I ran out to Wal-Mart this morning to pick up some travel-sized bottles for my toiletry kit, rather than lugging the full-sized bottles through three airports tomorrow. Since I’m only going to Texas for five days and will be staying with my mom (who does daily laundry out of boredom), I plan to just pack a carry-on and skip the whole $15 fee for checked luggage.

So this is, what, late August? Still a few months from Halloween, not to mention the whole food fest known as Thanksgiving. But what were the clerks stocking at Wal-Mart today? Christmas decorations. Not just a few ornaments and crumpled wreaths left from last year, mind you, but stockings, garland and cards, some of which looked like Christmas invitations.

WTF?

Here I’d hoped to lose 25 pounds prior to the holidays but from what I saw it looks like they’re coming early this year.

I remember, back when I was a kid, sitting in front of the television and watching June Cleaver tip the grocery delivery boy as he removed items from bulging brown paper bags and set them on her kitchen table.

The guy looked quite a bit like our grocery delivery boy, one of my older brother’s classmates who was working to afford the gas for his spiffy GTO. I had quite the crush on him, although thinking back to his pimply face, chicken-like neck and greasy hair it’s entirely possible that I was simply fond of the food be brought to our house once a week.

It was a ritual of my mother’s to serve “dab a dinners” on Tuesday nights, dinners designed to use up every bite of leftovers accumulated in the previous week. I loved those meals; they were very much like having a Golden Buffet in our house. Afterward, while the kids did the dishes, Mom would comb through the cupboards and ice box as she made up her grocery list which she’d call in first thing on Wednesday mornings. Late the next afternoon, the grocery boy would arrive with our groceries which, although he didn’t unpack, he carried into the house while Mom hunted around for a dollar to give him. (Back then, with a dollar buying a gallon of gas, that was considered a generous tip.)

Come to think of it, groceries weren’t the only things regularly delivered back then. The dry cleaners used to pick up and drop off my father’s suits and business shirts. Another company delivered big cardboard tubs of ice cream every two weeks. Our neighbors ordered milk straight from a dairy rather than the grocery store — they said it tasted better — and they had it delivered. Even the butcher shop (which was separate from the grocery store at that time) would send over orders, as did a few local stores if you bought enough merchandise. I remember once the mechanic’s brought my dad’s car to the house after fixing a tire that had blown out on the highway, but then again they had to: we only had the one car.

That, perhaps, was ultimately the reason for all those delivery services: one-car families were the norm, as were stay-at-home wives. If the woman of the house wanted to run errands she had to take her husband to work and pick him up that evening. It was a such hassle for both of them that stores quickly realized the surest route to making money was by eliminating such hassles, so they offered delivery services. Most were free, although some did charge a nominal amount — a dollar or two at the most, and not the $10+ fee grocery stores with delivery services tack on today.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about those delivery services quite a bit. Between sitting in line to drop off or pick up my son from school and the hours I spend trying to earn a living working at home, I’d love to be able to get groceries delivered for a reasonable price. Or dry-cleaning. Or even a meal that consisted of something — anything — other than pizza. But in our small town, that’s just not possible, not even with the grocery store.

Which, really, makes the capitalist in me sit up and take note. Oh, I’m not interested in starting a delivery company myself. Of all the small business opportunities I can think of, that one’s a bit too labor intensive for me. But it sure seems like some enterprising college kids could make some serious cash if they wanted.

I know I’d use them, at any rate, particularly on busy days like today when I’m actually craving a salad but just don’t have time to go to the store to buy the ingredients.

Food eaten:

Number of people nearly killed due to PMS: 4

Most of my friends are already married, so I have little experience with the type of “Bridezilla” that’s now in fashion. Oh, sure, I know most brides try to lose weight before their wedding day. I vaguely recall doing that for my own wedding, although back then I had only 10 lbs. to shed. (Oh, those were the days.)

But brides who tell their bridesmaids they need boob jobs? That takes some massive chutzpah, if you ask me. Kudos to the woman who declined that, even if the bride found a doctor willing to do four bridesmaids for the price of two.

Call me old fashioned if you will, but I don’t think I’d want to know the kind of woman who considered chemical peels and botox to be thoughtful bridesmaid gifts. Seems to me the only one she’s really thinking about is herself. A couple of years down the road when none of those women are talking to her she’ll have only herself to blame.

It’s not very often that my husband and I get to spend an evening out of the house with other adults. So, when a friend who knows about my Celiac Disease diagnosis invited us over for dinner I quickly accepted the invitation.

She was wonderful about my dietary restrictions, too, running every item on the menu past me for safety. Since I’m still learning what I can and can’t have myself, this meant I had to look almost everything up with both of us becoming increasingly frustrated.

Finally I told her, “Look, if a food is more than one step away from requiring water or sunlight I probably can’t eat it.” That certainly seemed to simplify things. She came up with a fantastic menu, too: corn on the cob with butter, salad, baked potatoes and grilled ribeye steaks. No gluten worries on that menu, right?

I knew I was in for problems when we walked in to find she’d made a gorgeous spread of appetizers. The first thing I saw: a platter of crackers and toast rounds sitting next to a bowl of dip and plates of sliced cheese and celery sticks. Well, cool, I’d have the latter two and steer as far clear of the others as possible.

And I did steer clear, too, or at least as much as possible. Still, I felt like a jerk when I’d back away from her toddler who kept running around with a cracker in his hand and when I had to ask my husband to wipe the crumbs off my chair before we sat down for dinner. I skipped the butter on my corn, too, because I know people who don’t have to live GF don’t realize that crumbs in the stuff from that morning’s toast can mean a night of misery for someone with CD.

Oh, it was heart-breaking to skip the two beautiful desserts she’d made: an Oreo pie and some strawberry fluffy thing in a graham cracker crust. But having felt so much better over these past couple of weeks without eating gluten I wasn’t going to risk it. (Not to mention that I’ve enjoyed having lost 6 pounds in two weeks, a faster and easier loss than any weight loss pill has ever delivered.)

Still, despite her best efforts and mine, I got glutenated.

Within moments after finishing dinner I felt the bloat coming on. A gluten reaction-style bloat isn’t like a PMS bloat or even one triggered by eating too much salt. It’s painful, it’s sudden, and it signals the need to have a bathroom well away from polite society soon. I looked to my husband and told him we needed to go – now! – and he simply nodded then went back to his conversation. He, too, is still learning what it’s like for me to get glutenated now otherwise he would’ve understood the urgency.

Moments later my son began acting grumpy. He’d had very little sleep the night before and, despite my best efforts to get him to nap he hadn’t, so I somewhat expected he’d begin acting out later in the evening. Ordinarily I would’ve responded with a quiet one-on-one talk and dire threats of losing his PlayStation privileges if he didn’t snap out of it. But because I needed to get home and he’d provided me with the perfect excuse — one which wouldn’t offend my hostess — I could’ve kissed him (except he’d eaten the crackers).

Halfway home I began itching. Then the stomach cramps grew excruciating. By the time we pulled into the driveway my head was throbbing and I couldn’t think straight. Just getting out of the van and walking toward the bathroom was exhausting. Then the sneezing and hacking started and I felt like I couldn’t possibly hock up all the mucous in my throat, but that was okay since I was soon throwing up into the trash can (the toilet being occupied by my other end already).

It was miserable, to say the least. The saddest part is that I now realize my days of dining out are over. Oh, maybe someday my body will have healed enough that I won’t be so sensitive, but for now any risk of even the smallest gluten contamination isn’t worth it.

On a positive note, though, having witnessed the severity of my reaction last night, my husband said this morning, “Man, I don’t know how we’re going to be able to visit my family if you react like this to accidental exposure. I guess we’ll have to stay at a hotel whenever we go up there, huh?”

Mixed blessing, this Celiac stuff.

It’s hot. I’m sweaty and sticky. With energy costs what they are — along with the high price of everything else — I’m trying to leave the air-conditioner off as much as possible. By noon, though, I can barely stand it: every movement means some part of my body is rubbing against some other part and by the end of the day all of the parts feel like raw meat.

So now’s probably a good time for some retro-Chubby: my advice from last May about how to prevent that rash caused by thighs rubbing together.

Another tip for surviving the summer: don’t be afraid to apply an acne treatment to summer breakouts wherever they happen. I learned this the hard way years ago after getting a pimple on my ass. That’s two miserable weeks I’ll never get back.

I’m down in Texas visiting my mother, and it feels like I haven’t stopped eating since the moment we stepped off the plane yesterday. Southern food is my weakness: fried okra, fried catfish, fried… anything… all topped with jalapenos, poblanos, gravy or all three.

Yesterday, I overdid it on the peppers: scrambled eggs with jalapenos and tomatoes for breakfast; a chile rellano and Spanish rice for lunch. By the time dinner rolled around I wasn’t in the least bit interested in food. In fact, I went to bed a bit early (we’d had to catch a 6 a.m. flight, after all, so I was exhausted) and wound up having those crazy post-spicy food dreams.

Today I’ve decided that even though I’m on vacation I shouldn’t let it completely blow my diet. So I’ve grabbed one of the hotel’s promotional pens and a little pad of paper so I can keep track of calories I’m consuming. In theory, this should help fend off overindulgence. In reality, I suck at math, so I won’t be surprised if I get home to find I’ve gained two or three pounds.

On the bright side: it’s smoking hot here. The temps reached 105 F yesterday, although today they’re expected to be a comparatively chilly 99 F. So if I do manage to get home without gaining any weight, it’s probably due to the water weight loss with all the sweating I’m doing.

Well, I did not miraculously lose 30+ pounds this week. No, I didn’t really think it would happen but, hey, it would’ve been nice to have lost at least one pound, but that didn’t happen, either. Which is frustrating, to be honest, because I’ve been pretty darned good at eating right.

In fact the only thing in my household that seems to be lighter is my wallet. Since I’d received a Starbuck’s gift card for my birthday, I decided to head there around lunch time. In our town, Starbuck’s is really just a kiosk inside a grocery store, and not surprisingly my stomach got to rumbling while I stood waiting for my double-shot non-fat Venti latte. So — and here’s where I was proud of myself — I headed over to the salad bar with my low-cal Starbuck’s treat in hand.

Five minutes later I walked out $7 poorer. Seven dollars! And, no, that wasn’t for the latte: I’d paid for that with the gift card. That little plastic box holding my salad cost seven freaking dollars! I could’ve gone to a restaurant and had someone else put my salad together for me at that price.

Figuring I’d save more money by making salads at home I asked my husband to stop at the commissary on his way home to pick up salad-making stuff. Ordinarily, it’s far less expensive to shop there than at a civilian grocery store. But when he came home with a mere bag of fixings (mixed greens, carrots, celery, black olives, chickpeas, green peas, grape tomatoes and chopped turkey) the bill came to $14.75.

Holy crap! At that price I could buy two weeks’ worth of side salads — or 14 Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers — from Wendy’s. So, really, as if it wasn’t already hard for us chubby folks to make healthy food choices, the expense of it’s now making it even more difficult. Which kind of makes me wonder if the makers of appetite suppressants like hoodia are making a fortune these days as people seek ways to keep their grocery costs down. I know I’m finding that tempting, at least.

Speaking of which: here are web-savvy ways to help keep your grocery costs down. Not that using online coupons or ordering in bulk is all that revolutionary, mind you. My favorite web-based way to save money at the grocery store? Order pizza online.

On a more frequent basis than I care to admit, I say a little prayer asking God to bless the makers of Preparation H. If you’ve given birth, or ever left a bathroom feeling as if you have, then you know exactly what I mean. It’s the kind of relief to which nothing compares (except, perhaps, finally giving birth or leaving a bathroom feeling as if you have).

I have several tubes of the stuff myself: one in each bathroom, and another in my make-up box. My what??? That’s right: my make-up box. Stuff’s invaluable for shrinking zits and those puffy morning-after bags under your eyes. It’s not the only butt-medicine that does double-duty on the face, either (please, resist the urge to make wise cracks): those Tucks pads they dole out to new mothers are soaked in witch hazel, a well-known natural astringent.

Apparently, Preparation H has another use I’d never heard about until now: body-builders are said to be using Preparation H to shrink fat deposits. Of course, non-butt uses aren’t condoned by the ointment’s makers, but I still can’t help wondering: when the hell is someone going to make a body lotion containing this stuff?!

Audrey Hepburn once remarked that she resented food because it controls us; that, unlike other substances one might abuse, food isn’t something you can completely cut out of your life. Those who abuse alcohol or drugs can seek help from places specializing in adult addiction treatment where they’ll learn through counseling that, for an addict, there’s no such thing as “just a little bit”. You want to break an addiction, you have to go whole hog and never touch the stuff again.

With food, that’s simply not possible. Hepburn, after all, tried that approach and wound up suffering from bulimia and anorexia for much of her adult life. So, too, do many people who share her resentment of our bodies’ need to eat, a drive that for many of us has become less about necessity and more about gratifying pleasures or insulating against pain. In that sense, overweight people share a trait in common with those who abuse other substances: we use food to comfort or anesthetize us, giving it an added power over our lives beyond mere fuel for our bodies.

Like people suffering other forms of addiction, many overeaters refuse to see their addiction to food as a substance abuse problem. They claim to be “big boned” or to be baffled why they can’t lose weight (while secretly binging, as if those calories don’t count). Others blame thyroid or hormonal problems which, so they rationalize, means they aren’t personally responsible for being fat. I know: I’ve cited those same reasons myself.

And, as with a drug addict or alcoholic, people with food addictions often fail to see the dire impact their problems are having on their lives or the lives of those around them. I’ve been there, too. I’ve come up with one excuse after another to avoid taking my son to the water park, to the playground, to activities that would inevitably force me to confront how out of shape and overweight I’ve let myself become. The impact doesn’t stop there: it’s affected my marriage since I no longer feel comfortable allowing my spouse to see me undressed, no matter how much he assures me that I’m beautiful.

One thing I’ve recently learned about dealing with food as an addiction is that it can be treated in many of the same ways as other substance abuse problems, starting with a form of family intervention. With many substance abuse problems, that’s really the first step toward recovery but it’s best performed by counselors trained in drug intervention, people who know how to navigate around defense mechanisms, denial and cycles of co-dependency. When conducted by a professional, interventions have over a 95% success rate of prompting the addict to seek treatment.

Ours was less formal: over the Mother’s Day weekend my husband wanted to take me to a swanky restaurant in town. (See the co-dependency there? Feed the addict.) I refused to go, however, and I came up with all sorts of reasons: it was too expensive, I didn’t want to leave our son with the sitter, I was tired, etc. The truth? None of my pretty clothes fit, and I didn’t like the way I looked in the stuff that did. Fortunately, my husband saw through my rationalizations and pointed out how much I’ve been missing out on due to my self-consciousness about my weight.

“Do something,” he said. “You can’t get this time back that you’re missing out on. Yes, it might be boring to exercise. Yes, you might feel deprived going without chips or burgers for a while. But it will be worth it to you once you’re back to a point where you can feel good about yourself again.”

That hit home. Hard.

Hence my decision to streamline my life in a number of areas to reduce the stress which prompts me to turn to food as a source of comfort. Likewise, by reducing the number of demands on my time, I’m eliminating excuses to avoid exercising, the most important key to weight loss.

I’m using another tactic that’s important to other forms of substance abuse treatment, too: I’m cutting out the stuff that I know is harmful to me. Were I in a trained facility with licensed professionals, they’d call it drug detox, a period of time in which the body cleanses itself of toxins and breaks its physiological dependency on harmful substances while the addict works on understanding their emotional and situational triggers.

For me, that’s involved tossing out all forms of temptation in our house. Out went the chips, the crackers and candy. I even cleared out my secret stash of gummi bears. I’m letting my husband do the grocery shopping for a while so I’m not tempted to buy replacements and hide them for “just in case”, and I’ve informed my family that, while they’re welcome to have a burger or fries, they’ll have to do it when I’m not around. And, meanwhile, I’m exercising. A lot. In fact, I’m turning to that now for my source of stress relief and comfort, and the results are already beginning to show.

Why am I sharing all of this with you? Well, because that’s yet another thing that recovering from a food addiction has in common with other forms of substance abuse: the first step is admitting that you have a problem.

My name is Kate, and I’m a food addict.

Now, let the healing begin.