Big Blonde Bombshell

Things I dream about

2011-04-21T17:13:00.002-04:00

The beach in South Beach where my sister was married, only with Venice Beach-like stalls lining the street. Sunny, bright, warm, with leagues of shoreline begging to be combed and shells to be collected. I sit in a chaise just feet away from the ocean and type away on my laptop under the shade of a giant umbrella, amazed that I can get wifi so I fire up World of Warcraft.

I dream of the club that I worked at in college. I immediately fall back into the rhythm and bustle and shmoozing. It is so nice to see John, the manager. It's even reassuring to see Steve, his owner/boyfriend and the meanest meth head former marine that ever owned a nightclub, who died of lymphoma in the mid 90s.

What reality is: Late afternoon. 47 degrees with a chance of rain. A small dog tapdancing on my head announcing his need to go out. A raging case of impetigo on my left nostril. Figuring out how I'm going to juggle and pay for grad school when I'm working part time, on thirds, in this God-foresaken economy. And an iPod shaped indentation on my lower back.

I am the disposable girl.

2011-01-24T19:53:00.002-05:00

No one calls. A few rarely email.

No one outside of my immediate family cares how I am doing, how I feel, or what I need.

I could be dead on the floor with my face eaten away by the dog and no one would notice for weeks - until I didn't show up for work for a few days, then maybe they'd send the police to do a welfare check.

"Online" friends are a joke. I'm just another number on a facebook page or another name on myspace. Stroke the ego. Watch the numbers go up. Fuck that, and fuck you.

I can count the number of people who care for me on one hand. Literally.

The only thing keeping me from ending it all is my parents and my sisters. I love them too much to destroy their lives, which is what my death, accidental or not, would do.

I used to be the girl that GAVE the parties. Now I don't even get invitations to parties.

Everyone has their own life, and I'm not a part of it.

So I'm moving on with mine.

Alone.

2010-11-28T08:16:00.001-05:00

I hate you. I hate you to the extent that punching you in the face with impunity would not make me feel better.

I want to curbstomp you. Twice. Maybe a third time, for good luck.

Then, I want to pick you up by your ankles and swing your body like a bat against a telephone pole until your head separates from your neck.

I will then ship your head to a country where they still practice cannibalism.

Then, I want to jump up and down on your body until your bones crumble and turn to powder, forming into a sludge when mixing with your blood.

I will then hang you by the ankles and collect the runoff into a bucket, take it to an aquarium, and dump it in a shark tank.

Then, I will patch up any holes (natural or otherwise made) with a durable yet flexible resin.

I will then inflate the husk made by your skin with helium, tie it off at the neck, and marvel at the amazingly lifelike balloon I've created.

Then, I will let the balloon go, and giggle with abandon as it sails upwards, past the buildings, over the trees, into the clouds and out of sight.

I will then keep an eye on my watch, and know that about 20 minutes into your ascent, the pressure inside the husk will be greater than the pressure outside the husk, and the husk will expand and explode.

Then, I will sit back and smile, knowing that whatever is left of you is now hurtling towards the Earth, burning on the friction of re-entry.

I will smile when I hear reports of a large and unexpected meteor shower of unknown origin, and how breathtaking it was.

I hate you that much.

I am a bad person

2010-11-12T20:40:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine since middle school grew up to get married and become a doctor. Unfortunately, her husband had a genetic illness which cut his life short. Now she's a widow and not even 40 yet.

Today was the 2nd anniversary of his death, and she stated, "I don't know how I'm going to get through the next 50 years without him."

Well, fuck me. I've made it through 38 years without anyone, and I'll probably have another 38 more of this same shit different day existence. Wake up alone, go to bed alone. If it's not a workday, speak to maybe a family member on the phone or a mumbled pleasantry to the cashier at the end of the grocery line.

I don't know how I'm going to do it either. I just do it. And I'm angry and resentful and I cry ~~a lot~~ sometimes and I've become really, really good at WoW PvP and I now know more about that stupid game and it's development and lore than the hardiest lore nerds/fanboys.

I really wanted to tell her, "Be glad you had someone to call yours and yours alone, even if it was for a few short years. It's better than a lifetime of feeling you were never good enough*, that something about you was fundamentally broken or flawed and no one will tell you what it is." But that would make me an insensitive jerk and bad friend.

So I keep moving forward, until that option is taken away from me. I just hope I don't have to wait another 38 years.

(*never good enough includes being being passed over for a woman 15 years my senior with 2 kids, and a woman who wound up dying from a drug problem. What on EARTH is wrong with me that either of those options seemed more appealing to the guys I was interested in at the time? Fuck.)

Back to not caring

2010-10-23T11:17:00.001-04:00

Sigh.

Thoughts on coming home to toilet paper in my trees

2010-09-26T10:27:00.004-04:00

1. D for effort. You did get some nice height in the silver maple, but totally skipped the apple tree. Minimal effort expended on the oak.

2. Thanks for the free material to pick up dog poop with, I guess.

3. The wrapping came from a dollar store. If your household products are obtained by making a special trip to the dollar store, it's probably not in your best fiduciary interest to be dispersing said household products willy-nilly throughout the neighborhood.

4. The wrapper was for a 12 pack. Where are the other 10 rolls? A mystery for the ages....

5. The duct tape you strung to cross the street between the telephone pole on the opposite corner to my corner? Thank you for using the stop sign instead of my fence to anchor it. I do not condone this, however, as this is a misuse of duct tape. Duct tape is a versatile and valuable commodity. You are disrespecting it by using it as a TP substitute.

6. The candy-stripe effect you tried on one fence rail out of over 2 dozen fell short. B+ for idea, D- for execution and effort.

7. It's not Halloween yet.

8. Welp, at least it's not spray paint or the remnants of a car crashing through it.

9. Or the boards yanked off, and the finials unscrewed. A bit of Gorilla Glue is keeping *that* from ever happening again, isn't it, you little bastards. It was suggested to me by more than one person that applying paint laced with ground glass shards to the finials would be "overreacting". You call it "overreacting", I call it, "teaching a valuable and memorable life lesson to not touch things that don't belong to you, especially if you are doing it with the intent to fuck around."

10. I am fortunate to live in a neighborhood where the worst thing that happens to my property is once in a blue moon, some TP winds up in the trees.

Dear people who stumble across this blog,

2010-09-25T21:33:00.005-04:00

I would like your opinion.

Have you ever had a horrible job that you were reluctant to/slow to leave?

I'm talking about the kind of work situation that thinking about it made you feel physically ill.

You dreaded going to it and hated being at it because your coworkers were hostile morons that acted unprofessionally, management was only slightly more competent than a cageful of monkeys having a poo-flinging contest, your job and/or professional licensure was at threat of being put on the line every time you stepped foot in the door, yet you hung on to this job anyway and kept putting off job hunting because... well, you just didn't know why, at the time.

Why were you reluctant to leave? What kept you there?

How did you arrive at the decision to leave?

If you are one of those people that don't let "little" things like what I've described above bother you, and can work under ANY circumstance, despite how psychologically taxing it is, what are your tricks?

This was a situation I've dealt with myself in the recent past, a friend is going through it now, and I'd like more insight into this matter. Thank you for your time.

Oh hey look, a post.

2010-09-20T08:52:00.004-04:00

I think I may have finally come up with a reason I can accept as valid to lose weight.

To look good? Fuck it, I'll still be ugly even if I lose weight.

To be healthy/live longer? Whatever.

To find a husband/boyfriend/significant other? Yeah, right. You can only stick a fork in the light socket so many times before you have to admit you are not an electrician.

The reason that may just be The Reason popped into my head last night while waking up for work and listening to "Ghost to Ghost AM" from Halloween 2006 on my ipod.

I do not want to be a ghost standing by the side of my coffin watching my mother grieve my death.

Photographs from the weekend

2008-10-21T11:06:00.004-04:00

The world famous pumpkin surgeon had his assistant (Mom) make the first cut and is now removing the seedy growths from the patient's body cavity.

...pour yourself over me, like the sun, through the blinds...

(I realized after posting this, the line that song is from is "Cuts you up". Unintentional pun! It's a beautiful song. See the video here.)

"I care not for the burdens and worries of your hu-mon world. I will be on the deck, meditating."

Creepy, but not the Halloween kind of creepy.

2008-10-20T19:53:00.002-04:00

or, The More You Know (insert TMYK musical flourish here)

Have you ever heard of something so weird or gross that strikes you in a way where you cannot get it out of your head and think about it all day?

I present to you, Macewen's Sign (definition courtesy of the internet, layman's terms in parenthesis mine):

Macewen's sign is a sign used to help to diagnose hydrocephalus (accumulation of excess cerebrospinal fluid) and brain abscesses (layman's terms: the pressure is increasing in your skull and you are going to die soon if something is not done). Tapping the skull near the junction of the frontal, temporal and parietal bones will produce a stronger resonant sound when either hydrocephalus or a brain abscess are present (layman's terms: damn, baby, you resonating!).

Aaaaaand, from a dear friend that is a Nurse of 35 years and a pediatric Nurse Practioner also, who brought the topic up in the first place - in kids, their skull plates are not fused until they are ~5 years old. As their skulls swell, you can hear the sutures cracking apart.

You're welcome for telling you that. We share things like that. We do.

Macewens also called the cracked pot sign, from which we get the term "crackpot".

And today's entry was going to be so full of fall fun and photos, too...

2008-10-19T13:33:00.003-04:00

Well, I done fucked up again. And this time, I'm not the one paying, unfortunately.

I will answer the question before you even ask it.

Q: "It's a fish, why are you getting so worked up over a fucking fish, anyway?"

A: I took him on as my responsibility 5 and a half years ago. He was my little fish buddy. He had a smiley face in the spot pattern on his stomach. He made me happy. And he died because I was so goddamn lazy, he wound up being neglected and starved to death, and I had to do the humane thing and euthanize him with clove oil and vodka.

And? That method? Is not nearly as peaceful when it's an 11" fish covered in spines trying to not go gentle into that good night. It was thrashy and horrible and I had to fight to keep myself from scooping him back up and throwing him back into the tank. He had so much fight left in him... he fought so hard... I looked online and could not find any information about saving one once it had started starving... I held him in one hand and floated flakes into his mouth with the other and encouraged him when he sucked them in and his bony parts were so scraped looking ... he was so starved and in pain and it was my fault and I'm crying again shit shit fuck fuck fuck.

After he stopped thrashing, I told him I was so, so, very sorry and that I would hate me also, for doing this to him. I killed him slowly by starving him; I was now killing him quickly to make him feel better.

Punk was my leopard pleco. I only have three goldfish in my tank now, two of which were Juno's, one of which is the last of my original setup from five years ago (common mistake, apparently, putting big piggy ammonia-producing cold water fish who could live in nuclear waste in with little delicate fish who like it warm and the pH and whatnot just so).

Euthanizing him seemed like the right thing to do. I'm sorry if you disagree with me. I'm sorry, period. I let my little fish buddy down.

After I got done sitting on the floor in front of the fish tank crying so hard I almost puked, I tried to pull it together and think about what I could learn from this.

I had to kill him to stop his pain, which was MY fault.

Why was it my fault? Because I was lazy. I was too lazy to set the thermostat properly, because, hey, I'm doing things the way I've been doing them for the last 5.5 years, and everything is ok, right? I was too lazy to give him the correct food/extra food to make up for the additional piggy fish I put in his tank a few months ago, so nothing sinks to the bottom, or what does, he didn't get enough of. Algae wafers? Why does he need these? Goldfish flakes have been good enough for him for the last 3 years.

I've been so busy with school and sitting on my ass doing nothing of importance, I hadn't even noticed he hadn't been hanging around on the walls of the tank.

I then realized that being lazy was the root of all my problems. I just don't work hard enough. I figure "good enough for now" is, good enough.

"Good enough for now" is why I haven't made more progress in weight loss. It's why there is usually a pile of laundry on the bathroom/bedroom/basement floor (or all 3, if I'm really being a douchebag about things). It's why I constantly feel behind at school and why I'm not pulling as good of grades as I should, and why I'm enjoying torturing myself by telling me I'm going to fail this semester and won't be able to graduate until December 09, instead of 6.5 months from now. It's why I don't visit my family as often as I should, and why I rarely go out to meet with friends anymore. We talk on the phone or online and we all know how we feel about each other, and that should be "good enough for now".

"Good enough for now" is why my pet suffered and had to be euthanized.

Maybe I should stop with the head games and trying to guilt myself into doing the bare minimum so I can get by and call it "done!", and actually DO what I am capable of, instead of being lazy.

I buried Punk in the front circle, under some of those groundspready flower things that I'm too upset to remember the name of now, right above the vaguely heart-shaped border rock.

I'm angry and sad and disappointed in myself. I don't know what else to say, except I think I've finally had the "I get it" moment I've been looking for my entire life.

Fall off the wagon 7 times, get on 8...

2008-10-12T09:30:00.004-04:00

... fall off again, say "fuck it" and whip out the cell phone to call a cab because who needs a friggin' wagon, anyway?

Summer was supposed to be a happy fun time of puttering around the house and exercising and studying for the fall classes and eating healthy and going out and meeting people and having fun.

I did well for the first part of the summer. I did not have my snout firmly planted in an ice cream container, I was walking 2.5 miles per night (I know! Me! Exercising, on a regular basis!), I ~~stalked~~ tracked down my former BFF on myspace and reconciled with her, I put up a profile on a dating site and was a busy little bee over IM and the phone, had not one, not two, but THREE dates in four days.

And then as things are wont to do because I can never get out of my own damn way, everything came undone.

As per usual, the thing that made the whole precarious "eating right and exercising and feeling like a normal person 'should'" house of cards flutter to the ground with a crashing thud, I wound up taking rejecting others/being rejected wayyyyyyy too personally.

I can pinpoint the exact day - July 2nd. I got all insomniac/hypersomnolent. I stopped eating right. I stopped exercising. I stopped wanting to go out for a walk around the lake at night. I stopped leaving the house and/or talking to anyone in any form for days at a time.

And here's the part where I say "and all I did was eat and gain weight and now here I am again, oh poor me", right?

No. Surprise!

Strangely enough, I didn't go crazy with the food. I just kind of weird about it. Instead of eating regular all day then inhaling pints of ice cream at night, I'd eat nothing but ice cream for days at a time.

And I've managed to stay in the same 10 pound weight range the entire time. So, I dunno.

Moral to the story, obviously, is being a recluse burns a lot of calories so it's ok to eat whatever, as long as you don't interact with other people in any way, shape, or form. Interaction with others is what makes the calories stick.

I kind of wish I had stuck the proverbial firecracker up my ass this summer and gotten my thoughts down because I honestly don't know what I was thinking during that time. It's all kind of blurry and sugary and empty feeling.

Now that school has started again, I'm now back on the path to relative normalcy.

And since I don't have a good ending for this, enjoy a photo of the fall colors:

Getting ready for Thursday

2008-02-10T16:47:00.001-05:00

The winter of my discontent. Or something.

2008-01-14T09:38:00.000-05:00

Nothing to report here, other than a general malaise, weight gain, and feeling more disconnected than ever from people.

Juno has her head so firmly wedged up her ass that I wonder if the three of us will ever feel like sisters again.

My nephew has started introducing me to people as "This is Aunt Thora, she has a big belly because she eats too much" (sweet merciful fuck just shoot me now...)

My Dad (for some reason) is on a "I was friends with my parents" kick... I have no idea why he keeps bringing that up. We were trained early on to NOT bring our personal problems to you... why are you interested in them now? The last time I tried discussing my private life with you (late winter 1999), you wound up screaming at me and telling me I had the emotional maturity of a 14 year old. So.... I adopted a don't ask/don't tell policy on the matter.

Bitchcakes and one other member of the bitch brigade passed the first semester (one did not, but she was really more of a bitch by association and I didn't have any issue with her, other than her choice of friends).

The other member of the bitch brigade is a member of my small group for this semester. This is not Bitchcakes, rather her tall pointy nosed friend who would give the disapproving stare at my midsection when she thought I wasn't looking. Imagine my happiness when it was announced that Bitch2 would be attending MY (heh) small group....

Our first small group session was spent playing "get to know you" with the instructor. He interviewed us in front of each other, and the answers Bitch2 gave me insight into her makeup.

Her undergrad degree is in physical education. Ah-ha. That explains the stink-eye in re my Big Belly Because I Eat Too Much.

But the real thing that made me go "huh?" regarding her - in a break, the group was discussing game recipes (duck, goose, venison, etc), and me being the "roughing it is having no in-room jacuzzi or mini-fridge" type, asked where one could get venison, because the few times I've had it, it was awesome and I felt incredibly guilty about eating someone else's hard-won venison jerky. Her response: "You have to shoot it yourself or know someone that has some. My husband and I got five deer last season; I can give you some steaks and a roast if you want."

What. The. Hell.

I don't know which I'm more shocked about - the fact that princess has her own rifle and knows how to use it, or the fact that she is being NICE after all previous signs had pointed to "this woman looks down on me something fierce".

So that is 2008 thus far. People that I thought hated me are offering me steak and my beloved sister is acting like she's been replaced by a pod person.

If these are any indicators of the year to be, it's going to quite the through-the-looking-glass experience.

Welp, the driveway is plowed, but I'm still sitting here...

2008-01-04T10:47:00.001-05:00

But if I weren't sitting here procrastinating, I wouldn't be able to share this with you.

From http://www.thesneeze.com/mt-archives/cat_dr_michael.php

"The following is the first of five Ask Dr. Michael installments to come. All the questions were sent in by readers, and the answers were transcribed verbatim from 8-year-old Michael...

Dear Dr. Michael,

I had made a blind date with a girl who was very nice on the phone, but then I found out she was fat and now I'm having second thoughts. Is this wrong? What should I do?

--Skinny and Scared

Dear Skinny,

I think you should cut off the date if you called her and you didn't know what she looked like. What you should do is buy a present for her and you say you're going to break the date and then if she doesn't understand you just keep talking and talking until she understands. Maybe you can get her a makeup kit, or something like that?

Tell her "Please, I just don't want to go out with you. I don't think this is right. I didn't know what you look like." But don't say you know she's fat. If she gets tough you'll have to say she's fat. If she gets mad and breaks the date then you won't have to even give her the present.

If you're just going out to lunch, that's not a date and you can do that. But some people might think it's weird that somebody that's so fat is with somebody so skinny. I wouldn't want you to be made fun of.

A fat woman and a skinny boy, that's weird! You might get hurt and she would too.

--Dr. Michael"

So tactful, yet so young.

I am taking this latest snowstorm waaaay too personally...

2008-01-03T11:51:00.000-05:00

-or-

How my strange little mind works.

The six inches of snow on NYE was followed by an additional eight on top of it over the last few days. I wasn't feeling well on the first (what fun is throwing up in the sink without a good party to precipitate it?), so when the neighborhood tween shovel brigade came knocking, I pulled the pillow over my head, rolled over in bed with a groan, and ignored them.

Where, I ask you, are the little fuckers with the shovels TODAY?

I'm on day 4 of being snow-locked in my house. And by snow-locked, I mean "too damn lazy to get dressed, get the shovel out of the garage, and chisel away at the knee-deep iceberg at the end of the driveway (thank you, county road commission. You are nothing if not really friggin' thorough).

So, here's where "taking things too personally" comes in.

I am on the verge of tears. Literally.

Why?

I cannot get anyone to come out and plow my driveway.* They all have excuses about how much they'd like to, but they are soooo busy and their solenoid on the plow broke and the garage door is broken and I'm out of town, but yeah, I sure wish I could get over there. We'll do it another time, k? I swear. And don't get me started on the meddling bitch who plays like she's with the phone company and tells me in a pre-recorded mechanical tone that the number is being checked for trouble. Must be a jealous ex or something.

Somehow my brain is parsing "cannot get snow plow guy because they have legitimate reasons for not being to come over right away" as equaling "I like you, but not in that way", which equals "I'd like you, if you weren't fat." So, in short, my mind is making the jump from "Snowplow driver not found: Abort, Retry, Ignore?**" to "no one wants to come plow my driveway because of the way I look."

This is how my mind works, people. I only wish I could make shit like this up.

Seriously. As I clacked the phone shut for the sixth time, I instantaneously queued up my collective ~~rants~~ works about how unfair life is when you aren't thin and gorgeous and was ready to get myself worked into a lather when I realized wait a minute, none of them had any idea of what I looked like. I don't have a "fat" voice. They couldn't tell if I was married or not, or the color of my hair, or what I was wearing. They just couldn't materialize out of thin air because the world does not work like that.

And I know some of you are thinking, "ARGGHSADLKFJLS another fat girl that hasn't yet made the connection between activity and weight loss, nor has she realized that in the time it took her to type this up and provide the world with a stunning example of just how fucking neurotic she really is, she could have put a dent in the ice palace."

Trust me guys, I get it. I just choose to find humor in it first and then bitch about it ad nauseum. I don't get out much. This is my entertainment.

Maybe if/when I manage to find a snowplow driver and ask really nicely, he'll bring me fixin's for nachos. That would kill two birds with one stone.

*(50' long @ 14" with a 4' patch of knee-high icy snow blocks on the end, water weighs 8 pounds per gallon, there are x snowflakes in a gallon, snowflakes weigh y, solve for x first... that equals A LOT OF HEAVY FUCKING SNOW that needs to be moved). It would be no work at all for someone with the proper equipment. But for little old me? With a shovel? In this (lack of) heat? Fuck that.

** Abort option runs cellphone.exe, Retry option invokes yellowpages.dll, Ignore option defaults to The Internet. Computer jokes. Am huge nerd. Hurr.

Sometimes it's nice when The Universe makes a decision for you

2007-12-31T09:46:00.000-05:00

After much sulking and agonizing about having neither a date nor a party to go to and "I should/not go out by myself", I am much relieved to see that there is 6" of snow forecasted for overnight.

Fuck that noise; I'm staying home.

I hope you all have a safe and happy New Year filled with everything your lil' hearts desire.

PS to The Universe - If you could somehow re-hook me up with the connection for that fat quarter sack that fell through a few days ago, that would be ace.

This post brought to you by a 1.5L bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream and The Pogues*

2007-12-24T23:19:00.000-05:00

Instead of posting a long drunken rant about how much I dislike the American holiday season, allow me to share the lyrics to my favorite Christmas song with you (yes, I know, blogs that post lyrics usually suck balls; however, this is, as far as I know, the only Christmas song to contain the word "slut" in the lyrics. And, it's about disillusioned junkies. Break out the eggnog and sing along!):

Fairytale of New York - The Pogues/Kirsty MacColl

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas day

Wanna see my Christmas tree? I didn't feel like dragging the 7' monster out of the basement and dragging furniture to all rooms of the house to make room for it, so here is my wee table tree and dollar store creche (which was given to me by my favorite-ex-coworker. The creche, not the tree. My mom bought the tree :D):

And a closeup of my oh-so-clever tree topper that is actually an ornament:

Yes, I've been naughty. Said naughtiness includes sex dreams about Glen Beck and drunk IMing "Dr Either Shy or Just Not That Interested, Probably A Mix of Both" and Future Lawyer Guy (whoa time warp, where are we, late 2006?) Spank me, I must be taught a lesson!**

Happy Holidays, everyone. Love ya.

*I'm as Irish as lasagna so I don't know what it is with the "Irish music and liqueur for Christmas" theme I've got going on. I do know, however, that Bailey's is nothing less than liquid angel kisses imported from Ireland in a bottle. And I really should stop drinking and guzzle some water and advil so I don't wake up tomorrow begging for death (at least, not begging for death any more than I usually do).

**This is why when things are kaput, I take someone's number out of my phone, immediately. I'm a busy girl, I don't have the time (patience, balls) to deal with drunk-dialing fallout.

PS: I am an idiot; I have Yahoo Messenger installed again. Yay, fit of pique! If you would like to add me, drop me a comment with your SN - I won't publish the comment and I'll send you an add message.

I no longer have Yahoo Messenger on my computer

2007-12-19T13:24:00.000-05:00

and I haven't had AOL IM since the 90s. So if you want to get in touch with me, it'll have to be the old fashioned way :P

Bits n' pieces

2007-12-16T23:42:00.000-05:00

At last study group, I mentioned to the group my run-ins with the crazy lady full of helpful suggestions. Ruby, a 5'0" girl in her early 20s remarked "Oh my God, that is horrible... I would have cried!" and went on and on with different versions of that sentiment until...

"Would you cry if someone called you short?"

She paused and gave me a strange look. "No..."

"Well there you go. It's just a descriptive word" (that you're going to need to become accustomed to dealing with in the next 10 years or so, judging by the current size of your butt, just sayin'.)

+

OH CRAP I HATE SNOW I HATE IT SO MUCH

Using the highly scientific method of sticking a broom handle in the snow in the driveway and then using my fist and thumb to measure* the snow stuck to the broom, we got at least 7 inches of snow yesterday.

I religiously checked the weather channel for any sign that a heat wave was on its way, so shoveling out the driveway would be an utter waste of my precious vacation time, but no such luck.

Fuck shoveling. Seriously. Legs are stronger than arms, yes? Why doesn't anyone invent a snow moving thing that is leg operated? (Leg shovels, the wave of the future. You saw it here first and I'm claiming copyright, trademark, and whatever else it takes, bitches, so if you came across this by googling leg shovels or whatnot, sorry, you are too late.)

I managed to get enough of the driveway passable by turning snow removal into an exercise/dance kind of thing. I waited until it was dark out (so there was less chance of the neighbors/traffic going by spotting me and wondering what the strange girl was up to this time), put on my ipod, and turned the snow into a workout by abducting/adducting snow to the side, shuffling through the 14" deep mess at the end of the driveway (that shit is heavy when it gets that deep. Thank you, Mr. Plow), and walking up and down for 20-some minutes, mashing and fluffing and moving the snow out of the way so I'd be able to get the car out of the carport.

I then came in and had some tasty tasty vicodin (I deserve a reward, yes?) and a glass or three of diet cranberry ginger ale. It's made by Canada Dry, and seriously, this stuff is delicious.

+

This person has obviously been snowed in their house too long:

+

I'm on vacation until January and I feel positively decadent. My to-do list consists of coloring my hair, doing laundry, and working on hobbies. I considered looking for a part time holiday job, but the economy is utter shit right now in this part of the country and I should save the jobs for someone who really needs them... right? I sound like a dick no matter how that last statement is interpreted so let's move on.

+

It's taking discipline, but I am NOT stepping on the scale until PMS and the rest of it is over and done with. I do not need to see a 9 pound weight gain overnight. It's demoralizing, regardless that it is NOT PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE to gain that much weight overnight when you are eating ~2000 calories per day (yes, I am so fat that the recommended calorie thing for active women/average men is what I consume and I'm losing weight.) Weight updates to come in a few days. Maybe. Probably?

=fin=

* Fist = 4 inches, "Thumbs up" fist = 6 inches, Thumbs up with pinky extended = 8 inches.

Smug

2007-12-07T17:00:00.000-05:00

(Sorry that this is kind of unpolished, my carpal tunnel is being a bitch today and it's hard to type with numb fingers.)

Today I took a standardized test required by my program of study. It was done on computer in one of the labs. It just so happened that bitchcakes from yesterday was there. As she walked in the room, I made a point to stare at her when she walked in, and gave her a "your ass is mine, bitch" look as her eyes met mine. She quickly looked away and sat down. Ha.

A few key points to fully appreciate why I'm so friggin' smug right now:

This test counted as 10% of our grade.
This course is the make-or-break for the program. If you get lower than an 80% on your exam averages or your final grade, you cannot continue, nor can you reapply. Once you are out, you are out.
I got a 97% on this test.

Bitchcakes was the first one to finish. I tried to gauge her reaction to her score as she spoke with the instructor, but was unsuccessful.

I was the third one to finish. I printed off my verification page and presented it to the teacher. She then wrote it down on a class list. I turned to go back to my seat to get my pur OOOH WAIT A MINUTE, grades on a class list that the teacher is rather nonchalant about keeping confidental right there on the desk?? I cannot pass this opportunity up.

I turned and went back to the instructor's table and made up a question about something or another while my eyes quickly scanned the list. It was rather easy to find, as bitchcake's last name is near the top of the alphabet and there were only three people that had finished. When I laid eyes on her score it was all I could do to keep from giggling and jumping up and down with glee. Her score?

73%

Choke on that, you fucking bitch. Nothing would make me happier than not seeing your stupid ass in class next semester.

If I got a 97 and you got a 73, this makes me 24% better than you.
How ya like me now?

What really makes me happy about this is imagining the suffering she's going through, the uncertainty she's feeling about her future in this program. Because that's exactly what I've been doing, as I'm a big neurotic mess and even though my average is somewhere in the 80s, I worry about having an "off" day and sending everything to shit.

73%. Brilliant job, you fucking cunt. I hope you do just as well on the final.

Bright ideas, or lack thereof

2007-12-06T12:32:00.001-05:00

I'm starting to think that it's a really good idea to permit the killing of people that "deserve" it*.

I'm not only talking about p*dophiles, people that are mean to puppies, or the dicksmack that cuts you off in traffic, I'm talking about oh, say, the 21 year old C-U-Next-Tuesday in your Thursday 8am class who thinks it will be cute to stand behind you in line and sing quietly to her equally cunty, homely, pinch-faced, beaky-nosed friend, "Fat bottom girls, you make the rockin' world go round."

Yeah. She went there. Totally unprovoked. I've never said one thing to her. I suppose I can take small comfort that she's the type who has something bitchy to say about anyone (I've sat next to her, I've heard it) when she's with the other member of the bitch brigade because for some reason she's so damn insecure she needs to feel she's being superior and "cool".

Anyway, I digress. How would my master plan for enhanced Darwinism work?

You get to determine what entails "deserve".
The accused is brought to trial
Both sides present their case
After a short jury trial of peers
If said asshole is found guilty, complainant is then entitled to kill defendant with complainant's bare hands. Or wail on them until complainant gets it all out of their system. Whichever works, I'm pretty liberal on the issue.

But seriously. I know living well is the best revenge, I'm down 36 pounds, I have an awesome family, a handful of people who enjoy reading what I write, and a dog who thinks I'm the most awesome thing since Beggin' Strips, etc. But still...

I WANT REVENGE

Taking a pocket knife and carving up the paint job on her car like a friggin' Halloween pumpkin would satisfy me on a visceral, primal level. Dropping a piece of chewed gum in the hood of her coat sounds pretty immature and satisfying, also. Or, if I really feel like going the extra mile, I'll save the remnants from flossing my teeth for a week and slip that into her coat pocket. (I think that may be too gross, even for me.)

I know where she lives. That phone and address list the teacher handed out at the beginning of the year sure could come in handy**....

So. Talk me out of it. Help me big the bigger (Gah! NO PUN INTENDED) person. Tell me how you dealt with a similar situation.

Or, if you have any brilliant ideas for bringin' the smack down middle-school style, feel free to share those also.

* Yes, I realize it works both ways.
**Yes, I realize it works both ways.

ETA: I am at my lowest weight of the last ~7 years. Why is it that NOW I'm getting all the "helpful" suggestions and weight-related jabs? Seriously. What the fuck, people? At 40 pounds ago did I appear irredeemable, at a point where words would not "help"? Do I now look like there just might be hope for me and I just need a little "help" from you as a catalyst? Fuck me running. I don't understand this at all.

Too aggravated to think of a title right now

2007-12-04T14:07:00.001-05:00

Today fucking SUCKED. Suckage occurred on par with the sucking that occurred the first day of class where - you may remember - I had a total meltdown and ran into the bathroom to cry, overtranq'd myself on Xanax, then dozed through the rest of the very first class of my life-overhauling career-changing life.

Today started sucking yesterday. I got into bed, nice and tired at 9 pm, and fell asleep around 930. I was woken at quarter to 11, by the sound of precariously placed craft materials losing their balance and toppling over, landing on the floor with a huge clangity thunk. I couldn't fall back to sleep, so this means I got up for today, the LAST day of one of my classes, at 11 pm last night.

I'm tired, I'm foggy, I'm not making the best of decisions. Not to mention I got accused of doing something that DID NOT happen, of doing something that I DID NOT DO, which presses, nay, mashes my buttons. Tears and much drama ensued. Oh, how I do enjoy being fodder for the class gossip mill! Hmph.

Final evaluations for this particular course were today, which was the ICING on the friggin' cake.

Verbatim quote from my instructor:

"You're a nice person, you just don't come across like one."

Well... okaaaay... You're the instructor. But if you had asked me for a bit of brutally honest self-criticism, I would have said I was a not nice person, and I come across like a big fat phony when I try to emulate the set of behaviors you humans call "nice".

And, she said I seem to be very angry. Go figure.

Speaking of not-nice, I saw my friend in the library today. She didn't say anything, which totally disappointed me. I had $20 on a rude comment trifecta.

Speaking of stupidities where fat is involved, there was a last-day-of-class lunch today. One of the people who I didn't have many dealings with who is maybe a size 18/20 at most said, while waiting in the buffet line,

"Oh, it all looks great! (scoff...) Like I need it."

Listen, lady. Eat. Don't eat. I don't fucking care either way and I don't think the majority of the people in the room do, either. Just don't stand there holding up the line while you wax philosophical and rend your garment and gnash your teeth to do penance in advance for (gasp) EATING TASTY FOOD AT LUNCHTIME LIKE FORTY OTHER PEOPLE IN THE ROOM ARE DOING. Really. The crab salad is fine the way it is, we don't need bits from your hair shirt falling in it.

So... yeah.

Anyone have any tips on how I can "come across as a nice person"? Are you a "sweet" person? Explain to me your secret! Type slowly, use small words, get out the sock puppets if need be. Hell, charge me for lessons! Because honestly, I thought I was giving a pretty good "underneath this fat, quiet exterior, I really am a ray of fucking vitamin-D producing sunshine" performance these last 12 weeks. I need to figure out this "how to get people to like you" shit. I have no idea what I'm doing wrong, other than being a cheery extrovert is the polar opposite of my personality.

If you don't have any tips on that, perhaps you know how to make whipped cream cheese? I really like whipped cream cheese, only I want to use Neufchatel instead and blend in flavored stuff so I have like, a 50/50 mix. I'm guessing I need to melt it first?

Tales from the library, part 2

2007-11-29T12:58:00.000-05:00

My friend from the other day was there again. As I walked past her, she said to herself "That one is TOO big!" She's obviously nuts, so I'm not going to get upset about it.

The stupidest thing I heard today came from a young guy talking to three girls:
"So, if vegetarians don't eat eggs, do they add, like, lentils to their meat for extra protein?"

I have a treadmill at home now. It was my parent's, who gave it to Juno, who let it sit in her garage for over a year without touching it. (And who asked for it when they said they didn't want it anymore? That's right, me. Oy.)

It kind of works... I'm going to clean it and spray some WD40 around to see if I can get it up and running (no pun intended).

I have plans for December. Weight loss plans. Yes, I'm serious. No really. I mean it this time. Stop giving me that look.

I'm still uh-live

2007-11-23T16:03:00.001-05:00

I kinda sorta forgot about writing that last post. I had vague memories of being at the keyboard but didn't think anything of it...until I checked email. Nothing like having a good, old fashioned hissyfit while drunk and then TELLING THE WORLD about it.

If I were to tell it now, I would paint myself as a silver-screen heroine, with the heavy eye makeup and dark lipstick, wearing a long white satin robe with the froufrou around the edges, taking a long last drink from the glass, hurling it into the fireplace, then slumping across a fainting couch to weep.

The reality of the situation was me sitting in the recliner, finishing off the last of the wine, realizing I'm too drunk to drive to get more, then having a dating site commercial come on and yelling, "Oh, fuck off", throwing the wine glass at the TV, then turning off the TV and stomping to the computer room to attempt to play Literati*.

The first scenario is much more dramatic and romantic than what actually happened, so let's pretend the film noir Hollywood scenario ensued instead, ok?

Tales of Thanksgiving ribaldry coming soon.

And thank you for the emails, you guys rock.

*Why I insist on attempting to play Literati while drunk is beyond me. My score WAS 1850 before this particular incident.

I don't think the zoloft/xanax/lunesta combination is working very well anymore

2007-11-22T01:31:00.000-05:00

So I'm drinking sangria. And I have the above drugs in my system. I'm out of wine and feeling a little miffed about it.

A commercial for either match.com or eharmony.com comes on and I snap, throwing the wine glass at the tv, shattering the wine glass into a million pieces.

I am so tired of being alive...

for so many reasons...

Punching out little old ladies is bad, yes?

2007-11-20T13:24:00.000-05:00

We met at school today for group work. The 8 of us were assigned to work together by the instructor. 4 of us are fat, 4 of us are thin. The fat people always sit on one side of the table, the thin on the other. I just noticed this today.

I was walking through the common area of the library back to the private study room we had reserved when a small frail lady of about 97 said, "Hey, come here a second" at me.

This happens all the time. I'm always mistaken as someone who works wherever I happen to be and the customer is always miffed when I say cannot point them in the direction of the okra or The British Journal of Laparoscopic Hysterosalpingo-oophorectomy because I don't work there and no, I'm sorry, but I've got other things to do than help you find your canned crab or point you towards the autobiography section.

I turned mid-stride and approached the little old lady, mentally preparing myself for whatever question she may have in mind, like locations of the bathrooms, computer terminals, emergency exit doors, etc.

"Yes, ma'am?"

And what came out of her mouth would have made me speechless, if I had not dealt with its ilk for so many years now.

"Have you heard of Weight Watchers?"

Oh for fucks sake.

Lady, you're lucky you aren't sixty years younger and we aren't in a bar. However, I am feeling rather generous because after today, I am on a 7 day break from school, so I will chalk up the asininity of your comment to senility and not malice.

"What? I need to lose weight? I've got a size eight under all this!" I said, and turned and walked away.

Bitten by the Bat!

2007-11-14T14:49:00.000-05:00

Or, "Tagged by Bathsheba Freud", if you prefer. But "Bitten By Batty" not only has alliteration going for it (catchy!), but also bats (cute!) and last but not least, biting (sexy!). And after reading Bathsheba's answers oh god am I a boring misanthrope and am hanging my head in shame.

Four dishes I like to cook:
Lasagna, Eggplant Parmesan, Pad Thai, and this dish that is cream-based with chicken and sun dried tomatoes but the name is escaping me.

Four qualities I love in people:
1. Some of them think I'm pretty nifty, for one reason or another.
2. Everyone always has a story to tell.
3. The majority of them are not as smart as I am, making me look all the better.
4. Some people, despite all the crap going on in the world and facing things most of us in the western world couldn't even begin to fathom, are still putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to give up, determined to make a change, live another day.

Four places I have been:
1. Las Vegas
2. Los Angeles
3. Ontario, Canada. As exciting as it sounds.
4. Tijuana, Mexico. As scary as it sounds. I was 10, my sisters were 4 and 2 and my Dad took us with a day tour group. I cannot begin to imagine what it must feel like to be responsible for three kids in a foreign country* full of pickpockets and thieves and gangs of thieving pickpocketing children wielding squirt guns filled with the water we were all duly warned about. In lieu of water, we got to drink soda on the bus; I was quite pleased with this arrangement. I'm sorry I have scary memories of your country, Mexico. The parts that didn't have imminent doom lurking in the corners were beautiful and I'd like to go back. Especially since I hear tall blonde gringas gordas are considered muy caliente there.

Four things in my bedroom:
Grandmother's linen chest, TV, corner bookcase, dog sleeping under the blankets on the bed.

Four dirty words I like to use:
Fuck, Shit, Damn, Bitch. Can be combined for bonus points.

*"Honey, what are you talking about? We've always had two children. Who is this "Hera" you claim is missing?"

Four people to tag:
Bean
Betty
Helen
Lori

No. Just.... NO no no no no no no no

2007-11-07T12:11:00.001-05:00

98% of cheese-related accidents happen within a half mile of home

2007-10-31T13:58:00.001-04:00

Yeah. Oops.

Actual size.

What? Like you've never stabbed yourself in the arm while cutting cheese before?

Flipper shows us what not to wear for Halloween

2007-10-30T19:36:00.000-04:00

Flipper says. "Just say no to wearing your underwear as outerwear while brandishing your sexy toys."

Halloween 1975

2007-10-30T19:31:00.000-04:00

I was 3 and I remember vividly carving these with my dad. He did the big cutting, I did the scooping and the scraping of the softer flesh.

I was insistent that the big pumpkin was the daddy pumpkin and the little pumpkin was the Thora pumpkin.

M-I-C, K-E-Y, T-H-O-R-Aaaa

2007-10-29T13:55:00.001-04:00

Liiiiittle skinny body, big fat face.
Shoot me from below and I'm all chins.
Halloween 1974

Please excuse the earth tones. It was the early 70s and everyone was doing it.

2007-10-28T10:51:00.000-04:00

One year old. I look like I'm stoned.

That's cool, I'm not that into you either.

2007-10-26T15:03:00.001-04:00

I need a hobby. Besides this one.

2007-10-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

Flipper is a 2.5' foot brass dolphin that my Mom bought for me my junior year of college. After I graduated, circumstances dictated moving home, so Flipper found a place in the corner by the foyer.

I found it amusing to decorate and pose Flipper in wacky situations appropriate for the seasons...

Carving his first pumpkin, aww!

Flipper wanted to go as a witch for his first trick or treating foray.

"Go away, Halloween is over! You're that clever shark, aren't you?"
" I'm only a dolphin, ma'am. A dolphin dressed as a witch."

One of my favorites

2007-10-24T23:30:00.000-04:00

After the party I went to last weekend, this bears repeating.

2007-10-22T18:35:00.000-04:00

This is a rerun, but after seeing someone try to pass off a teddy, sheer robe, and knee high stockings as a Halloween costume last weekend, apparently some didn't get the memo. So, here it is again, edited for brevity. Full original post is here.

-

So! It's Autumn! It's Halloween! (almost)

That means if:

- you are single
- fat
- have a social bone and/or an ounce of bravery in your voluptuously rounded body

and

- live in or near a major metropolitan area,

chances are you made it out to one of the many BBW/FA/Fat girl Halloween parties in your area over the last few weekends. I certainly did.

After a long, self-imposed, much-needed, 18 month break in which I got my proverbial shit together, I decided I was well enough (read: ego intact enough) to weather the storm, slap on some war paint and a costume, and see what sorts of trouble I could get in to.

Much to my surprise, I was not disappointed. There was trouble to be had.

Where I'm going to go here (and oh yeah, I'm gonna go there), is with the observation that even though I had taken a break from the "scene", ABSOLUTELY NOTHING had changed. Not a THING was different from the first fat girl Halloween party I attended.

These parties have such a predictability to them. Which can be both good and bad. Here are some of the things I have noticed during my illustrious career as a fat-chick-party-goer:

1. The girls will outnumber the guys. ALWAYS.

2. The best looking guy in the room will always be talking to the skinniest girl, who is the best friend of one of the fat girls and there for (best case) moral support for her friend or (worst case) an ego boost for herself (and now that I'm 35, a lot of the cute boys are significantly younger than yours truly and I'm starting to wonder if dances/parties are even worth my time anymore, but that's another post for another day.)

3. The remaining best looking guys will be interested in the smaller girls (size 20 and under).

4. 98% of the people in the room are a nanosecond away from having an ego crisis/emotional meltdown/insecurity attack at any given minute. Some are just better at hiding it than others.

4a. More than once over the course of the evening you will wonder "Why is no one asking me to dance? What does she have that I don't? Why is he talking to her and not me? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME??" Acknowledge the feelings and they will pass. Then have another double vodka and cranberry on the rocks with extra lime and hit the dance floor. Repeat as needed.

5. The ones dancing the most vigorously to "Sexy Back" are the ones who made Sexy go away in the first place. Likewise any Pussycat Dolls songs. The ones who are the most in to putting on their own production of "Hot Like Me" are the ones that would be found on the "Most Likely To..." list in the yearbook under "...lip synch in public without realizing the ironic implications".

6. At least 5%* of the guys there are married or in a relationship with a normal sized woman who has no idea her man is out chasing the chubby.

7. 99% of the guys there want to hook up with a girl. 30% of the 99% isn't very picky about who, what, or where, just as long as "when" is sooner than later.

8. The remaining 1% of the men are looking to hook up, but they are looking to hook up with one of the better looking guys (because all fat girls have gay best friends that we drag with us to the fat girl parties. Or something.)

9. The person who is least your type is the first and most persistent in asking you to dance.

10. If you take a months-long break, when you come back you will run into people you hooked up with left and right and will enjoy a plethora of choices if you're in the mood for a rerun.**

11. Boys don't bite. It's ok to talk to them even if you aren't really interested (makes for good practice) as long as you recognize the signs when they aren't interested.*** But everyone at a party is usually good for a minute or two of chit-chat.

Special items of note for Halloween-themed fat girl parties:

1. A flame-print skintight teddy and a riding crop do not a costume make. You are simply giving us a preview of what you'd like to do later and how you'd look doing it.

I'm looking in your direction also, lady in intricate black lingerie holding a flogger. You are not a dominatrix. You are not fooling anyone, including yourself. If you are going to be a "dominatrix" for Halloween, please do it right or don't do it at all. This includes not having a "gee, looky all the people starin' at me, hurr!" demeanor while in the costume lineup.

2. Please be original and come up with a costume that doesn't revolve around your cleavage.

Little Red Riding Boobs, The Busty Little Mermaid, Evil Witch Cleavage, Sexy Wizard of Oz Dorothy, Fat Little French Maid, The Titty Fairy, Elvira, Fat Marilyn Monroe - ALL OF YOU. You may be an urban legend amongst your normal-sized friend's normal-sized friends, but in fat girl party land, you are one (two) among many. We find your cleavage neither shocking, nor sexy, nor notable. Please cover it the hell up. Thanks.

3. It's not a costume contest, it's a popularity contest.

So don't wig out when your intricately crafted, museum-quality replica of Marie Antoinette's ball gown and genuine lead-based face makeup painted self gets voted out in the first round and someone in a store bought Little Red Riding Boobs costume takes first place.

4. In case the message implied in the above lines was not direct enough, please read the following carefully. Write it down if you have to. Tape it to your mirror if need be. Just take note. LEAVE THE LINGERIE FOR UNDER ACTUAL COSTUMES OR CLOTHING. LINGERIE IS NOT A COSTUME. (Unless you are a man. Then it's a possibility depending on your build, tolerance towards Rocky Horror comments, and/or talent for milking comedic potential.)

*All the numbers in this list are totally scientific figures which I may or may not have pulled from my ass.

**Ah, yeah. I speak from experience on this also.

***I'm all about the graceful exit.

What lurks behind that door? Do you want to know for sure?

2007-10-20T19:33:00.000-04:00

Thora trivia time!

2007-10-15T19:11:00.000-04:00

Photography is a hobby of mine*. Autumn is my favorite time of year because it's so colorful. Objects and scenery take on a new dimension against a backdrop of yellow, gold, red, and stubborn greens. I also have a bizarre fascination with cemetary art and symbology. Combine the two and you get pictures like these:

The scans are older than God (ca 1999) and I couldn't find the originals, but you get the idea. So, for the last half of the month, I'm going to include eye candy that is of no relevance to this blog for the most part. Enjoy!

*By sheer luck I am also a published photographer (a pic I took was used on the cover of a book. No, you wouldn't recognize the title, but thanks for asking).

Things, they are a-changin'

2007-10-14T15:08:00.001-04:00

I was out and about the other day and due to the (typically) unpredictable (chilly in the morning, 88 degrees at noon) weather we've been having, I've taken to wearing layers of clothes. The last few days, I've put on a pair of shorts under my pants.

On Friday, before class started I went to the store. I got halfway through the lot when I started to wonder if I had left my wallet or was it in my purse or... and I paused, and turned to go back to the car, and for some reason this move caused my pants to fall down.

I didn't even realize they had fallen until I realized it was feeling a bit breezy and I looked down and oh, hello pants. What are you doing on the ground? Yikes.

=

I am in much better shape this year than last year. Hauling a bag filled with 25 pounds of books and necessary items (yep, I weighed it) around and up and down stairs several times a day is starting to show its benefits.

Last night, my sisters, their husbands, the kids and I all did our 3rd annual Halloween tradition of doing this mildly spooky family-friendly haunted Halloween walking tour thing. I noticed that for the first time I was not feeling like I was slogging along, nor was I actively looking for places to stop and sit halfway through the route. Instead of ambling along behind the two happy couples and a stroller, I was out in front holding Natey's hand and pointing out the cool/scary/fun stuff that he was missing because he was too busy futzing around with his glow bracelets and tote bag.

So, even though it's the third time that I've done this tour, this time was the time I've had the most fun. Because physically? I owned that shit.

My nephew, Nathan the Fearless ("No, I'm just Nathan")

Come whisper through your lips of straw...

There is pear shapped, there is apple shaped. I am "top half of an exclamation point shaped", apparently.

Things that make you go "Whoa"

2007-10-04T15:22:00.001-04:00

Maybe everyone and their mother knew this already, but I found this out today and putting it into context in my old habits results in mind = blown.

Ready?

A 2 Liter of pop weighs FOUR pounds.

This means when I was in the midst of my two-2 liter per day habit of (diet) soda, I was intaking EIGHT extra pounds on top of any water, milk, wine, etc, consumed.

That is a lot of damn extra weight to be pouring into a sedentary body in a temperature and humidity controlled environment.

I've tried a long time to quit my soda habit. I needed it when I was at my old job. That, combined with lots of pizza and malted milk balls and trail mix made the day suck exponentially less. I was in a basement with no windows doing a mindnumbingly dull (but crazily well-paying, the only thing that kept me there as long as it did) job, an office mate whose demeanor unexplicably ranged from cordial and offering to share her peanut brittle with me to "Oh great, it's once again time for me to play "what I have I done to inadvertently piss Matey off since she's giving me the silent treatment YET AGAIN.""

Now that I'm not there anymore, I've been doing better lately. I haven't finished off 4 liters of soda in one day in... I don't know, sometime in the last month? My last 2 liter was sometime last week, before the sinus infection struck. And now, I'm in the midst of three-24 oz six packs that have lasted way, way longer than they should have.

Quitting smoking was easier than stopping soda consumption and I am not kidding in the slightest. On July 5, 2005, I took my last cigarette from the pack, smoked it, crushed it out, and decided "Eh, it's been a good run, but I'm really not enjoying it anymore. Especially since they are like, $4.95 per pack. Forget that."

Diet soda, I wish I could quit you. Literally.

ETA 10/5/07: I found this while looking for something separate but related.

From: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3689/is_200411/ai_n9471363

"The American Diabetes Association recommends that a patient's blood glucose level be less than 180 mg/dl 2 hours after a meal."

Nursing Nov 2004 Wolff, Kathleen, Joan E. King, RN,C, ACNP, ANP, PhD

So. Hm. Yeah. What to think about this?

My reading was 160 1 hour after some cereal. I guess I can step the panic alert down from Orange to Yellow, but that doesn't change the fact that I definitely need to make some changes, which I'm already doing. Instead of pizza for dinner, I had a full dinner plate of microwaved "Normandy Vegetables" (aka big cut broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots) with oyster sauce. And I remembered to pop a 'phage before doing it.

160

2007-10-03T19:16:00.001-04:00

Kind of ironic. 160 is one of the goal weights I have in mind for when I'm more adjusted to the school routine and organized enough to not be writing papers at 2 am on a Sunday night and actually exercising and working on losing weight. Because this was what this blog was originally about, no?

I got a wakeup call today. A big fat fucking wakeup call. But let me digress for a second.

I came down with another sinus infection on Saturday (yay, another thing to throw me behind schedule!) so Monday I stayed home and I was so zonked on Dayquil and Allegra and Pseudoephedrin that E!'s True Hollywood Story actually looked appealing. The topic? The View. As in Barbara Walter's show where she's all Splitting Defense Mechanism Crazy Lady, totally in love with a co-host one day and firing their incompetent/greedy/unfunny ass the next.

When it came to discussing Star(r? 2 r's there? Too lazy to google, too don't-care to care) Jones' weight loss, they got all heavy on the drama about how a few years ago, Star was told OMG you are going to die you are at death's door DO SOMETHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LOSE SOME WEIGHT. So she went and got WLS done, and refused to discuss it and played all coy and cute about it.

I don't know how old Starr is, but she is older than me. And I think I'm a little bigger than her at her highest.

No one has told me I'm going to die TOMORROW if I don't lose weight, like they made it sound with her.

And to be honest, I've been a big honking hog for the last month (one of these days I'll get out the hair shirt and the flogger and confess my sins, but not today). And no one is telling me I'm in serious shit you-must-do-something-NOW about this.

And I got to thinking. I am insulin resistant. In 2003 I was put on Glucophage. I'm pretty much in the same 20 pound weight range (up and down, round and round I go) - I've done nothing to change my lifestyle in the last 4 years.

I've been in denial about where I'm heading. (Cue chorus of you all going "Duuuh!". I know, I know.)

I sucked it up this morning and put on my big girl panties (of the black satiny thong variety) and asked a dear close one if I could borrow one of their finger-sticky things and their blood deciphering machine.

Talk about high drama. I shrieked like a girl and jerked my hand away when I saw the pokey thing come down towards my ivory-pale delicate little fingers.

She tried again. This time SHE faltered. "JESUS!" I said "I was ready and you didn't do it that time", with an added shrieky whiny tone of voice for good measure.

"Close your eyes. Go to your happy place."

"Happy place my ass, just hurry up and do OW FUngngngngng..."

Drip drip.

Analyze analyze.

Sulk sulk.

Analyze analyze.

Good lord this is worse than waiting to see if the little line is going to turn pink.

Beep.

My reading? After having 2 servings of fruit at 8 am and a serving of cereal and milk at 10 am, the reading at 11 am was a stunning 160.

Well. Guess I better start taking a 'phage in the morning as well as at night.

The writing is on the wall, the numbers are on the screen. It ain't getting any better because I haven't been working at it and I am not getting any younger.

I've been conveniently "forgetting" for the past 4 years that insulin does not work as well on me as it does other people, as evidenced by this wonderful apple on a stick shape that I have.

I seriously hope this is my rock bottom, turning point.

I don't want to imagine what lower than this looks like, because I have a feeling it will involve finger sticks and insulin injections. And I never imagined that for myself.

Oh, hello. Why yes, I do have a blog; or, School is KICKING my ASS

2007-10-02T17:01:00.000-04:00

How busy have I been? Busy enough to totally forget that Lori is a wonderful blogland friend who is going to send me a big ol' box of beads, for FREE, she just needs my address.

I am so busy I am forgetting about offers for free craft material. It is that bad, but this shall change soon. The first 8 weeks are the most intense, and Monday was the start of week 7.

In true form, I managed to keep my shit together for 5 weeks then everything kind of went kerflooey*. I got kinda sort of yelled at in a firm but serious but not unkind way that hey, you are a little behind in things, so let's step it up, shall we?

That's where I've been. Getting my ass alternatively kicked and chewed.

I haven't even read my blogroll or any forum sites I'm on in a good month. I'm sorry for sucking and I'll get my shit together in short order. I said it to my instructor and I'm saying it to you now. We still buds? I'll make you something purty with the beads Lori is sending me.

*Technical term

Post #101, courtesy of OKCupid, The Dating Persona Test

2007-09-04T11:53:00.000-04:00

Genghis Khunt
Random Brutal Sex Master (RBSM)

We almost called you Brutus the Uterus and attached this picture:

But we figured you wouldn't understand, and rightly so. We don't understand either. So you are Genghis Khunt: master of man, bringer of pain--riding your way to conquest after conquest.

Your sexual avarice is legendary. You've already had an unusually high amount of experience, and, still you look for more. You intimidate many. You make no apologies.

Personality-wise, you're carefree and relatively easy-going. You don't plan things out ahead of time; you tend to live in the moment. Of course, this can cause some damage when the moment happens to include a screaming orgasm with his younger brother. Hence the 'brutal' tag we've given you.

But you know what, take five seconds to lock the doors, and you'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with a little sex, or a whole lot.

Your exact female opposite: The Sonnet: Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer

Always avoid: The Slow Dancer (DGLD)

Consider: The 5-Night Stand (DBSM), The Hornivore (RBSM), The Playboy (RGSM)

===

I don't know whether to feel empowered or appalled.

He's not my son, but he is definitely my boy

2007-09-02T22:28:00.000-04:00

I was visiting Hera and the boys (Natey is 4, Colin is 8 months) when I got a bright idea from VH-1's top 100 80s bands countdown.

"Mind if I give Natey a faux-hawk?"

"Hnm. He's kind of picky about his hair. I tried to put gel in it earlier and he wouldn't let me."

"Hey, Naynay, come here. Can I do something with your hair? It'll be cool, I promise!"

He looked at me suspiciously for a second but then cheerfully agreed.

I got the mousse out of the bathroom, came back to the living room, arranged him in front of me, waxed poetic about the coolness of spikey hair and how awesome he was going to look, and went to work.

"Ooh, my, how handsome you look! Let's go look in the mirror!"

We went into the bathroom and Natey climbed up on the edge of the tub and peered in the mirror. To my surprise he gave a satisfied smile and patted the top of his hair gently.

"You look so cute!"

"I know!"

The way he said "I know" totally caught me off guard. He wasn't saying it out of conceit, or vanity, he was simply agreeing with me just as if I had pointed out "Hey look, you have two eyes!" or something. What I wouldn't give for the self esteem of a 4 year old.

"You like your hair?"

"It's pointy!"

We went back into the living room and Hera asked if I would mind watching the kids while she went to get a pizza.

Natey and I cuddled up on the couch while the baby bopped around in his bouncy chair. Joan Jett was on TV.

"Hey Naynay, look, she has hair like yours!"

"Yeah, she's got pointy hair!"

Hera came back with the pizza. We settled back on the couch with pizza and breadsticks.

"I have an idea. For Halloween, let's dress Natey up as a punk or New Waver. We can get him a little piano key tie and a neon shirt and make his hair all spikey."

"He doesn't really know what Halloween is about yet. He missed it last year because he was sick."

Billy Idol was on the countdown now. Oh how I love Billy Idol. Seriously. I want to have his sneering, tattooed, leather wearing baby.

"Natey, what do you think about dressing up like him for Halloween?" and I pointed at the TV.

Natey agreed, but I could tell it hadn't clicked with him what I was talking about.

"When we go trick or treating, we can make your hair pointy like his, would you like that?"

And I saw the wee lightbulb come on above his head.

"Oooh trick or treating... I can go as a cool fun grown-up, yeah!"

My nephew called Billy Idol a cool fun grown-up. I get such a kick out of this.

The icing on the cake was Hera telling me that Natey also has picked up some AC-DC lyrics. Her husband was cleaning the house singing, "It's a long way to the top..." and he paused for a second to focus on what he was doing only to hear behind him "...if you wanna rock n roll."

ETA: Being the most awesome of all awesome aunts, ev-errrr, I got him this tshirt a few months ago (pic shamelessly ganked from ebay):

There is also one that says, "For those about to read, we salute you." TOO CUTE.

Bless her southern fried hardened arteried heart

2007-08-24T16:07:00.000-04:00

While enjoying the air conditioning, cable TV, and king size bed in the hotel room I spent an unplanned amount of time in last weekend, I came across Paula Deen on the Food Network whipping up something that made me horrified, intrigued, and willing to push my granny out of the way to take a big bite of all at the same time.

Since I tuned in the middle of it, I don't know how it got that way but Paula had a firm looking, handful sized cake of mac n' cheese as the base. She then proceeded to wrap it in bacon, coat it in flour, egg, and cracker crumbs, and deep fry it.

Macaroni and cheese - no issues with that. But wrapping it in bacon, then deep frying it? It looks good and disgusting all at the same time and I am having fun reveling in the resulting cognitive dissonance that watching her make this has created.

You know you're tired when you can't remember the URL of your blog

2007-08-23T16:05:00.000-04:00

On the plus side (no pun intended), the weight I gained through nervous eating is coming back off.

Ohhh my, where to start. How about Monday? I started school this week. It was not as big a shock to the system as I thought it would be.

Surprisingly enough, the majority of the people in my program are non-traditional students with children. Out of ~50, there are maybe 5 "traditional" students. Which is good for me, because "traditional" students are ~15 years younger than I am and OH GOD PLEASE TELL ME I WAS NOT THAT STUPID AND/OR ANNOYING AT THAT AGE.

There are these two twits that I have in, I swear, EVERY class (or maybe it just feels like it) and they sit there and whisper throughout the entire class. One or both of them is going to get a sincere and swift drop-kick from me by the time midterms come around.

What else? Body issues continue to haunt me. I am THE fattest girl in the room (but not by much, 70 pounds, maybe?*) in the majority of my classes. I am not the tallest, however. We have two freakish (female) specimens clocking in at 6'3". But tallest and fattest? Got that covered, right here.

Strangely enough, even the "thin" girls are on the fat side. Girl in the pink tank top in front of me? Please configure your home mirrors so you can spot and correct the major fat/fashion faux pas you have going on, namely the upper back pudge gleefully wiggling out the top of the bra band and eyeballing how far the fall to the floor is over the back part of your tank top. Thanks in advance.

I had a moment on Monday that totally, sincerely sucked. A "take 2 xanax and cry in the bathroom, come back with hair arranged over face" kind of suck.

I was nervous to begin with on Monday, to the point of needing to use an inhaler, not to mention being sick ALL DAMN WEEKEND (bright side: at least I got my money's worth from the hotel room).

I chose a seat at the back of the room with no one at the chair next to me, put my bag on top of the table (the universal "do not sit next to me plskthxia" sign). Class started without incident but the tension was to the point where I wanted to get up and walk out. So I popped a Xanax.

I thought things would be fine, then the instructor dropped the bomb and announced what I had been dreading. We were going to get nametags and a sticky note and write stuff about ourselves on them and introduce ourselves to other people.

Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. I hate this shit. People WOULD NOT go out of their way to meet the fat girl, so why put lipstick on a pig and force the issue? (Am I mixing metaphors? Again, tired. You know what I mean.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is people are not interested in me, hence I'm not going to be interested in them. After ~20 years of living like this, it's become my default setting.

So, the introductions commence and I meet the guy next to me and the girl next to him (girl A) when a giant monkey wrench is thrown into the works. The girl B who had been meeting girl A while I was talking to guy, after that was done, took one look at me, then turned around and walked away.

Oh realllyyyy... This is an interesting turn of events. You have just made #1 on my shit list for the next 20 months, you sizeist C-U Next Tuesday.

My first instinct was to hunt her down, FORCE her to introduce herself to me, and give her a nice, FIRM, prolonged handshake. But since I was already on the verge of coming apart at the seams emotionally, I ran (er, walked briskly) to the bathroom in tears instead and hid out for a bit until I got my shit together.

I shook my hair down and arranged it so that I was prepared to use it as a screen if necessary, and came back to class, where I promptly popped another tranq and dozed on and off for the rest of the class.

Yes, I know, I so very rock. Please hold your applause lest my head swell.

Other than that, it's been a most interesting and good endeavor thus far.

*Only in the fat community is 70 pounds, "not much". Mercy.

Moist with anticipation

2007-08-17T15:00:00.000-04:00

Actually I'm more damp than moist. And kind of drippy. And wrapped in towels and posting at home in the middle of the day!

What gives, you say? Well, I'll tell you. Today was my last day at work.

For the last week or so, my stomach has been ultra-bitchy because of nerves, which is a new experience. I've never had a nervous stomach. Insomnia and overeating have always been my MO in times of stress.

I left work early (with a big fat subtle fuck you to my supervisor, story to come later because I'm short on time; I'm going away this weekend and must cease with the dripping and towel wrappage and get a bag packed and hair beaten into submission in short order). I had been feeling nauseous and lower GI-distressy for the past week, and I assumed once I had left the building it would magically stop.

Halfway home, I realized I was in trouble. There was no time to pull over or look for an exit with a place that had a bathroom. As soon as I realized "Uh oh", I threw up all over myself. Which is strange, because I am not a nervous puker.

I came home, jumped in the shower with my clothes on, stripped, and took a regular shower.

Now I must get packed and score some pepto because, ugh. I'm going to be drinking and drugging tonight (shh!) and the last thing I need/want is a rerun of earlier today.

Have a great weekend everyone!

PS: Another reason I'm excited about quitting is now I can write freely about the idiots I used to work with. Anyone (except Lori :P) care to venture a guess about what it is I USED to do/where I used to do it?

Miscellanea

2007-08-07T18:20:00.000-04:00

There are slightly more than 2 weeks left before I start school.

I am almost 35 years old. I am quitting my job, taking out a home equity loan on my house, and going back to school full time.

This is either the craziest or most awesome idea I've ever had.

I'm starting to get used to the idea of *gulp* not having a (well paying with good insurance) job. I'm rather excited about the possibility of getting a part-time gig at Michael's or JoAnn Fabric or some other craft-y type store. (The trouble I could get into with an employee discount from one of those stores!)

I'm also excited about getting unemployment pay. 16 weeks of 70% of my paycheck? I can live with that (but only because I have that big fat home equity cushion I'm sitting on).

*

This morning while driving to work in the rain I noticed that my windshield wipers on medium-fast speed makes a fairly accurate metronome for Fascination Street by The Cure. I thought I would share that with you. That is all I have to say about that.

*

One of my office-mates, upon me telling her I am out the do' in Y days said, "Ooooh! We'll have to plan a party!". I told her thank you, but no. I went on to add that this wasn't one of those "Oh PLEASE, not a parrrrty, not for little old meeeeeee gee shucks hyuh" false modesty statements, this is a No. No no no no no.

There is nothing more annoying than the person who goes on and on about how they Do Not Want a party and then act all faux-surprised-and-humble when they see a cake.

If my coworkers were to throw a party, it would not be for *me*. I would be the reason/excuse for it, but the party would be sheerly for them - an opportunity to take the afternoon off and indulge in cake on company time. And frankly, I just don't like the majority of them enough to be party (no pun intended) to that happening.

You all want to do something for me? Cash in an envelope, baby. I don't even need it in a card. Or an envelope, even. I can fold it up and fit it in my bra quite nicely.

I do not want a party. I don't even want to make the announcement and proclaim far and wide that I'm leaving. I just want Monday to come in a few weeks and have people be like "Huh, where is Thora?" and Someone In The Know can be all "Uh, Friday was her last day? You didn't know that?"

*

I really should change my category in the Fat Fighter Blog listing from "Losing" to "Not doing a damn thing about it". Sigh.

I am so stressed out, my intake valve is stuck in the "open" position. No matter how much or what I'm eating, it takes forever to feel full. And even then, it's a physical full, never a mental full.

Case in point? Last night while watching Big Medicine (or as I like to think of it, my standing Monday night date with Dr Garth), I was eating KFC.

Are you with me here? I was watching a show about gastric bypass surgery, while eating fried chicken out of the damn bucket straight from the fridge, and I wasn't even hungry. I have hit the "fat girl way of thinking" trifecta. Or something.

*

My parents came over the other night and I got the abbreviated version of the summary version of the weight loss speech. And I totally agree with them. I'm no spring chicken (35, I am going to be 35, did I mention that?) and DM2 runs in the family.

Going out on a tangent and then boomeranging back around nicely, stick with me and you will see, I was watching "Scott Baio is 45 and single" the other night. I could go into about how "Oh eM Gee this guy is more neurotic than Seinfeld, Woody Allen, and Ray Romano combined", but that's another snark for another day.

That one scene? Where he's on the phone? And the voice on the other end says "You are out of 'tomorrows'" or something like that? That totally hit home.

I am out of "I'll do it tomorrow(s)" when it comes to weight loss. (Did I write about this already? Because it is sounding kind of familiar and I'm at work and I'm sure as hell not going to log on and check and see if I did. Oh well.)

I really have no excuse this time. I'm going to school full time in that I'm doing nothing else, but I'm only taking 10 credit hours per semester. I have to fill the days some way, after the studying is done and the internet is surfed and the laundry is clean and the dishes are done.

The only time in my adult life where I had even a vague semblance of my weight coming under control (comparatively, age 22, 248 lbs, ~70 pounds lost in 5 months, raging case of bulimia aside), was when I was working part time and in school, the summer before I was a college senior.

I miss those days. Those perfect days. Where everything was under control and planned to a T and I was free, so free, and genuinely happy. (I think. At least that's how I'm choosing to remember it.)

I am truly fortunate to have a second chance at reliving my carefree college years (well, 2 of them).

I ~~hope I don't~~ will not mess this up.

There is most likely a group of fetishists out there doing this regularly

2007-08-04T11:07:00.000-04:00

The last 2 mornings I have woken myself up by making out with my pillow.

Don't ask. I don't know either.

A moment of clarity

2007-07-31T18:45:00.000-04:00

Since finding out I have been accepted into school, I have been so incredibly stupidly busy.

If I'm not hunting for my 30-some year old immunization records noted in my mother's meticulous product-of-a-Catholic-education handwriting, I'm digging through stacks upon stacks of papers looking either for a car title, my homeowner's insurance, property tax info, recent pay stub, and/or most recent W2 form.

I have a feeling the W2 met an untimely death in the paper shredder as it is nowhere to be found and I have every single necessary piece of 2006 tax paperwork except that one. I called up the nice people (seriously, they were helpful and really quick about getting me what I needed) at the IRS's 1-800 line and they faxed me a copy.

On the plus side, not only did I find the immunization record while looking for the W2 (serendipity, yay),

I also now have a perfectly sorted and categorized drawer of "important" paperwork in the filing cabinet.

Anyhoo. My great moment of clarity. I don't get these very often, but when I do it's like God breaking through the clouds and flicking me in the ear making me go, "Oh, excellent point" as another rough edge is knocked off my thinking processes.

Monday the 16th. The alarm went off. I groaned and wondered what semi-plausible excuse I could use to get out of going to work today.

I smacked the snooze button and dozed off again. And again. And a third time. I snoozed until it was late enough that it was physically impossible to call in without having to speak to a human, namely my supervisor, which is the last person one wants to talk to when attempting to get out of work.

I tried to find motivation to get out of bed. What was my motivation?

Not getting fired? I'm union, with tenure (Tenure? Is that the right word? Let's call it tenure for lack of a better word).

Getting disciplined? Whatever. I did a quick count in my head. I have X days, and Y actual work days until I'm a full time student again.

"Y" days until I no longer have to make a 66 mile round trip to work. "Y" days until I no longer have to fight the freeways. "Y" days until I no longer have to do the 9-5, M-F grind. "Y" more days until I never have to lay eyes again on the animated stick figure that is my boss. I can make it if I focus on today.

So, "'Y' days left!" has become my mantra upon hearing the alarm in the morning.

Chanting to myself "Y days left!" I got ready and made it to work without being overly late.

I spotted something I had left on my desk from Friday and told the receptionist I'd be down the hall working on what I was working on and I'd be back in a bit.

So I was in room 12 working what I was working on when my ice cube of a boss* tracked me down (sigh) and asked me about an issue with something that was not my responsibility but since I'm the person who knows the ins and outs of this process, I get asked about it anyway. And since something went wrong, it's my fault, because I am the expert on this particular process. You follow me on this, yes? It's management logic at it's finest.

I was able to quote chapter and verse the printed material that says "This is not Thora's fault when something goes wrong" and told her I'd email her a copy. This placated her and she left.

I went back to my project, my head swimming with thoughts of irresponsible people higher up the food chain that I do not report to in any way, shape, or form, yet still manage to get me in my supervisor's crosshairs, boiling in a large pot filled with lava. Or maybe it was a tomato based soup. It was red, regardless. "Idiot soup," I snarked to myself. "It would taste stupid. I wonder what "stupid" tastes like."

And then, the great cosmic "ting!" upside the head.

The phrase "I am not that person anymore" filled my head.

I paused and let the thought sink in.

I felt so relieved I wanted to cry.

I am not that person anymore.

My time playing my current role is limited. Very soon the last 6.5 years of my life will be a finished chapter that is a long time coming. This is my motivation.

*Yes, she is both. Stick figure body, ice cube for head.

The second tallest man I have ever dated

2007-07-22T12:56:00.000-04:00

I made a decision to go out and play with the 3D people this weekend. Even after my hair was washed, shower taken, and makeup ordeal undergone, I was on the fence about going. I was perfectly content with the thought of sitting at home with a 2 liter of Diet Pepsi Max (I hold no grudges, even if you did kill my cell phone), a bag or three of popcorn, and PBS's Saturday night Britcom lineup.

But something told me to go. Something told me I was ripe for meeting someone. Something also told me that as an added incentive for and to get into the right mood, I would allow myself to indulge liberally in opiates.

I pluck the last few stray hairs from my eyebrows and step back from the mirror. They are arched just right, and symmetrical.

I'm 6'0" in these shoes*, I have wavy blonde hair down to my waist, and my sparkly MAC eyeshadow shades are perfectly matched and blended.

Big Blonde Bombshell, in-freakin'-deed. I am going to be the finest girl there.

In the parking lot, the first of the group I find is Ericka. She's lost close to 150 pounds in the last year and a half and looks a-fucking-mazing. And she did it the (semi) old fashioned way - (Rx'ed diet pills), diet, and exercise.

I walk inside and find Donna, my former business partner, who is standing in the corner with an innocent looking plastic cup.

"Hey! Want some Apple Pucker?"

"I had some sangria in the parking lot. Aaaaand some codeine. I loooove ohhhpiates. They make me so haaaaaappy! And friennnnndly!"

Scanning the room, I noticed a very tall guy against the side wall. "Who is that?" I ask her. Donna knows everyone like I used to know everyone.

Donna started to say "I don't know" but I cut her off with "Oh holy crap, I think his name is Mark. He and I had a... um... "thing" going on seven-some years ago. If it is him, I'm gonna shoot myself. If it isn't him, I'm going to have to get acquainted."

I'm not sure why the "shoot myself" comment slipped out of my mouth. Mark and I hadn't parted on bad terms, we just... parted. We were fuck buddies for almost a year. Perhaps that sentiment slipped out because the last time he saw me I was in my 20s and a good 50-60 pounds thinner? Sigh.

If it was him, he had held up pretty well. He was four years younger than me, so the last time I saw him he was 24. Mark was 6'6", had a cock that was not only longer than average but also almost freakishly thick, and a pierced tongue that he was highly enthusiastic about putting to use. He smoked a lot of weed, lived with his mom, and was charming, but not very ambitious.

Donna and I ducked out onto the patio to sit in the cool night air and gossip.

20 minutes later, the Guy Who May or May Not Be Mark But Probably Was stepped out onto the porch with us. He walked past, then turned around and looked at me and said "I know you."

"You do?" I shot a sideways glance at Donna. "From where?"

"We met about 7, 8 years ago."

Play it cool, play it nonchalant "Ooooh. We did? (pause) Did you used to be blond?" For some reason this made Donna giggle. But seriously. This guy kind of looked like Mark, but not.

"Noooo... Oh MAN, you don't remember me," he said with an air of disbelief, his shoulders dropping.

"What's your name?" Identity confirmation in three, two...

"Mark."

Donna chimed in with "You were right, it IS him!" Donna is not much of a wing man, bless her heart.

"Oh yeaaaaah, ok. Yeah, we went -"

"To (techno/industrial club)."

I laughed that he remembered that. I turned to Donna and said "I took him to (techno/industrial club) for our first date and I was wearing these black tights that had a hole in them and we were sitting there talking and he was poking at it and I told him 'Stop fingering my hole!'"

Mark went back inside after talking to me for long enough that I realized "hey, this guy still kinda digs me" and I turned to Donna.

"Thanks for blowing my cover, 'you were right that was him' Ach!" I said with an eyeroll.

"Sorrrryyyy!", Donna giggled.

I stuck my tongue out her. "Have another Vicodin."

Mark and I spent a good part of the night catching up. We talked about what we had been doing, what we were doing, what we were planning on doing. Once in a while, he would thrown in a flirty allusion to the fact we had seen each other's naughty bits.

If any men are reading this, this next part will serve as confirmation to any notion you may have had that "Bitches is crazy." Because apparently, yeah. When we are feeling ambivalent about a situation, we throw out conflicting signals.

Around midnight, I had no idea what possessed me, what with the things that were coming out of my mouth. I turned to him and said, "Do you realize that tonight we have talked MORE than the entire time we were... uh... doing what we used to do?"

"We spent a lot of time talking the first night, until you dragged me into a dark corner and had your way with me," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, I draaaagged you, riiiight... it was more like:" I raised an eyebrow, turned and looked at him over my shoulder, and made a suggestive 'come hither' motion with my finger "and you were like, "Okay!"

"You are correct."

"But seriously, before it was like 'Hi how are y-'" and I raised my thigh onto his hip and pretended to hump him, complete with sexy noises. "This is kinda cool, hanging out and talking to you. (pause) But I don't want to monopolize you all ni-"

"Yeah, the girls are just lining up," he said with an eyeroll.

"Well... I don't want to take up all your time so... you know... if there's anyone you want to meet, let me know and I'll pimp you. If I don't know them, Donna does, so you're good."

Let the record show that I made this offer to set him up with another girl not once, but TWICE. I made this same offer like, five minutes later.

What can I say. I just wasn't feeling it.

Seven years ago, I was enthralled with being so utterly physically dominated by his height and build. I loved standing next to him and laying my cheek against his chest. I felt giddy when we hugged and his chin bumped against my forehead, or he would stand behind me, his arms around me, his head resting on top of mine, how I had to lean my head all the way back and stand on my toes to kiss him.

At the risk of sounding like a cut-rate Anais Nin, I craved the sensation of his cock stretching me to the point where it felt like it was almost too painful to continue fucking him but the pain turned into a pleasure that turned into the ultimate scratching of an itch, the feeling that this, this is why humans fuck.

And his tongue stud. Did I mention the pierced tongue? Oh sweet, merciful, baby deity-of-your-choice, what that man could do with his tounge and that ball of metal resting thereon.

Whoa. Excuse me while I get a sip of water and kick myself for not getting Mark's phone number.

I could have gone home with him. I could have gotten his phone number.

He was hinting at going there. He was bringing up old stuff, like the first time I ran into him unexpectedly in a club and I told some girl who was eyeballing him, "Sorry, he's MINE" and dragged him onto the dance floor, then we went back to his place and fucked until the sun came up and I had to sneak out when his mom went out for breakfast.

He was hinting. I was choosing to ignore the hints.

I left at 12:30. He was dancing with a group of girls. I walked over and touched him on the arm and said "Goodbye, it was nice seeing you, I'm leaving now." and made it clear by body language that I had nothing more to say and expected nothing else from the conversation.

"Goodbye, sweetie. See you later."

I stop in the bathroom on my way out. I look in the mirror at my melted makeup, my limp hair.

No doubt about it, I was the ugliest girl there.

*But I had fabulous shoes

Later that day...

2007-07-21T15:27:00.000-04:00

-or- Sometimes things don't go right, part 2

It was shortly after 1 am and I was lying in bed watching Dirty Jobs with the dog next to me, who was snoozing and enjoying having his tummy rubbed. They were shoveling grain and stuff out of an elevator and I'm thinking "Mike Rowe is pretty hot. He used to be an opera singer. And he can play the piano. He is a man of many talents and I would not kick him out of the bed for eating something made with white flour and high fructose corn syrup" and other random thoughts when I heard the sound of wood cracking/splintering outside.

I live in a semi-rural area. I have neighbors, some of which hold odd hours and enjoy hitting the bottle and having bonfires every now and then, so I didn't think much of the breaking wood noise at first.

Then I heard it again. And realized it sounded kind of close. Hmmm.

I muted the TV but couldn't hear anything outside. I unmuted the TV and sat there in my underwear, wondering what to do next.

I then heard a third crackly splintery noise and I realized that noise was someone fucking with my fence, most likely the part that got rammed into by a car last winter that I never bothered to replace/reglue/nail up properly. Damn stupid fuckers.

I laid in bed, heart pounding and wondering what to do next. I heard the splintery cracking ruffling-through-the-bushes noise move down the street and thought, "Well, they're gone. Too late to do anything now. Might as well go back to sleep."

Because seriously - what was I supposed to do? Charge out there in my underwear and knee-length tshirt with 8 pounds of fang and fury at my side (who would most likely stop to sniff and pee on a few things before rushing to defend this territory breach), and then...what?

I don't own a gun, or a baseball bat. What was I going to menace them with, the mop from the kitchen? Was I going to rush out with my mini-mag light and give them dirty looks until they apologized and put back the broken boards they had decided to fuck around with?

Since I couldn't come up with a feasible way to defend my already broken fence, I decided to stay in bed and deal with it in the morning. That decision lasted a whole 10 seconds.

I stopped pretending I was going to be able to fall asleep without seeing what the damage was. I got up, put on aforementioned knee length tshirt, turned on the living room, kitchen, and carport lights, and ventured outside.

Ah, shit. And what the fuck is this, now?

In the dim light I could see something whitish and pointy three feet from my hosta bed, which runs along the lattice wall of the carport. I recognized it as a section of dried and bleached tree stump and roots that serves as a piece of landscaping decor from the development up the street. How did that get there? I looked out into the yard and saw two fence rails pulled away from their post. Oh. That's how it got there. Goddammit. I hope the little fuckers get tetanus from a nail scratch. Or eventual lymphedema.

I walked toward the fence and noticed a good dozen of the decorative finials had been removed. Greaaaaaaaaaaat. Last time I looked, those cost 15$, EACH. I stepped over the slanting boards and notice a finial on the ground. I walked the length of the fence and noticed another, and another.

Well. Wasn't that considerate. They didn't steal them, they just unscrewed them and threw them on the ground in front of the post they took them off of. Jokes on you, assholes. In the darkness, you didn't notice they were covered liberally in bird shit. Brilliant! I hope the little fuckers not only get tetanus or lymphedema, but also some birdshit related disease like histoplasmosis. Or something. It's been a few years since microbiology; too lazy to google.

And then I noticed that half a rail (7 feet long!) was missing. Gone. The "abducted by aliens without a trace" kind of gone. Sigh.

I went inside and realized that this was the kind of thing that the cops should probably know about, being property damage and all. Maybe the little fuckers were still on the loose?

I had several options. I could dig up a land line phone (I cancelled my land service over a year ago* and put the phones away), plug it in and dial 911 (yes, I live in such a low-key area that for shit like this you dial 911 and tell them you have a non-emergency matter. Those of you that live in the city right now are rolling your eyes and trust me, I feel you), I could drive to the corner to the all night convenience store and ask them to make the call, or I could try to coax my still moist cell phone into service.

I managed to coax the phone to life, called 911, and they sent someone out about an hour later.

Turns out I wasn't the only one that got fucked with. They destroyed the sign for the development up the road, moved several of their rather LARGE rocks into the road, trashed my fence, trashed the fence on the corner to the west of me, used my fence rail to beat the hell out of several mailboxes and solar lights, and who knows what else.

After I finished with the police, I screwed back on the finials, renailed the rails, and drove the tree piece back to its rightful place. I wasn't going to give the little fuckers the satisfaction of seeing their work in the light of day.

I found my missing rail the next morning laying in front of a battered mailbox. I'm going to Gorilla Glue the finials back in.

I proposed to my mom the idea of reinforcing my fence with rebar somehow, but she called it an isolated incident and overkill.

I'm still debating on getting a German Shepard or a gun. Or both. Just in case.

*Which was a shame, because I had the most memorable phone number ever. It spelled out PITY-FAG. My cell numer spells nothing. Damn 1's and 0's. They always messin' shit up.

Sometimes things just don't go right

2007-07-20T23:08:00.001-04:00

I am a creature of habit. At least in the afternoons.

On leaving work, I stick the iPod buds in my ears, walk to my car, plug in the cell phone, and pour a glass of caffeinated goodness for the drive home (because it's just not cool to be seen swigging out of a 2 liter. It's kind of like picking your nose. Everyone does it, you just don't want to be seen doing it).

I then start the car, leave the parking garage, stow the keys to the garage and building in the console, and make my way home.

When I get home, I unplug the cell phone, lock the keypad on it so I don't accidently wind up dialing Japan while it jostles around in my purse, drop it in my bag, pick up the cup and bottle and anything else lying around in the immediate front seat area, and go into the house.

But today was different. I had gone shopping on my lunch hour so I had some extra bags to contend with. In my ever ongoing effort to figure out the least amount of effort to get from point A to B, I figured I'd cut a corner and consolidate shopping bags by moving some of the load to my bag, while loading it up as much as possible. This meant dropping the cell phone into the empty glass, thus creating an whopping extra six cubic inches of space in the process.

The cup was still in the holder, so without a thought I unplugged the phone and dropped it into the glass which held my soda.

One small problem. I hadn't been especially thirsty on the drive home and the glass was still full.

Oops.

I had just purposely dropped my phone in a 20 ounce glass of soda.

DamndamndamndamndamndamnDAMN.

My phone was in liquid for only a second and I hoped everything would turn out all right. I took everything inside and tried a trick I learned that works when there is condensation on the inside of a watch. I popped off the backing, took out the battery, and set it face down on the table with a fan blowing on it.

After 6 hours, the phone powered on with a "low battery" message barely visible under the misty screen. None of the keys worked. I plugged it into the charger, left it under the fan, and went to bed.

It's the 19th of July, another June has gone by.

2007-07-19T21:13:00.000-04:00

July 3: Come home from work, fall immediately into bed, wake to the sound of various firecrackers going whizbang and whistlepop and think "What kind of Godless heathen inbred hillbilly banjo pluckin' morons are out there lighting fireworks at the ungodly hour of... 10 pm. Oh. Carry on."

July 5: 2 years without a cigarette. Go me.

July 7th: Receive results of test taken last month whilst wedged into a chair and feeling smirky about not being the fattest person in the room. Results? A 965 out of 1000. Note smugly that this score is in the 99th percentile. There is a PERFECT score in math. The hell? Since when do I know how to do math, let alone score a 100% on a test containing a section on it? Flip paper over for additional information. Under the "Areas of suggested remediation" section, see "Mathematics" listed. Raise eyebrow, cock head, and make "mnuh?" noise at the piece of paper.

July 9th: call company, ask what they are smoking that makes a 100% in a subject an area for "suggested remediation". Think they are full of shit when man on phone explains if the math was an area that needed of improvement, the specific skills would have been listed. Remain wary of this explanation and hang up phone because I'm at work, and really, this call should have waited for a less busy time of day. BUT I HAD TO KNOW! Leave voicemail for college admissions person asking them the same question in re "how does one remediate perfection?", fail to get a response. Feel surprised not in the least.

July 10th: Do math in head that letter stating whether or not I have been accepted into educational program should have arrived already. Go into deep irritable cranky spell which involves eating eclairs, taking multiple milligrams of Xanax, and watching TV in bed with the dog perched on a pillow by my head. Consider whining on phone to mother, realize she isn't able to do anything about it so why bother her and make her worry, pop another Xanax and another eclair.

July 11th: Open mailbox and fall over in shock at the sight of a large manilla envelope containing a letter that says "Hey Thora, howsabout you take this place we are offering you in our educational program this fall? Because that'd be swell and we'd love to have you." Sit in chair with envelope on lap, debating if this is really real or not, try to think of ways to confirm reality of situation. Decide that eating an eclair would be a pretty good gauge of how real this is.

July 12th: Commence freaking out regarding how much paper work there is to fill out, not to mention the prospect of getting rejected for loans. I hate rejection.

July 18th: My poor, long-suffering fence and some other stuff in the neighborhood suffer the wrath of stupidass teenagers on a vandalism spree. Also, I drop my cell phone in a full glass of Diet Pepsi Max! Tune in later and find out of it is possible to dial 911 when you can't see the display screen, let alone have confirmation that the phone is working at all!

A fat moment

2007-06-25T18:31:00.000-04:00

Coming back to work today after a three day weekend
makes me feel more snarly and "Graarrhhghh" than usual.

Today is one of those "I don't have enough middle fingers" days.

Sigh.

On Friday, I had to report to the local college for a school related thing. I had a class previously in the room we were supposed to be meeting in so I knew everything would be smooth sailing in re the seats fitting my large assed self.

I arrived at school right at 830 instead of early due to road construction. Crap. Nothing like making an entrance with an audience sitting auditorium style and having to stand there all "Hello, I have not yet mastered the art of arriving places on time"-like while looking for a spot, then attempting to slink into said spot as undisruptively as possible.

I entered the building and took the elevator to the second floor (yes, I am so very lazy, please step aside and I shall throw myself on my sword), got out, turned the corner, and ran smack into a pack of thirty-some people. Huh.

Apparently they forgot to unlock the doors and I wasn't late after all. A few minutes later, the lady who was running things (as evidenced by her snappy blazer and wheelie cart full of materials) arrived and got on her cell phone. I overheard her say "Please have security open up room 210, we have a group waiting."

Waitwaitwaitwait. What? Pardon me, Ma'am, but I couldn't help overhear you. You said 210. We are supposed to be in 212. The letter said 212. I know room 212. I do not know room 210. I have seen room 210 in passing and I know it's basically the same style and layout, but the seats are slightly different and they have not yet passed "the fit test". Please call them back, tell them you misspoke, and ask them to open 2-TWELVE, not 210.

I stood there calmly, telling myself it really wasn't a big deal (probably) and I would adapt to and overcome whatever presented itself.

A part of me believed this. The other part paced frantically back and forth, wringing its hands and mumbling "ohhh dear, ohhh no".

Security arrived and the door was unlocked. As the swarm formed to get in through the doors, I noticed a woman - all six feet and over four hundred pounds of her.

For the first time in a long time I was not the largest person in the room.

I relaxed a little because whatever I was going to have to deal with, she was going to have to deal with even moreso.

I climbed the steps behind The Large Lady, assuming she was probably headed for the same place I was - aisle seat in the back. (It's harder for people to gawk at you when you are in the back row.) I stopped 3 rows up from the top and sat down.

The seats are the kind that are attached at the bottom and swing out. Ooof. This is a little tight. No, a lot tight. Damn it. I wonder how The Large Lady is handling this? No, screw her. I have to figure out how to get comfortable or it's going to be a long three hours. I sat up straight and that helped. I then noticed that the seats had a bit of recline to them. So, in sitting up straight and with a slight bit of recline, I was able to sit facing the front. Mission completed. I may have been wedged into my seat but by God, I was facing forward. I wanted to take this as concrete proof that I wasn't really that fat after all.

I hate to admit it, but I'm not very proud of myself. For those three hours, I had a total understanding of the "weighs less = better than" mindset. I was not the fattest person in the room. Yes, I was fat, but Oh Em Gee, at least I'm not like her. I am normal, just like all of you. We fit in the same seats, see? Unlike some people.

During a break I stood up and stretched and took a casual glance around the room to see how The Large Lady was dealing with the seating arrangement. Turns out during renovations, they had taken out the seating mechanisms of the top row and replaced them with chairs. And there she was, in a chair. I hadn't noticed chairs as a seating option, due to my usual MO of "enter room, do not look around or make eye contact, take seat, pull out something and pretend to read until event begins".

I could have embraced my fatness and packed up my stuff, moved to a chaired seat, and sat comfortably for the next hour and a half, but I didn't.

I was having too much fun being smug, yet squished, in the normal sized person seating.

2007-06-19T20:06:00.000-04:00

While chatting with the tech guy today...

"...something something Knights of Columbus, and we -"

"You're in the Knights of Columbus? Cool." I found this surprising, as tech guy is my age, and every K of C guy I've ever seen before was at least 50.

"Yeah, I'm a first degree. "Faith without works is dead". I truly believe that."

"I don't have any faith. Does that mean I don't have to do any work?"

=

24 oz Mocha Frappuccino from Starbucks + 32 oz glass of ice from the cafeteria = 400 calories of TOTALLY WORTH IT. See also: "emotional satisfaction: priceless".

I'm taking a slightly different approach. It's not what I eat, it's how much. 400 calories is 400 calories whether it comes from a foofy coffee drink, a hamburger, a pile of figs, or a metric assload* of celery.

* 2 buttloads = 1 metric assload. Always wondered about that, didn't you?

Air conditioner 1, Thora -0-

2007-06-14T18:50:00.000-04:00

After living 5 years in a house with no central air, I finally broke down and bought a window air conditioner.

I researched prices and specs online. I figured if I closed all the doors to unused rooms and had fans going to circulate the air, I could get away with a 10K BTU unit.

With a 10K unit in a 1000 square foot ranch style house, I realized that realistically, I should not plan on luxuriating in 68 degree fabulousness.

However, this also meant that at least this summer I wouldn't be forced to jump in the shower every hour on the hour then stand naked in front of a fan to further cool off because it was too damn hot to sleep.

In researching units, I found that 10K unit weighs about 70 pounds. That's it? Piece of cake. I can do this myself. If there is an up side to being a tall, big girl, that up side is definitely the ability to haul heavy shit and get things done yourself.

I went to one of the home improvement stores in town (who will not be getting a shout-out due to the crap customer service* I experienced - what IS it with the epidemic of CCS in this city?) and wandered around for a month or so looking for air conditioners, until I realized that maybe they really weren't cleverly concealed in the fan section and they were probably in the back of the store by the big neon sign that said "APPLIANCES".

I totally would have put them with the fans. Just sayin'.

After checking out the selection, I decided to go with a slightly larger 12K unit for a mere $30 more.

"Let me put that in the cart for you, it's kind of heavy."

"No, that's ok. I have to install it mysel - ok, well, you didn't have to do that, but thank you."

If you skipped the * part below, that's fine, because we're all at the same part in the story now.

Perky checkout girl asked me, "Would you like some help getting that into your car?"

"No, that's ok. I have to install it myself so I think I can handle it."

I got to the car. Was this thing going to fit in the trunk? I eyeballed the situation, moved some stuff to the sides, and turned to lift the AC unit out of the cart.

I slid my hands under the box and lifted maybe four inches before releasing it with a thud.

Oh Em Gee. Have I lost THAT MUCH muscle mass from yo-yo dieting? Pecs don't fail me now.

I tried again, and I just could not lift it high enough to clear the side of the cart.

This was an embarrassing situation. I could not lift 70 pounds from waist height to chest height.

It was time to get creative.

I tipped the shopping cart onto its side, slid the box out onto the ground, righted the box and the cart, and noticed the label on the box that said "Weight - 94 pounds".

NINETY-FOUR POUNDS?? Son of a bitch. No wonder I couldn't lift it.

I squared myself with the box, lifted with my legs, and managed to wrangle the unwieldy bastard into the trunk. I was all "WOOO! GIRL POWER!" for a second, then I realized the trunk wouldn't close and I had nothing to tie it down with. So I mashed down the lid as far as it would go and proceeded home very slowly.

I got the box inside with a heave and a thrust and a slide and a grunt and a bunch of swear words. I had a silly hope that there was actually 20 pounds of packing material inside the box. Because trying to wrestle 94 pounds of metal onto a windowsill, by myself, where there are large pieces of glass in close proximity? This is not a recipe for hilarity ensuing.

I can't give you a blow by blow of what happened next as it is all a blur. I just know the accordion vent things were not wide enough, the unit would not sit properly, and when I tried to adjust it so it sat as per the diagram, the damn thing slipped off the ledge ENTIRELY and almost fell to the ground.

When the unit slipped, my first instinct was to call for help. But who exactly was going to come to my aid? The dog has no thumbs and weighs 9 pounds. The fish are too slippery. Neighbor lady to the right of me is 80-something and probably in bed. Neighbor across the big lot who is usually drinking beer in his garage and hanging out shooting the shit with no fewer than 4 friends? Is on vacation.

Just my luck that the ONLY person who would have been of any assistance had chosen to go on vacation the week I decided to buy an air conditioner. The nerve!

I dug in and pulled as hard as I could, while lifting enough to clear the sill. Phew. With the unit safely back inside. I threw the instruction sheet behind me in disgust, and set the unit the way it was best going to balance.

I closed the window on the unit to hold it in place and noticed a smear of blood on top. I thought I had killed a mosquito while wrestling the unit in - then I noticed another smear on the side and the front and the... oh my. Is this a rare case of Appliance Stigmata? My air conditioner appears to be bleeding.

A quick glance down showed all fingers present and accounted for. No scratches on the backs of my hands or arms. I flipped my arms over and, oh. That's where all the blood came from.

Ah well. At least I kept the air conditioner from falling.

I cleaned up the blood and got the drill and started screwing (heh) the plastic vents to the sill. Which were not long enough. But by this point, I was firmly centered in "Do Not Care Just Want To Get This DONE" territory and decided I'd cover the gaps with duct tape.

All that was left to do was screw in the sill lock at the top.

Uh oh. What was that crack-pop noise? La la la I'm going to deny I just cracked my windowwww la lalalalala if I didn't see it, it didn't happennnn la la la la shut uuuuuup...

I was 2 hours into this project. The AC wasn't a good fit, I had sliced myself open in several places, I cracked the inner pane of the top window, and mosquitos were starting to swarm the room.

Sometimes you just gotta admit defeat. And this was one of these times.

What did I learn from this experience?

1. This really is a two person job

2. Measure the window first.

3. My air conditioner weighs as much as Nicole Richie.

Much like an air conditioner, Nicole Richie is packaged in a heavy-duty box also!

I may have an easier time trying to get Nicole Richie installed in my window than another AC unit. She may not produce cool air, but she can wave a fan on me and refill my sangria glass. What a great alternative to incarceration, yes?

*I decided to replace the 2x4 serving as a handrail on the basement steps with an actual handrail. A young man in a store vest came walking in my direction and I pounced.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find the mounting brackets for this?"

"Uh... probably hardware."

I stared at him, and paused for further information. The ENTIRE STORE was a fucking hardware department as far as I was concerned.

I gave him a big, fake smile and said, "Ya think we can narrow that down a bit? An aisle number? Show me where it is, maybe?"

"Uh. It's not my department..." and he started to walk away.

I had come there straight from work and been there almost two hours. My patience was rapidly running out.

I navigated my cart, which was not only loaded with an air conditioner, but now also a 10 foot long rail of Fir wood, to the front of the store.

The young perky girly-girl cashier greeted me with, "Hi! How are you tonight?"

I gave her the Big Fake Smile and said, "I'm about 5 minutes away from losing it completely and using this (patting 10 foot long piece of wood) as a weapon. Could you get me a manager, please? Thaaaaanks."

The manager found me the parts I needed and said he'd have a chat with Mr. Helpful.

The handrail is on the floor of my hallway. I haven't decided yet if I want to paint it or stain it.

HIPPApotamus

2007-06-13T18:31:00.000-04:00

You know what really irks me (I'll pause here for a second so you can consult your list, because there are so very many things that irk me)?

The fact that I'm going to have to be on drugs for the rest of my life if I want to feel... what's the word I'm looking for?

Not "normal". No, because "normal" for me is what most people would consider a day where they are kind of bummed but can't quite put their finger on why.

"Undepressed"? No, that doesn't quite fit because even on my best days I'm still kind of "meh" about things.

"Actively suicidal". There. Those are the words I'm looking for.

It irks me to no end that for the rest of my life if I want to be in any state other than "I HATE MY FUCKING LIFE AND WANT TO DIE", I'm going to have to keep throwing pills down my throat.

I thought I had it beat. For the last three weeks prior to the last 2 weeks, I was feeling pretty damn good, a 6 out of 10 I would say.

Then I ran out of Zoloft and I figured hmmm, let's experiment! I bet I don't *really* need to take this anymore. I feel fine! I'm not going to get it refilled.

I know, I know. That was Mistake #1 - going off the pills cold turkey instead of a taper. I should know better. But since I am special and the rules do not apply to me, I did it my way.

Days 1-3. Fine. Zoloft, who needs ya.

Days 4-8. Oh? What's this? I think it is called a "sex drive". Where have you been hiding all these months?

Days 9-14. Fuck you. And you. And fuck YOU, twice. Who can I call and rattle on to that hasn't heard my "If God isn't dead, he sure as fuck isn't paying attention" speech yet? Fucking hell. Where's my Xanax?

Days 15-16. 5 mg of Xanax each on nights 15 and 16 worked fine and I was out within a half hour.

Day 17. I was a wee bit irrational the morning after taking 15 (yes, Ten plus Five) milligrams of Xanax to try to get to sleep. Some people's doctors are stingy with the benzos - not mine. When I asked for a sleeper, he balked and instructed me instead to use the Xanax, and wrote me up a big fat RX of three refills of 60 (sixty!) one milligram pills. That, my friends, is a LOT of friggin' Xanax.

The irony of it all is it didn't make me sleepy. Just numb. The, "I feel like playing with sharp objects. I think I'll scratch the date into my stomach so I can remember which date I flipped out on and see how long it takes to heal."* kind of numb.

I woke up in the morning and realized I couldn't go on like this. I called the MD and told him that Xanax at bedtime was not working out. Sonata quits working after 5-10 days. Ambien gives me tunnel vision and a hangover, but most interesting of all, it makes me feel like I'm watching everything through the lens of a camera. Huh, maybe I should have gotten Ambien after all, for those boring Friday nights alone at home. Shit.

At the MD visit, I was kind of surprised when he asked if I was "still having thoughts about dying".

How did he... I don't remember mentio... oooh.

I then remembered when I had started therapy, I had signed a release allowing the therapist to share info with my doc.

Apparently saying things like "I'm tired of life and I want to die" is information that is tagged with a Big Red Flag that says "For immediate dispersal to everyone named on the HIPPA release".

"Eh, those are always there. They're passive, not active." I replied

"And the depression?"

"Same as usual, 3 on a scale of 1-10."

This time, he wrote me an RX for Lunesta. The jury is still out on how well it works. I took 2 the first night with a so-so result, and one last night with pretty quick results. But falling asleep within 30 minutes may have been a result of exhausting myself trying to install/wrestle a 94 pound air conditioner into the living room window for two friggin hours (another story for another day, coming soon. Power tools and bloodshed are involved!).

*My stomach is a large canvas, how can I resist? Previous drug/anxiety fueled artistic endeavors include scratching "KILL ME" on one side and "HATE" on the other. The vigorous cross-hatches from the third week of February are still there. And, once, firmly in the grips of not only irony but also whimsy, I scratched a tic tac toe board to the left of my navel. The X's won. The X's always win.

(and yes, I am back on the Zoloft)

So I went to the library last night...

2007-06-07T19:06:00.000-04:00

I recently rediscovered the library after realizing that yes, even though I can get a like-new paperback on amazon.com or whatnot from a private seller for the low price of $5 including shipping, after ten or so purchases, it starts to feel a little expensive.

So, whenever I found a book that sounded interesting, I added it to my wish list on Amazon. Then when I had time, I reserved it in my library's online system and picked it up after work.

But like many other aspects of my life, I'm prone to obtaining things on a whim. So when I picked up the book I'd reserved for some humorous light reading (Every Friday Night*), I also found the following interesting titles on the shelves:

It's not You, It's Him
How to get married after 35**
Updating! How to marry the man or woman you thought was out of your league
Love Smart: find the one you want, fix the one you've got

So, in my hot little hands I now had five books on, basically, how to catch and keep a man.

As I wound my way back to the desk to check out my finds, a bright orange book caught my eye. I pulled it off the shelf and added it to the pile.

I got up to the desk, set my stack down, and realized what it looked like I was up to.

"Uh...", I said to the young man behind the desk, "I know what it looks like, but this? Is not what it looks like. This book?" and I held up the orange book, "has nothing to do with these books. Honest."

*If an under-30, in shape, exotic looking, MBA holding vice president of an investment banking firm in NYC can't find a steady boyfriend, then I don't feel so bad about not having one either. There is also lots of good old-folks-wisdom and advice from her relatives as a frame for her stories.

**I'm not 35 yet, but I don't see anything happening in the next few months. Might as well get a head start on my research and strategy, yes?

elasticwaist.com

2007-06-06T20:49:00.000-04:00

A thank you to the ladies at elasticwaist.com who found me mention-worthy. I'm honored!

And of course welcome to all of you who stopped by to see what's shakin' here. Hope you stick around for a bit.

Further proof the Universe hates me and wants me to stay fat.

2007-06-05T20:28:00.000-04:00

Last night I got my shit together enough to not only go grocery shopping, but to put up my long-ago removed clothes bar in the closet, which I had taken down LAST JULY when I thought I was moving.

I have a very large closet. I had to buy a 7' bar and holders for it and installed them myself.

The closer the closing date for the house got, the more assholish the buyers became. I decided to get revenge on them by taking the closet bar setup, thus making it necessary for them to find and install their own damn hardware to hang their clothes on. Such is the way my mind works when it comes to exacting revenge.

In my town, there are quite a few choices for grocery stores. On my side of town right by the freeway, there is Regional Mega Mart (RMM).

A few miles up the main drag is the po' side of town. Not quite ghetto, but the kind of place where you want to keep a hand on your purse and nothing of value visible in the car while you are inside shopping. This is where Regional Chain Super Market (RCSM) is located.

I choose to shop at RCSM because it's cheaper than RMM. The selection and quality at RMM blows RCSM out of the water, but you're paying through the ass for it. So to the po' side of town for comestibles go I.

Side note: RCSM is where the infamous Welfare Chicken incident occurred. We remember this incident, yes? Good.

As I mentioned earlier, I hadn't been grocery shopping in a proper fashion in months. Imagine my surprise when I saw that RCSM was in the midst of a complete overhaul.

Apparently the crack smoking monkeys that comprise the corporate office of RCSM decided that this humble market located in the part of town that is smack in the middle of the left side of the economic bell curve needed a face lift and merchandise upgrade. With the corresponding increases of price, natch.

The produce section had been decimated. The leaf and romaine lettuce was wilty and sad. The fancy shmancy mixed greens were on sale for $2.50 a bag, which made me all "yay" for a second - until I realized that said bag weighed a whopping FIVE ounces.

What really saved the trip was finding 2 liters of both Diet Coke AND Diet Pepsi on sale for a dollar.

I grabbed 5 of the former and 10 of the latter, put one of each on the conveyer belt, and pushed the remainder in the cart to the end of the aisle.

The cashier rang up one Diet Pepsi, then some yellow peppers. She had to have been new because pointing out a mistake on the price of the peppers threw her into quite a tizzy and the Great Yellow Bell Pepper Price Check Incident of 2007 ensued. Store management was called, signs were consulted, keys were turned in locks, and register entries were overrode.

Why would I lie about the yellow bell peppers being on sale for 99c a pound rather than the $1.21 a pound they rang up for? Sheesh.

Tizzy then rang up the Diet coke and asked how many I had (five), and proceeded to ring my order (which consisted of scanning, then flinging the items halfway down the second conveyer belt in frustration).

What? Don't look at me like that. I *did* have 5 two liters of Diet Coke. It was the Diet Pepsi she didn't ask about. If they don't ask, I don't volunteer.

At least I managed to bite my tongue and didn't ask her to kindly not fling my fucking broccoli down the conveyer belt. If anyone should be having a fit of pique in this situation, it's me and the people behind me in line.

Then I got to the car, where I learned by association that grocery shopping is PAINFUL. While loading the trunk, the lid fell on my head. Twice. Stupid hydraulics.

This is my proof that the universe is conspiring against me to stay fat. Because now, forevermore, I'm going to associate shopping for healthy food with crap customer service and painful klunks on the noggin.

And the night gets EVEN BETTER...

2007-06-03T22:42:00.000-04:00

The Canadian. Remember him? I've mentioned him a few times, I think. We were dating way in the back-when (2000) and it played out that we'd make better friends than anything else. Case in point? We were having a conversation about The Future and he said "Well, you would work, and I'd stay home with the kids." See? TOTALLY INCOMPATIBLE.

But I digress. He's engaged now.

Everyone's life is moving forward except mine.

What the emoticon is saying:
Cannot deaaaaaaaaaal with thisssssss
I think I'm gonna throw up.
My face is so fat
I need a glass of wine
I *really* need one of these...

2007-06-03T21:43:00.000-04:00

I'm watching a show on TLC about Brookhaven Clinic, which is a rehab/weight loss center for the very obese (500+ lbs).

It makes me sad. It depresses me a little.

But it doesn't make me sad or depressed enough to put down the pizza and turn off the tv and go outside for a walk. I am hopeless.

I'm half counting the days until I wind up in a situation like that, because it's becoming painfully obvious I can't do this by myself.

Baby steps

2007-06-01T00:03:00.000-04:00

I had a salad for lunch. This is the 2nd time I've had vegetables in, oh, 2 weeks or so. Go me.

*

Roxie said in a comment to the last post:

"A few weeks ago it dawned on me that I use my weight as a reason to check out of my life and just let it pass me by."

This got me thinking. When you (meaning me) get to a certain point weight-wise, you are left with no choice but to check out and sit on the sidelines. To do otherwise, is to open yourself up to a world of hurt both physical and emotional.

Remember falling while rollerskating as a kid? Sucks, didn't it? Now imagine falling while rollerblading at 200, 250, 300, 350 pounds. "That would suck" doesn't even BEGIN to describe the situation. Discomfort and the potential for disaster to happen increase exponentially the higher your weight is applies to most physical activities, so we adapt and find hobbies that involve a lot of sitting, or minimal physical effort.

When I was in college, I managed to get down to 248 pounds - the lowest weight of my adult life thus far. I had big platinum blonde hair, long legs, a sassy personality, and no shortage of good looking boys to hang out with. I may have been 80-100 pounds overweight, but the rest of the package made up for this.

Now? Getting anyone to look twice is a rare occasion. And when they do express some kind of interest, I have to wonder what exactly the heck is wrong with them, that they'd be attracted to someone so unhealthy and lacking in aesthetic appeal.

You get to a certain weight and your options run out - physically, emotionally, romantically, socially, employment-wise.

I don't think I've used my weight as an excuse to not live my life, rather, I'm not living my life because it isn't an option at the weight I'm currently at.

And now I either do something about it, or I don't.

Now with flow charts

2007-05-30T18:27:00.000-04:00

So tired. So disgusted. WLS is starting to sound like a feasible option again.

I watch what I eat for 2 weeks, get frustrated with the results when I lose no weight at the end of week 2, and say fuck it.

I eat like a cow for 2 weeks and my weight stays the same.

Funny thing is, I've realized I don't like eating like this. I feel all bloaty and mushy and tired and my stomach is upset all the time.

I just can't overeat (ha!) like I used to.

*

For the longest time, I felt like I was missing out on something. In high school and then college I went to all the dances, hung out with my friends 5 nights a week, drank at all the bars, joined all the clubs - but something still felt like it was missing.

Then I got a little bit older and realized I was doing all I could. I'm not missing a damn thing.

Then I got a little bit older than that and realized whoa, wait a minute - I *AM* missing out on something. I've spent my years of prime eligibility in a size ranging from pudgy to moosesque.

I am missing out on so much by being fat. And I don't know what or why or how I am going to break through this mental block that is holding me back. I'm stuck in a vicious cycle that looks like this:

Tomorrow is another day. Fall off the wagon seven times, get on eight.

la la la la I dont caaaaaaaare

2007-05-22T20:37:00.000-04:00

1 piece of sausage pizza
an 8 oz bar of chocolate with almonds
a package of wasabi snack stuff
a package of girl scout cookies

[sarcasm] and i just don't understand why i can't lose weight [/sarcasm]

Who are you calling a "cow", you heifer?

Breaking up is hard to do

2007-05-21T18:57:00.000-04:00

I don't think I'm getting the explanations and suggestions I'm asking for so I decided to not set another therapy appointment after today's session, which lasted a grand total of 20 minutes.

I hate to say it but I have the impression she either doesn't understand me or doesn't know what the hell to do with me. Not to mention I'm her last appointment of the day on a Monday, so when 6 pm rolls around, I'm pretty sure she'd rather be anywhere than in her office.

I'm so fucking BLAH right now. I just don't care. If I cared, would I have had six doughnuts for breakfast/lunch, a fast food hamburger and onion rings before my session, and 2 hard tacos, 2 steak tacos, and a taco salad after? No, I would not have.

I don't think the eating is done yet, unfortunately. I'm so disgusted with myself.

Help?

Waiting for something worth waiting for

2007-05-20T00:51:00.000-04:00

I should not wake up excited from a dream about how to kill myself, but that is what happened.
I woke up this morning at 6 am from a dead sleep, my heart pounding with excitement and thinking "That's how I can do it", as I had remembered in the dream that apple seeds contain cyanide. I can still see the cup bottom covered with mashed apple seeds.

I'm not in the middle of a depressed episode, but it was very hard to get out of bed this morning.

I don't want to live anymore. Not wanting to live anymore is not the same as wanting to die. I don't plan on actively seeking out a way to off myself, despite what my unconscious mind may have been trying to tell me.

The difference between not wanting to live anymore and wanting to die, the way I see it, is that not wanting to live anymore is what comes when you are pretty sure you've accomplished all you were supposed to do and you've resigned yourself that it's time to go. Wanting to die is wanting an escape from what you have to do or from bearing a burden, when you know you really should stick around and deal with whatever is bothering you.

I don't feel I have anything I need to escape from. I just feel that it has been time for me to move on for a while now.

But I'm still here.

I'm bored. I'm ready to move on.

I want to be a ghost. That would be interesting, not to mention a whole lot of fun.

The journey of a thousand Kleenex boxes starts with a single tissue.

2007-05-01T20:01:00.000-04:00

“How exactly am I supposed to do this? Do I list the grievances one by one in detail? Do I summarize with a ‘best of’? Do I give enough to give a you a picture of what an utterly shitty and dysfunctional relationship we had and leave it at that?”

“Start wherever you would like with whatever you think is important.”

For someone who has lived the majority of their life being told what they are feeling/thinking, when they should be feeling/thinking it, why they should think/feel that way, and the extent and duration of what they should be feeling/thinking, this is a very daunting proposition.

For the next session, I type up 4 pages of notes, fight the urge to thrust them at her while saying “Just read this and tell me what you think we need to work on” and dive headfirst into the difficult stuff with no small talk.

My fishtank brings all the boys to the yard

2007-04-30T20:40:00.000-04:00

The water looks a little strange in places because I just fed them.

From left to right: Fido (female goldfish), Spot (male goldfish), and Punk (plecostomus).

More pics to come when I get the area in front of the stand cleared out. Hopefully I will be able to capture Punk's Emofish pose - where he sticks his head into the faux log and you can see his eye through the hole and it looks like he's all "fuck this shit, man, I'm staying in my log today because I JUST CAN'T DEAL".

Big+sausage+go+away

2007-04-30T19:53:00.000-04:00

I get an inordinant amount of referrals from the search term "blg+sausage+plzza" (lower case L's used to replace the small l's so I don't get even MORE referrals for this term. I mentioned it what, once?

THIS IS NOT A PIZZA BLOG. Nothing to see here. Please go away now.

I get almost as hits for this site on variations of "big+blonde+ass+belly+tits+300+pounds" as I do for people looking to get their pizza fix. Most of the "big blonde" hits come from predominantly Muslim countries (I'm looking at you, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan).

Speaking of Muslim countries, I got a referral on the above pizza term from Sudan, of all places.

Am I living up to the American stereotype of having a narrow minded world view by admitting to being surprised by the fact that Sudan has the internet?

Fish gravel and secondhand stores

2007-04-29T15:18:00.000-04:00

Since I haven't gotten around to charging the batteries for the camera, I haven't gotten any pics of anything old or new. Will work on this.

I'm spending this afternoon on the living room floor sorting through the gravel that was used in 80 gallon's worth of fishtank. The natural stone got mixed in with the horrid robin's egg blue and I'm not going to put the busted looking blue in my new big tank in which there is already natural stone.

The bright side of tweaking and sorting out the gravel is that it's keeping me from eating. The rocks may be dry, but there is still bacteria on them. Ugh.

I got to thinking while I was lying on the floor. In between the oh-so-sad-and-alone thoughts floating through my head like ghosts in the attic of a Victorian mansion, I realized why I have such an affinity for second hand stores.

I feel like a second hand person. If there was a second hand person store, I would fit right in amongst the objects that once belonged to someone who loved them but didn't quite fit in to the owner's new life anymore, the objects that were kind of ugly but could still serve a purpose, the objects that no longer held value for their owners, the objects that would be invaluable if only the right person stopped by on the right day and looked on the right shelf.

Smoothing her hair with automatic hand and putting an MP3 on the iPodfone

2007-04-28T15:10:00.000-04:00

What I meant to do today was get a full 8 hours of sleep, wake up early enough to catch the rerun of "Most Haunted" on the Travel Channel, get horribly greasy bad yet so yummy drive through fast food breakfast, and go to an estate auction (my Spring Saturday morning tradition).

What I did do today was fall asleep at 8 pm, wake up at 3 am, study a chapter of Japanese, then fall asleep around 530-ish in the insomnia chair with the tv and fishtank light on. I re-woke up at 7, staggered into bed, had a dream about finding my long lost friend Lass*, woke up making note to send her an email, fell asleep again, smacked the alarm clock when it went off, fell into a dream about Geekboy in which my father died, and woke up crying realizing that my dad dying is not going to solve my problems. And that I really miss Geekboy.

If today were gray and rainy, I would be happy. Instead, it's sunny and there are all kinds of blossoms and buds popping and I can't help but think back to this time in 1999 and I had a real live honest to god in love with me talking to his mom about marrying me, boyfriend**.

It wasn't a perfect time, as he had issues of his own, but being with him with the flowers bursting around us and baby horses being born and his younger siblings fighting over who got to hold our hands when we went for walks on their farm and really getting in to photography as a hobby - I can look back and say it was one of the better times of my life, in terms of emotional satisfaction.

But today, I can't even look out the window. It hurts too much. I don't want to pick up a camera and drive down a country dirt road and take pictures. I don't want to hunt for antiques. I can't even leave the house to go garage-saling in my subdivision.

It hurts that bad right now.

Needless to say I'm currently trying to fight off having a binge. Because it never hurts so badly that I can't leave the house to get things for a binge.

*In the dream I ran into Lass in the dressing room of a shop downtown that was selling Kirstie Alley's fat clothes.

**For clarity, Geekboy is not the 1999 boyfriend. Emotionally distraught, not a whole lot of thinkin' going on right now.

2007-04-26T12:48:00.000-04:00

When it became apparent that I wasn’t going to be part of the A group at school, nor was I living up to the 13-going-on-30 expectations he had for me, he decided to tear me down so he could build me back up the way he wanted me to be – in theory much like boot camp.

Verbal abuse was a large part of his plan to “improve” me.

One of his favorite exercises in creative belittling involved his fascination with “Welfare Mommas”, a predominant female subtype of the C group. He despised people on public assistance with a passion, but Fat Women On Welfare were an especially sore point for him.

"You're going to grow up to be a BIG, FAT, WEL-FARE MOM-MA,” he would tell me, “walking down the street, suckin' on your Mountain Dew and wearin' your housedress and flip flops." (Given, I did drink Mountain Dew at the time - it does have all the RDA of sugar AND caffeine a teenager needs, you know. It just so happened that this was the drink of choice for BFWMs, also. However, I did not and have never owned a pair of flip flops. I think this incident may be the root of my aversion to them.)

Where was I. Ah yes, Creative Belittlement. I swear he stayed up nights thinking of shit like this to say.

His favorite shtick was to make a joke out of it, asking questions to which the answers were some form of "Welfare Mother".

The first time, I fell for it. I had no idea what kind of mood he was in. I was a captive audience in the car and I thought he was just asking stupid questions.

“What do you wish your mother when she is leaving?”

Huh?

“Thora…?”

“What.”

“What do you wish your mother when she is leaving?”

“That she comes back? I don’t know.” God, what a stupid question.

“No… when your MOTHER goes somewhere, like on a trip, do you FARE her WELL?”

“Uh… yeah?” What the fuck?

“What do you say? Do you say, “I hope you FARE WELL, MOTHER?"

Oh, fuck you. What the fuck is your problem, anyway?

“That sounds a lot like WELFARE MOTHER, doesn’t it? That’s what you are going to grow up to be.”

Have I mentioned yet how much I hate you and wish you were dead? Because I do. And I mean that.

On an especially clever day, he came up with the following:

"What's the hole in the ground where water comes from?”

A well, of course. But fuck you, asshole. Just because I’m captive audience in the car with you once more doesn’t mean I’m going to play along. I stared sullenly out the window.

“A well! And what do you pay when you get on the bus?”

Again, I said nothing. I sat silently, willing myself not to cry while shame and rage ate away at my insides. Why was he doing this to me?

“A fare! And who is this (pointing at mom)?”

Fuck you. Fuck you and die. Die right here, right now, behind the goddamn steering wheel of this fucking car.

“Your mother, right? Now, put it together... come on…”

I hate you. I hate you so much. I hate you and wish you were dead.

“Well, Fare, Mother!” He said with his characteristic “oh ho, I’m soooo clever” chuckle.

He was able to hide his irritation at my ignoring him for an entire half second before it boiled to the surface with a roar. “THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP!”

Yeah, my mom was right there that time. And yes, she let him get away with shit like that - ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Thanks a lot mom, you fucking useless block of wood. Way to show your children you value and love them; way to show your husband you're willing to allow him to act any fucking way he chooses any goddamn time he chooses.

Soooo, yeah. I'm still a little angry about that. It's coloring how I handle my affairs, even today.

On some level, I believe that by not having kids, I have short-circuited the direct route to a life involving wearing a housecoat and uncomfortable sandals while drinking sickly sweet soda that comes in colors not usually found in nature.

If ever I choose a life that includes wearing flip flops and drinking carbonated, nuclear green, high fructose corn syrup, it's going to be because it was MY decision. Not because I was forced into such a situation.

On a more visceral level, I know that my decision to not have kids, ever, is a big fat FUCK YOU to him.

He sees himself the most in me; my having a kid would further be an extension of him.

I love it that I know he thinks what a waste it is, all this genius-quality DNA not being passed on. I fucking love knowing that.

Hey dad, how does it feel when someone tells you they're actively refusing to let one of your heart's desires never happen? Painful, isn't it? But I don't think it's anywhere NEAR as painful as what you put me through, you cruel, childish, narcissistic asshole.

I don't think my declarations refusing marriage and children have the same impact on him anymore, since 2 out of three of hsi kids are married and he has 2 grandsons now. But still, denying him the opportunity to walk me down the aisle and eventually one day hold my child, his grandchild? This makes me feel relieved for some reason.

He brought this on himself. Not having kids is my insurance policy against ever becoming a "big fat welfare momma".

Another part of choosing to not have kids means he was W-R-O-N-G. God, that makes me so fucking giddy. He was wrong. I didn't wind up a welfare mother.

I'm feeling generous, so I'll give him half credit on the "Big, Fat" prediction - but then again, a good part of being fat is genetics, so it's not like he had to be fucking Kreskin to see that part coming true.

2007-04-25T12:47:00.000-04:00

From age 10 to 15 I lived in a town we’ll call Fuckerville (we moved the last carload out of that God-forsaken shithole the day I turned 16*). Fuckerville had three layers to its social strata.

You were either part of:

A. The country club set, either by actually being a member, or being someone who was invited to apply for membership (they weren’t that picky, really. Get a sponsor (or an invitation, where you would meet a sponsor), pay the dues, and you’re in).

B. The Good Ol’ Boys, whose families had lived in the county for 100+ years, often on farms. If you were down with the G-o-B, your extended family numbered in the scores. Your kids were guaranteed to have no fewer than three cousins in their grade or the grades immediately above or below them. Roads out in the middle of nowhere bore your family name. The oldest family farm, more often than not, had a generation or two of kinfolk buried on the premises. Due to marriage, divorce, and remarriage, if you were a GoB that wanted to get romantically involved with another GoB (er… GoB-ette?), there was a pretty good chance that if you climbed high enough in your respective family trees, you were either already related by marriage or (very distantly) by blood (insert mandatory banjo playing kid from Deliverance reference here).

C. The blue collar, working class, public assistance caste. They were all lumped together.

Intermingling between the strata was allowed. A few A’s were B’s, but ensconced themselves firmly amongst the A’s by having the right cars, clothes, and attitude. Some B’s were A’s, because they were successful at what they did and understood the value of networking, but were born a B and would choose to die a B. A’s did not mingle with C’s. C’s worked for the A’s. The B’s and the C’s hung out together frequently. The only difference between B’s and C’s in the mind of the A’s was that the B’s owned farm animals and the C’s did not.

I am not exaggerating. It was that divided along economic lines. Us vs. Them was defined not by race, but by Haves vs. Have Nots. I think it was that way because the city couldn’t be divided by racial lines. For example, the class I would have graduated with had only 5 people who were not white (2 half Vietnamese, 1 full Vietnamese, 1 Cuban, 2 Hispanic).

So. Where did I fit in with all this? I fit in… nowhere. My dad… oh, where to start with this... In the mid 1970s he suffered burnout at his professional job and decided to uproot us from our A lifestyle in Affluent Suburb to try his hand at farming in Hooterville, where the soybean plants outnumbered the cows, which outnumbered the population of the nearest town. Life was good there. But he decided that farming wasn’t for him after all, so he decided to go back to school for a masters degree. Which left him away from home 3 nights a week. And my formerly-professionally-employed mother alone in the middle of nowhere with not only three kids, but a farm full of animals to take care of. Resentments started to build, to say the least.

In order to keep the peace, he decided we would move back into a city. But not Affluent Suburb. Instead, he chose to move us to Fuckerville, a city 25 minutes north of Hooterville, into a gorgeous 3,000 square foot house built around the time of the Civil War (ca 1865). He started his own business with my mom and in 4 years, the family income increased tenfold from what it had been in Hooterville.

Around 1985, phone calls and letters from the country club’s membership committee started to arrive. That guy who had been the new guy in town a few years earlier, who had tried to encroach on the GoB territory with not much success (partly because GoBs are cliquier than 8th grade girls), was now being courted by the A group.

And what did he do about that? He turned them down. “I don’t like the attitude of people with money” was his excuse, which was also his reason for wanting to move out of Affluent Suburb.

In addition to having a successful business, he ran for and won several local government positions. But with what was being communicated – in effect, “I don’t want to belong to your clubs, but I will have a say in your lives” – further alienated him from the A, B, and C crowds.

I may be digressing a bit. I’m trying to demonstrate his rather… unusual way of interacting with the world. And how it affected me.

As separate as he wanted to be from everyone, regardless of background, is as much as he wanted me to be considered one of the “Us”. He wanted me to be outwardly everything he was not, or was in his own mind. I was to get excellent grades, be thin, popular, athletic, sweet, religious, chaste, helpful, giving, patient, kind, wise, and mature. I was to be the direct reflection on and representation of him. This was the role assigned to me in life.

My "choice" to not be everything I was (as defined by him) supposed to be meant that I was “immature” and “ungrateful” and "a taker" and “wasting my God-given talents". What he wanted was a 30 year old Olympic champion supermodel nuclear physicist. What he got was a precocious 13 year old with typical 13 year old wants, dreams, desires, aspirations, moods, affectations, and interests. This frustrated him to no end.

All the things he wanted me to do socially – network, be outgoing and sociable and popular – I had no idea how to go about this. I had nothing to go by, no model to refer to at home. Not to mention that I had been placed a year ahead of where I should have been in school. I was 13, but my peers were turning 14 and 15. There is a big difference between girls at those ages and it was very difficult for me to relate to my peers – or was it that it was difficult for my peers to relate to me? As an aside, my age really wasn’t an issue until 9th grade when word got out during the first week of school that I was 12 and wouldn’t be 13 until after Labor day. I got stuck with the “freaky smart nerd” stigma after that, and never was able to fully shake that reputation until we moved.

*On their 16th birthday, most kids have a party or go get their driver’s license. Me? I helped move a chest freezer and a safe from the basement. But at least I was out of Fuckerville for good.

I am in scary, uncharted territory.

2007-04-24T19:33:00.000-04:00

Nine days ago the scab was ripped off my psyche rather unexpectedly and as a result I am on shaky and unfamiliar emotional ground.

The scab formed as coping methods evolved. Unfortunately, below the scabs and scars, the infection remained.

I can do something about this, or I can do nothing about this.

I can sit back and wait for things to scab over again, or I can continue giving the wound good firm squeezes and watch in a mixture of horror, trepidation, and morbid fascination as the pus oozes out.

I can't think of a more apt metaphor.

All those things that happend so long ago damaged me at the core.

For the last nine days I've been poking and prodding at this gaping, stinking, abscess which had taken over the core of my being. Just when I think I've squeezed as hard as I could for as long as I could stand, I am rewarded with a glimpse of a wound with shiny red skin and an even border - a wound that is on its way to healing.

But more and more poison keeps seeping from the surrounding tissues. And the pus keeps building up and needs to be expelled. When is this going to end? How much more of this can I take? When am I going to finally be "over it"? I thought I was over it, for many years.

I have to keep the wound clean if I want it to heal. I have to keep squeezing out the infection.

Another part of this process I don't especially like, is picking up new words and concepts and descriptions that are so ugly and vile I want to deny, deny, deny - when what I need to do is accept and try to understand.

Terms and concepts like "narcissistic parent", "characteristics of abusers", "consequences of abuse", "emotional invalidation" are so horrible and ugly to me. I want to run from them and pretend those things were never a part of my life and that no such things exist when what I need to do is run to them and grasp them and accept the concept that the nameless things that caused me so much grief and haunted me for years now have names.

And now that I know the names of the demons, I am able to learn how to vanquish them.

Kisses of the Glasgow variety

2007-04-20T23:04:00.000-04:00

I came home from work in a horrible, frustrated, violent mood. The stress from shit I'm dealing with in therapy combined with the assholes at work is starting to manifest physically, in the form of a cold sore. When a cold sore makes an appearance, I know things are worse than I'm admitting.

Some old behaviors have popped up once again since I started therapy. If my dad was on a rampage as he was wont to do, I would do my best to stay the hell out of his way (he may not have hit my mother, but Jeebus Fucking Christ did that motherfucker yell about anything and everything for hours on end at anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path when he was in one of his moods), hiding up in my room, doing I guess what could best be described as tweaking, only without drugs.

I would go over my entire carpet by hand, picking up pieces of lint and hair, putting them into piles, combining them into bigger piles, then one big pile, then throwing it away.

I would take my hairbrush and lie down on the bed with a pair of tweezers, picking every tiny hair and piece of lint out of the bristles, listening to him yell his goddamn head off and praying I wouldn't hear him starting up the stairs.

Today I came home and cleaned my car. I took out all the pop cans and debris, then I proceeded to detail the interior of the car with a toothbrush (tweak tweak tweak)

Then I went back in the house and got a screwdriver to get a closer look at a speaker that I didn't think worked right.

Unfortunately (for who or what, I'm not quite sure), I brought out the wrong screwdriver. This sent me on a rage of epic proportions.

I slammed the car door shut and hurled the screwdriver across the yard. Then I kicked a post that supports part of the carport roof.

I was still angry.

I retrieved the screwdriver from the other side of the yard and stabbed the ground several times. That wasn't satisfying at all.

I then walked up to the house, and stabbed the screwdriver repeatedly into one of the wooden posts that holds up the porch roof. No big deal. Nothing paint can't cover. With as much rage as I could possibly channel, I stabbed the screwdriver into the wood one last time, turned, and went into the house.

I made the mistake of going into the bathroom. Where there is a mirror. Where I could see myself. Where I could see how ugly I am and how much I've missed out on and how much I hated my father and my fucking co-workers and how now I had a GOD DAMNED COLD SORE on top of it all and it all happened so fast the next thing I knew was I had my hands on either side of the medicine cabinet, I let out a scream/growl of fury like I've never heard before, and I headbutted the mirror.

The instant my head hit the glass, I realized "this really was a bad idea". Luckily, the mirror did not break, it just separated from the wood where it was glued in.

I wiped the forehead-sized smudge from the mirror. I turned off the light. I climbed into bed and slept until 10:30. Then I got up and wrote this.

A thousand neurons firing for a thousand years eventually come up with a plausible theory

2007-04-19T18:42:00.000-04:00

After years of having to deal with Hera asking me why things were so much worse for me than they were for her and Juno, I think I finally have the answer.

Hitting your wife can get you arrested.

At 13 years old I was 5'9" and weighed 160 pounds. I may have had the mind and manners of a teenager, but I was the size of an adult... uh... man. Or a very sturdily built adult woman. Whatever.

The point is - If he needs to get his frustration out, he can't hit my mom. If he hits my mother he runs the risk of:

A. Going to jail
B. Her divorcing him
C. Word getting out in our small community that he's a wife beater, thus;
D. Losing standing in the community
E. Losing his business, because of divorce or bad publicity
F. Any combination of the above.

He couldn't get away with hitting my mom, so he hit me instead. Due to my size, I got to be his safety valve. He could take his frustration out on me because of my size, and hitting me was ok because I was "being disciplined".

To some, it must have appeared that I was the unluckiest kid in the world – do you have any idea how many times I’d been “hit by a stray discus at track practice”? Or how many times I got “whacked by my klutzy little sister’s tennis racket when we were hitting the ball against the wall” at school? Lots.

When the calls started coming from school about their concern regarding my perceived “suicidal gestures” (cutting) and frequent bruises, things started to cool down at home. I think he realized he was starting to go too far, and people who could do something about my situation were catching on to him. I also think - although I have no evidence other than a gut feeling – that the priest of our church called him up for a chat also.

Man, was he pissed off when he told me about the phone calls he had received. But at least he stopped hitting me.

Evil genie in a rusty metal bottle.

2007-04-17T18:27:00.000-04:00

I decided to get back in to therapy a few weeks ago.

Wait, let me back up.

Friday, I woke up with a raging surprise sinus infection. I can only conclude that during the night someone snuck in my bedroom and stabbed a pitchfork covered with radioactive bees into my sinuses, which had now set up a colony which was producing bad tasting clumpy green honey by the quart. Because that was certainly what it felt like when I woke up.

I dragged ass to the doctor and the pharmacy and spent the next three days sleeping. I still felt like crap on Monday morning and considered cancelling the therapy appointment but ultimately decided to keep it. Because how else am I going to make progress?

Monday afternoon, I still did not feel well. The afternoon had been busy at the doughnut shop* and I didn't have time to collect my thoughts and assemble even a vague idea of what I wanted to say or ask. I decided to wing it, and admitted as much to The Wise One.

I eventually got around to asking how I can get myself arsed to exercise, when I do not like it in a boat, I do not like it with a goat, I do not like it thank you ma'am, I do not like exercise and... uh... ham (yeah, I know. I'm blaming it on the decongestants), to which she did offer some helpful advice (which I will share later, as it's kind of long and I'm on a bit of a roll right now.)

After some random chat about geology, trumpeter swans, Hillary Clinton's connection to Watergate, and several glances at the clock, she gently suggested that I could go home if I wasn't feeling well and didn't have any pressing issues at the moment (With a half hour left on the clock? You gotta be kidding me, lady - do you REALIZE what the rate per minute is with that math? Not a chance. I am nothing if not cost/benefit minded. Not to mention that the very fiber of my being consists of Pressing Issues).

I mumbled something about stuff from the past I should probably address but I didn't know if I wanted to go there... and... and... and...

Reflexively I crossed my arms and legs and threw my head backwards so she couldn't see my eyes filling with tears. My head landed on the wall behind me with a thunk. Damn.

"What is it...? What are you sad about?"

I paused. Could I recover?

I moved my head back to the upright position and tears spilled out of my eyes (maybe... still... can... recover) and the following fell out of my mouth: "I'm sick and I couldn’t sleep last night because I was so congested and I'm tired and I don't feel well and the decongestants are making me tachycardic (118 bpm at 4pm - impressive!) and I'm not sad about anything I'm just so FUCKING MAD all the time and I don't know WHY or about WHAT and I'm not yelling at you I'm just...yelling. Sorry about that." I punctuated my sudden outburst with several loud, green honks mixed with stifled sobs into a tissue for good measure.

A stiff upper lip has never been my defining characteristic.

After some chat (read: her trying to figure out what the hell she had just uncorked when a minute ago it looked like she'd be going home early), I fessed up that I had a feeling a big contributor to my mood issues and life issues in general started about the age of 11 and my relationship with my dad.

It was hard to admit to, let alone discuss, because what I felt then is not really how I feel now. I needed to realize that I was able to separate the him of 20 years ago with the him of now before I was able to start discussing everything that went on and how from the ages of 11 to 16, my life wound up being a giant shimmering turbulent hellish cesspool.

"To know all, is to forgive all." He taught me that.

"It doesn't excuse it or make it ok, and it's ok to be angry about what happened. Now that we know what's wrong, we can fix it." The Wise One taught me that.

The him of 20 years ago, I hate.

20 years ago he was a cruel, childish, narcissistic bully with untreated major depression (and in retrospect, suspected Bipolar II) and an ignored case of rapidly developing type 2 diabetes who took his frustrations out on me. My sisters, 4 and 6 years younger, were (I'm guessing), too young to "deserve" what he felt I needed/deserved, as they were still children. .

I don’t hate the him he is now. He's still an opinionated jerk who always has to be right, but he's worked on his issues and made them HIS instead of someone else's.

More importantly, I've realized what happened was not my fault. It was not fair, and it was not my fault. Two sweeter phrases have never fallen upon my ears.

Hera still asks me from time to time why things were so much worse for me than them - like I'm holding out the "real" answer because she won't be able to handle it, but if she waits long enough, eventually I'll realize she's a big girl with a family of her own who has faced life, death, and everything in between on both personal and professional levels, so yes, she can handle the truth and I should just stop shrugging my damn shoulders and saying "I honestly don't know", already, and explain to her just what the hell was going on.

But honestly, I just don't know.

*Fake job

Exercize, shmexercize.

2007-04-13T18:19:00.000-04:00

The bright side: The meds I'm on aren't the ones that cause a host of nightmarish metabolic and downright terrifying and irreversible neurological symptoms.

The not-so-bright side: Sleeeepy. So very sleepy. So very mellow and 'que sera, sera' about things. Motivated to get up and move from point A to B only by fun things that don't require standing or walking in order to do them once I'm there, mostly.

The only other things that get me up and moving are things that have been put off to the point where they can be put off no longer and have now reached crisis status. See previous post in re: laundry and dishes.

Weight status: No idea.

My Mom brought over a bunch of boxes I had been keeping at their house (my house is on the market, remember? And I had an offer in July? So I put a lot of stuff on the curb? And the sale fell through? And therefore I wound up with a furnitureless living room? Are we all caught up now?)

My house is coming off the market next month, so boxes are being phased back in. And by "phased", I mean Mom loads up the minivan or the pickup and brings back 20 or so of them at a time. Boxes are here, there, and everywhere. Boxes are in every room of the house. Boxes are blocking the scale and I can't be arsed to move them.

But clothes still fitting the same, can make it up the stairs from the basement with dare I call it a bit of a bounce to my clip and there is no experiencing the "Oh for fucking fuck's fucking sake, my thighs are going to rip in half" sensation while on the last few stairs - while carrying a basket of laundry even.

By the way, I have practically guaranteed the sale of my house now in the next month. I bought a 55 gallon fishtank and new living room furniture. Pics to come of the furniture, it isn't being delivered until the 21st. Pics of the tank to come when more fish have been added which will be when the weather stabilizes and the new fish won't have to experience chillin' in their pseudo-tropical tank to a cold car to a warm house in the space of a whole half hour.

It's been kind of a hassle having a naked living room. Suppose I wanted to invite a guy back to my house - it's either, "Well, we can sit on the floor in the living room and watch TV, or we can go into my bedroom where we can pretend the bed is a really long and narrow couch and watch TV."

Needless to say, it has been my experience that guys get the wrong idea when I suggest we watch TV in my bedroom. Go figure.

So, where were we?

2007-04-10T21:40:00.001-04:00

I have to admit, I lied.

But lied is kind of a strong word. How about we say I "minimized", instead?

Yes, "minimized" sounds good.

What did I minimize? The state of my mental wellness.

Why did I do it? This is a weight loss blog, not a crazy blog.

Does it really matter that I minimized? Probably not.

But still. I already have the stigma of "fat", I really don't need the added stigma of "crazy".

I am Bipolar. Bipolar II, to be exact(-ish). The term "cyclothymia" (aka 'Bipolar III' or as I like to think of it "Bipolar Lite") has been kicked around also. So have Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Major Depressive disorder (MDD), and Depressive Episode (Severe, Recurrent).

In other words, the last 2 months have been one hell of a ride. And not the fun kind.

Imagine the worst case of PMS you've ever had lasting for 2 months. Imagine being drunk without the buzz, but with the forgetfulness, inability to find words, lack of motor coordination, and emotional lability, IN SPADES.

Imagine that every 7 to 10 days, you get the most insane, pinpoint, laserbeam intense focused energy that makes you feel Wide Fucking Awake. You get 6 hours of sleep in 2 days, with a third night of fascinating wide-eyed no-need-to-sleep pending and you feel FABULOUS. You don't WANT to sleep because everything is So. Fucking. Fascinating.

Now imagine all that, the PMSy-ness and the "Whee!" all happening at once. For 2 months straight. Now imagine trying to live a normal life with housecleaning, having to work, shopping, weight loss, blogging, dating, and all that other stuff, the whole time not knowing how you will feel from one hour to the next.

Sounds like it might be a tad difficult to live that way? It is.

I haven't done a proper round of grocery shopping since February. I'm living off carryout, lunch bought at work, stuff bought at the corner store, and cereal.

Housecleaning went to hell.

There were whispers of a revolution coming from the pile of three weeks worth of laundry sitting on the basement floor. Eventually I caved and did a load of laundry - not to quash the revolt, but rather because it eventually it got to the point where I would be showing up to work braless in a well-worn tee from The Cure's "Kissing Tour" and a pair of grey shorts with a large rip in the crotch.

I think the laundry was conspiring with and communicating via coded phrases with the mountain of dishes in the kitchen. The dishes were only finally dealt with when the cable guy had to come over. Hey, Comcast? Your digital cable service sucks and the repairman arrived an hour outside the promised time. The digital cable service STILL isn't picking up some channels, and it isn't even consistent with the channels it won't pick up. Bite me. And take some money off my bill while you're at it.

If I really wanted to embarass myself, I would take a picture of my garbage curb container. It's a bit, um, FULL because I've forgotten to wheel it out to the curb the night before pickup day. For 5 weeks and counting.

But I'm better now.

I hope.

It's not things that have been crazy...

2007-03-07T20:03:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, it's me that's been crazy.

If I could take the part of my brain that processes and holds on to stress and angst and harness it to self improvement and weight loss, I would be unstoppable.

I got into a stressful situation at work and, well, it sort of took over my life. I've never been a good one for handling stress. If I were good at handling stress, I never would have gotten up to almost 400 pounds from nervous/emotional eating, right?

Since I'm a big girl now and I have a job with insurance, instead of building a fort in the yard out of ice cream cartons (I could eat and hide at the same time! And no pesky freezer room issues! Can you picture it? An entire yard filled with ice cream? The mind boggles.), I made an appointment with my doctor where I asked if I could please, please, pleeeeeeeease get an increase in my Xanax allowance, because? Feeling a little tightly wound here.

And by a little I mean to the point of overeating, not sleeping, taking as much of the drugs I have access to as possible without becoming an addict or really messing something up. And for an encore? I'm cutting myself with pieces of metal.

Told you I handle stress well.

Two weeks ago Friday night was one of the worse nights. I took one, then two, then three, then a fourth (4.0) milligram of Xanax.

And that, to the uninitiated? Is a lot of damn Xanax. To wit? I gave Hera a QUARTER (0.25 mg) of a milligram when we flew to Florida and it made her the grooviest shade of mellow of her entire life, ever.

But now? 4 milligrams made me feel tranqued but at the core I was still a gritty, seething, smoldering lump of angst. So I decided to augment the benzos with champagne. A bottle of champage, to be honest. And all that did was make me feel tranqued and drunk. So I did some cutting, and that was what finally unwound the spring and let me sleep.

I woken up in the morning by Dog whining to go out. I was surprised to find that I felt fine, not a bit drunk or hungover from the champagne. I had a bit of a residual drugged feeling from the Xanax, like I was still really mellow and things were maybe at 99% speed and not really quite real.

I slipped on a long tshirt, opened the door, took the leash down off the hook, hooked Dog to the run, and told him to have at it. I turned to go back inside and I'm not sure how it happened, but I fell down.

The first thought to pop into my head as I realized that everything was now sideways because I was laying on my side on the cement in front of the step that leads in the house wearing only a long tshirt? "I hope there aren't any paparazzi around."

The hell?

The split second after I realized I was not famous, thus there would be no paparazzi lurking about my house, I relaxed and thought, "Well, maybe the cement here would be kind of a nice place to hang out while Dog does his business" and I moved my arm under my head for a pillow.

The next major revelation to hit me in the space of this same two seconds was "Oh. Cement cold. Should probably get up."

I got up, whistled for Dog, let him back into the house, and flopped back into bed for a few more hours.

The funny part (besides thinking there were paparazzi lurking somewhere outside my house) of this whole dramarama? Even with all the eating I've been doing, I've maintained the same five pound weight range for two whole months now. Could it be I may finally have somewhat of a vague semblance of a grip on when and what and how to eat most of the time?

Onward and upward. The work in progress continues.

It don't get more romantic than this

2007-02-14T15:23:00.000-05:00

So, after shoveling my driveway BY HAND, where the drifts were knee high in some spots, I warmed up the car and prepared to use it to smash the rest of the snow down.

I punched it and shot backwards out of the car port, through the smaller drifts, and easily through the buildup from the snow plows that came by earlier.

I drove the few feet to the corner and started to make a U turn when I noticed this:

What in the everloving fuck? I mean, yeah, sure, don't we all need more head in our lives? But my fence is hardly the place for expressing this sentiment.

I slowly drove on the wrong side of the street down the length of the fence. A few rails after the above sentiment was this:

It's a little hard to read, but it says and I quote, "I'm not gay, but my weiner is >."

It's refreshing to see proper use of punctuation in graffiti, isn't it? I don't know what the business with the >. at the end of the sentence is, however.

And on the end, the piece de resistance:

Gay pride? I'm down with the cause. But I'm not a gay man, which the graffiti in total seems to insinuate.

This concerns me a bit. I don't live in "that" kind of neighborhood - in by "that" I mean the kind that has hate crime, or really crimes of any kind.

I phoned this in to the police and they sent a very handsome detective out to take a statement. I went to the store and got some brown spray paint and covered up the offending mess. Then I came home and had pizza and blogged about it.

I don't know when it happened. It could have been there for months. To be honest, I don't really pay that much attention to the fence, other than give it a cursory glance when I come home to make sure no one took the corner too fast and slid into it. Since I come home when it's dark, it could have been there for months.

I'm leaning towards thinking it was some boys who stopped by and asked if they could shovel my driveway when there was a mere three inches of snow on it about a week ago. Since I told them no thank you, they decided to get even.

The irony of it all? If they came by today, I would take them up on their offer.

Because I love you

2007-02-10T19:20:00.000-05:00

2007-02-08T12:19:00.000-05:00

Two large pieces of pepperoni and sausage pizza and a large diet coke.

I thought it would make me feel better.

It didn't.

I don't feel better, I don't feel a sense of relief, I don't feel like my focus has been distracted from what's currently making me feel all ":(".

I don't feel anything except really, really full. And vaguely unhappy.

I'm maintaining my weight loss, which would be fine if I were at goal

2007-02-01T18:34:00.000-05:00

A coworker (Cash) keeps a well-stocked candy dish filled with various chocolates and mini candy bars on a table just inside his office door. Sometimes he makes the rounds with the bowl, going from door to door to see if anyone is interested in a treat.

Yesterday was one of those days, and when the bowl came 'round to me, Cash smiled and said, "Thora, I've been avoiding you on purpose for months, you know this." I laughed and told him I appreciated that, but today how about he just set the bowl down and turn his back for a few minutes. He smiled and said, "I think there are some Dove hearts in the bottom, there." Cash knows of my love for the Dove.

Oh, Dove. Your chocolate is as divine as your wrappers are stupid.

I plucked out some hearts from the bottom and started purring contentedly. I carefully unwrapped the first heart and smoothed out the wrapper in order to fully partake of the wisdom contained therein.

The first wrapper suggested I "Sleep under the stars tonight."

The hell?

I don't know where you think you are, mister smarmy cliche candy wrapper, but it's a balmy 17 F out with a windchill of one, there are a good six inches of snow in my yard, I have no camping equipment, and I have to work in the morning, so no, I will not be sleeping under the stars tonight, or any other night.

The second wrapper proclaimed "Chocolate. Always your Valentine."

Oh my.

This particular sentiment could really backfire. I imagine a woman curled up on the couch in a bathrobe, a box of tissue next to her, an open bag of Dove hearts at her side. She sniffles and fights back tears. She is sad because it is Valentine's Day and once again she is dateless. She reaches for a heart, unwraps it, reads the wrapper and bursts into tears, turning to bury her face in a pillow on the back of the couch. Between muffled sobs you can hear "...going to die old... and alone... and FAT... herd of cats... crazy cat lady... allergic to cats... herd of chihuahuas instead...."*

I am now convinced the wrapper authors are male, what with the suggestions about participating in nonsense like sleeping outdoors and ham-handed sentiments like a block of chocolate shaped like a heart is preferrable to spending February 14th with a real live breathing, flower-buying, trying-to-get-you-in-bed, person.

The third wrapper suggested I... huh? "Sleep under the stars tonight", again? Is this a sign?

Let me put it this way. I will be sleeping outside not tonight, not six months from now, not ever, because you know what? If it came down to having to choose between sleeping in the snow or sleeping with mosquitos circling my head like vultures? SLEEPING IN THE SNOW WOULD WIN.

The fourth (yes, four, shut up plskthx) wrapper again reminded me that Chocolate. Is always. Your Valentine. Oh yeah? Well before you start feeling all possessive there, Chocolate; Pizza, Custard-filled Doughnut, Baklavah, and Seafood Alfredo have also expressed an interest in being my valentine. So you are going to have to bring your A-game if you want some of this.

*This particular scenario may or may not be taken in part from my own past Valentine's Day experiences.

2007-01-31T18:43:00.000-05:00

One, if not the only up side to being apple shaped rather than pear shaped, is the ability to fit into chairs with arms. Like theatre seats.

Last weekend I attended a show at a theatre where there were assigned seats rather than general admission.

"No big deal," I thought. "I can fit into theatre seats no problem. I go to the movies whenever I feel like it without nary a second thought."

What I didn't take into consideration was that the show was not at a modern megaplex with updating seating that took into account our broad 21st century posteriors. No no no! This was a theatre built in the 1920s when people were, apparently, much much smaller.

I didn't give a second thought at the several large flights of stairs we had to climb to reach the balcony.

I didn't give a second thought to the situation as I carefully stepped, in the dark, down a dozen or so steep, small, rail-less stairs to get to our third row balcony seats.

I didn't start to really consider what exactly I had gotten myself into until I realized that my seat was not on the aisle as I thought the ticket indicated, rather I was three seats in and going to be seated between Juno (who is also a bigger girl at 5'8" and 230) and a thin-to-average blonde woman.

When I sat down in my seat and it fit like a metal glove, the cold sides holding my hips like a metal girdle and I realized the arms to the seats were tiny, 2 inches at most, and Juno and I looked at each other and said "Oooohhh shiiiiit" and "It's the airplane experience allll over again" between laughs, our shoulders and upper torsos smushed together in a most cozy and familiar fashion - only then did I realize that I was now "that woman".

I was "that woman" that took up more space than her allotted seat.

I finally knew what it felt like to be the one you read angry diatribes about, penned by furious former seatmates on the airplane.

Even though I was purposely leaning to the left to give Thin Lady as much room as possible, my lovehandles were encroaching onto the armrest. It seems Thin Lady took this encroachment as a challenge to battle over rights to the armrest.

Thin lady carried on a conversation with the woman to her right, and I could feel her animatedly punctuate her conversation, using her left arm as a narrative tool. I couldn't help but think her movements felt deliberate, as if she wanted to point out the fact she didn't appreciate me being fat. Or perhaps she thought it would annoy me enough that I would ask her to stop, which would open the door for her to tell me "If you don't like it, MOVE!"

Then the lights came up for a "brief, 15 minute intermission" between the opening act and the main event. There is nothing "brief" about 15 minutes when it is spent sitting snugly in a chair where I am smooshed against my sister and uninvitedly spilling into the personal space of a complete stranger.

Then I started to think that putting away the better part of a liter of sangria and a diet coke with dinner and not going to the loo before the show started probably wasn't the best laid plan.

I sat there wondering which would be less offensive and bothersome to the three strangers to my right - letting me out to go to the bathroom, then back in; or peeing on the seat?

(Luckily it didn't come to that.)

Fifth wheel

2007-01-27T10:23:00.000-05:00

Tonight I am going on a long-anticipated group date. I, my sisters, and their husbands are going to dinner and a concert.

I'm looking forward to it. We haven't done anything as a group in a long time due to work schedules, babies being had, etc.

I'm looking forward to this even more because I don't have to drive. This means I can drink as much wine as needed to forget the fact that once again I am the fat single girl amongst the coupled people.

Oh, those crazy guys from the internets, part 2

2007-01-21T14:49:00.000-05:00

Random Internet Guy: I love BBW with big tits

RIG: I like a big, round butt also

Thora: why are you telling me this

T: do you have some kind of tourettes where you uncontrollably spout out your preferences in a partner, instead of swear words?

2007-01-19T18:30:00.000-05:00

After much mulling and rehashing about who I am now and the factors that contributed (and I'm only partway done - stay tuned for High School II: Electric Boogaloo), I realized I still don't have an answer to why I'm still constantly fighting the urge to overeat.

Today is one of those days. So I decided to make myself the subject of an experiment.

The inner dialogue that brought me to this idea went something like this:

Emotion: (chanting) Chee-tos! Piz-za! Na-chos!

Rational: Great, pick one and that's what we'll do for lunch.

E: Pizza topped with nachos. With a side of cheetos.

R: You aren't even hungry now.

E: Sau. Sage. Piz. Za.

R: Hey, I have an idea! How about you go ahead and get whatever it takes to scratch the itc...

E: Woo hoo!

R: ...as I was saying, scratch the itch on the condition we have a chat about it first. I'd like to get to the bottom of these behaviors. They don't appear to be for the usual reasons, nor do we appear to be getting anything from them.

E: You really need to pull the stick out of your ass, you know this.

R: Yeah? If it weren't for this "stick up my ass", we'd weigh over 400 pounds. You know this.

E: Meh. Point taken.

R: So, tell me. Why do you feel like eating at this particular point in time?

E: ...

R: (raises eyebrows and leans forward expectantly)

E: *shrug* I have no idea.

R: What are you thinking right now.

E: I'm hungry.

R: No, you aren't. Try again.

E: I'm bored. I AM SO FUCKING BORED RIGHT NOW.

R: Yes, yes, now we are getting somewhere. Are you tired, lonely, sad, anxious?

E: No, not really, no, and no.

R: *lightbulb coming on* You realize what the pumpkie pie on Sunday was about, yes?

E: I hate you.

R: That was not an out of the blue craving as was first suspected.

E: *fumes silently, takes another bite of pizza, chews while scowling*

R: You were anxious over Reg. Then your suspicions were confirmed. The funny part is, you were hitting the pie BEFORE you confirmed your suspicions. After they were confirmed, you wanted to throw it up. I find this highly intriguing.

E: He's not even a factor right now. Seriously.

R: Not even a little? You aren't even missing the excitement about the potential of a situation even a little bit?

E: Fuck off. But pass me the pizza before you do.

***

So. Interesting. What have I found? I eat when I'm bored. But that still doesn't feel like The Answer.

- I'm probably missing the potential of the situation with Reg could have been more than I'd like to admit. Having that on the distant horizon really made me feel positive about things for a change.

- I've gotten MUCH better at controlling my "anxious eating".

High school, take one

2007-01-18T18:29:00.000-05:00

Somehow, by mid-ninth grade I had developed a reputation that came with the dreaded label of "slut."

Word of this reached me by my best friend at the time, Janna. Janna advised me one day, "Mindy asked me, 'Why do you hang out with her? She's a slut. You better be careful.' I told her no you aren't and I still like you." Mindy was 6'1" and a senior and had a new-wave haircut so obviously she was an authority on the matter of underclassmen sexuality and was duty-bound to share her observations with others.

This confuses the hell out of me, even today. I hadn't even kissed a guy until the ripe old age of 16 years, 11 months, and 6 days. But at age 13, I was a slut? Go figure. I think it might have had something to do with growing 4 inches and 3 cup sizes in the summer between 8th and 9th grade. On my thirteenth birthday, I stood 5'8", weighed 166 pounds, and was a 38D.

In 9th grade, the sexual harassment started. I didn't have the words for it other than "the kids are picking on me", so my parents had no better advice than, "just ignore them". Throw in inept/uncaring administrators and teachers, and we have the recipe for perfect hell for a sensitive, precocious chubby girl who wants more than anything to belong but doesn't quite get it yet and won't for another few years.

In 10th grade, the depression and weight gain started in earnest. I had always been chunky, but trying to cope with the constant harassment pushed me over the edge. I would eat so much at lunchtime the waistband of my already tight jeans would dig into my stomach, leaving deep pink indentations that stung when the jeans were unbuttoned and the pressure released.

Eventually, the mark from the constricting waistband turned a darker shade of pink/brown. It remained visibile through my early 20s - a decade later. To this day, no matter how large or small I've gotten, there is still an indented strip just above my navel, a reminder of how constricted that area was, how mashed down the fat cells were, how traumatic that time of my life was, both emotionally and physically.

The summer between sophmore and junior year, I gained over 40 pounds.

I barely remember my junior year. It's all a blur of more of the same. Tensions at home due to my failing grades and expanding waistline. Constant harassment at school. Getting in fights.

Ah yes, getting in fights (she sighed wistfully).

It's quite a testament to the state of my school life that I remember an almost-fight as the highlight of my junior year.

Shawn was a blonde, gangly, 6'3" scarecrow of a boy who locked me in his crosshairs freshman year and help cement my reputation as a target at this school. Shawn initiated and perpetuated the harassment, both sexual and non, towards me.

It was late May, and time to go home for the day. I had stayed after for a bit, and not many people were around. Standing at the doors at the end of the hallway, I could see Shawn, waiting in the vestibule for his mom to come pick him up.

I realized this was a do or die moment. I could walk past him like he wasn't there, I could go out the other set of doors which was out of my way, or I could wait for him to leave. I chose to walk past him.

Walking up the hallway, something clicked. Or snapped, rather. A year and a half of this hell was enough. Walking up that hallway, my mindset flipped from "prey" to "predator". Shawn was in for a big surprise. A 5'8", 240 pound surprise, to be exact.

I walked into the vestibule and eyed Shawn.

"Got anything to say to me?"

"No," Shawn replied disinterestedly, his gaze not leaving the window.

"You certainly have enough to say when your friends are around. What's wrong, you chicken when your friends aren't around?"

"Shut up, you FAT BITCH."

On that, I pounced. I grabbed him by the hair on top of his head and pulled as hard as I could, not with just my arm, but my entire body, until he was bent over at a 90 degree angle and dropping his bookbag.

"What? FAT BITCH, huh? Who are you calling a fat bitch? You know, I could really fuck you up right now, bring my knee into your face and smash (brought my knee up rapidly and just shy of his nose) your teeth in. UUUNHH (knee motion) that would feel good."

"Let me GO."

"Let me gooo", I repeated in a high-pitched, mocking tone. "Bigmouth tough guy, getting his ass kicked by a girl. I want you to leave me alone, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

"Yes. LET GO OF MY HAIR."

"I'm. Fucking. Serious. I could really fuck you up right now. You are going to LEAVE ME ALONE from now on, got it?"

"YES. ALL RIGHT. I GET IT."

I let him go.

He straightened up, shook his bangs out of his eyes and said, "Crazy fucking fat bitch."

Pardon me?

I jumped at him a second time, again pulling him by the hair to a bent position.

"Yeah, I'm fucking crazy, I'm also fucking serious. LISTEN - You, and your friends are going to leave me alone from now on. If things don't change, you are going to find out how crazy I am and you WILL NOT see it coming."

"I don't have control over what my friends do."

"Well you better get some because? They bother me? I'm coming after you." With the "you", I shoved him by the head backwards into the wall. "Do we have an understanding?

"Yes," he finally conceeded.

Before he could say another word I shoved the bar across the glass door with both hands as hard as I could. It opened with a satisfying thudding metallic clang that served as an exclamation point to what had just unfolded.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and walked home without looking back, his words echoing in my head.

"Crazy fucking fat bitch."

Oh yeah? You made me this way.

"Crazy fucking fat bitch."

Damn right. And now that I've seen your mouth is larger than your balls, I'm the one in control.

"Crazy fucking fat bitch."

Honey, you ain't seen the half of it.

The elementary and middle school school years.

2007-01-17T18:33:00.000-05:00

I'm the first to admit I am an anomaly when it comes to relationships with men. I've always been on the sidelines. I never had a "boyfriend" or boys interested in me in elementary or middle school. I did not date in high school or college. I've never had a serious relationship in my adult life - the longest lasting from first hello to final goodbye just short of six months.

The later-life issues are a product of earlier-life issues - I didn't get the practice then, so I'm stuck figuring it all out now, when it counts.

The reason why I had earlier-life issues, I suspect, is because I was one of the smart kids that was a year ahead in school, on the path to graduate at 16. This means I was a year to two years behind my peers in physical and emotional development. I may have been 11 years old and reading at a college level, but I was shorter, less developed, and emotionally not ready to deal with the teenager issues that surrounded me.

A perfect example of this occurred in 6th grade.

Around 6th grade, everyone starts to notice each other in "that" way. The alpha females start to emerge. They are usually the ones with the best hair and the first to sport a training bra. They usually wind up with the cutest boy. Everyone else finds their own level.

But not me. I'd go as far to say everyone BUT me.

There was a defining incident at the ripe old age of 10 in which the point was driven home that I was just not the type of girl that attracted male attention.

Case in point? Even the girl with the hearing aid that ate toothpaste out of a plastic baggie using her finger got a Do You Like Me Yes/No Check One (DYLMY/NCO) note. The boy sending them to her may have smelled like urine more days than not, but still. At least she had the opportunity to feel included.

I decided to conduct an experiment. I sent aforementioned smells-of-pee-boy a DYLMY/NCO note of my very own. Not that I was interested in him - oh, no no no! My reasoning? If he was interested in a girl with a bum ear who considered toothpaste a snack item, surely he would be interested in me. And having SOMEONE interested in me is better than having NO ONE interested in me. So note to pee-boy, penned I.

The DYLMY/NCO note I sent him was returned with neither box checked, the word "MAYBE" written in below them, and a square and a checked box drawn over it. Ouch.

How dare he not be interested in me. I played it off that I did it on a dare, or as a joke. Maybe it would have stung more if I told him it was for an experiment?

Eh. Moving on.

The fact that we moved the summer between my 6th and 7th grade years certainly didn't help, either. I went from being secure and happy in a small school with a group of 7 best friends to a larger school where I didn't know anyone. I was the new girl who wore weird clothes and didn't have even a hint of development yet.

The moment that stands out the most for me as feeling different - as opposed to "chubby square peg in a round hole" as baseline - was one of the last days of school in 7th grade.

We were in earth science class, having just finished up the exam and were waiting for the bell to dismiss us. The windows were open and a warm breeze was blowing in. The dress code was relaxed the last week of school, so we were all in shorts and tshirts. Mike, a boy with a long blonde mohawk, Motley Crue tee, and a slightly bulbous nose had decided to pass the remaining time by sharing his assessment of various girls in the classroom with his friend next to him. When his eyes came to me, he scoffed and remarked to his friend "Pff...She looks like she's eleven."

I remember thinking, "Well duh, jerkface. I am eleven."

Remembering that puts it all in perspective. Of course guys didn't want to have a girlfriend who had the physique of someone who should be a grade or two behind them.

All the practice I should have been getting, all the attention I should have been revelling in, all the "do you like me yes/no check one" notes I should have received, all the holding hands under the table at lunchtime - that never happened. I missed out on that and that can never be changed.

Trying to come up with answers to questions that I don't even know to ask.

2007-01-17T18:24:00.000-05:00

V'ron said in the comment section of my last post:

"...our fat is not the cause of what's going on in our lives. Its a symptom..... There's something going on in each of our lives that's causing us to become and remain fat.... What are we anesthetising ourselves from?

I've tried to answer the above but any answer I have feels like it should be qualified with a "yes, but...".

I've tried answering it from the "what am I getting out of this behavior" angle - same thing.

Every answer I can come up with feels like yes, that is the answer - for someone else.

I can't put my finger on what it is I'm anesthetising myself from, nor can I see any particular benefits from what I do.

I think maybe the reason I don't think I have the answer to the above is because the answers are what I parse as normal mental landscaping.

These behaviors were of benefit when they were learned, I suspect, at an age when my peers were experiencing the things that girls usually do at that age.

Because I never had different, I don't know different. Maybe what others would consider "anesthetising", I consider "doing what I do because it's what I've always done and what do you mean you don't do that, I thought everyone did?"

Hm. Could it be?

Could this also be why my issues with men/dating/relationships are inexplicably, inextricably (those two words together are the basis for the catchiest lyric, ever, btw) mashed together?

The next few entries are going to be about events I feel significant to how I am now in re weight and dating.

Happily never after

2007-01-16T18:37:00.000-05:00

I resolved that in 2007, I would meet as many men as possible. Even if there was the smallest chance of a glimmer of a spark that something might be there, I'd take a chance and at least go out for coffee with them. My unoffcial goal was to meet at least one guy a week. If they were willing to drive to the location of my choosing, I was willing to put on a coat of paint and a smile and see if things had enough potential to be taken to the next level.

Then I met Real Estate Guy (REG, or Reg? Reg, yes, that will work) while playing chess online. "Figures," I thought. "The ONE year I resolve to meet no fewer than 50 guys (2 weeks off for vacation or sickness, 50 is a nice round number) is the year that falls one week after I meet a guy who meets all the requirements so very nicely to the point where I wouldn't mind giving the long distance thing a try until he decides I'm fabulous enough that he wants to relocate to my neck o' the woods."

Then shortly after the new year Reg announced "I can sell real estate anywhere. There is nothing keeping me here in 100-miles-away-town, I'm going to start looking for available positions near you. I like you that much."

"Well," I thought, "that certainly is a nice thought. But that's exactly what it is, a thought. A bloke in the hand is worth two in the bush, after all. So I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing while feeling mildly guilty about it until Reg gets the ducks in a row and he has a job and a dwelling in the same zip code as I do."

Then, I found out Reg was lying to me about where he lives, to the tune of underestimating by more than 1000 miles.

I'm still trying to discern WHY he felt it necessary to lie, because it's a sheer fucking mystery to me why someone would do that, and I'd really appreciate the insight on what went into his thought processes.

So, I'm doing what I do, as I planned. I've met three guys this year so far - The Pilot (another pilot, not the one mentioned previously), The PhD, and The Future Economist.

I kind of want to write about these experiences because for me, weight and dating are inextricably linked in my head. And I don't even know how to begin explaining why that is.

I've been wrestling with whether to include dating/relating stories, because that's not the focus of this blog. On the other hand, dating while fat is part of the experience of being fat, so it's relevant.

Anyway. Any opinion or comments on content?

If you enjoy drama or schadenfreude, you will like this entry

2007-01-15T10:10:00.000-05:00

Hera's cell phone rings once, twice, three times and goes to voicemail.

I hang up, and contemplate calling her on her house line. As I stare at the phone in my hand and wonder if I really should be bothering her this late on a Sunday night over such stupid shit, the phone vibrates and bursts into light and polyphonic song.

"Hi!"

"Hi," I manage to choke out as I try to keep it together.

"What's up?"

Of all the qualities I wish I posessed, the ability to stay composed when emotional is right at the top of the fucking list.

"You know that guy I told you about theoneIsaidIreallylikedhefuckingLIEDtome!", I managed to get out before a strangled sounding sob escaped.

"What? Which guy?"

"The one I told you about Friday when we went out for your birthday."

"Oh, the real estate agent*? What did he lie to you about?"

"Hold on, I have to blow my nose." I set the phone down on the bed and blow my nose into the hem of my shirt, which is quickly becoming uncomfortably wet. Stupid deviated septum makes anything nose-related worse by a factor of ten.

"You know how he told me he's in 100-miles-away-town? He's in fucking FLORIDA. Why the fuck would he lie about something like that?"

"I don't know... How do you know? How did you find out?"

"Ah...fuck... a bunch of things... something just didn't feel "right"... I couldn't put my finger on it..."

"Well, like what?"

"Like how he kept cancelling on me. How he kept getting called at the last minute for closings, showings, etc. I mean, I can understand that, it's the nature of the business... but... it seemed like something wasn't right still."

"I don't get it, what was the thing that tipped you off?"

I sigh and say, "He finally called me and his area code is Miami**. He claims his cell phone is a flip phone and it's broken, so this is one that another agent lent him."

"That's stupid."

"Wait, it gets better. When we play games online..."

"NOOOO I don't want to hear about what you do..."

"GAMES. Like Chess and Literati on Yahoo. Sheesh. That's how I met him, remember?"

"Ah, ok, go on."

"He has a webcam and I couldn't help but wonder why he has a farmer's tan in the middle of fucking January."

"That's...really not a red flag...?"

"I asked him about the area code, I asked him, 'Honestly, are you in Florida?' and he said no, he was in 100-miles-away-town at the Robot Arms*** apartments on Poplar Street. I even joked about how I was going to Googlemap his apartment complex."

"I don't get it."

"Before, he had mentioned he had a studio apartment. I looked up the website for Robot Arms and they don't offer studios, just 1 and 2 bedrooms. And lastly, I asked what the weather was like where he was. He said it was snowing lightly. I hit weather.com, put in his zip - and the skies were clear."

"That is kind of weird. Why would he do that?"

"I have no idea. The thing that confirmed it beyond a shadow of a fucking doubt was I went to the license lookup for our state and his and verified his license in both states. Get online and I'll show you."

I sent her the link to his license in Florida.

"What's this "Record of Address" thing? It says his record of address is in 100-miles-away-town."

"I know, that's what I don't understand either. But do you see, his license in Florida became active in October 2006!"

"So maybe he's moved back...?"

"I don't know... maybe it was his address when he moved there. Maybe he is *here* now and that is the address he moved *to*... I highly doubt it. At least now I know... everything makes sense now... including why he said he wanted to relocate here, how "there was nothing for him" where he lives now... fuck... and if he is back, why would he not have mentioned, 'Oh yeah, I was in Florida for a while.' I just don't understand why he felt it necessary to lie about this."

So, dear readers - what do I do now, now that I know what I know?

Highly unlikely scenario: He *is* in this state, in 100-miles-away-town, at the Robot Arms apartments on Poplar Street and I got upset over nothing.

Worst case scenario: He's fucking psychotic and in a few short years I'm going to have a Lifetime Movie of the Week about my death. Please plan on writing letters of protest when it's announced Tori Spelling will be portraying me, as we look nothing alike. I have much more of a Kirsten Dunst/young Barbara Bel Geddes thing going on.

Best case scenario: He didn't plan on meeting someone he really liked that lived in the state he had just left. He thought I was that wonderful that he didn't want to risk me losing interest when I found out he was so far away, and was hoping to stall for enough time to find a job and make the move back to this state/my city and flawless transition into a new life with no one (meaning me) the wiser. We live happily ever after and die of old age in our sleep within three days of each other, because we can't bear the thought of life without our soul mate.

Sigh.

Either way, What The Heck?

Hera tries to tell me that despite how much I insist otherwise, fat girls do not have the market cornered on Guys That Are Seriously Weird. There are just as many - if not more - liars, game players, and men not in touch with reality that exclusively date thin women as there are that prefer fat chicks.

Has something like this ever happend to you? How did you find out? What was their reason for doing what they did?

*No, he's not a real estate agent. Identifiers have been changed for privacy. The real estate agent is also the guy aforementioned here in the infamous Migraines and Mole Chicken Incident of Boxing Day 2006.

**Not Miami.

***All the cool kids are making Futurama references.

But Mr McHaggis, I've only just met you!

2007-01-13T23:58:00.000-05:00

"You can ask me anything."

"Me too. I'm an open book."

(pause)

"How much do you weigh?"

"Aw, shiiiiit... you had to go there," I said with a smirk.

"Well you said I could ask you anything."

"Oh come on... you know that is the ONE question you never ask a woman."

"It obviously doesn't mean what you think it means because if I didn't think you were hot, I wouldn't be here. (pause) I dated a woman once that was almost 350 pounds."

I think about this statement for a second. Does this mean he thinks I'm significantly less than 350 pounds? A split second after that, I realize for the first time in years I can respond to a weight question with a truthful statement about how much I weigh.

"I'm under 350 pounds. And that's all I'm sayin' about that."

Scenes from a first date with a man from The Internets

2007-01-12T08:19:00.000-05:00

"I was sitting there writing* and I looked at the clock and it was 5:25 and I said "Oh, shit!" so I finished the sentence I was on and hurried over here."

"That's usually the reaction I elicit from men..."

"What, that they are in a hurry to see you?"

"No, they think of me and say "Oh shit.""

Then I laughed way louder than necessary because I crack myself the hell up and what better way to score points than to not only look scorchingly hawt, but to also have a self-deprecating sense of humor?

*On further conversation, he revealed he's a PhD and it was an article for a journal. Pretty sweet.

35 down, several more to go.

2007-01-08T19:21:00.000-05:00

What I have learned thus far:

I am not going to do this perfectly.

Since I am not going to do this perfectly, I'm not going to beat myself up when I do something unplanned.

I am not going to rush this process. Disappointment from not being perfect and not losing X pounds by Y date and having an "all or nothing" mentality both contributed greatly to winding up at this weight.

Time is going to pass whether I do something about my weight or not. Might as well lose weight in a tolerable fashion and enjoy the ride, instead of looking at the process as X months/years of punishment to atone for past sins.

I learned what I like. I wrote everything down that appeals to me, then crossed out anything super-processed or loaded with high fructose corn syrup (HFCS), colorants, etc (I'll miss you most of all, Pop Tarts...). What was left over on the list was mostly whole foods or things that could be combined with other things to make one decent thing. I'm not too picky about sauces or condiments from a jar or whether fruits and vegetables are canned or frozen because really, who has time for futzing around with fresh things every day of the week?

I don't miss diet soda as much as I thought I would. I'm ok with having it only once in a while. Just not 4 liters a day like I was doing, at one point. As an aside, how is it I had no problem drinking two 2-liters of (diet) pop per day, but the thought of drinking that much water makes me feel all "blehhhh, noooo"?

High fructose corn syrup is NOT NATURAL and Very Bad. If I have even a crumb more than one serving's worth, it sends me for a ride on the insulin spike rollercoaster which makes me shaky and jittery and sweaty which is not pleasant.

Juice cocktail is NOT the same thing as fruit juice. Juice drinks or "cocktails" are typically 5%-10% juice, the rest is HFCS, water, coloring, and flavoring. If it doesn't say 100% fruit juice on the label, it isn't worth drinking. I lived on Sunny Delight in college and was disappointed to find out it falls in the drink/cocktail category. OTOH, at least now I see why had a hard time losing weight - I was drinking stuff like that thinking I was doing something healthy.

Oriental sauces that come in bottles (like House of Tsang's Saigon Sizzle and Mandarin Marinade) help vegetables to not suck so much. A little goes a long way so the added calories are not that big a deal.

If the first ingredient on a loaf of bread must be "Whole wheat flour". Anything other than that is a waste of calories.

I can pay more now for healthy food, or pay more later in medical bills.

Eating healthy is not as expensive as I thought it would be. Paying a little more for something that is healthy and filling is better than something that was cheap but leaves me hungry an hour later. To test this theory for yourself, eat 500 calories worth of Pop Tarts one day (2.5 pastries) and 500 calories worth of whole wheat bread (5-7 slices) the next day and see if you notice a difference in how you feel.

I will never finish all the fresh fruits and vegetables in my house by the time they go bad because I have a very low threshold for "bad".

I should not feel bad and grumble about the cost when I pitch the offending fruits and vegetables onto the brush pile, because it is winter and the bunnies and squirrels and skunks and deer need something to eat, too.

What I'm still struggling with:

Avoiding fast food. I know it is bad for me. I've seen Supersize Me more than a couple of times. I own a copy of Fast Food Nation. I know that I can get an entire day's calories in one sitting at a fast food place. I know fast food is engineered to be a pleasant experience, contains hormones and additives and flavoring (oh my!), and is NOT GOOD for me. But it's so fast and cheap and convenient that sometimes I wind up giving in and saying "eh, just this once".

Counting calories. I even hate the term "counting calories". It gives me a mental picture of the little fuckers lined up in a row on the counter (they look like navy beans, if you are curious, only they are white) and I'm counting and flicking them into a bowl one by one. I do not like keeping track of what I put in my mouth. Some days I go over, some days I stay under. If at the end of the week I'm still posting a loss, it should not matter what the counts were along the way.

Exercising.
How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways!
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
I loathe thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life.
I shall probably even loathe thee after death.

Exercise. Feh. I know eventually I'll have to cave and commence a-jigglin'. Until that time, at how many words per minute would typing be considered aerobic activity?