cat Writes a Novel. The title comes from a universal truth which is that readers want to root for a hero and if that hero is danger of becoming unlikable, the easiest fix is to have him or her rescue a cat. I don't think it's too much of a jump to apply the same thing to golden retrievers. Always save the dog. I supposed I could send a copy of the book to Britbox. Or maybe just a strongly worded tweet: KILL A PET, LOSE A FAN #Nomoredeaddogs!!!!!

WHO SAYS MARCH IS THE WORST MONTH? NOT ME

The Ides of March have nothing on March 5. Consider this: March 5, 1948 – my cousin Bob’s birthday. (Happy Birthday, Bob!) March 5, 1977 – my first and only wedding to a shaggy-haired Associated Press reporter March 5, 2001 – birthday of the late, much-lamented golden retriever, Lucy March 5, 2019 – the release of A DOUBLE-POINTED MURDER, the second (or third depending on who is counting) book in a cozy mystery series set in the Finnish-American community in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. This one is my favorite so far, possibly because it includes Nazis. Accidental detective Hatti Lehtinen is all set to investigate the murder by knitting needle of a barmaid who was found in the bed of her ex-brother-in-law, Lars, when a television company comes to Red Jacket to film a pilot for an Antiques Roadshow knock-off called What’s in Your Attic? Hatti, recently elected temporary head of the local chamber of commerce, frets that she won’t have time to clear Lars of the murder rap AND host the out-of-towners. But a series of clues, including another shocking death, lead her to suspect that the TV people and the barmaid’s death are connected. Here’s another fun fact: A DOUBLE-POINTED DEATH is listed NUMBER ONE on Amazon in the competitive category of cultural, ethnic and regional humor (new releases.) Check it out. Meanwhile, I’m going to spend the day celebrating an anniversary with my