“What’s The Point?” Results – Round 1

27 May


Points Solution – Round 1

Total Points:  9

Here’s one thing  – that was grape juice, not wine! And it was only 2 ounces, which is 1 point (not a bad bargain, eh?).  I added a point for the olive oil that Jack Sprat cooked the chicken in. That was only half an ounce of challah.  I keep the food scale right near the bread basket so as to encourage myself to  weigh fresh bread before shoveling it in (I’m an inveterate bread shoveler).

Here’s how it stacked up for me:

1/2 cup white rice, cooked   3

1 chicken breast, grilled   3

Olive oil                1

1/2 oz challah     1

1/4 c grape juice 1

Green salad         0

Steamed spinach 0

Stay tuned for the next round of “What’s the Point?” this Thursday.  Let me know what you think of the game.

What’s the Point?

24 May

Yes, there’s a new look to the blog and more surprises to come.  To celebrate, I am launching a weekly game, called  “What’s the Point?” Here’s how it works: I post a picture of food on Thursday, and you have until Sunday 8 AM to guess the points value. Each week there is a winner!  After 10 weeks there will be a grand prize (and it’s a good one). All prizes, although valuable, will be zero points.

Okay, here’s the picture.  I call it “Virtuous Friday Night.”  By the way, that amazing spread was prepared by my amazing husband.  I’ll give you a hint, since this is the first week — that is a piece of Challah on the plate. A virtuous serving that I weighed on the scale before placing on the plate. (And yes, I went back for more Challah. I may be virtuous but I’m not inhuman.)


[Reminder – this is NOT official Weight Watchers® calculations – it’s Ivy calculations.]




What to Wear to Macon

2 May

I am wondering what to wear to Macon, Georgia.  I am going to something called a “Macon Whoopee” to accept an award for this blog (I know, right? See below…), and it poses a bit of a challenge.   Having now announced to the world that I have been on Weight Watchers™ for close to a year, I am expected  to look like an “after” picture. Sorry world, I am decidedly not yet the “after” picture. Though I am looking a lot better than my “before” pictures (which I have carefully destroyed), I am still the size—even larger than the size—of  many other peoples’ “befores.”

Don’t ask me to share my numbers either. The common notation for online weight sharers is OW/CW/GW, where OW is their Original Weight, CW is their Current Weight, and GW is their Goal Weight. It might look like this:  175/150/137.  Mine reads like this: NOYB/NOYB/NOYB, where NOYB is None of Your Business.  My NOYB policy makes me ineligible to enter Dr. Oz’s Transformation Nation contest, unable to be the cover story of a ladies’ magazine, and an untrustworthy commenter on weight loss message boards.

Still, I am reveling in the fact that my “Little” Black Dress now fits me like a nightgown. (“Whoopee!”)  I have been walking around, looking like a Peanuts character, with baggy shirts, pants, and undies.  So what will I wear? My usual black on black, with groovy low-heeled black boots? Decidedly not Georgian. And not a good choice for 90-degree weather.  Do I buy something in a pass-through size?

I know the Georgia look, having faithfully watched every episode of “Say Yes to the Dress, Atlanta” on TLC.  The ladies are all so feminine and deliciously sassy, and they know how to rock the lipstick and pumps. When I took my child on a college visit to the Savannah College of Art and Design, I developed a lady crush on the admissions counselor. She wore a crisp white blouse, a high-waisted pencil skirt and red high heels.  That’s the kind of look I’d go for. I’d change the crisp blouse into an evening chemise, wear pearls, carry a cardigan, and I’d be set.  The problem is, I can’t walk in heels. Never could. Even at my wedding, I wore 1-inch granny pumps.  My shape doesn’t do well in a pencil skirt either. A pre-school jumbo crayon, maybe.  And my hair?  More  Roseanne Roseannadanna than Reese Witherspoon.

Oh, wait. I think I have an appropriate dress ensemble from when I was “on my way up” to the highest NOYB weight, and I may be back down around there. Dress taken care of. Next thought: what will they be serving at the banquet?!  I can’t wait. Whoopee!

Here is the link to the announcement of the finalists: http://www.columnists.com/?p=14210

Jack Sprat Could Eat No Fat, His Wife Could Eat No Lean – or My Husband is an Ectomorph

16 Apr

My husband is an ectomorph, one of those naturally slender, willowy people who glide through life without their thighs rubbing together. If we met as children, I would have had to stack him up with two other ectomorphs to play see-saw.  He weighed less in college than I weighed in 6th grade. He’s shaped like a board of matzo. I am an Easter Egg.  Even if I perpendicularize myself–that is, stand sideways while he is front on–I am still wider than he is.  It’s not only that he doesn’t gain weight when he eats.  He just doesn’t love to eat.  If he’s busy, or tired, or a bit distracted, he FORGETS TO EAT.  Who forgets to eat?  Not me. Ever.

At no time are our differences more prominent than when we are traveling.  This week, we traveled Southern California.  As we were traveling during the Jewish holiday of Passover where we could not eat food with leavening, our choices were already limited. And, as we were scheduled to arrive on Easter Sunday, I was in sheer panic that I would starve to death by Monday.

“I’m packing a steamer trunk of Kosher-for-Passover Matzo and Chocolate,” I announced.

“Don’t bother. We’ll bring a few Matzos and get stuff there,” he said.

“A few matzos? What will I eat on the plane? What if everything is closed?  What if no one in California carries matzo? We will be there for 5 DAYS!”

We arrived at the airport and got through security in enough time for me to visit the airport market and stuff my carry-on with hard-boiled eggs, fruit, and nuts.  As soon as the plane landed at noon, I made a discreet call to the Whole Foods of La Jolla, California and learned that they were open until 10 PM that night. Now, all I had worry about was whether the Whole Foods person I spoke with knew what she was talking about, and whether hubby would get so wrapped up in the beauty of sunny Southern California that he would choose to drift around on some stupid beach and lose interest in food.

Hubby’s first words when we got the rental car were “Let’s explore the beach.” He quickly added, “And we can find some lunch in town before checking into the hotel.”  Whew.

I discovered that, indeed, there are fruits and vegetables and proteins in Southern California. I discovered that supermarkets, Trader Joe’s and Peet’s Coffee were open on Easter Sunday, and that there were half-price Passover snacks at Ralph’s. Lo and behold, I did not starve. In fact, I did so much “non-starving” that it took miles and miles of walking to “pass over” any weight gain.  Glad to be home again.

The My-Father’s-in-the-Hospital Diet

21 Mar

Yes, I am still in Weight Watchers. Yes, I am still writing down what I eat, weighing cranberry scone fragments, doing mental math on servings of salmon. I am still thinking about exercising and carrying my sneakers to work with me—just in case the urge strikes me to unstick my butt from the office chair and move.  So what happened?

Five weeks ago my dad went into the hospital for a little something that evolved into a bigger something, which became open heart surgery, intensive care, cardiac rehab, and now, at-home recuperation. All of a sudden, my typical boring life became out of the ordinary. Everything was thrown off balance, life as I knew it faded away, and I had a deep, intense, longing for chocolate. Add to this stew of stress the fact that I spent the whole time with my mom, my four siblings,  assorted sib-in-laws, nieces, nephews, and children, and it was quite the recipe for emo eating. In the great law of physics, where each action has an equal and opposite reaction, I found myself craving everything that the patient was forbidden to eat – which in this case was carbs, salt, sugar, and “bad” fat.

We were taking turns staying in a hotel in New York City to be near Dad. The hotel had a “continental breakfast,” that is a breakfast from the continent of Carboloadia. As starchy, white, and processed as it all was, it was, nevertheless “free” and “included” in the price of the room.  Although there were bananas, apples, and oranges, most of them found their way into my mom’s handbag and up to our hotel room.  And then, I didn’t want to eat them in case she was saving them for herself.  (She didn’t want to eat them because she was saving them for me.) There were the most Un-New-York bagels on the island of Manhattan.  There were hard-boiled eggs, brown tinted (possibly to match the décor of the hotel) swimming in a slow-cooker.  There was cold cereal in large bins, and foam plates for everything. More than once, I chased down my raisin bran with cold pancakes and breakfast syrup .  I drank Sanka.  Ah yes, it was all so continental.

The hospital cafeteria offered sensible lunch options and daily fresh baked cookies (I didn’t have them) as well as freshly baked rolls (I had them). We ate dinners out every night, always at 8:00 PM or later.  My sisters noted that “I was doing well.”  When you have three sisters, no food you eat goes unnoticed. One night I had an orgasmic taste of the best tiramisu I’ve ever had, which followed a meal of pignoli-encrusted Chilean sea bass over wilted spinach. On three nights, I drank wine.

Between my iPad, laptop, smart phone, and note pad, I had plenty of opportunities to track what I ate. And I did, after a fashion.   I will say that I did a ton of city walking, which felt great. I even had my  Weight Watcher’s pedometer, and I discovered that simply by keeping it in my handbag vs. on my waistband, it registered a lot of extra steps thanks to all that extra shaking (am I the only one who will even cheat the pedometer?)

There is nothing more important in this world than the health of your loved ones, and nothing more stressful than having that health endangered. But thankfully, Dad’s on the mend, and somehow, I managed to lose 1.4 pounds!  Glad to be back.



23 Jan

Getting a head start on swimsuit season. By popular demand… another song….. Click on the audio (underlined) here ->

Backside – Ivy Eisenberg


 (to the tune of “Landslide”)

Put on these jeans I finally found
The front looked awesome, then I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the three way mirror
Well my backside looked too round

Oh, mirror on the wall
What is fat
Can the woman within my heart rise above that
Can I sail through the changes of midlife lumps
Can I handle the reasons for my spreading rump
Uh oh

Well I’ve been afraid of leggings but I hear they’re back in style
But time makes you chunky
It’s hard to look funky
I’ll be round for awhile


Well I’ve been afraid of thong-style panties
Dimpled as I am
I’m built like a sumo
My ass fills the room, o
Like two Virginia hams

So, I’ll buy some sweats in slimming brown
I’ll jog 10 miles to lose a pound
And if I see my reflection in the three way mirror
Will my backside still look round

And  now I see my reflection in the three way mirror
Yes my backside still looks round
Yes my backside still looks round

Bitten by the Weight-Loss Bug

13 Jan

My 2012 weight loss got a great kick-start, thanks to a head cold that appeared on January 2 and conveniently attacked my intestines for a couple of days.   I couldn’t have planned it better.  I did have a fever for two days and some distressing belly cramps – just enough to kill my appetite for a good 5 days and send me sashaying into the Weight Watcher’s meeting a number of pounds lighter. After those 5 days, I was starting to believe that a) I will always have a dull headache – bleccch…BUT that b) I will forever have a diminished appetite – hooray!

It was a joy to feed the kids – I couldn’t smell the french fries. It was a joy to go to work—I didn’t start popping up like a gopher and begin rooting around for lunch at 11:20 in the morning. I was too sick to do housework or paperwork, so I was ordered by my family to go to bed and watch the wedding shows on TLC.  By the 7th day, this past Monday, I really thought that I could live like this forever. My fever was gone and, although it felt like there was a chipmunk running around in my midsection, I was otherwise feeling okay.  I started dreaming about how quickly I would melt down a few sizes and need to buy smaller and smaller clothes.  I rehearsed my victory speech: “Oh, yes, I’ve been working at it. I kicked it up a notch this January. No, I didn’t do a lick of exercise. The weight just fell off….”  I would be the miracle story (results not typical) on the front cover of Weight Watcher’s magazine, with a new haircut and makeup, and a maroon wrap dress to show off my whittled waist. I valiantly survived Tuesday’s all-day offsite work meeting, with its non-stop sumptuous buffet of conference center culinary wonders.

Then on Tuesday evening—damnit—I began to feel like myself again. My intestinal cramps were gone, my appetite came back, and my nostrils started flaring in delight at the Chinese food we brought in for dinner.  I stopped dreaming about weight melting off and instead began contemplating that I might need to double up on my intake to make up for lost time. I’m fully recovered and back to the battlefield, hungry as a horse, lazy as a cat, and wily as a coyote.

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