I recently wrote a column in which I specifically told you all not to send me diet tips. Well, what do you think happened?

That’s right. You immediately sent me diet tips. Lots of them. Even though I could write a book on dieting, I haven’t yet grasped the concept that in order to lose weight, you have to actually diet, not just read about dieting, go to diet club meetings and talk about dieting ad nauseum.

But I don’t blame you. I’m thinking perhaps you channeled my late mother’s spirit, because she always ignored anything I said and just did whatever she wanted anyway. Sort of like my cat, Cairo.

Mom: Marla, honey, do you want a blanket for Christmas?

Me: No, thanks, Mom. I have a million blankets already.

Mom: OK, I’ll send you a blanket. In fact, I’ll spend a lot of money having it handmade just to make you feel guilty about not using it.

So, yes, I’m familiar with this concept. When you’re on as many Facebook pages as I am, you also get used to people giving advice that no one ever wants.

Q: Who can tell me a good Italian restaurant in Newport Beach? I’ll be there on Wednesday.

A: Well, it’s not in Newport Beach, but if you’re ever in Papua, New Guinea, make sure you stop by this place.

Yeah, that’s useful. Thank you so much.

Can you believe it’s already Labor Day? I don’t even know how that happened. It’s like the summer took a handful of uppers one day in June and just sped past when I wasn’t even looking.

In many parts of the country, the passing of Labor Day means we plus-size ladies can joyfully put our bathing suits away and never have to worry about showing that much skin until next June, but of course that’s not the case here in Southern California.

Here, September launches the special bonus season called “locals summer,” when we can go to the beach because it’s still hot but no one’s there. We’re not fighting with the rental cars of people from Kansas for parking places, nor sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic just to catch an ocean breeze.

A hotel room at the beach doesn’t cost $300 a night, and you can actually get a table at that waterfront joint you like, without a fistfight over who was there first with some beefy guy from Milwaukee.

The kids have gone back to school, so you can sit around the hotel pool peacefully, without little a kid accidentally squirting you with his Super Soaker while he was aiming at his brother.

Looking back over the summer, I have to say that not one single person invited me to a pool party, so I never got a chance to wear any of the plus-size swimsuit coverups I bought in some sort of demented spree just before the season commenced.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I should feel sorry for myself about this, because even my very own daughter, who recently rented a house with a pool, never invited me over to use it. That is so wrong, especially when I think about all the money I plunked down on her swim lessons.

This is not a bid for you to email me and invite me to swim in your pool, because I’m certainly not going to be strutting around the patio in my swimsuit at your place unless you’re George Clooney. I would make an exception for George Clooney. Except I think he lives in one of those fancy villas in Lake Como, Italy. Where I’d be willing to go, by the way, if I were invited.

Instead, I put on my ratty, faded swimsuit a couple of times a week and go walk in the pool at my gym, which is good exercise and I also enjoy doing it. There’s no point in wearing a nice suit, because the chlorine fades it, and, sadly, George Clooney has never dropped by, not even once.

I keep thinking about dieting anyway, just in case, but I admit it’s a bit of a long shot.

I have a crush on George Clooney in part because he married a brilliant woman who’s a noted human rights lawyer, which means she’s not just a bimbo. Well, yes, she’s also stunningly beautiful and a fashion icon, but then it’s George Clooney, so he’s unlikely to marry a frumpy mom – not even one as fascinating as me. He doesn’t know what he’s missing, of course, but you never know about people. Maybe he has annoying habits like grinding his teeth. Or hogging the blankets. (I learned years ago to never share a bed with my son, because he wraps himself up tightly in the blankets like a burrito, and you can’t even get a corner to yourself.)

Sometimes even nice celebrities are just spoiled rotten and need people to defer to them and wait on them hand and foot every minute of every day.

I’d be willing to give it a try. But first I think I need a few more dieting tips.

Related links

Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I’m paying money to go hungry
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I must be crazy for going on a diet in the middle of the holiday season
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I might get around to cleaning. Right after this nap.
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: How not to be disappointed
Frumpy Mom: The ABC’s of traveling well with kids

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