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When I informed my husband that I intend to cut several types of foods out of my diet for a while in the hope of improving my allergies (along with my waistline and allover health), he made me promise that I won’t put him on the same food plan, too. I agreed, for the most part. That is to say that I’ll be eating mostly raw foods throughout the day, but will serve a “normal” family dinner.

I’ve simply redefined what “normal” is around here.

For the next four weeks, I’m cutting out all gluten, dairy and refined sugar from my diet. I won’t be including those things at dinnertime, either. I will still include meat at dinnertime, but not the endless stream of red meat that he’s used to. Oh, no: we’ll be having fish and chicken most nights, with red meat limited to one evening per week. On those nights, I’m going to serve a vegetarian main dish while grilling up a steak on the side for him. Me? I’ll skip it.

Yes, I do hope to lose weight in the process but my big motivator at this point is to clear up my ever-present allergy symptoms: the itchy eyes and ears, scratchy throat and head congestion that plague me every single minute of the day. There’s just no way to feel good and energetic when you’re constantly sneezing and blowing your nose, after all.

So this morning’s breakfast is a simple one that is perfect for busy mornings since most of the work is done the night before. No cooking’s required, although you can certainly warm it up if you’d like a hot meal.

Living Oatmeal to Go

- 1 cup steel cut oats (not the rolled, flat kind!)
- Water
- Chopped, pitted dates
- 1 tablespoon milled flax seed
- Almond milk
- Stevia (optional)

Directions:

1. The evening before, place oats in a container or jar and cover with water. Soak in the fridge, covered, overnight.
2. To prepare in the morning, drain in a colander and rinse, then place in bowl.
3. Add chopped dates and sprinkle with flax seed.
4. Top with almond milk and sweeten to taste with Stevia.

I wish I’d known about this recipe on those mad mornings when I used to drive my son to school while he ate a dry bowl of sugary packaged cereal in the backseat so we wouldn’t be late, then dashed by McDonald’s for my own breakfast after dropping him off. This would’ve been a much better alternative for both of us!

We had ours along with freshly-squeezed orange juice this morning, thanks to my juicer. Have I mentioned how much I love that thing?

All day long, I’ve been running to peek out the front door in the hope of seeing the UPS truck roll up and deliver my juicer. Lunchtime came and went. Dinnertime came and went. By 7:30 p.m., I figured the driver must not have seen the box.

Then suddenly, it was here.

Did I mention that I went on a produce shopping spree this morning in anticipation of my juicer’s arrival? No? Well, probably because I’m still getting over the shame of being “that woman” with two — yes, two — grocery carts at the Army Commissary, one full of produce and the other half-filled with the stuff my husband and son insist on eating. But not me.

I’ve got a juicer and a cookbook on eating raw foods, and I’m not afraid to use them.

In fact, I’d already peeled a half-dozen oranges earlier today. In they went, too, the instant I’d taken the juicer out of the box and washed it. Oh, my. I’d forgotten just how good freshly-squeezed orange juice tastes! Why, I almost couldn’t detect the vodka in it at all.

Hey, I said it arrived well after dinner, didn’t I?

Scientists in Britain have discovered that shaking may do a body good.

Mice placed for 15 minutes daily on a platform that vibrated imperceptibly developed 30% less body fat than their non-shaken peers. The researchers believe this occurred due to the vibrations stimulating muscle contractions, much like exercise. In young mice, they suspect shaken stem cells were “tricked” into becoming bone or muscle cells, rather than fat cells, thus lowering allover body fat.

Yet another reason for housewives to enjoy sitting on their washing machine, I suppose.

A friend of mine recently became a raw foods fanatic and dropped a whopping 65 pounds in four months. That’s right: sixty-five pounds. That’s not even the biggest improvement she’s experienced since changing her diet.

No, the real benefit has been an improvement in her own allergies which are almost as bad as mine. Once she cut out gluten, sugar, dairy and soy, her congestion cleared up and she stopped getting sinus headaches. (She’s since slowly reintroduced wheat and soy products without problems, only to find that her allergies returned the instant she started on dairy products again.)

Back when my husband was out of town for a month, I eliminated a number of foods from my diet, too, although without intentionally doing so. I simply wasn’t preparing “man meals” in his absence and, instead, had beefed up my consumption of salads, fruits and vegetables. I felt wonderful, and even though it was the height of the summer allergy season, I didn’t have one single sinus infection or headache.

That tells me something.

Meanwhile, my diet’s slid back to “man eating” with a steady and shameful stream of red meat, processed foods and precious few fruits or vegetables. Just how few wasn’t obvious to me until I started keeping a food log last week to see if anything in particular was triggering my allergy symptoms.

Is it any wonder I feel like crap when my week’s intake of fruit and vegetables is less than what a person is supposed to eat in two days? I’m no rocket scientist, but even I can see there might be a connection.

So, I bought a juicer yesterday and a book on Raw Foods Made Easy for 1 or 2 People, then I announced to my husband that there are going to be some changes in the food around here.

Oh, I don’t intend to force him to slug down cucumber frappes or carrot-and-apple smoothies. He’d rather starve than consume something that — gasp! — actually grew from the ground. But if I continue to eat as he does until my ass will soon be as large as a stereo cabinet, and I’ll feel even worse than I already do.

But I did make it clear that if he wants to keep “man eating”, then he’s going to have to do some “man cooking”. I’m giving my oven — and my body — a break for a while. I’m getting juiced.

My scale died yesterday.

We had a nice little ceremony for it during which I held open the garbage can lid while my husband dumped the scale and its various pieces into the bin while I said a few thoughtful words.

I’ve mentioned before that I used to keep my scale in the kitchen, since there wasn’t a good spot in our bathroom for it. It had a good life there, for the most part, and seemed to enjoy its spot near the refrigerator door. Sure, there were times when my husband kicked it out of the way, but I always found it and brought it back where it belonged.

My son loved it deeply: being able to stand on the scale gave him the extra 2 inches he needed to reach the Popsicles in the freezer. Yes, sometimes he was overzealous with his affection, jumping up and down on the scale to watch its needle spin crazily, but those moments were so full of laughter I can’t really begrudge them.

Now, there’s no more laughter. My scale is dead and gone, and I’m in mourning. It’s too soon to think about replacing my scale, really, so I’ll be using my diamond rings to judge my weight for a while. I’m just going to have to try live with the memories of it, and hope that someday I’ll meet a new scale I like. Oh, it’ll never take the place of my old one, but at some point I’ll know when the time is right to bring another scale into my life.

And that one better lie like crazy, or it’s going to wind up in the trash bin right alongside it’s predecessor, damn it.

A while back I signed up for Jenny Craig in the hope that getting out of the kitchen might actually help me lose weight. I’m one of those cooks who nibbles a bit while slicing vegetables, then a bit more after putting them in the pot, with another nibble or two once things have had a chance to simmer. Heck, between the prep work and actual serving time, I’ve often nibbled my way through an entire meal.

I’d really wanted to like the Jenny Craig food. Truly, I did. Unfortunately, the first time I popped open a beige can of equally beige tuna salad and smelled it led to a reverse-bulimic like moment: I gagged, but I hadn’t even had a bite yet. The enchiladas were somewhat better, although I wound up adding a cup of salsa, some green chile peppers, half an avocado and some salt just to get it to taste remotely like Mexican food. The only thing I didn’t have to “doctor” was the lasagna.

After one month, I’d only lost one pound, and that was following a week-long cold that pretty much killed my appetite for anything.

Unfortunately, I’d signed up for the “auto-ship” program which meant that a second month’s supply of bland, miserable food arrived on my doorstep without any warning. It’s still in my freezer, untouched and unwanted. I like to think of it as my 3-day emergency supply of food for the family in the event some catastrophe forces us to eat it. A tornado, perhaps, or maybe Armageddon.

I didn’t realize, until now, that it was even possible to ship the stuff back to Jenny Craig. After reading this story about Lisa Bustle, who was equally disappointed with NutriSystem’s meals, I checked and found out that I could, indeed, have returned the stuff. If I’d been prompt about it, that is.

Bustle didn’t know there was a time limit, and took a few months to actually return the freeze dried food to Nutrisystem. She expected a full refund. But the company told her she waited too long and wouldn’t get money or her food back.

“I had nothing. I mean how would you feel? I paid for something and sent it back and now I don’t even have the product or the money, so I felt slighted,” she said.

Luckily for Bustle, a news channel intervened and convinced NutriSystem to return the food to her. But not the money. Which means that, like me, she’s got a freezer full of food that will only look appetizing following a natural disaster, but no appreciable weight loss.

Hmmm… maybe I ought to ship the stuff off to those starving children Sally Struthers is always going on about?

This is definitely a great time of year to save big by stocking up on out-of-season clothing. But did you know you can save even more if you piggyback online coupon codes with store sales?

Macy’s, for instance, is offering $25 off of $100 purchases. Combine that with their end-of-summer sale and there’s all sorts of savings to be had. If you’re in the market for new bath and bedding items, they’re offering free shipping, too.

There’s an even better deal over at Chadwick’s. If you buy 2 clearance items you get the 3rd free and you can get a $20 off of a $60 purchase and score a free quilted jacket with any purchase.

I didn’t really need a new jacket this year, but I’m not about to pass by one that’s free. Come to think of it, there’s no rule that says I have to shop for me. I may just order it in my mother-in-law’s size and consider my shopping for her done for the year. Sweet!

Like a lot of women, I gained weight after I got married and have often wondered if the two things were related. Turns out, they just might be. Not that I needed an article to confirm my suspicion: I have only to think back to this weekend, when a combination of Saturday night insomnia and a lingering sinus infection left me reliant on my husband to do the cooking this Sunday.

Breakfast consisted of two eggs, fried, served alongside a rasher of bacon and a slice of buttered toast. Fine, I figured, I can handle such high calorie fare for one meal. Besides, wasn’t it nice of him to cook? I shambled from the bed to the sofa to get some work done online between bouts of sneezing and coughing. I figured those things, at least, might burn off some of the calories from breakfast.

But come lunchtime, he dashed out and returned with double-cheeseburgers, large fries and vanilla milkshakes, and I began wondering if I wasn’t going to be adding GI problems along with a mild cardiac infarction to my list of maladies. I ate half my burger, thanked him, and fell asleep on the sofa dreaming of broccoli while he tried to cheer for his favorite football teams without waking me. He finished my meal while I slept.

Dinner time on Sunday is 8:00 p.m. at our house usually, a schedule so predictable you can set your Vacheron Constantin watch by it. We feed our son first, then usually my husband and I enjoy a quiet, sometimes candle lit dinner together. Not this time. I was simply too tired, so once again he donned the chef’s hat.

Which means, he called out for pizza. “Man pizza,” I might add: the meat-lover’s edition on which even non-veggie vegetables like onions are considered blasphemy. Can’t have them taking over the pizza real estate that’s wholly reserved for meat, meat and more meat (along with two other meats, too).

I ate half a slice of pizza and fell back asleep. Steamed carrots and peas had joined the broccoli dancing around in my dreams, while my stomach seemed to be keeping a counter-rhythm with a strange series of gurglings, burbles and shudders. As I dozed, my husband managed to polish off the pizza — all of it — followed by a bowl of ice cream.

Around midnight, I finally lurched off the sofa to head back upstairs to bed. My husband followed along, burping and farting the entire time and muttering about whether he wanted a quick snack before going to sleep.

“Do you realize,” I asked him, “that you haven’t had anywhere near a serving of vegetables today, but you’ve managed to take in a week’s worth of meat and dairy, and probably two weeks’ worth of fat?”

“Great, isn’t it?” he belched.

Then he headed to the kitchen to polish off the last of the oatmeal cookies. Because, you know, they’re grains, and grains are supposed to be good for you, he said.

Nice to know he suddenly cares.

I spent yesterday cleaning house. That counts as a workout, right?

OK, even if it doesn’t, the point is that my home is now far cleaner than it’s been in a while. Cleaner, but still fairly cluttered.

Until recently, my bedroom had been a sanctuary from clutter, a pleasant room kept “Mommy clean” and free of the toys, food wrappers, dirty clothes and other detritus that follow in the wake of my husband and son as they move through the place.

(No, the mess isn’t mine. If there’s something of mine out of place it’s because I’m leaving it there until it’s more convenient to put it away. There’s a difference. Trust me.)

Since dragging my exercise bike up from the basement to our bedroom it’s done nothing but act like a clutter magnet. Yes, there’s the requisite nightgown hanging from it. It’s one that I wore just last night, so it’s not like the thing’s turning into a glorified clothes rack.

It’s also surrounded a half-dozen free weights, some ankle weights, a yoga mat, my exercise ball, some of those stretchy rubber bands that should’ve taken the place of the free weights but didn’t, a pair of tennis shoes, a face towel and countless exercise videos that are all gathering dust.

What isn’t there in the corner where my exercise bike is actual room to exercise. It’s just too crowded with stuff that doesn’t have another place yet.

I need to figure out some storage solution — something that’s stackable and easy to open. They must also be clear — all around — otherwise I know darned well I’d forget about all of that gear being stashed away inside of them. As they say, “Out of sight is out of mind.”

Much as I hate to exercise, I’m afraid I’d use that excuse to get out of it, too.

I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.

No, the numbers weren’t up this morning when I stood on it. But they weren’t down, either, despite having actually — gasp! — exercised four days this week, consumed more water than a fish, and watched every little bite that went into my mouth.

OK, except for last night but that dinner was so spicy that I’m pretty certain I burned off most of the calories flopping my hand around like a fan to keep my face from sweating.

Look, I wasn’t expecting the numbers on my scale’s dial to start moving downward so fast they’d set off radar detectors or anything, but I was expecting some loss. Even one little pound would have been nice. One measly pound. But nooooooo.

I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.