Lately, my mother has been campaigning — in the quiet, round-about-way that mothers do — for us to move down to Texas where she lives. For the past 20 years of my life, we’ve lived so far apart that seeing each other requires plenty of calendar-comparing, not to mention the financial planning that higher fuel costs require these days. My oldest brother, who lives all of 15 minutes from her, thinks it would be a ducky idea if I moved down there, too: no doubt he’d enjoy a break from being the go-to child.

There’s a lot that I love about Texas, not the least of which is the people. I get Texans, having been raised by one of their proudest, and I do love how easy it is to fit in among them if you’re used to using and deciphering Texas-speak. It’s a language all to itself.

Take “bless your heart”, for instance. When uttered by a Northerner it means pretty much what it says: that you’ve done something nice and they want to say something nice in response. When a Texan says it, though, watch out: what it really means is “well, aren’t you a hoot?” And calling someone a hoot really means you’re too polite to admit they’re a pain in the ass. I know this because most of my family members used to bless my heart and tell me I’m a hoot regularly until I figured it out.

Distance is different in Texas-speak, too. “Down the road a ways” means a drive of 200 miles or so. “Up the road a piece” means less than 200 miles, but not much. And to say that something’s “a stone’s throw away” refers to a distance sufficient enough to require emptying one’s bladder before setting out, but you won’t quite need sandwiches for the journey.

I get confused about mealtimes in Texas, though. There’s breakfast, but since I’m a big Tex-Mex fan that meal usually involves corn tortillas — something I ordinarily associate with eating lunch. Except you don’t eat “lunch” in Texas: you eat dinner around noontime, and later you eat supper. (Or is it the other way around? Like I said, I get confused.)

Ultimately, as I keep explaining to my mother, there’s one immutable fact about Texas that keeps VH and I from sitting down to craft Dallas resumes or to do much exploring of the job market anywhere down that way: it’s freaking hot. All the time. Even when they say it’s not hot.

I recently explained this to my mother after her most recent round of covert nagging. “Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I can handle a few hot weeks in the summer, but that 90-degrees at Christmas time thing you had going on last year? That’s too hot for my well-padded self to deal with. Why don’t you move up here? I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

To which she responded: “Oh, isn’t that nice of you to suggest? Bless your heart, you’re such a hoot.”

Like I said, I get Texans. I just don’t have plans to become one again anytime soon.

I absolutely despise most clothing designed for “larger sized” women. Typically, it’s little more than a skinny woman’s outfit enlarged many times over without respect to proportion, pattern, or even how certain fabrics do not and never will flatter ample curves. Take Jersey knit dresses, for instance.

Being a sort of artsy-fartsy dresser myself, finding clothes that suit my tastes while also flattering my figure has been immensely frustrating. Most clothing manufacturers seem to think that you’ve got no business wearing their clothing if you’re not skinny.

And then there are designers like Vicki Vi who create flattering clothes for women with curves. Vi is among the many designers featured at Bodacious Boutique, an awesome online source of pluz size clothing.

I’m not talking about a clothing store run by some emaciated waif who’ll stand there feeling sorry for you while pretending that, yes, you do look good in that polka-dotted caftan dress. Paula Guthrie, the owner of Bodacious Boutique, is a woman just like us: full-figured and fashionable, too.

With offerings running the gamut from 0x (basically an extra-large) up to 4x — or 14-28 in Women’s — the boutique has you covered from head-to-toe. While most items are priced in the moderate (but not discount) range, their “Deal of the Week” is not to be missed — we’re talking prices so affordable you can buy an entire outfit or two! They even carry plus-sized swimsuits in figure-flattering styles, including the coveted Miraclesuit swimwear line. (I can tell you from personal experience, those suits are aptly named.)

So, ladies, skip the shop that’s trying to convince you to cram your curves into clothes designed for the skinny minis. And don’t you dare start wearing those tent-shaped dresses, either. Next time you want clothes to fit your figure, go to a store founded by a woman who knows all about helping you look bodaciously beautiful. Then sit back and enjoy it when even your svelte friends start asking “Where did you get that gorgeous blouse?”

There’s more to life than dieting and weight loss. There’s more to my writing, too. Starting this Saturday I’m running a weekly feature to bring you the best entries from my other blogs, as well as highlights you may have missed on Chubby Mommy this week:

From Chubby Mommy:

• My a-ha moment about exercise – It doesn’t have to be grueling to do some good.

• When did I become a matron? – Here’s a wedding I won’t be participating in, whenever it happens.

From I Think Therefore I Blog:

• How to freeze summer fruits and vegetables – Grocery stores and farmer’s markets are practically giving away summer’s harvest. Take advantage of the low prices and stock your freezer with savings in the process.

• Five fast ways to cut your grocery bill – Simple little steps to help you save big each month.

• Next weekend it’s cheap to go camping – Plan a trip with the kids to take advantage of free admission to any national park.

• Today’s Deal: Save $99 on a market umbrella! – This end-of-summer clearance is a great buy. I know because I have one!

From Blogging for the Money:

• Search engines serving a charitable purpose – Turn your online time into a good deed.

• Cut and Paste Cleanly – Strip formatting from MS Word or other apps so you can paste straight into blog entries.

From Electric Venom:

• Informal straw poll – What the press says about Obama’s appeal doesn’t seem to jive with what blog commenters think.

• Tippling Tuesday: The Drink Your Worries Away Edition – What discretionary spending item could you not live without?

• Word Fugue: The “Do Not Call” Edition – Got a minute? Play my addictive word-association game.

• News Flash: Republicans Aren’t Against Social Assistance – Guess who first introduced VA benefits, a pension for retirees, and Civil Rights laws? You might be surprised at the answer.

A while back I wrote about brides who’re telling their bridesmaids to get plastic surgery so they, too, can look good on the bride’s Big Day. Honestly, I was relieved to learn I wasn’t the only one who thought this crossed the line. Then again, I’ve found myself disgusted by those who are reluctant to ask their overweight friends to be part of their bridal party because they won’t look as good as skinny friends in the dresses the bride’s picked out.

Equally annoying, although less shockingly so, are those who forget the thoughtful tradition of the bridal party gift: keepsakes designed to not only honor the bridesmaids’ role in the wedding but also to commemorate the occasion. They’re the kind who don’t send Thank You cards to their wedding guests whom, they believe, really ought to be thanking them for having been allowed to participate in the bride’s special day. (These, incidentally, are the same women who’ll wonder, a few years down the road, why no one shows up at their second wedding.)

And don’t get me started on the type of bride who cheaps out on the gifts so she can budget more for her shoes (which no one will see under her dress, anyway). Rather than giving her bridesmaids a meaningful and thoughtful wedding party gift like a crystal photo frame or jewelry box, she opts for a boring pen-and-pencil set from the office supply store. As if that makes up for all of her prima donna tantrums, right?

Recently, a not-so-close acquaintance asked if I’d be in her wedding as one of the “bridal matrons” (a stupid expression to describe the involvement of a married, 41-year-old woman in a 30-something’s first wedding). She’s the type who just doesn’t have a lot of female friends — probably because she thinks up stupid expressions like “bridal matron” — and I wasn’t up to the task of explaining that I’m not one of them, either. Fortunately, calendar conflicts will prevent me from both participating in and attending her wedding… whenever she picks a date. Pity, because I could’ve used a new pen-and-pencil set.

Nope, I am still not exercising. That 20-minute walk on the treadmill I took last night while my husband watched TV? That wasn’t exercise, I informed him.

See, Halloween is just around the corner and that means the rest of the holidays are on their way, too. This year I think my mother’s coming for Thanksgiving, and since she’s never visited us in this house before I want the place to look perfect. Or, at least as perfect as I can get it without having to tear the place down and rebuild.

So, knowing I have plenty of cleaning, de-cluttering, reorganizing, vacuuming, mopping, polishing, painting and drinking ahead of me, I figure I’m going to need all of the strength and stamina I can get. And don’t get me started about the near-marathon sales shopping I’ll be doing come 2008 Black Friday, the one day on which I’m guaranteed my mother won’t be interested in “together time” since she can’t stand crowded stores.

Those dumb bells I dusted off this morning and moved downstairs near the TV? The exercise bands I took back from my kid who’d been using them as tethers for the fort he’d built in the guest room? The sneakers I finally fetched out from under the bed and wore for the first time today? Those have nothing to do with exercise.

I’m training for all of that work and shopping the holiday season will require this year.

Yes, I know exercise is essential to feeling good, becoming fit and hopefully losing weight. That doesn’t mean I have to like it and, truth be told, I don’t. Well, at least I didn’t. Last week, though, something clicked in my mind that helped me to see exercise isn’t the drudgery I’ve always made it out to be. Ever since, I’ve been exercising daily… although I try not to admit that to myself.

A little explanation first.

Shortly after giving birth to my second son I was a whopping 65 pounds overweight. I was still in my mid-30s at the time and how I looked affected many things in my life: my then-career as a trial lawyer, my confidence as a new wife and mother, and my feelings of social relevancy. So when it came to working off the weight I worked hard, going for daily 45-minute grueling aerobic sessions followed by a half-hour of weight-lifting on alternate days. Within six months I was down to the size 6 I’d worn pre-baby boy. Then I stopped.

Those hard core workouts, you see, were both exhausting and boring. I’d set a goal — reaching my old weight — and once I reached it my attention turned to other pursuits: gardening, learning to cook, decorating our first home and becoming a stay-at-home Mom. With a surprisingly busy schedule, and a very active baby turning into an even more active toddler, I just didn’t have time to do the work-out/stop sweating/shower-and-reapply makeup routine.

Flash forward, oh, eight years. (No, I’m not going to tell you how overweight I am now.) Having traded my legal career for freelance writing, looks no longer really affect my income. After ten years being wed to a man who thinks I’m beautiful even when I’m sick in bed with a cold and have snot running down my nose, I’ve come to realize that marital love is bigger than my dress size. (Which, admittedly, is bigger than I ever thought it would be.) My life is even more active than ever before, and so I’ve been telling myself for years that I’m just too busy to really make a regular habit of exercising.

Also, I hate it.

Then last week while stretching in front of the TV to work out a kink in my back I found myself actually enjoying the feel of my body moving. Touching my toes (which, yes, I can still do) brought a wonderful, electric tingle to my underused back muscles. Yoga’s downward dog position tugged on my hamstrings like someone pulling taffy. I sank to the floor, arched the back of my head toward my toes in the cobra position, and felt my spine working out knots I hadn’t even realized were there. A few more moves — most of which used my own weight as, well, weight — and I was wondering why I’d stopped exercising regularly.

Ten minutes into it, the phone rang.

After a brief conversation I “forgot” all about exercising (okay, I decided to do something productive work-wise), but the physical effects stayed with me for hours. I felt relaxed. Mellow. My muscles felt like loose rubber bands instead of tight little balls of constant dull ache. It felt, well, good.

But, I told myself, it wasn’t really exercise. I’d only stretched, after all, and I only did it for ten minutes or so. Why, I didn’t even break a sweat, so obviously it didn’t count.

The next morning, after dropping my son off from school, I came home and decided to stretch again before launching into my workday. Ten minutes into it I was feeling pretty good, and that’s when my gaze fell on a dusty exercise video I’d bought last summer.

At the time, I’d been attracted to the video’s concept: a DVD that lets you choose your target area, exercise intensity and workout length (anywhere from 4 to 40 minutes. (The video is 1-Minute Workout with Minna Lessig, by the way.) I’d used it a few times, found it both easy and enjoyable, and then… “forgot”. But there it was, waiting for me right as I was thinking that perhaps a few more minutes of exercise wouldn’t suck too bad. So I popped it in, did more crunches and lunges in four minutes than I’ve done in four months, and… the phone rang again.

Since then, I’ve come home on other mornings from taking my son to school and worked out with the video a few times. I’ve walked on my treadmill while blogging for 10 minutes here and there, too, although that definitely does bring on the sweat. I’ve even spent a few minutes doing floor calisthenics with and without my exercise ball (which, I’ve found, I’m more likely to use if I don’t put it away in the closet).

But I’m not exercising, at least not in the sense that I used to. I’m just moving around, loosening up my muscles and toning some of my flabbier parts, even if my scale seems to like it. A lot. (As in 4 pounds lost last week.) But I’m most assuredly not exercising. Honest. Because if I actually was exercising I’d feel obligated to think of it as, well, an obligation: something that I must do even when I don’t feel like it, and about which I must feel bad if I “forget”.

So, despite what it may look like, I am NOT exercising. I mean that.

I am, however, wearing a smaller size of pants today.

Whee!

My daughter has awesome legs. Amazing legs, to be honest. I assure you she did not inherit them from me, and since her father isn’t terribly svelte I doubt she got them from him, either. She got her gorgeous gams the hard way: by working on them.

In addition to volleyball, she’s an avid tennis buff to which the abundance of tennis equipment in her room attests. Somehow, this child of mine who used to trip over her own feet, has become an all-out athlete whose prowess on the courts is truly inspiring. She’s such a die-hard fan that while other girls her age ask for cars (or at least new iPods or cell phones) for their birthdays, her wish list is filled with various tennis racquets.

Apparently, one racquet alone is not enough. There are racquets for indoor play and racquets for outdoor courts. Some are for beginner players while others are for those with skill. Some companies, offer specific racquets based on a player’s typical swing speed and style. Some are for those with swift swings while others are for those who swing hard but slow.

On top of it, some companies like the one that makes Babolat racquets have engineered their racquets to reduce impact and ease vibration, on top of which they offer various string patterns that affect spin and determine the sweet spot.

I had no idea, and I think my daughter was counting on that when she suggested that I take up tennis as a way to get some additional exercise. Standing there, faced with so many different options and styles in the tennis shop, I quickly sniffed that I couldn’t possibly play without first buying myself a real tennis bracelet. (No real players wear those, she tells me.)

But meanwhile, she’d found a new pair of shoes and a visor she just couldn’t live without. Naturally, I bought them for her and pretended that at some point I’d continue shopping for basic tennis equipment so I could learn how to play. She, meanwhile, pretended to believe me. We were halfway to the car when I realized she’d known all along how that shopping trip would turn out.

Love, set, match. Dang, she’s good.

I used to love the Garfield comic strip which featured the lasagna-loving cat saying “I’m not overweight, I’m under tall.” At 5′1″, I totally relate.

Like many “under tall” people, I keep wondering why the heck I’m not losing weight. No, I don’t exercise fanatically; I don’t like to sweat unless I’m sitting on the beach sipping mai-tais while on one of those Orlando vacations.

But I do walk over 8,000 steps per day according to my pedometer, at least an hour of which involves doing housework sufficiently strenuous enough to raise my pulse to the weight-loss target zone. And still my fat won’t budge.

Turns out, the problem might be all in my mind. Literally.

Researchers split 14 university student volunteers into three groups for a 45-minute session of either relaxing in a sitting position, reading and summarizing a text, or completing a series of memory, attention, and vigilance tests on the computer.

The scientists had determined beforehand that the thinking sessions consumed only three calories more than resting. After the sessions, the participants were invited to eat as much as they pleased.

Though the study involved a very small number of participants, the results were stark.

The students who had done the computer tests downed 253 more calories, or 29.4 percent more than the couch potatoes. Those who had summarized a text consumed 203 more calories than the resting group.

Blood tests showed that the participants glucose levels fluctuated more dramatically following intellectual activity, and that may cause the brain to demand more food to balance the glucose levels.

If you think about it, there’s plenty of anecdotal evidence to support this theory. Consider, for instance, the notorious Freshman 15. Maybe they’re not so much attributable to cafeteria food as the increased intellectual demands of college life? Or bloggers: how many of us can recall being thinner before we joined the blogosphere?

So, with all apologies to Garfield, I have a new explanation for being fat: I’m not overweight, I’m just really freaking smart.

I’m back from a visit to my mother’s house in Texas where, despite her 20+ year career as a nurse and her friendship with a woman who’s had Celiac disease for over 30 years, I still got glutenated.

In all fairness, it wasn’t for a lack of effort on my mother’s part.

Those who have to live without eating gluten learn quickly that dining out is a luxury we just can’t afford. It’s not a matter of money; it’s a matter of physically needing to avoid gluten, even the smallest trace amounts that can, through inattentive kitchen practices, lead to several days of misery. At home, that’s not a big problem for me: I love to cook and my kitchen has been wholly cleansed of gluten in all of its forms.

So when I arrived at my mother’s house the first thing I did was take her to the grocery store. Yes, even H.E.B.’s in Austin offer plenty of gluten-free alternatives: they stock a wider variety of gluten-free flours than my hometown’s store does, and their fresh produce is to die for compared to what we get at the commissary. Seventy-five dollars poorer, we headed toward my mother’s house where I planned to spend five days cooking our meals just so I could avoid ingesting gluten.

And that’s when my oldest brother, the one whom I’m so fond of, called to invite us out to eat.

Oh, the Thai restaurant where we dined had gluten-free options listed on their menus. They even offered Tamaris sauce, a wheat-free (and lower sodium) version of shoyu… “soy sauce” for those of you unfamiliar with Asiatic cuisine. But halfway through my utterly yummy dish of pad se ew (a name which has since become ironic), I started feeling the symptoms that indicate gluten contamination.

My stomach rumbled. My abdomen ached. My forehead began to sweat even as every joint in my body lit up with pain that felt like someone was jabbing ice picks into my sockets. I grew mentally confused. My hands shook. Every inch of my body itched intensely, and suddenly I felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to lay down on the floor of the restaurant and nap.

But in my family — an imminently Southern-schooled clan — one does not admit to such things.

So I sat there.

Suffering.

As it happens, this dinner occurred the night before my mother wanted me to attend her church so she could introduce me to all of her friends. A church which, I might add, features 2+ hours main services followed by a doughnut-and-coffee-oriented 2+ hour Sunday school.

That so didn’t happen for me, much to my mother’s dissatisfaction. Having stayed in the bathroom, miserable, until darned near 4 a.m. I just wasn’t capable of attending the 9 a.m. service. Pity.

It took the next entire day for most of the gluten to work its way out of my system. And that night my older brother came up with yet another restaurant recommendation.

“Oh hell no,” I told him. “You don’t seem to understand: eating out hurts me.”

That’s when I realized that my brother, whom I adore, couldn’t possibly understand what’s going on with my Celiac disease. See, he keeps thinking his “low carb diet” is much the same thing: you avoid grains and you’ll lose weight. That’s why, as he sat there munching one day on tortilla chips and another day scarfing down Schlotzky’s (because he had a great coupon), he thought of a gluten-free diet as, well, a diet: something one can enjoy cheating on.

On my last night in Texas my brother invited me over to his house for dinner. On the menu? Sandwiches. Having already been glutenated repeatedly on my visit there — and with a cab coming to take me to the airport at 3:50 a.m. — I knew I couldn’t survive another night of being exposed to gluten, even if he promised not to put the meat he’d sliced for me on one of the freshly-baked rolls he’d just set on the same counter where he was carving the meat.

Next time I visit my family — which is going to be sometime in mid-October — I know two things will have happened: (1) I will have worked off 10 lbs. if only to tease my brother about how “cheating” on his diet has derailed his own weight loss plans; and (2) I’m going to be staying at one of the Laughlin hotels where I can not only order gluten-free foods sent directly to my room but I’ll also be able to drink all the martinis I want without listening to my mother complain.

Ah, family. Ain’t they grand?