Check out these buns

There are a few rules that every single health magazine/TV show/newspaper article/blog/fitness expert will give you when you're trying to lose weight and become a healthier person:
- Eat lean meats, such as chicken (no skin, of course) instead of fattier cuts;
- Drink water (This is my least favourite. Why can't water taste like Diet Coke?);
- Don't eat at least three hours before going to bed;
- Use portion control and don't make dinner your heaviest meal;
- Always eat breakfast, because you'll eat less during the day;
- Limit sugary drinks such as pops and juices;
- And watch your carbs. Don't eat a load of them and when you do eat breads and pastas and wraps and rice, make them whole grain or at least whole wheat. (Make them brown, essentially.)
White bread and pasta are about as popular these days as new Vancouver Canucks' player Mats Sundin because there is basically no nutritional value in them. So all health experts say switching out the white for the brown is one small step that will keep you at a healthy weight.
I think in the last five years, I have eaten maybe five to 10 pieces of white bread - and that's when I had no choice, either when I've been visiting family or out at a restaurant.
It has always been my pet peeve that no fast food restaurants - with the exception of chain sub shops - served any of their products on whole wheat, or, even better, multigrain products. Sometimes, especially when you're travelling, or even if you're just a burnt out tired mama, fast food works and you can make it healthy if you try: A small burger with just lettuce and a little ketchup, a grilled chicken wrap with just lettuce, a salad hold the cheese, the bacon, the croutons, the chili, the nacho chips, the sour cream and the creamy dressing. (Yes, it's still a salad.)
Why am I so nuts about this stuff? I was born with a birth defect.
I was born without a metabolism.
I eat one cookie and I've got a pound of lard stuck to my behind.
Sneak in a few pieces of cheese? Oh, look, I not only have two lovehandles, I now have three. (The third one is like an office chair; it swivels around.)
Eat a pile of salty cashews? Just call me Cankle Crosbie.
Joking aside (oh, that's where the third lovehandle went - my left side) I really do have to be vigilant about what I eat and drink and my exercise. I fight hard to be a size 6 to 8 and it has only been in the last three years that I've learned to keep my weight in check. I once weighed 50 pounds more than I do now and I couldn't walk around the block I was so out of shape.
So, it was with much glee that I opened my mail today and I saw a flyer in my mailbox that said, "Nice Buns." (Why, thank you.) It was a Harvey's flyer announcing: "Harvey's NEW whole wheat bun."
The restaurant is also introducing a new warm grilled Chicken BLT Salad. (If you take the bacon off it, it looks quite nice.)
I've always liked Harvey's. It was a treat to go there when I was a kid and they're one of the only places with a veggie burger. Now I can have a veggie burger on a whole wheat bun or a grilled chicken sandwich on whole wheat. Is it perfect? No, a whole grain bun would be best because some whole wheat buns aren't that much better than white buns, but for me, it's the little things that matter. Now if someone could just come up with a water that tasted like pop, I'd be a happy girl.

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Who wears short shorts? Who wears fat shorts?

One year ago, I got married in Las Vegas and one year ago, I packed on five to 10 pounds that I've been battling to get off for the past 12 months. Once my wedding was over, I relaxed a little on the strict intake of food and let up a little on the workouts. Why is it so god dang hard to lose five pounds? It's five teeny, tiny pounds. U.S. golden boy Michael Phelps can lose five pounds by breathing, Mr. Buff Pants Barack Obama probably can lose five in one of his six times a week 45-minute workouts and celebrities hire a personal trainer for one day and lose all 37 pregnancy pounds in one workout. But that's not real life is it? Sarah Crosbie is real life and I'm here to tell you that five pounds is freakin' killing me and I'm pretty tight-ass about what I eat - I only eat whole wheat and whole grain products, eat loads of lean protein, stay away from sweets, etc. Yawn. I bore myself thinking about it. That's why I have a new tool in my drop-the-last-five-pounds toolkit: skin-tight running shorts that make my butt look ass-some. They fit, but they show every lump, bump and chunk. I bought them for 50% off when our Reebok store was having a moving sale and I thought they'd look good one day. (Yes, I know you're never supposed to buy something that doesn't fit, but I did.) I wore them to the gym last night and they looked bad. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought "oh gross" but they worked. I worked hard on the stair climber. Then I climbed hills on the treadmill and then I did interval training on the bike. There's a little song Dorey the fish sings in Finding Nemo. When she's scared and she's swimming deeper and deeper into the dark abyss with Marlin, she sings: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming." Yesterday, with my too-tight shorts, I kept singing: "Just keep going, just keep going, just keep going, your shorts are too tight." So, I've made it basically through the Christmas indulgence period and now me and my tight shorts are hitting the gym. Am I going to finally lose those last five pounds? Assolutely.

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Beans, beans the magical fruit. They make you happy, they make you t**t

Every year at The Whig, we hold a Chilifest as a United Way fundraiser.
A few years ago, when I was a single gal living in my own little apartment, I made a massive batch of chili according to my mama's instructions.
It was OK, but no one really ate it. There were really good cooks at work who were making steak chili, pork tenderloin chili and chilies with real chili peppers and authentic seasonings. I tossed in a bunch of extra lean ground beef, some chili powder and green peppers.
Last year was a little worse. The husband and I were in a massive, massive fight so I was ticked off the whole time I was making the chili. In between dumping ingredients into our big pot, I was fighting. During one wicked round of arguing, I left the chili, only to discover that all the kidney beans had stuck to the side of the container and had burnt themselves black.
With no time to make another batch, I had only one option: I had to pick out all sizzled-black kidney beans, one by one. Do you have any idea how long it takes to pick two cans of kidney beans out of a batch of chili. Again, no one at work really ate my chili (even though I threw in pineapple to sassy it up a little).
This year.
Well, what can I say.
It has been a nutty few weeks.
There's work, which takes up a bulk of my life.
Exercise.
Toddler.
Errands and the stuff of life.
Plus, I've been doing a bunch of things for our United Way fundraising.
(We also spent a night this week at the Wiggles. See previous post).
So, it's Thursday night, chili is due the next day, and as a member of the United Way committee, I have to have it done. I have all the ingredients: Lean ground turkey, peppers, onions, chili powder, (pineapple, maybe) and beans.
Except, by the time I got home from work at 6:30, I still had a column to write for work, movie capsules to finish off for the Saturday paper, Halloween stuff to get ready for the next day, and dinner to make.
And, yet, being the superstar mother, wife, baker, cook, leaf-raker woman that I am, I got my pot of chili done and still had time to watch CSI at 9 p.m.
How'd I do it?
I'd like to take this moment to thank Campbell's, maker of wonder soups and Chunky CHILIs. Four cans of chili, plus one can of beef soup to alter the consistency, plus some hand-cut green peppers and I had chili. Which no one ate again. But chili it was. And on time. (Don't tell anyone. My United Way chili committee would be "a-gassed.")

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You give me $50 and I spend $57

I am one of the people on our newspaper's United Way committee. The United Way raises money for numerous different non-profits in our region such as Interval House, which is our shelter for abused women.
To raise money, we've held several different events at The Whig such as a potluck lunch, a putting challenge and a Chilifest. I also did a quiz about people in our building. (I.E. Which person in the newsroom starred in a production at Queen's University that received one out of five stars from the campus paper?) Ah, that would be me. Anyways. I needed a prize to give the winner. Who doesn't love prizes? So, out of the blue, I called Fanatics, a fairly new restaurant in Kingston at the corner of Princess and Barrie streets. It's a sports bar, but nice inside. The booths have their own TVs, there are big screen TVs around the bar and the food is by the legendary Kingston cuisine family, the Days. Clark Days runs Aqua Terra in the Radisson in downtown and makes the best steaks in the city. Also, the restaurant's brunch is a bargoon: Waffles, creme brulee, fish, pasta, roast beef, dessert trays, chicken, bacon, fresh bread, it goes on and on. But that's another story. Anyway. Back to Fanatics. I called Matt Day, who is Clark's son and asked if his restaurant would donate a $10 or $15 gift certificate to be my prize for our United Way quiz.
He said no - no $10 or $15 gift certificate.
Instead, he said he'd give me $50.
This is an important offer. First of all, Fanatics is a fairly new restaurant in a large space in a downtown already inundated with restaurants. To me, it would have been understandable to give me $10. His restaurant is just starting out. Second, he doesn't know me. He really had no reason to help me other than that I said it was in support of the United Way.
So, thank you Matt and Fanatics. Your generosity already paid off.
Tonight, my family and I went to the restaurant and had a chili pizza, two glasses of red wine, bread and spinach and artichoke dip and the kid's pizza - you get unlimited drinks, pizza, pasta, chicken fingers or mini burgers, and an ice cream sundae for $6.99. The thing I love most about this "sports bar" is that they had seven red wines by the glass and we had a delicious shiraz. There are many bars in the city you can get a good red in. And we'll be back. My son loved the TVs. (And the drink menus are attached to hockey pucks, which any hockey-loving toddler will enjoy).
Pay it forward.



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Secret revealed: How to get Sarah to shut up

Door to door, the trip from my front door to my parents' cottage is four and a half hours, which is a long time for adults and a really long time for a two year old.

We bought a DVD player for the car so he can watch Mighty Machines, Finding Nemo and The Wiggles but the DVD viewing will end in a year or two and I will subject him to the Crosbie car fun. We will sing Down By the Bay (Did you ever see a frog sitting on a log? Did you ever see a cat wearing a hat?) and Old MacDonald.

When my brother and I were growing up, and the songs got old, we'd hold competitions, like I Spy with My Little Eye and Count the Road Signs - whoever saw and counted the most won. (The 1988 debate over whether real estate signs count for a point was never amicably resolved.)

But my all-time favourite way to pass the time on the drive to the cottage was my dad's challenge.

"Alright, Sarah, if you can be quiet for the next half an hour, and not say a word, I'll give you a quarter to spend," he'd say with a devilish grin and a twinkle in his eye.

I'd watch the clock tick from 4 p. m. to 4:09 to 4:12 to 4:24 to 4:31.

"I did it!" I'd scream. "I did it! You owe me a quarter! Let's do it again!"

The competitor in me would never lose a challenge and so I'd shut up for the two-hour drive and make myself a buck.

But my son, who's just 24 months old, can't play these silly games yet and so we rely on videos and toys to entertain him on long drives.

Only once, in his two years, have we taken him as a treat to get fast food.

We took him to McDonald's to get chicken nuggets and fries. He loved the nuggets, refused the fries, and ate heaping spoonfuls of our Thai takeout dinner. But he did love the toy. His kids' meal came with a plastic toy bird from the movie Kung Fu Panda.

Growing up, fast food was a treat in my house so I treasured the little plastic knickknacks that came bundled with the kids' meals.

I still have two plastic Fraggles and their little toy cars, a McDonald's Hamburglar in a blue race car and a Kermit the Frog that rides around on a rocking horse that was a promo toy for the animated TV show Muppet Babies.

As we headed west to the cottage on Highway 401, and lunchtime approached, I told my son we'd get something to eat and he'd get a treat.

"A treat! Oh!" he squealed. We stopped at a highway restaurant and I ordered him a kids' meal.

This was a key junction in our trip. I needed him to fill his tummy, get back in the car and then be fascinated with this new toy (as rinkydink as I knew it would be.) It just had to keep him amused long enough so that he'd be happy and eventually drift off to sleep for the final two hours of the trip.

I dumped out the nuggets and pulled out the fries and looked in the bag for the toy.

"Treat! Treat!" he yelled happily. But there was no toy in this kids'

meal. Instead, there was a disc tucked in a cardboard sleeve.

Since when did fast-food restaurants start giving out audiobooks?

"You can enjoy the adventure almost anywhere and anytime! Pop in your Listening Library CD while riding in the car, getting dressed, relaxing at home, or at bedtime," the package read.

"Here you go, sweetie," I said, handing him the square package.

"Where treat?" he asked. Exactly.

Have we really become so technological that we can't give children a toy car? What's next? A coupon for our children to download Mary Had a Little Lamb from iTunes?

(Did you ever see a boy, who didn't want a car toy? Down By the Bay!)
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Sex and the City and refried beans

I remember five years ago when my best friend popped by my apartment for a visit.
I’ve always been messy – (but it’s an organized mess) and I never know where anything is (I would, my husband and my mother tell me, if I’d just put things back in their proper place) - but I’d sunk to a new low.
I’d become a prisoner on my own couch. In a semicircle surrounding me were 10, 15, maybe 20 cans of opened refried beans with a fork stuck in them. Yes, I’d been eating the beans out of the cans. I’d washed the beans back with a case or two of Diet Coke. I’d eaten myself into a corner.
“Oh, Sarah,” my friend said, surprised, shocked, saddened at what my life had become.
A few weeks earlier, my live-in boyfriend had left our “love nest” and me. About half a day later he had a new girlfriend. The one-two punch gutted me. The days that followed were about survival. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Cry. Eat dinner. (The only thing I could eat that didn’t make me throw up was refried beans and Diet Coke.) Cry. Go to sleep.
My friend lovingly scolded me and told me it was time to pick myself up and get outside and do something.
“Yes!” I told her.
“I’m going to go do something!”
After she left my home, I had an epiphany: I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.
I lost myself in that relationship. I did what too many girls do: I made myself all about my relationship and I’d become one-dimensional.
I did really need something to do – but what? When I wasn’t working, I’d been a girlfriend and now that I wasn’t a girlfriend, I had nothing to do when I wasn’t working.
I stood on my apartment balcony and looked out at Kingston. The sky was licorice black that night and the stars were sparkling. And in that night sky, I saw it. I saw a sign. It was a sign from the heavens.
OK, it was actually a sign from Blockbuster.
I lived just a few steps from the downtown video store on Queen Street. It was there I found something to pick myself up. It was there I found four new friends. It was there I found Sex and the City on DVD.
I didn’t get HBO so I’d only seen bits and pieces of the cable show when I was visiting my parents’ house but every time I turned it on there, one of the show’s star’s breasts were on display and I didn’t want my parents to think I was into porn, so I always quickly turned the show off.
Here, in the comfort of my own pigsty, I could watch the sordid adventures/affairs of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte without feeling guilty. In fact, I could watch the episodes over and over and over again.
Soon, my routine changed. For the better. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Watch Sex and the City. Eat dinner. (I started buying my dinners at Blockbuster when I picked up the DVDs – convenient or what? – so I was now on to nacho chips and the bright orange plastic cheese nacho cheese dip and Diet Coke.) Watch Sex and the City. Go to sleep.
Truly, I credit the show for pulling me out of my slump.
These four friends did cool things: Charlotte hung out in art galleries. Miranda ran a marathon. Samantha did yoga. Carrie wrote newspaper columns – for a living.
Like millions of women, I’m dying to reunite with my girls now that Sex and the City: The Movie is in theatres.
Carrie and company always celebrated with Cosmopolitans.
I’ll have a Diet Coke and maybe some nachos.
For old times’ sake.

(This column appeared in the May 31 edition of The Ticket, inside The Kingston Whig-Standard)

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy - Pt. 2

Are you lovin' it?

Here he is! The BF in his full glory.

He's my Mac Daddy, er, Big Mac Daddy, I guess is the correct phrase.
He's no small fry.
I guess I should feel flattered that he's with me: He knows his buns so I guess mine are alright.

What? Don't you see him?
He's the smiling guy; the cute one.

This picture was taken in March, 1975 at McDonald's where the BF worked for six years and worked his way up to assistant manager. (Yes, back in 1975 I wasn't even a sperm yet. I was just a glint in my parents' eyes. I didn't come into this world for another two years.)

And don't tell him I told you but the BF also had a Dodge Monaco back then - and, get this, - he had the words BIG MAC put onto his car by a professional sign company.

If you see the BF around town, ask for a smile.

After all, they're free!

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy

So, my inbox has been bombarded with requests for me to post a picture of the BF.

I've been hesitant until now mostly because he's so HHOOTTT that I fear if you log on to www.sarahcrosbie.com, your computer may, in fact, melt.

But, because there are so many requests, I can no longer ignore the basic concept of supply and demand.

So, tomorrow morning, Tuesday, I will post a pic of the BF.

As Nelly says: It's gettin' hot in here. So take off all your clothes ...

And on Monday: Is it safe to feed your two-month-old Advent calendar chocolate?

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Minos is My God

I'm a stubborn, stubborn girl.
I don't need help, your help. I like doing things on my own.
Usually.

Last week, I went shopping at a Kingston grocery store. I also had Little Man with me.
When I go grocery shopping, I refuse to put my babe in those grimy baby seats attached to the top of the cart.
I know what comes out of my Little Man's bum bum. So, I don't want him sitting anywhere where there have been other mustard poo bums. So I put him in his carseat and put the carseat in the grocery cart and pack all the bacon, Pop Tarts, chocolate milk, Diet Coke, Wheat Thins and blocks of old cheese around him.

The other day, I had so many groceries, Little Man had to hold Fruit Roll-Ups for me.

When it came time to bag the groceries and leave the store, I realized I had so much I'd have to take Little Man out and carry him with one hand, pack the cart full and push it with my other hand, and put the pop, bleach and a jug of juice on the rack under the cart.

So, here I am, on a rainy day leaving the store, pushing the cart with one hand, lugging Little Man in his carrier in the other. And, because the pop, bleach and a jug of juice were rolling off of the bottom rack, I had to use one foot to repeatedly kick them back on the shelf.

Sarah Crosbie, three-ring circus. That's me.

As I said, I'm stubborn. I don't need help, your help.
Usually.

But I did that day.

Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick pop back onto rack so it doesn't fall off.
Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick bleach back onto rack so it doesn't fall off.
Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick the jug of juice onto rack so it doesn't fall off.

One, two, three, four, five people walked by me.
"Please," I thought, "let someone ask if they can push my cart to the car."
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten more people walked by me.
"Please," I thought, "let someone ask if they can carry the bleach that's about to roll off again ..."
No one did.
***
The other night, our family ordered the family pack and an extra small Caesar salad from the downtown Minos takeout restaurant at the corner of Barrie and Queen streets. Sure, we're on mat and pat leave and our budget is tight, but sometimes you just need a break from baking chicken fingers for the kiddies, you know?

So, here I am, Super Sarah Crosbie going to pick up our dinner.
I'd told the BF and the kids to come straight home and me, the hero, would go, with Little Man, and get the dinner.

I've been sick and I wasn't thinking straight and I assumed that a whole roasted chicken, a pound of baby back ribs, a large Greek salad, a large rice, a large potato, a cup of gravy, four buns and two pieces of cheesecake, plus that extra Caesar salad, would fit into two bags.
I'd carry Little Man with one hand and dinner in the other.
I got a sweet parking spot right in front of Minos and ran inside quickly so Little Man didn't get wet in the rain.

When I got inside, the man behind the counter, the man who's always there and I've always suspected is somewhat strict, possibly even surly, put one, two, three, four, five bags on the counter.

Panic set in. There was no way I could carry all of this.

Memories of grocery shopping, memories of needing help, gripped me.

I instantly saw myself as a feature on the six o'clock CKWS TV news.

I had only two options.
Option A: Ask the man if I could leave my two-month old baby with him for a second, seven seconds tops, while I ran the bags of food out to my car. That was the worse of the two options. What if someone ran in and kidnapped him? What if he got burned by baby back ribs? What if someone slipped and fell on him? I'd be on the news and my defence would be, "Well, uh, I left him for only seven seconds."

Option B: Run Little Man out to the car, which was parked right in front of the restaurant, lock the doors, run inside, grab the food and run back out. I could do it in less than seven seconds I was sure. But what if, in those seven seconds, someone punched in my window and stole my baby? I'd be on the news and my defence would be, "Well, uh, I left him for only seven seconds."

I stood there in Minos looking dumbfounded.

"Something wrong?" the man behind the counter asked.

"I'm just going to leave the food here for a second while I run my child to the car," I said.

I was parked close enough that I was literally going to be able to keep an eye on my child and roasted chicken at the same time.

"No!" he said, rather assertively.

With that, he summoned the help of another man there, maybe a delivery driver, maybe a friend, maybe a customer, and the two men grabbed my bags, and carried them out to my car.

All that delicious food, plus a dose of chivalry, plus peace of mind, for just $42.90?

So, to you, Mr. Man Behind The Counter, this Kingston mommy thanks you and I'll be back (with more hands next time.)

SarahCrosbie.com gives the mommy-friendliness of the staff at Minos, 340 Barrie St., four thumbs up (two of mine, two of Little Man's.)

Just one more thing: Man Behind The Counter – where and when do you do your grocery shopping?

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