Last week when I asked ElectricVenom.com readers to vote, Survivor-style, on which blog I could cut out without disappointing anyone, I was really surprised how many people voted to keep ChubbyMommy.com.

Let’s face it: you don’t participate in comments much and, for whatever reason, many of you who run your own blogs haven’t linked this site. So, yes, traffic is fairly regular around here but most of the time when I post here I feel like I’m blogging into a great, big, empty, sucking void. How else (besides comments and links) should I have known that you liked this site?

Franky, I was furious about that until one commenter at EV pointed out that she didn’t feel the need to link this site because she knew she could get to it from any of my other pages. Now that is something I hadn’t thought about.

Fact is, the internet is built on links and we bloggers look to links and comments for validation that we’re doing something that other people actually enjoy. I look for those things and I’m certain that if you run a blog you look to them, too.

So I’m going to ask you to do something for me — and I’m going to make a promise, no, make that two promises — in return:

1. If you read this blog and run your own blog, please link this site and leave me a comment under this entry to let me know that you have. If yours is a diet, health or fitness site I’ll add you to this site’s blogroll. If your focus is elsewhere, I’ll either add you to one of my other sites’ blogrolls or I’ll make a point to link you at least twice in entries on one of my other sites over the next month.

2. If you’ve been a “lurker” here and haven’t commented, now is the time to reveal yourself. You’ve been reading about my weight struggle, my lack of willpower, my poor self-discipline when it comes to diet and exercise. Don’t you think it’s time you share something about yourself, too? I promise I’ll respond!

Until then, I have to be honest, the sites I’m running which receive more comments and links (which even my newest site, Blogging For The Money, gets more of than this blog does) tend to garner my attention. Who wouldn’t feel that way, after all?

After five years of blogging, I know there can only be one reason this site has yet to inspire readers to link and/or comment here: a lack of engaging content. Short of giving out custom printed calendars or other forms of bling-bribery, I can think of only one way to fix that: by asking YOU to tell me what you would like to read about over the next few weeks.

That’s right, I want your topic and article suggestions. I want to know if you’ve got diet, fitness, exercise and health questions that I can research and answer for you. I want to know what you want to know, if you’re brave enough to leave your ideas in the comment section. Tell me, and I’ll deliver.

But in the meantime, I’m growing rather frustrated feeling like I’m blogging in a vacuum that , if you know what I mean.

I believe it was Einstein who defined insanity as repeatedly trying the same thing in the hope of producing different results. Or something like that.

Well, my friends, I confess that for years now I’ve been insane.

I’ve tried cutting calories only to find myself standing in the gaping, incandescent-lit maw of the refrigerator at 2 a.m. shoveling down cheese and wheat bread (hey, it was whole wheat, and aren’t I supposed to get my grains?) and telling myself that the calories won’t count because, geez, I’m hungry.

I’ve tried cabbage soup and all of its ignominious symptoms. I’ve tried Alli and its less-than-attractive “treatment effects”. I’ve even ordered — dare I confess it publicly — Venom diet pills (14 pounds in 9 days… and 11 regained the week after I ran out, in case you’re curious).

I have tried everything but moving my butt.

Regularly.

Religiously.

Regardless of whether I want to.

And so, as of this morning, despite having had the flu since midday Tuesday, I dragged my flabby, cellulite-riddled ass out of bed and sat down on my exercise bike and I rode even though three days of bed rest had left me with ankles so swollen my gold anklet nearly cut off my right foot.

I rode.

Even though that damn exercise bike still cuts into my otherwise ample ass to the point where, honestly, I wonder how skinny chicks can stand it, I rode.

Oh, I only rode for 15 minutes, followed by 10 minutes with dumb bells (and, no, I am not referring to my husband) and another 10 minutes of yoga. But I rode. For fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, freaking minutes during which I realized how inane (and commercial-filled) my morning new show is. But still, I rode.

Certainly 15 minutes is not enough time to qualify as “regular exercise” as defined by any of those sensible, bran-eating, cheese-eschewing health-related sites mean when they tell us Chubby Mommies to engage in “regular exercise”.

But it’s a lot more than I do on most days.

And right now, as un-PC as that may sound, I’m pretty proud of that fact.

So let us agree on two things: first, that I’ve given ChubbyMommy.com a reprieve because you said you enjoy it (and, well, let’s face it, I wouldn’t write here if I didn’t think you’d read it); and, second, that in my book you don’t have to follow their book about how to lose weight.

Every bit counts.

That’s what I’m telling myself today.

Every. Bit. Counts.

Know what happened as a result of my decision that 15 minutes (when it could have been zero) mattered?

I opted for All Bran cereal and skim milk for breakfast instead of a Pop Tart.

I had a green salad with low-fat vinaigrette dressing for lunch.

I ate a broiled skinless chicken breast (albeit, with my “Never Say No More” marinade) for dinner, along with steamed broccoli.

By choice.

Those 15 minutes on my exercise bike might not have been enough to satisfy the exercise gurus but, you know what? I know how much commitment they took on my part, especially on my first day out of bed after having the flu. I know I didn’t have to do them… but then every day would have been just like the day before during which I wondered why am I still overweight despite all of these things I keep denying myself?

I’m not denying myself a darned thing.

But I AM about to start giving myself some credit for even small efforts.

Because I’m convinced that today’s 15 minutes (which isn’t sufficient if you listen to Exercise Gurus) is still More Than Enough compared to what I was willing to give yesterday.

So my question to myself — from here until the day when I decide to retire ChubbyMommy.com not for the money but because it no longer fits me — is this: What are you willing to give tomorrow to being thinner the day after that?

After much consideration, and quite a bit of encouragement from many of you, I’ve decided to keep ChubbyMommy.com and my other sites, too.

Five blogs are a lot to juggle but, what the heck, typing burns calories, too, doesn’t it?

Now that I’ve started Blogging For The Money, a blog about my passion to teach people how to start a blog, write better and make money at it, I’ve decided that one of my blogs must go. The readers at Electric Venom voted, both publicly and via email.

We’ve all agreed it’s time for me to let Chubby Mommy go.

My instinct is to turn this into a static niche site related to dieting, fitness, weight loss and health news with the occasional promotion of fitness-related gear like the Nike golf apparel. By “static”, I mean that I don’t intend to blog here further even though the site itself will most likely feature RSS feeds, links to other topical blogs and ads pertaining to those topics.

I’d much rather see this domain go to someone with a passion to help it reach its potential. If anyone is interested in purchasing the domain ChubbyMommy.com please contact ChubbyMommy at Gmail. Serious inquiries only, and by serious I mean you need to plan on something involving 3 digits.

UPDATE: After much encouragement from readers, I’ve decided to keep the blog. Thanks for the positive feedback, folks. I’m not sure how I’m going to find time to run five blogs but I’m determined to make it work.

Wednesday is ordinarily the day when I take my son out to the movies. It’s a nice weekly routine of ours, one that serves as a reward for his diligent work in homeschool while breaking up the week so it doesn’t seem so long.

It’s also one of the hardest dieting days of the week, thanks to the concession stand at the movie theater. It’s bad enough that they no longer offer “small” versions of anything: just medium, large and extra-large (which makes one wonder if medium is the new small). Bad enough they have all sorts of my favorite candies, seldom seen in convenience stores.

Nope, it’s the dang popcorn machines that inevitably prove my downfall. Let’s face it: there’s nothing particularly delicious about popcorn at the theaters except the butter. Pure liquid artery-clogging gold, that stuff.

And, yes, it’s possible to order movie theater popcorn without butter… but why? Might as well sneak in a bag of Styrofoam packing peanuts to munch on.

So I’m being a good girl today and budgeting my calories accordingly. Breakfast? Who needs breakfast? The theater opens at noon, people. I figure as long as we’re there a few minutes before that I can still call my medium popcorn with butter “brunch”.

Have you seen the latest Weight Watchers ad? The one featuring a woman shopping at a grocery store with a voice over about how diets don’t work but WW does?

Can anyone tell me why is that woman eating in the grocery store? I didn’t believe it the first time I saw it, so I rewound the DVR and, yep, sure enough: she’s standing there in a grocery aisle chowing down.

Oh, sure, WW probably intended for the ad to reflect well on them. But, frankly, the only thing that ad leaves me thinking is that if I do WW I’m going to be one of those people who eat in the grocery store.

Carson Kressley, formerly of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, has a new TV series, How to Look Good Naked. His mission: to help overweight women stop hating themselves and feel beautiful in their own skin.

And that has ticked off the folks members of the National Action Against Obesity who feel that the show’s message is really that “obesity is beautiful”.

It’s no more logical to compliment the aesthetics of obesity than the beauty of cigarette-stained teeth or track marks on a junkie’s arm,” said NAAO President MeMe Roth. “A dangerous characteristic of obesity is denial.”

In other words, ladies and gentlemen, NAAO says that if you’re fat you’ve got no business wearing clothes that make you feel pretty, nor in looking for anything to actually like about yourself. In their view, you’re a self-abusing addict who should hate everything about yourself, including every inch of your body and everything you see in the mirror.

As far as they’re concerned, whether you’re 20 pounds overweight or the size of one of those Branson hotels, you don’t deserve to feel good at all about your body until the scale says you’re thin.

I guess it’s never dawned on NAAO that feeling crappy about one’s self is the leading cause of overeating in the first place.

Although I said I wasn’t going to make a New Year’s Resolution to lose weight (preferring, instead, to simply resolve that I won’t gain any, either), I’ve nevertheless found myself on a diet.

I blame this on the recent discovery that my bathroom mirror is in no way related to my car’s rear view mirror and, thus, objects seen in it really are larger than they appear. Or at least that’s what my jean size seems to be saying.

Still, I refuse to come straight out and say that I’m on a diet. In my house, that announcement prompts loud groans since it’s often followed by a week of bland, tasteless broiled chicken, brown rice and steamed broccoli for dinner then glares and outrage whenever my husband or kids — who cannot stand brown rice or steamed broccoli — find me standing at the fridge eating ice cream straight from the container. I am, instead, simply watching what I eat.

And that makes me grumpy.

Very grumpy.

It’s not simply because I, too, hate brown rice and broccoli. It’s because my husband has no idea whatsoever about how to live with a woman who is, for all practical purposes, on a diet. So I’ve decided to share some tips which I’ll be emailing the man together with a warning that failing to follow them just might result in the loss of life or limb.

1. Do not ask how my diet is going. When I hear that question my brain interprets it as, “It doesn’t look like you’re losing weight. Are you SURE you’re on a diet?” That triggers the cycle of impatience and frustration which leads to those 2 a.m. refrigerator raids.

2. Do not tell me that you’re proud of me for being good on my diet. Yes, I know you think you’re being encouraging and I appreciate the sentiment. But such praise only makes me terrified of letting you down if I slip up and have a bite of chocolate. That kind of guilt is only assuaged by having yet more chocolate, and next thing I know I feel like I’ve disappointed both of us.

3. Do not roll your eyes when I serve ‘diet food’ at dinner. Of course baked fish and a tossed salad with low-fat dressing doesn’t taste nearly as good as a ribeye with a loaded baked potato. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’d rather be having steak, too? If you know some other way to achieve weight loss besides dieting, please market it so we can get rich. Until then you, at least, have the luxury of knowing that you can always order a burger tomorrow on your lunch break. So shut up about tonight’s dinner already, ok?

4. Do not snack in front of me. I mean it! I’m fat because I have a hard time saying ”No” to food. You wouldn’t swill from a bottle of beer while visiting someone in alcohol rehab. Don’t eat in front of me. Dieting means having to say no all the time. Not just to second helpings at dinner. Not just to dessert. I have to say “No” every time I pass the cupboard or refrigerator or the snack aisle in the convenience store. Don’t you dare make it more difficult by sitting arm’s length away nibbling on potato chips because I might just start looking for something heavy or sharp that is also arm’s length away.

5. Don’t tell me I deserve dessert as a reward, either. I am not a puppy. I do not need treats. If I do decide to have a treat then I will be the one to choose when I deserve it. The only thing you’re trying to accomplish is getting my permission to eat your hot fudge sundae in front of me. I suggest re-reading that last section if you value the solidity of your skull.

6. Don’t call me cute names thinking you’re being supportive. Coming home and saying “Hi, Skinny!” only makes me wonder if you stopped for Happy Hour after work. I know I’m not skinny. You know I’m not skinny. I know you know I’m not skinny. I also know — as you should, too — that it’s going to take a lot of carrot sticks, sweat and time before I’m skinny again if that ever happens.

7. Don’t ask how my work out was. First, you’re assuming that I did work out at all. If I didn’t, you only made me feel guilty and, once again, that’s best assuaged by chocolate. Second, my brain translates that question the same way as any inquiry into how my diet’s going. All I hear is “When are you going to start looking thinner???”

8. Don’t fix me snacks that you think are healthy. You can’t win on this one. That turkey burger you made me stopped being healthy the instant you threw it in a pan full of oil, long before you slapped mayo on the bun made from processed white flour and topped it with a slice of cheese. I appreciate the thought — and not having to cook for a change — but, really, since you’ve never had to diet let’s just agree that you don’t know the first thing about how to cook something diet-friendly.

9. Don’t walk in on me while I’m working out. If I liked to exercise I’d be thin already. I hate it. I also know that, because I’m not thin, I don’t look nearly as good as those spandex-clad girls on my workout tapes. Don’t walk in while I’m trying to tune out the misery by concentrating on how much I hate those women. All you’ll do is make me self-conscious of how much more of my body jiggles than theirs.

10. Don’t tell me that sex burns calories. Believe me, even with the most frantic activity, two minutes won’t burn off the calories in that cup of broccoli I had for dinner. Oh, and by the way, if you happened to have broken Rule Number 9, you don’t even need to get your hopes up that I’ll be in the mood for a little in-the-sack workout anyway.

With my in-laws in town for a few days, I spent a good chunk of yesterday holed up in my office “working”. By that I mean that I enjoyed a nice, quiet cup of coffee while reading email, then began wading through the stack of magazines that has piled up on my desk since their most recent visit (last month).

My favorite: an essay in December’s This Old House magazine about “house dysmorphia”, a person’s distorted perception that their house is far less nice than it really is. Oh, I can relate.

In the grand scheme of things, my mind tells me that we have a very nice house: three stories on a wooded lot with a creek, a kitchen bigger than my college studio apartment, five bedrooms, four bathrooms including one featuring both a jet shower and a huge whirlpool tub and dual marble bathroom vanities (the real marble, too, not that manufactured stuff).

But all I can see are the cracked tiles in the kitchen floor, the formerly white carpets that have turned gray since we moved in, the splintered wood deck, the fingerprints and gouges on all of the walls and the fact that most of our furniture is more than 10 years old… and looks like it.

Lately, we’ve been trying to do something about my increasingly long list of things I don’t like about our house, and by “we” I mean that I have made the effort of nagging my husband into taking care of it. Unfortunately, that means letting him do things at his own pace (so I don’t have to do them), and I’ve seen snails move faster than he does when tasked with a chore he finds unpleasant.

Since he’s been on winter vacation for two weeks, he’s actually managed to get quite a few things done around the house. He finally painted our kitchen after three years of putting it off, but just as he got ready to repaint the cupboards his parents arrived. So yesterday, while I was “busy working”, he spent the day trying to both socialize with his parents — an act that he believes I forced him into — while also painting the cupboards.

I can’t count the number of times I heard him mutter under his breath because his mother leaned up against the fresh paint while talking to him, which means he had to repaint the same section again and again and again, an experience which seems frighteningly similar to what I go through every time I clean house before he comes home from work.

I’d feel sorry for him, but I don’t. He’s the one who invited his parents, and they are all messing up my house.

I ran across an article this morning which really sent my blood pressure spiking. Doctors, it turns out, commonly prescribe placebos to patients, with over half the doctors in a Chicago study admitting that they’d done so in the past.

Sure, there are valid uses for placebos. Take, for instance, the recent study that put haloperidol and risperidone, two longstanding Johnson & Johnson drugs, to the test. The study found that placebos were more effective than the two antipsychotic drugs commonly prescribed to treat aggression in mentally disabled people. The results proved that the medications were ineffective and, since they both have significant side effects, shouldn’t be prescribed in most cases.

But surely the practice raises questions about medical ethics and maybe even contributes to the rising cost of individual health insurance? After all, thanks to this practice, both patients and insurance companies wind up paying prescription prices for what’s essentially sugar capsules, all because some doctor decided to go with his/her hunch that a patient wasn’t really sick to begin with.

That’s a bad thing, right?

Then I ran across a study about the placebo effect, exercise and obesity that blew my mind. In it, psychologists studied a group of hotel maids and found that those who believe their job involved little to no exercise were heavier and had higher blood pressure and hip-to-waist ratios than maids who believed their jobs were physically demanding.

But, wait. It gets better!

The experts, led by Harvard psychologist Ellen Langer, split the maids into two groups. One group was educated about how many calories they burned walking, lifting, carrying things, etc., in the course of their daily work. The other group was left in the dark.

One month later, Langer and her team returned to take physical measurements of the women and were surprised by what they found. In the group that had been educated, there was a decrease in their systolic blood pressure, weight, and waist-to-hip ratio — and a 10 percent drop in blood pressure.

That’s right: the only change they made was believing they were getting more exercise and — voila! — their weight and blood pressure improved. Those are actual physical changes brought on by nothing more than changing a person’s perception of themselves and their activities.

For those of us struggling to lose weight, this study emphasizes just how much our mental outlook can work for or against us in the process.

If your mental tape constantly plays a message in your mind that says you’re a lazy slug, that you don’t get any exercise, that you’re fat because all you do is go to work and come home to sit around all evening, perhaps it’s time to swap it for one that recognizes the activity you do get. Walking from your car to your desk, spending your day on your feet giving presentations or running after children, folding clothes, lugging briefcases or groceries or laundry baskets: those things add up.

Giving yourself a pat on the back for the activity you do naturally fit into your day isn’t just a great way to stretch those triceps and deltoid muscles. It might also be the key to whittling your waistline, too.