Friday, October 16, 2009

Two Big Tig Ole Bitties

Guess who's back in the em effin' house?
This one!
I have officially crossed the seemingly endless bridge of work that has kept my writing life at bay for the past 3ish months.  I've missed you.  I've missed me.  There are plenty of good posts ahead.  More to come.
So there's that,


Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Simple Joys

All I want right now is rice pudding, a hot shower and a cold bed. So finished with this day.

So there's that,


Monday, September 7, 2009

Reboot Universe

"Today, I came up to a cross walk. Right before pressing the button I noticed the sign above it said 'Reboot Universe.' I was too afraid to push it, so I went the long way. You're welcome, Universe."

My Life Is Average #449895

So yeah, no posts in a while. The blame is threefold:
  1. Busy work schedule
  2. General funkiness
  3. PopCap Games

This is my busiest time of year at work. I won't bore you with the details, but I'm pretty much effed against a wall until October 16. I go to Indy next week to staff a continuing education course, and I come right back to work on more stuff for our organization's annual conference next month. Don't use these links against me; I worked very hard on them.

By the time I get home, I'm tired and stressed enough to binge eat. I've been good about not giving in, but I must admit there were a couple nights I came home to a dinner of Chunky Monkey.

I don't want to get on the computer when I come home, but I do anyway. I login to my work computer from home and do the mindless stuff while I watch TV. I don't have time to paginate a 700 page, 26 chapter PDF when I'm trying to explain my work to a new boss and juggling calls regarding the above-mentioned programs.

But that's work, and I saw it coming. I'm just trying to visualize how life will be on October 16th. I know it's a gross analogy, but I imagine it will be like coming down from a big orgasm, except the stuff leading up to it isn't as fun. And I promise never to type "orgasm" again. Henceforth, I shall call it an "OG Readmore."

And when I get done with work-from-home, I spend a few hours watching mrsa infection videos and then warping my brain playing Bejeweled, Zuma, or Atomica on I don't know how it started, but now when I close my eyes I imagine rows of gems that I have to sort by color in groups of three or more. It's completely effed up.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I like my job, I like where I live, but there are so many opportunities I know I'm missing. I'm doing the improv thing, but I feel like I can't really connect with it anymore. Taking two years off really screwed things up; there's new blood, and though I've been where they've been, I feel out of touch. Like I'm thisclose to being one of those weird older people taking improv classes. I'm 27, and I feel like I'm doomed to be the cougar taking classes at IO just to branch out away from work and get in touch with the hip young crowd. Makeup caking in my wrinkles and flouncing about onstage in my open-toe sandals and my age-inappropriate Lane Bryants smelling like powdery Estee Lauder eau de toilette.

Harsh, no?

This is the stuff of my general funkiness. I want to go to grad school, but I just don't know what the point is anymore. If I stay in my division at work, I can't really get above my pay grade if I don't have a anything. And I want a masters; I just don't know if I have the guts to plunge into more debt and spend three years of my life as a working student. Which is stupid - I know it's hard work, I know I can do it, and I know the time will fly; but I already feel like my life's been on hold forever. How can I start living if I have to work doubletime?

My life being on hold? Totally my fault. My confidence has taken a nosedive in the nearly five years since I've moved here. It's not the city, it's not the people; it's my own effing pisspoor attitude about myself, my weight and my relationships. I've said this a million times on this blog, but I've been living like a 40something divorcee all my life. Comethefuckon already Laura! Get your shit togets!

Every night I go to bed thinking I'll hit the reset button, but every morning turns into the same afternoon into the same evening. I go by barely noticed in my daily life. I'm at the same time disturbed and thrilled when I get into random polite exchanges with cashiers and commuters. I'm practically 5 cats and a crossword book away from menopause.

The pistons just aren't firing lately. Should I make them?

So there's that,


Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Miss You

This is the best spam email subject line I've had all month:
Your penis is too dear to your heart not to do anything for it!  Right on!
So there's that,


Monday, July 27, 2009

I hope you get fat.

I got on the bus this morning to find 3 remaining seats: seats 2 and 4 on the 5-seater row in the back, and one in the 2-seater sitting perpendicular to the back bench.

I took the one in the 2-seater for a few reasons:
  1. I couldn't take seats 2 or 4 because it's a tight squeeze and it's the public transit equivalent of riding "bitch."

  2. The first seat has a little more "hangover" space, so the occupant can skooch over to accommodate a larger bum.

  3. If I take the second seat, it looks like tight squeeze, but the person in seat 1 has the opportunity to take advantage of the "hangover" zone if he or she is uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, seat one was taken by an Aryan blonde man, so I took seat two. Because he had the opportunity to skooch, I felt like I was doing him a favor. I had that smug sense of satisfaction that comes with doing something right, like recycling, taking reusable bags to the grocery store, and throwing styrofoam cups at Greenpeace activists.

Plus, I fit in the seat. The guy didn't even have to skooch.

But what did he do? After doing the obligatory huffing and sulking after a fat person invites herself to sit next to a person, he sat there for a moment. And then he bolted. He stood up, moved 2 feet forward, and stood for the rest of the 10 minute ride.

Bitch do what?

I was kind of put off by this. A little pissed, a little hurt. I moved into his vacated position and skooched as far as possible. There was plenty of room for a person of normal BMI, especially a no-hipped male. As you can guess, I spent the entire ride thinking of shit to say to this guy:

  • Fine.

  • Fine. More room for my bags.

  • (Meekly) There's room for you now...

  • (Haughtily) There's room for you now.

  • Dick.

  • A bit spoiled as a Hitler Youth, weren't you?

Finally I settled on the best response:

  • I hope you get fat.

So simple. So true. So raw. What better punishment for someone who doesn't like fat people? I hope he gets fat so that he can see how much it sucks to choose a seat. To see how it feels to be imposing. To feel guilty for taking up space. To feel bitter when people choose not to sit with you. To start wishing it on other people.

I hope your partner gets fat. I hope you still love her/him anyway, but if you don't, I hope that you have an affair, get a venereal disease, get a divorce, lose your money, end up alone. The possibilities are endless!

I was getting so charged up that when Britney Spears' Slave 4 U popped up on the iPod, I started changing the lyrics to suit my needs:

All you people look at me like I'm no little girl

But did you ever think it would be okay to eat Karamel Sutra Swirl?

Always saying tubby girl don't step into Sam's Club

Well I'm just trying to find out why cuz eatin's what I love

eat it eat it eat it eat it oooh, eat it eat it eat it eat it oooh

I'm a slave 4 food...

He was still standing when I got off the bus, and I sooooooo wanted to whisper my zinger to him. How ballsy would that be? How antagonizing? How useless.

Instead I offered a curt excuse me as I brushed past him.

So there's that,


Sunday, July 26, 2009


Hey everybody,

Sorry for the absence as of late, but I've been stumped on how to move forward. I've been obsessing over gluten-free food, and I actually love it. I've been coming up with some really creative recipes that I hope to post here in the coming days. I find myself strolling the grocery stores, reading labels, and putting everything that's interesting and gluten-free into my cart. OVERSHOPPING! I have to put a cap on that this week. One of my goals.

Until then, I have this hilarious gif to share:
So there's that,


Thursday, July 9, 2009

Put Down the Knife!

This morning I had to go in for a biopsy on my upper GI tract. 
When I did my pre-op testing a few weeks ago, they found I was anemic and had low iron stores on top of that.  The doc put me on a high dose of iron supplements and ordered another blood test last Friday to see if celiac disease was the culprit for my iron absorption issues.  I tested positive, so they set up a biopsy this morning.
This involved shoving a camera down my throat.  As I've had practice with long things in my throat before, the procedure was not altogether unpleasant.  I got some good sedatives and a nice midmorning nap.  Plus juice and graham crackers!  Hello again, kindergarten!
I just got a call from the surgeon's office, and he, the gastroenterologist, and the physician who oversaw my pre-op labs all agreed that surgery should be postponed. 
Because celiac disease requires a major diet overhaul (no gluten forever, no milk for awhile), they wanted me to get a handle on those changes before throwing new ones at me.  Plus, treating the celiac would help my iron situation immensely.  It was better for me to go into surgery with as much iron in my stores as possible.
I know it's all for the best, but this has truly broken my heart.  I sat at my desk and cried for a good ten minutes.  I was so ready for this!  Now I have to keep waiting.
I know that weight loss will occur in the interim, especially with these new changes to my diet.  But damnit, I've been visualizing this for so long.
Gah, I'm just bummed.  More to come.
So there's that,


Sunday, July 5, 2009

Cleaning Out My Closet

I don't know how to write about this surgery, and that's why I haven't posted very much in the past month.

I want to write about it, but I'm hampered by some things. I think it's time for a list of what's on my mind.

  1. I've been writing about non-surgical weight loss for some time. Do I look like the biggest a-hole in the world to suddenly come out about my surgery? I can't care about that. This is a journey I started over a year ago with a medical team. It's been on my mind for the past 3 years, to be honest. I just couldn't take the plunge and start the process. When I started the process, I couldn't let myself rely on the possibility of surgery.
  2. It's sad to admit, but I go through life with the idea that things rarely work in my favor. That way when they do, I appreciate it even more. I figured I wouldn't get approved for surgery, but I should try anyway. Who knows? After 6 months of constant consultation with a nutritionist, a psych, and my doctor, I was rejected for surgery in November 08. We did a little more work getting my weight history and reapplied. I didn't hold out any hopes. I was approved in May, and things progressed quickly from there.
  3. I was still on the fence about surgery. I'd lost weight through diet and exercise before; I should be able to do it again, right? Would having surgery be an admission of some kind of defeat? Some kind of weakness? I figured I would make the decision when I had the option. When I got approved, it was pretty easy to make the choice.

I am defeated. I do have a weakness. I have been obese all my life, and if that's not a sign of failure then I don't know what is.

It's sad that my identity has always been tied to my weight, even since I was a kid. How do you turn around 20 years of beliefs, especially when they've been with you since your formative years?

Short answer: You can't. I can't.

I've accepted long ago that I will never have a normal life when it comes to food or my weight. Since that's the case, why put off surgery? Sure I may lose weight through dubdub over the next few years, but I can't say that it will stay off. Well, I can say that, but who the eff knows, right? I thought I'd keep my weight off last time, but that was a bust. Time gives you all kinds of drama to deal with: love, death, wealth, poverty, babies. Any of that can drag me out of control.

I want control. Everybody with an eating disorder wants control: fat people want it over food and choices about their lifestyle, anorexics and bulimics want it over food and choices about their lifestyle. Our bodies are ours alone, and we want to control it any way we can.

I don't like being told what to do. That started long ago with food, with being told I can't have this or that, sugar cereals or cakes. That I can't have clothes or toys until I lost weight. When I became a big girl who could make her own choices, guess what I did? I bought a box of Cookie Crisp and had dessert with every meal. I got fat, I got thinner, I got fat again when I couldn't control my emotional situation. I know my history. I don't want to keep repeating it.

I have this chance to have a new tool - one that restricts the amount and types of food I can eat. It's not going to tell me what to do, but it's going to pre-empt any of that crazy behavior. I will have to deal with my food issues head on, instead of bingeing and hating myself later.

And really? I'm done with food. In revisiting favorite foods last week, I realized that food's not as good as it's cracked up to be. Last week was a chore, and each meal was lackluster, to be honest. I got fish and chips Thursday night, and it was bland and soggy. I didn't even finish it. I'm over this slavery to food.

I work well within boundaries. I'll find ways to make any restriction flavorful and enjoyable.

This post seems full of contradictions: I don't like being told what to do, but I work well within boundaries. It's true, and I stand by it all.

The only difference is, this surgery is MY choice. This is not my mom lecturing me on my food choices; this is me going into a situation as a fully-informed adult. This is my decision and I am proud of it.

I'm tired of defending it. I will gladly talk about health, diet, fitness, but from here on out I will only talk about my body on my terms. I'm not anyone's property. Everybody has an opinion about what I'm going to do, but the only one that matters is mine. My body is not up for debate anymore. I am not my disease.

This is my new mantra. Now is the time when I have to stop looking at myself as a body and start seeing myself as a person. I need to cultivate my interests because I've thrown so many to the wayside over the past 3 years. I don't want to lose my personality, because I do have one, and I know it's more than being a bitter fat girl.

Which brings me to another pondering - when I lose weight, will I stop bitching? I hope so. I mean, from this day forth I will not be hard on my body. But I will bitch about people who drive me crazy.

Back to the surgery: I hopped on this opportunity because I don't want to be 45 and obese, pissed at myself for not taking this chance. I want to start living my life. Like I said, I've pissed away my twenties, I wasn't a normal teenager; I live like a divorcee, for Christ's sake. Done! I'm done with it!

I shouldn't care about this, but the friends I've told about this surgery have not been so excited about it. It's scary, I know, but for me the benefits outweigh the risks. I hope they can accept my decision and my new lifestyle. I don't think they can really see or understand how I feel at this point in my life right now. I've been asked why I care so much about what other people think. The misconception is that I'm doing this for other people. No...I'm doing it for me. What I'm doing is not living. I need to build up myself before I can be any good to others.

And yeah, other people do come into play. I'd be lying if I said they didn't. Truth is, I don't care what people think so much as I don't want to be invisible anymore. To both men and women. People don't treat me seriously at the gym, at a sports store, at any stores that aren't Lane Bryant. I've been out to bars with married women who - acting as my wingmen - get hit on by the guys they're trying to introduce me to. I can be as tricked-out and present and engaging as a muhfucker, but guys go after the hot women. It's a fact. And while I don't want to go out with the kind of guy that hits on married women, I would so love the opportunity to break their hearts and blue their balls.

Surgery isn't magic, it isn't going to cure me over night, and it's going to really suck for a while, but goddamn it, I'm ready.

And it's not up for debate.

So there's that,


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

So long, farewell

Goodbye, Pulled Pork Sandwich with Cole Slaw.
See ya, Corn on the Cob!
Auf Wiedersehen, Banana Nut Bread.
Sayonara, Bagel with Veggie Cream Cheese.
Hello Disgusting Sense of Fullness.  I've been expecting you all morning.
Seriously, there is no pleasure in this eating.  It's like a frickin' death march - not that I'm mourning these foods, but that I feel obligated to eat them while I can.  I'm not enjoying it, so why don't I stop? 
In a way, I feel like if these last meals make me feel like crap, I will have no craving for these foods again.  I'll remember how greasy I felt after downing that pad Thai last night.  How unappetizing the cookie dough ice cream tasted on top of a full stomach at 9:30 pm.  I'll remember the embarrassment of wiping corncob spray off of my cubicle walls just now.
Gross.  I keep saying for the next 36 hours, I'll be Ms. Why Not.  At time like this, when my stomach's distended so much that the stretch marks - slack two weeks ago - have now accordioned out again to contain my girth, I need to be Ms. Why. 
At the very least, Ms. What Am I Doing?!
So there's that,

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

How bad can that be?

Remember when I said I was gonna push all that "last dinner" mentality away from me?

My low carb, high protein pre-op diet starts Friday, and it's really hit me that the clock is ticking on my time with food. I have 2 days to do this:

Eat one more box of Strawberry Fruit-Roll-Ups
Get some fish and chips
Have a caramel pecan sundae
Eat a really good cupcake

Right now I'm full up on Thai food, but there's a pint of choc chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer puttin' the spurs to my imagination. I'm FULL! But I have to eat this ice cream!

This is crazy this is crazy this is crazy!

I keep telling myself that after Friday, it's just food. But now it's freedom! Or actually, it's not; I'm making myself a slave to this shit until Friday. How free is that?

If I abstain, will I always think of this as the food that got away?

So there's that,



I saw a girl today walking around in a skirt and UGG boots.  This made me worry that I'd time-traveled back to 2004, until I looked down and realized I wasn't 40 pounds thinner.
Seriously?  Why are people wearing these shoes?  IT'S SUMMERTIME AND YOU'RE WEARING SHERPA WOOL.  FUCK YOU.
These shoes make even the thinnest hoochie look like she got lymphoedema:
Am I right?
So there's that,

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Let It Be Done

I've been thinking about that earlier post on Last Meals all weekend. And I've decided I'm over it.

I'm not going to plan the next month around all those foods that I won't be able to eat for a long time; that just gives power to the food. Once I put that plan out there, I realized how crazy it really sounds.

I've been working for years on not making such a big deal out of food. By making that list, I put a deadline on my indulgences. Not good. That's like saying I'll never have those foods again, which leads to an obsession over them, which leads to resentment post-surgery when I can't eat them with the abandon to which I've become accustomed.

By planning last meals, I'm undoing what's really a lifetime of work. I already learned the hard way the lesson that banning foods will only make me crave them more. Planning meals over this next month, celebrating our last dance, will only make them more difficult to ban. That will lead me to resent the fact that I have to ban them in the first place.

Fuck that. If I come across the opportunity to enjoy these foods over the next month, then I'll take it. But for me to go out of my way for them will cost more than money.

I'm done paying those dues.

So there's that,


Saturday, June 13, 2009

I Just Got It...

When Legally Blonde came out, I was all, "Where did they get that title? Is that a play on words? A pun? Is it a play on legal bonds? Can a blonde be only so blonde to be legal, like fruit cocktail has to contain a certain percentage of fruits and syrup to be legally considered 'cocktail' by the FDA? She's a certified blonde?"

I'm serious. Shamefully serious.

I'm catching up on blogs just now, and truTV is on in the background. I was watching Forensic Files, but now one of those police footage clip shows is on. I just heard a guy say "legally blind," and it clicked.

Legally Blonde is a very clever play on the phrase legally blind. It works! Her blonde-ness led to blindness - to others, to life, to reality. She had to learn to see!

Talk about a headslapper. Jesus Christ, what a relief. Apparently the only blonde here is me.

So there's that,


PS - It was this kind of realization that led me to hate the phrase "Daddy's little squirt." Gross. It's semen. They're saying that a kid is its father's squirt of semen. Shiver. That kind of stuff belongs on a consenting adult's face and chest, not near children.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Last Supper Syndrome

I've lost 2 lbs in the past month, bringing my total loss so far to 35 lbs.

Just for the record, I'm not going to use my upcoming surgery as an excuse to quit eating right and excercising. I could very easily do that, but I like to think that once I see a number on the scale, I never want to see it again.

So today will be the last day I see 291.

My goals in the next month are two-fold: continue to eat healthy and excercise, and eat those favorite meals one last time. I know those are seemingly disparate goals, but I want to be able to say goodbye to those foods that I've taken for granted over the years - all while sticking to my daily POINTS allowance and keeping in shape. I'm not going to binge...

I've realized how much I've grown in the past year. I've addressed all those binge- and secret-eating habits that have kept me down; I just don't feel like doing that anymore. It was very easy for me to down a pint of Ben & Jerry's (as single-girl cliche that is), a whole Tombstone supreme pizza, a bag of salt and vinegar chips with dip, a bag of microwaved popcorn with Tostitos queso dip, a box of Fruit Roll-Ups, and a sleeve of Strawberry Sour one afternoon. I'm not kidding. That was a regular full-on binge for me before I started walking for hours every weekend. I'd wake up on Sunday morning with puffy eyes and thick mouth, and I'd drink only water the rest of the day. I think that's what they call an eating disorder.

Now I can't even think of it. For one, I get full. I've learned to read my body's hunger signals, and I've had a little help from Meridia in that regard. Binges - as huge as they were - never made me feel sick because I was ALWAYS hungry. That's the ultimate reason why I'm having this surgery; to physically limit my food intake. Something's pretty wrong with you if you can eat and never feel full or sick and still continue to crave. I had to change my behavior, and now I'm going one step further and changing my body.

Surgery is the last tool in my box. After 20 chubby years of successful and unsucessful weight loss, I know my body and my mind. I couldn't have done this 10 years ago, or 6 years ago, or even one year ago. I can do this now, and I'm ready for it.

I'm in training for July 13. I want to be in the best physical condition possible before I go into that operating room. I want my recovery to go smoothly, and I can't do that if my body and my mind aren't prepared. Plus, I want the surgical team to be all, "Wow, this is the fittest fatass we've ever seen!"

I also want to have those favorite meals that I won't be able to enjoy in the same way again. I want to enjoy them, to remember them for the lovers they once were. They are as follows:

  • Mussels in wine broth from the Atwood Cafe, Hopleaf, or Bistro Margot. I can only pick one.
  • Shrimp Pad Thai and cucumber salad from Thai Aroma
  • Chicken Pad Thai, Crispy Rolls, Tom Yum Soup, Tom Ka Kai Soup from Penny's Noodle Shop
  • Kung Pao Shrimp, Chicken in Lettuce Cups from PF Changs
  • Sunday rib special from Art of Pizza
  • Whole Grain Pancakes from Golden Nugget Pancake House
  • Lemon Meringue and Red Velvet Cupcakes from Molly's Cupcakes
  • Mini BBQ Chicken Plate Lunch from Aloha Grill
  • Chicken Fajita Bol from Chipotle
  • Fish and Chips from Wilde
  • Arugula Pizza from Quartino
  • White Wine, sharp cheese, apples and bread
  • Something with Asian Slaw on the side from Bandera

I think that's it. As you can see, I'm very serious about my Diet Coke, Fresca, and Roll-Ups. My stomach will soon be a no carbonation zone. After I've healed, I hope I'll still be able to tolerate spicy food. I think I'll miss that the most.

For the record, I won't die if I don't have these foods before the surgery, but it'd be nice to try them one last time. I know that I can't let a last supper turn into a last binge.

So there's that,


Thursday, June 4, 2009

a comment on single life after college

welcome to our parents' reality - only we ain't working for our kids.

i don't think our generation will ever be satisfied. we're all snowflakes until we melt in the heat of the realworld. then we get selfish and shut down. it sucks. i guess it pays to have something to always improve - love, religion, weight, body, home, soul. it's all a distraction from the pain of being notspecial since school.

so there's that,


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

The Gayest Man on Earth Would Call This Over the Top

Here's a bit of random fun:

The literal version of the Total Eclipse of the Heart video. Love it. Live it.

So there's that,


Sunday, May 31, 2009


While conversations with her are hurtful and confusing, Mom eventually shows a better side. It's not an ideal mother-daughter relationship, but what is?

After I posted the last blog, I called Mom back and left her a voicemail. I said I didn't put all the blame on her; there were lots of factors involved in my obesity, but I have very strong memories of her expectations and the way she managed them. I told her I couldn't do this without her, but she needs to see that I am an adult, I made this decision on my own, and I don't want her to undermine my confidence in it.

She called back Friday afternoon and apologized. "I'm sorry for being so concerned. It's just my job. I know you are an adult, and I will be there for you always. I love you more than anything."

We continued making plans for my surgery on July 13. I'm getting a redacted stomach.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

So there's that,


Thursday, May 28, 2009

Editing the History of Blame

Mom sounded loose with whiskey when she answered the phone tonight. On any ordinary night I would have tried to end the call quickly, but we had to make plans.

Note to self: Call early in the evening to talk to a sober mom.

Now my face is hot and stung with tears, and my lips and tongue are sticky from sobbing.

She told me she loved me and she would be there for me on the big day. She told me she'd take care of me while I convalesced.

"But Laura, you will stick to the letter of the law. You will follow every rule they give you..."

I know Mom; I've been working on this for months now.

"Laura, listen to me. have to do whatever they tell you..."

Mom, I made this decision after a lot of thought. I -

"No - Laura...No. I'm saying you can't quit this -

I know! I didn't enter into this lightly -


I faced down a lot of guilt and apprehension -


To come to this decision. I'm an adult -

"What I'm saying is, you better do everything they tell you to do..."

You could hear the finger-wagging in her voice, the lush wisdom of a woman who's confident her daughter will fuck this all up somehow...because she's so immature and has an attachment to food.

"Laura, what does food mean to you? Is it comfort?"

Uh yeah, it's comfort for everyone. When you give kids snacks and sweets for being "good" then they associate it with reward. I got a lot of rewards.

"I never brought snacks into our house."

You'd come home with a can of potato sticks or a Reese's egg in your hands and hide them behind your back and tell us to pick an arm. Manda and I would each get one. You came in one morning before work and left each of us a bag of pick-a-mix candy.

"Oh it's my fault?"

Not exactly...Gram gave us treats, family gatherings revolve around's all comfort and family.

"SO IT'S MY FAULT! I got news for you little girl, I'm not to blame for what you did to your body."

I had a part in it, yeah, but you were the one who put me on diets.

"You wanted to!"

I didn't ask; you suggested and I went along with it to make you happy and to make me skinny. I believed everything you did.

"Laura you wanted to do those things, you asked!"

I asked for dolls and clothes, and you always told me if I lost weight I could have whatever I wanted.

"You better think about that, little girl. You better take another look."

Mom, it's not all your fault...I don't put all the blame on you. This is what I remember. And now that I've made this decision on my own, you're trying to suggest that I can't cut it. I'm in control of this choice.

"You are something else. You came crying home when kids picked on you. What was I supposed to do? It was your heart, your lungs..."

My heart and lungs are perfectly fine. I don't blame you...I'm just saying what I remember.

"You remembered wrong. You had a horrible childhood? Am I such a bad mother? You couldn't even trust me with Charlie -"

Off limits. This conversation is ending in 5 seconds if you don't cut it out."

"Oh this is off limits?"


I knew going into it that this was a bad idea. I should have just let her speak her condescending wisdom and just nod. I shouldn't give my counterpoint when she's drunk, when she's on a mission. Though if I just say "yeah," and let her make her point, she'll think I'm not serious. She'll keep saying the same things over and over again. Can't I defend myself?

I thought we were reaching the point where we could have honest conversation. I guess we both have to be adults before that can happen. Trouble is, I don't think either of us are.

So there's that,


Tuesday, May 26, 2009


I have to make a confession.

This is very shameful to admit...

I fucking mean it.

I spent 2 hours on Sunday watching YouTube vids of people popping zits, cysts and boils.


I got my monthly PMS chin zits, and I learned long ago (read: last month) that I shouldn't try to pop them because I'll go all crazy and gouge a patch out of my face. To prove it, I have 3 scars on my chin the size of cigarette burns.

Not to brag, but zits are pretty rare for me. Yeah, I get chinzits every month, but none big enough to write home about. So when I do get a real juicy one, I want to pop it and dig at it until I see bone or Jesus, whichever comes first.

It's such a rush! You KNOW IT IS! Zit-popping and scab-picking are one of life's nastiest guilty pleasures and don'tpretendyou'rebetterthanME!

So yeah, I want to pop my zits but I can't because of the aforementioned scarring. I had some free time on Sunday - obvies - and decided that instead of going to town on my face, I should see if YouTube had anything to offer.


I started out with zits, but when I wasn't satisfied I moved onto sebacious cysts on men's backs. That was good for 45 minutes or so, but I still wasn't fulfilled. I moved onto boils and skin infections. Of particular delight were MRSA wounds being drained. (That link is tame - just a description.) MRSA is a particularly nasty staph infection that can cause huge abscesses that are often confused with spider bites (I watched drainage of those, too). I watched baseball-sized holes being drained of fluid, leaving behind a hollow hole in the skin. It's fucking disgusting...and glorious.

Then I watched video blogs about how entire MRSE abscesses had to be completely excised from the body, leaving deep trenches in the tissue. Many people found hard lumps of puss (or something...I'll call it puss) in the drainage and photographed it.

Obviously, I'm not very squeamish about this stuff, and I'm sorry if you are. I would probably get sick if I was in the same room and had to smell it, but I can handle watching surgeries with some suspension of disgust. It's just soooo cool to see what the human body does to fight infection!

Sad to say, I don't think I'm done. I went back to watch more yesterday, and I'll probably go back tonight.

What have I learned? Zits are just a gateway blemish.

So there's that,


Monday, May 18, 2009

Eat the Cookie!

I caught Flowers in the Attic on TV this afternoon, which is a blessing because I got to see this long-forgotten awkward/hilarious scene.

A little background first: A woman goes against her father's wishes and marries her uncle (that's in the book). 15 years later, the couple is happily married with 2 teens - a girl and boy - and two 2 young children - a girl and boy. They're too precious. Her husband dies suddenly, and, destitute, she is forced to return to her father's mansion/compound to beg forgiveness..and for money. Dad doesn't know that she had kids with her uncle, and if he ever does, she'll never get paid. So she does the obvious thing and - with the help of her bitchdog mother - hides the kids in the mansion's attic while she tries to weasel her way into the will.

The kids are there for years, their mother telling them that very soon her father will die and they can come out. Bullshit. The kids get all pale and dress up in the old timey attic clothes and decorate the place with paper flowers and imagination. Bitchdog grandma thinks they're fornicating (like their mom did with the uncle) and so keeps her stinkeye on them all the time. She chops off the older girl's hair in one scene.

(In the book, the older daughter and son have sex. Actually he rapes her, which is really really really weird. Weirder because he does it after seeing his mom making out with a new beau...)

Anyway... the young boy dies after eating cookies powdered with arsenic, and the oldest son decides that they need to bust out in front of everybody. It looks like Mom's getting remarried, so they're gonna bust their move on her big day. In doing so, they happen upon grampa's will which states that if it's proven that Mom had kids with her uncle, she'd be disinherited. The jig is up!

The kids get all piossed and barge in on mom's big day. Before you watch, please note the wonderful/bad acting, and my favorite line of the movie starting at 0:47. EAT THE COOKIE! Let's join them, shall we?

That's gotta be worse than getting your period on your wedding day. At least there were cookies.

So there's that,


Hot Fish Pasta

It doesn't sound good, but I swear it's the most delicious thing in my life today.

Hot Fish Pasta
Serves One

2 oz dry shaped pasta (penne, bowtie, shells, etc.)
3 oz (1 small can) light tuna packed in olive oil
1 clove garlic
2 tsp olive oil
1 Tbsp parmesan cheese
red pepper flakes
black pepper
red wine vinegar or lemon juice

Boil the pasta until al dente in heavily salted boiling water.

Peel the garlic clove and roughly chop. Sprinkle a little salt on the chopped garlic and and use the flat side of your knife to smash the garlic into a paste. You'll have to make several passes of your knife and just sweep and spread the garlic on your cutting board. The salt helps grind the garlic.

Drain pasta and return it to the pan. Off of the heat, add the tuna, garlic, olive oil, red and black pepper and parmesan. Toss gently until combined. Return the pan to low heat and warm the contents while continuing to gently toss. Finish with a dash of vinegar or lemon juice (you'll need it).

I know it sounds crazy, but it's so delicious. The key is using tuna in olive oil; it doesn't taste as dry as water-packed and it melts in your mouf. This dish probably cost me $3 to pull together. And it's sooooooo gooood. I want more now.

I got the idea when I was walking around an Italian deli today. I saw the cans of imported oil packed tuna, and remembered that my boyfriend Alton Brown was in love with it. Then I saw the eggy looking homemade dried pasta and an idea was born. I was originally going to go with a cold pasta-tuna salad with some capers, dijon mustard and a little mayonnaise or vinaigrette. That would have worked, but I didn't want to mask the flavor of this tuna. I'm serious, it is good shit.

If this dish had herpes, I'd go on Valtrex for it.

So there's that,


Saturday, May 16, 2009


Yesterday's word of the day from was querulous.

[kwer-uh-luhs, kwer-yuh-] –adjective

1. full of complaints; complaining.
2. characterized by or uttered in complaint; peevish: a querulous tone; constant querulous reminders of things to be done.

Doesn't weight loss begin with a complaint about your body? If that's the case, I've been complaining for a long time. Way before this blog.

If you go back and read all the stuff I've posted here, you'll probably find that 75% of it is complaints. Complaints about my body, my mom, my local Subway. Hell, even yesterday I complained about my pants being too big.

Bitch say what?

So I'd like to turn this around on my own querulous ass and file some complaints against my personality. If spending all this time on energy overhauling my exterior, I better take a hard look at my interior. Lord knows I don't want to be one of those skinny girls with nothing to offer!

  1. I play devil's advocate too much. When my friends are facing problems, complaining about others or their situations, I always try to look at it from the other side. I make excuses for the offending party, I try to put my friend in her enemy's shoes, and I pretty much argue against my friend's position. That's just awful, isn't it? If somebody pulled that shit on me, I'd get pretty defensive. And guess what? That's what my friends do. I need to stop and think: a good friend listens and empathizes; she doesn't "well, maybe..." I've got to get over my opinion, and get into her heart. I'm not Spock; I don't need to be so goddamned logical.
  2. I give unsolicited parenting advice. Guess what? I ain't never birthed no babies before. Who the fuck am I to tell you to get your kids dirty so they can build up immunity to germs? Whe the fuck am I to tell you that "you can't control what happens when you're not there." How am I gonna sit up here and offer advice when I ain't been in your place? I'm going off what I know about how I was raised and how I saw other children raised around me. Considering how fucked up a portion of my upbringing was, maybe I'm not the best person to weigh in on how you raise your child.
  3. I will find a negative side to your greatest pleasures. "Oh, you got that fabulous shirt at Marshall's? You're lucky you're not fat; it's so hard to find decent clothes at closeout prices. We have to buy premium from Lane Bryant if we want to look good, can't just pop into H&M for a shirt. Did you know Old Navy doesn't even sell women's plus in stores? Oh yeah, it's only available online now..." "Oh, you like Starbucks coffee? I like their espresso drinks, but most of their regular coffee tastes like ashtray to me. I love Metropolis coffee, only it's so hard to find..." "Oh, you like to run? I'll try again after I lose 100 lbs, but if I did it now my thighfat and tits would get pulled like taffy..." Girl, shut up. Find the positive. And if you can't? Shut the fuck up.
  4. I have to hear what I missed. The reason is two-fold. I'm as good as deaf, especially in places with lots of background a movie theater. Secondly, I don't trust people; this bitch wants to be in the loop. I need to understand that I'm not interesting enough for it to be all about me. I need to trust that people aren't keeping secrets from me. I need to trust that if I don't hear what that one guy with the black hair said, I'll figure it out eventually if I shut up and pay attention to the rest of the movie.
  5. I don't trust women. With the exception of a few awesome women in my life, I am very VERY distrusting of other women. I've always had more guy friends than girlfriends, which is a shame. Growing up as a fat girl, I got shit from a lot of other girls. Mostly though, I think it's because I envied so many more girls. If they didn't have a FUPA, I didn't want to like them, I didn't want them to have winning personalities, I didn't want them to be happy. If they did have a FUPA, I wanted to be seen as better looking than them. Other fat girls were my competition in The Least Ugly Fat Girl competition that takes place in every school. In truth, I was just as vapid as I assumed all the other girls were. This is sad. Not only do men tear us up for not being perfect, but women tear each other up for both being perfect and not perfect. You can't fucking win. I decided to support fabulous women everywhere. No more competition.

So yeah, I can turn it back on myself. I won't say that this is my last blog of complaint because let's face it, the world runs on bitchin' and moanin'.

So there's that,


Friday, May 15, 2009

A Humbling Moment in the History of Fashion

I'm pissed off.
But a good kind of pissed off...I guess.
I bought a pair of kickass trouser jeans 2.5 years ago, and I was only able to wear them once before I FUPA'd and muffin-topped my way out of them.  Hell, they were a little tight in the ole fupe when i bought them, but I'd hoped the wide legs and a little weight loss would make them more comfortable.
Wrong.  I wore them once, and I remember the day very well because the pants were so tight as to make me feel self-conscious, and I had on a pair of new, ill-advised shoes that so brutalized my feet that my bunions could have pressed charges.  The fashion police should have arrested the shoes on color alone:  lime green is not for everything. 
Add to that a romantic banana yellow top, and you've got a recipe for Laura's ultimate discomfort:  an ensemble with too much going on.  I mean, I like attention and all, but when I wear something that just tries too hard, I feel like the biggest trendwhore in town - literally.  Nothing makes me feel more fat and exposed than an overly ambitious ahn-SAMB.  
So I put the pants away on the top shelf of my closet, hoping for a day when I could wear them the way they deserved to be worn - comfortably fitted.  I took them out maybe 3 times over the next year, but it was no use; I was growing 25 pounds heavier than the day I bought them.  I tucked them away on a sweater shelf, with the fear/understanding that I'd eventually throw them out in one of my semi-annual freakout clutter sweeps.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw them on the sweater shelf and decided to put them on my denim pile.  I didn't try them on because I was just beginning to fit into other 2-years-old-and-never-worn pants, and I couldn't handle the disappointment if this pair should continue to pinch my FUPA.
Last night I was in bed considering the next day's wardrobe.  Friday is cazh/denim day, and I realized all 3 pairs of jeans in my current rotation were dirty and stretched.  I took note of the old pile of jeans on my shelf, and decided to try them on when I woke up.
This morning I pulled out 3 pairs of old jeans, and decided to try the trousers on first since they looked so clean and new.  There was no struggle to pull them up over my hips, no struggle to button and zip.  I had forgotten the pants were "low-rise" (which is all relative when you're plus shopping; a 7" zipper is still better than a 14" momjeans zipper, but not by much), and now they were struggling to sit on my hips.  There was a gap at the back where my ass/back fat should have been.  Instead of clinging to my hips/upper thighs before falling straight to the hem, the outseam looked deflated around the largest part of my body.  It caved around my knees.  With no ass to fill it, the seat was empty and sagging.  With no dumptruck to hold it up, the wide hem dragged on the floor. 
It was a sorry sight to behold - watching a pair of structured jeans, once magnificent and untouchable in its constant disapproval, flop lifelessly around my shrunken legs.  It's gratifying and at the same time disappointing, like seeing your 8th grade English teacher buying tampons.  Like selling a Hustler magazine to a respected town cop.  Like hearing a bitchy coworker take a fierce dump in the stall next to you.  It's an equalizer, to see something so superior brought down to a human level...but at what cost?
Still, I'm wearing the pants today if only as a bleak reminder of how the masters can become mastered.  And because they're really fucking comfortable.
So there's that,


Wednesday, May 13, 2009

X Divided by Ten Equals Thirty Three

Lots of big things have happened since I've last written, but I've just found it difficult to put into words. 
First this:
I know I write too much about the mundane details of my life (what I ate, how I feel about living creatures, epic BMs), and I hate doing that just to write something.  But I started this blog not just to talk about fatness, but as a reminder to write more.  A poet/songwriter I knew a long time ago told me, "A writer writes, no matter what."  It's a widely understood sentiment among "artists", and since it came from a particularly expressive hippie, I took it with a grain of salt and some hand sanitizer. 
When I write about even the mundane shit (pun intended), it gets my brain juices flowing onto broader topics.  I may not always write about the broad stuff, but I think about it...and that's therapeutic. 
Also, I don't edit my writings (or myself).  I probably should, but then I would fritter way too much time away on my masturbatory musings when I could be searching for free porn and literally masturbating.  I put a limit on my home computing time, so it is rare and precious.
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is I'll keep writing mundane crap just to write.  Feel free to gloss over it and see if it goes anywhere.  Feel free to call me out on it.
I lost 5 lbs this week, which brings me to a total loss of 33 pounds.  It's a significant number for a few reasons: 
  • 33 was Jesus Christ's age when he died for our sins.
  • It's 1/3 of the first 100 lbs i need to lose. 
  • It's 10% of my starting body weight.
So can do the algebra.  When you do, you'll see I've got more than 100 lbs to lose.  At this point, I'd like to lose 120 more, but I'll just focus on the next 33. 
What this means is that I get my first big ticket pampering reward:  a botanical skin resurfacing facial from the Aveda Institute.  I had it done last November during my staycation, and let me tell you if I had a penis, I'd totally jizz over it.  Not only do you get a facial, but you also get a decent hand/arm/leg/foot massage.  Hot stones are involved.  Music is played.  Happy endings are had.
I shal post more big news later, but now I have to put on my adult diaper in preparation for 3 straight hours of LOST.
So there's that,

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Time's Up

Time is officially up on my one month 10 pound challenge, and I didn't make it.  What can I say?
I didn't gain or lose this week, and I'm proud of that.  Also to my credit, I'm on my  BIG P and I still bit the bullet and weighed in.  Hopefully next week I'll show a big loss; that's how it always goes when I'm free of my gyno-shackles.
So this month I lost 6.6 pounds, and that's not bad at all.  I am exactly 5 lbs away from my first goal, so that will be my main focus in the next two weeks.  I promised myself a massage, and by golly I'mma get a massage.  It's long overdue.
Spring weather has finally hit Chicago like the dumb bitch it is, so now I can step up my exercise routine.  I'm already working the elliptical 4 days/week over lunch.  On the aerobic setting at level 15 for 35 minutes, I can burn 800 calories.  I'm gross and drippy when it's all done, but man is it the highlight of my day!  Now that the weather's nice, I plan to walk home (5 miles) at least two nights/week.  And because my weekend schedule prevents me from going on marathon walks for the timebeing, I still get in at least 5 miles every weekend.  The lap pool will open soon at the park district, so I'll get to swim.  I'm so excited for all the new ways I can get active!
There is nothing like spring in Chicago.  The winters are so brutal that it cracks the skin on your eyelids, you can't find parking, and you ruin countless shoes until you decide to wear rubber boots everywhere.  But when spring comes, everybody stops complaining and steps outside.  The sidewalks flood with smiling people, and you don't even want to punch them for getting in your way.  The attitude of the whole city changes.
Sigh... I want to drink a beer and make out with someone I don't care about.
So there's that,

Thursday, April 30, 2009

In Bad Taste

We were watching the nonstop news coverage over lunch in the Franklin College cafeteria. It had been a pretty solemn morning; I remember walking across campus with my friend Kelley, the sun bright white on the concrete steps as they spilled out between Old Main and Shirk Hall, stunned that something like this happened in the 3 hours I napped after returning from work at 6 am.

I wrote an essay a year earlier for my freshman composition class, in which I pondered our culture's lack of awareness. My generation and the generations that bookended it really had no desire, energy, or reason to follow current events. We were wound up in our worlds of needing, wanting and having. Everything came so easy for us. I said we needed a wake-up call, a tragedy, a pinion that would make us form opinions.

And it happened. We got our Pearl Harbor, our Vietnam, our Berlin Wall. We got 9/11.

I got over the initial shock after seeing other people, after talking about it, after seeing a few hours of smoking towers and speculation on TV. It was during lunch when I began to see this from a broader perspective. It didn't just stop time, stop our breaths, and stop our perception of the world as we knew it; it started a circus.

Jump back to 4:00 that morning, when I was alone working at the coffee shop, baking pastries and brewing coffee in the few hours before opening. On the radio was a local morning talk show, and the hosts discussed how Reese Witherspoon signed on for a sequel to Legally Blonde, how the Bush twins were out of control socialite party girls, and how George W. Bush was a spit-bubble-blowing, helmet-wearing, monkey-faced retard in general.

By noon, George W. Bush was a Capital L Leader, a gracious, conscientious, iconic dignitary who would bring us through this crisis with aplomb. That's how fast the national opinion changed.

And that's when I knew this situation would turn into a jingoistic porno.

Within the week, factories were pumping out American flags in plastic, polyester, muslin, magnets, lapel pins. Screenprinters designed t-shirts with crying eagles, "In Memoriam" in front of two smoking towers, Osama bin Laden with a bullethole in his forehead. People forwarded emails showing Afghanistan's weather forecast (which was nuclear or "hot as hell" as signified by the mushroom cloud over a cartoon sunburst with a surprised face and melting sunglasses), or emails with crying eagle .gifs, or bin Laden being sodomized, or GW Bush walking along a beach, one set of footprints in the sand behind him...

September 11th was the biggest marketing boon for tchotchke companies the world over. And people ate. it. up. A national tragedy, the deaths of thousands of people - including hundreds of firemen - was turned into the biggest "at least I got the t-shirt" joke in recent history.

Before any of this happened, however, I was having lunch with my friends and watching the news. Scrolling underneath the constant national coverage was the local news...the Jimmy Buffet concert in Indianapolis would be cancelled. No news yet if they will schedule a raincheck performance in light of the circumstances.

That's when I wondered how 9/11 would impact our precious pop culture. So I said, "Guess they should make plans for the next season of Survivor. Survivor: World Trade Center."

Yep. I made my first 9/11 joke on 9/11. And we laughed. We laughed that it's-so-fattening-but-I'll-have-two-anyway laugh. My future boyfriend was at the next table, and he laughed. That's when we met.

I guess you can say that was in bad taste, but considering how the events in pop culture did unfold: people kept ragged American flags on their car windows without retiring them respectfully; people wore their "patriotic" WTC shirts while doing light yard work; the sudden rise of the president from buffoon to Son of God; the racial profiling of M. Night Shyamalan...I think I made the most tasteful joke, if only because it was intentional.

Post-9/11 "patriotism" became a parody of the tragedy itself. Popular opinion has a way of doing that - without any help from my snarky, tasteless comment.

And again, I said it because I saw it coming.


Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped at a time when a LOT of girls were being kidnapped - or at least that's what the hot topic was at the time. Magazines were publishing all these horror stories about the recent kidnappings, with stories from survivors on how they got through their ordeals. Kidnapping pretty white girls was the Caylee Anthony or Swine Flu of its day. I'd like to point out that girls/boys are kidnapped all the time; so maybe this wasn't a "rash" of kidnappings so much as a spotlight on missing jailbait during a slow news month.

The joke isn't that Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped, raped and tortured by a madman and his wife just a few blocks away from her home for a year. The joke isn't that she was so brainwashed that she walked around her hometown in a veil without saying a word. The joke isn't the miracle that she was found and is back home with her family.

THE JOKE is that the media blitz surrounding this case was just as sick and voyeuristic as her ordeal. Am I wrong?

What happened to her was unconscionable. What's worse is that every ABCNNBCBS network morning show had to get the exclusive interview. As soon as she was home, they had to bring her back in the spotlight to describe the horror of her experience. But because she wouldn't talk about it, they did the next best thing: describe it right in front of her. Describe the findings of the police, show pictures of the "campsite" where she remained a sex slave. She sat with her parents as the reporters painted a shitty, Bob-Ross portrait from secondhand details and assumptions. That's the real tragedy - to see your singularly tragic story thru someone else's sadistic telescope, and in front of your Mormon parents who didn't want this for you. And the parents could only say, "We love hearing her harp music fill our home again."

"And we're just gonna paint a happylittlehouse right over here..."

MOREOVER, the public wanted to know more. In a way, when we read an article with her name in it, we were all hoping to share her experience. Our Special-Victims-United, Forensic Filin' public wanted to know more true crime details. How dare she choose to remain quiet about it?

And my comment was in bad taste?

You, anonymous commenter, certainly devoured a lot of details about her case. You subscribed to the manufactured, manicured, Katie-Couricked and Matt Lauered production of the very real drama of her experience. And you're on a high horse about my tasteless joke?

We two are very similar; it just seems our bad taste is manifested in different ways.

The main point is, my joke comes from the perspective of that not-so-rare breed of stupid, overdramatic emo girls who would kill to have that kind of press coverage. Who wants so much to have her lame existence sensationalized that she doesn't care what she has to go through, just as long as people see her as a hero, feel sorry for her, talk about her, talk to her. And you know those girls are out there.

That's the joke. Get it?

The girl who wants to kill herself just to get a two-page photo spread in the yearbook like that pretty, popular girl 2 grades ahead who shocked everyone by hanging herself in her basement last year. It would be even better if her class built a memorial rock garden for her, too.

The homely classmate who was on the same class trip to Aruba when Natalee Holloway was kidnapped. Only while pretty Miss Holloway was partying at a bar, uglybritches was in her hotel room lancing the watery blisters off her feet while her roommate with the short grandma perm wrote postcards to her parents (whom she'd see before the cards even got there) and snacked on 100 calorie packs of Teddy Grahams. That homely, blistered classmate that smelled of stale sweat? She's thinking what's the use? Even if I did get kidnapped, possibly raped, and abandoned, nobody outside of my immediate family would make a big deal out of it. I wouldn't get a Lifetime movie. I probably wouldn't even get picked up by a Dutch party boy...just some Mexican from the kitchen staff. He'd probably just finger me, tell me I'm gross and then I'd cry, get lost and drown. I never get a break...

JonBenet's pageant rival's bookish sister? Who's older? Whose parents didn't have enough money to put her in pageants when she was a kid, but nowtheyhaveallthemoneyintheworldforBrittany'sstylist,hairandmakeup,andGlamourShots? If IIIIIIIIIII was molested and murdered in my basement on Christmas, that would show them.

Girls are fucked up like that. You know it. Or you wouldn't know it if you had enough self-esteem to never look at things from that perspective. If so, lucky you.

A final note on Elizabeth Smart: I don't feel so bad for her. Yes, what she went through was beyond words, but you have to admit the girl turned lemons into lemonade. She's got a book deal, People Magazine "checks in" with her and her family every year on the anniversary of her kidnapping, she's making cash as a public speaker and and advisor to the government on publications for survivors and tools for law enforcement. And I bet she's pretty happy to have more people at her lame harp concerts than just her parents.

Remember that essay I mentioned way back at the beginning of this epic post? The one about my generation needing to get knocked off its block? Allow me this: Elizabeth Smart was raised a Mormon, with utopian beliefs that her purity, good acts and utter obeisance to God will bring her prosperity and happiness. (I think that's a load of shit, but that's another post.) If this hadn't happened to her, what would her mind look like? Would she have knowledge of the world as cutthroat and challenging as it really is, or would she just easily float through the manufactured mist of an adjunct culture? Is that so bad? Or was this an experience that reinforced her Mormon beliefs - outsiders know not the true way of the Lord and that is why we don't let them into our church now let's find you a husband? Either way, she's turned lemons into lemonade.

And you know what? Maybe I - the writer, not the character - am a little jealous. At least she's got a good network of people that can get her a date.

Me? I'm damaged goods, too, only I didn't get any press coverage or book deals out of it.

Such is the fount of dark humor. The spring of my discontent.

So there's that,


Monday, April 27, 2009

Sister-Wife Bound

In spite of my "Don't Let Go" flash of faith on Friday, I resumed monching all weekend long.  Popcorn, Haribo gummi bears, Jelly Bellies, and Tostitos Nacho Cheese were mainstays on the menu. 
And there was that pound of Hawaiian grilled chicken over cabbage with side of macaroni salad from Aloha Grill.
And the lemon meringue cupcake (filled with lemon curd and topped with light meringue) from Molly's Cupcakes next door.
I figure I can let those 3 days be my shameless PMS binge days.  I've resumed normal consumption and excercise, and I'm happy to be back on schedule.
Perhaps it's serendipitous that I won't get to weigh in tomorrow.  I'm going to Salt Lake City for the night to make sure this surgical education reception I've been planning goes off sans hitch.  I leave tomorrow morning and return Wednesday night.  I have a few hours on Wednesday to take in some sights.
Who knows?  Maybe I'll become some Mormon's Sister-Wife.  Maybe I'll get kidnapped by some crazybeard a la Elizabeth Smart. 
But things like that don't happen to girls like me.  One can dream...
So there's that,

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Don't Let Go

I'm having a little crisis - I made a big plate of nachos last night.

Cheese Sauce
Black Beans

And I feel so guilty. Now's the time of the month when I'm super hungry, and to my credit, a binge like this in the past would have set me over the edge. I'd have made some microwave popcorn to dip in the remaining cheese sauce. Then to end all that salt on a sweet note, I'd have gone straight to some ben and jerry's. I'd look for their fro-yo first, but if they didn't have any, I'd go full out butter pecan or half baked.

I often get songs in my head based on the situation at hand. I've been talking to a guy for the last few days, and the song in my head was I Got My Mind Set on You. Yesterday because the weather was warm, I had Summer Lovin' from Grease. Last night during my binge, it was En Vogue:

What's it gonna be?
Cuz I can't pretend, NO!

then some relationship stuff about being more than friends

Have the right to lose control
Don't let go.

So yeah, En Vogue spoke to me last night. I have the right to lose control.

But don't let go.

So there's that,


Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Justin posted a great story on his blog today about some of our best shenanigans. I'm copying some of it here, J, because I haven't shared any decent fun stories in some whiles.

Trying to sell me peaches
Justin Thompson

...It takes me back to my summer job throughout college where somehow I was lucky enough to land a gig in a flags & silk florals company in Milford, Ohio.

There were interesting characters at that joint. My grrlllzz, Shanti & Yvonne. The predatory sex starved grandmother who, one day, was dressed in a tiger print dress and walked by and said, “Justin…I’m not wearing any panties…” and then growled and drug her feline-fingernail down my cheek. It was awful, yet wonderul in that it was such a hilarious moment to live through. She did walk back by with her coffee and said, “Just kidding!” and snapper the elastic of her underwear through her dress. Yep, total class. This is the same woman who I think got in trouble because they put a suction-cupped dildo on her monitor and the box around it, before “Dick in the Box” was ever a music sensation.

That was also the job where my boss’ last name was Bosse and she loved Evanescence and didn’t have kids, but was like a modern-day Carol Brady, but if she never had kids. So sassy and spunky. Loved her.

Then there were a slew of other folks that worked there of various social degrees and palatability. People with hunches, fake limbs, grody teeth, et al.

One of my favorite characters was a woman who was quite literally a bit crazy. Just really weird, quiet, kept to herself. Imagine if Carrie hadn’t died and went to work in a call center. Yep, that’s this woman. Stringy long grey hair, glasses, horrible clothing with lots of shoulder pads. I sat back to back with her in a quad with two other ladies. One of the other gals from another quad had a beta fish and this woman loved it. When the other gal, we’ll call her Fancy cause she was, went on vacation, everyone was looking after the beta fish - but it died. ‘Carrie’ cried at her desk when she learned the fish had died. It’s a fucking 83 cent fish from Wal-Mart, which is like their hospice. I mean, the tiny plastic hummus containers they live in there is God’s fishy waiting room. So it was no shock that the fish died.

Well, because she was so devastated, the manager of the call center bought her a beta to call her own. The next day, bitch rolled up to her desk with about 4 bags from PetSmart. Big ass tank with filter, gravel, plants, toys, etc. And the worst part of it was, I would hear her constantly tapping the glass in a whispery, obnoxious voice, “Here fishy! Here fishy!”
Those were moments where I wanted to scream. But instead, I got my revenge for all the foul people I had to work with. I resorted to some old-school trickery with my pal Laura: prank-calling.

At the time Laura worked for DONA, which is something about birthing babies and is usually ran by a bunch of lezzers (Laura, clarify if I’m wrong, ha ha), and she had down time so we would be chatting back and forth at work and I’d hear certain folks hang up and tell her to call in and it was the goal to make the call the most uncomfortable, unproductive, aggravating and silly phone call that these people would ever live through.

Laura would call in and usually go, “Hello so & so, how are you? Good. How’s the weather? Great. Well, here it’s just spitting out, not doing much of one thing or another…” and she would keep talking about the dumbest things. Making pointless conversations, like an old woman who hasn’t spoken to a soul in weeks, with that kind of desperation in hearing another human voice. That was how she went into these calls. Perfect.

Sometimes she’d call and in the middle of her normal, “Well, can I get some catalogues or something…you said ya’ll have flowers too? Huh…uh huh….oh, wait, TELL ‘EM LARGE MARGE SENT YA!” (this comes from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, clip available here).

Honestly, it was so damn funny because I would tell her to call and not know what she was saying but I would hear the people on my end trying to work their way out of the call or answering these silly questions she was asking them. One woman, a victim of the prank above, walked over and leaned over the half-way on my cube and said, with a grimace, “I just got the weirdest phone call. Some woman called in and was talking and then screamed in my ear [at this point she lifts the post-it note that she had transcribed the message onto, as if it weren't memorable enough to last the 2 feet from her desk to mine; and reads in pure dead-pan voice] ‘Tell them ‘Large Marge’ sent ya?’ I mean, what’s that about? She hurt my ear.”

I’ve never bitten my tongue so hard in my life or had to swallow guttural laughter than so needed to be released.

And I can’t even do the moose mating call noise justice by describing it here, but one person thought it was a coworker calling to ask if they wanted to pick them up something for lunch and had a wreck. That’s how amazing this noise is that Laura can make.

Laura actually got to prank ‘Carrie’ at one point and just talked her ear off about having the wrong number, about how her new cell phone was confusing her, how she was trying to reach her friend Beth about the slaw for the church picnic but needed to use melons so as to avoid flaring up George’s colon polyps. I mean, this was the craziest conversation ever. After about 7 minutes on the phone, which is an eternity in the call center, she got of the phone and a co-worker goes, “What was that all about?” and ‘Carrie’ responds, “I’m not sure, but I think she was trying to sell me peaches.”

I had to walk the fuck away from my desk and out to my car in the parking lot to scream. Literally, scream.

Oh, the tears of laughter I cried at that job were amazing. Fun, fun, fun.

At my last job, Laura got a couple of pranks in on our dumb as shit receptionist via Betty Shively.

Some days I get the urge to prank the call center here.

There’s just something so dumb about doing it that makes it the most enjoyable way to waste away 8 hours of your day in a concrete box.


To be fair, DONA wasn't all lezzers, but it's easy to blur the line.

If I had to spell the dying moose noise, it would be this:


Just say a word ending in -ing, hold your tongue against your palate at the end of the word, and produce a high pitched yawp. Easy as that.

Oh...the Lord God made them all...

So there's that,


Why So Serious?

I've been thinking about my last post for a few days now. It just sounds really awful to say, "Fuck 'em, let them screw up."

Who am I to judge? I'm such a hypocrite.

If you've read anything here, you know that I've gone down my share of unhealthy weight loss paths in the past. I'm not just talking about the stuff that Mom put me on, I'm talking November 2007 when I went on a "doctor" supervised liquid diet. Or later that year when I went to shady nutrition clinic. I knew better, but I was desperate. I reached a point where I would do ANYTHING to just slice off this weight. These were foolish ways to relieve my worst burden; if I'm so smart, why did I think it would be so easy?

I've been on the losing team before - the good kind - and I was high on myself then, too. I can't think that just because I'm doing well now I won't fall back to old habits in the future; that's already happened to me in the worst way. I need to remain vigilant about my own body and not pick on people who are trying to do the same thing.

But I still worry about friends who subscribe dangerous weight loss tactics. That's what that feeling is - worry. It's not anger, but frustration that I can't call their shots.

So yeah, I'm not really an a-hole. I'm trying to be more positive.


On that note, guess who lost another 3 lbs this week? This one, right here! I'm down a total of 28 libbers. That leaves only 3.4 lbs left in my May 5 challenge, and I'm almost at my first goal weight! Skidoo!

I'm getting a new Chuck Palahniuk book to celebrate. Any fans of his out there with any suggestions?

So there's that,


Thursday, April 16, 2009

I don't want to be THAT guy, but...

You know that skinny friend who has to preface an appetizer or dessert order with, "Let's be bad..."?
Or the guy who lost a bunch of weight on Atkins and palpitates at the mere thought of a carb?
Or the chick who thinks five potato chips are a splurge? 
I worry that I'm headed down that path.  A few weeks ago I wrote about having a panic attack over pasta back in 2003.  I don't think I'm at that point yet, but I caught myself doing and saying some things in the past week that are so that guy.
During a discussion about the nastiness of Red Bull, my dad said that he preferred another energy drink called FOS.  He went into his recycling bin to produce the visual aide - a crinkled 16 oz. can.  I checked out the nutrition label, and not surprisingly, the two-serving can packed a total of 280 calories.  So I says to him, I says, "There are 280 calories in this thing!  There's no nutritional value to this drink!"
Dad:  "So?  What?  Well, it gives you energy..."
Me:  "But you could eat four eggs for the same number of calories.  You could have a sandwich."
Dad:  "Yeah, but then I'd feel nasty...after four eggs."
Me:  "That's not the point.  You could have something in your stomach, that takes time to digest, that makes you feel fuller longer."
Dad:  "Well, it's just for energy...I don't need to be full..."
It then went on with me saying if you need an energy drink, just get a sugar free Red Bull and choke it back.  That's what I do before my improv shows.  I hate the taste too, but so what?  I'd rather eat my calories than drink them.
I felt like such an A-hole.  Who am I?  Fucking Susan Powter?  He's a growed man, he can make his own decisions.  And while it was a lighthearted conversation and I didn't really chastise him, he could have been embarrassed.  Who knows?  Who gives an ess what I think?
I just know I don't want to be that person.  I don't want to lecture people on what goes into their mouths because I've been lectured all my life.  Stay tuned for the Bad Advice series of posts.
Conversely, I don't want to judge people that I perceive are extreme dieters.  Not because I feel sorry for them, but just because...fuck 'em.  They'll make their mistakes and come around, or they'll just keep living in fear of every bite they take.  They're big kids.  Fuck 'em.  I can't waste my time or energy worrying about people who act like fools.  I don't want them pushing their fads on me, so I shan't push mine on them. 
So there's that,


Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Poetic Spam

I had to share this:
My spam filter blocked one of many emails that alluded to the improvement of male stamina.  I counted the syllables, and this one is actually a pretty decent haiku.
Your little friend will grow
Like mushrooms after the rain
Bigger and bigger
Okay, I just checked it again, and the first line has 6 syllables.  But if you read "little" as "li'l" it works.  It's kind of a porny way.
So there's that,

Stayin' Alive at Twenty Five!

I went home for four days this weekend, and I was a bit worried at how I'd get through the trip On Plan.  When I'm home, it feels like there's got to be some event everyday that focuses on food - whether it's going out to restaurants with friends, making dinner with family, and extended family holidays. 
Luckily, I didn't have to eat at any restaurants this weekend.  Dubois County is home to many a fine Mexican restaurant, and let me tell you, Los Bravos is my undoing.  
I did, however, attend 4 major family gatherings:  our 2nd annual Good Friday tapas party with the Meyers, my niece's 3rd birthday party on Saturday, Easter lunch with my immediate family, and Easter dinner with the Meyers.  I had plenty of opportunity to go buckwild all weekend, and I was pretty sure that I did.
I didn't count points, but I tried to listen to my satiety levels and stick to lean-ish foods where possible.  I stuck to salads and bruschetta (with multiple spreads) on Friday night, and made exception for a small reuben, tiramisu, some French onion soup, and...chocolate covered bacon and chocolate covered potato chips.  The last two items were my idea after seeing them repeatedly on Food Network.  Sometimes I think that channel is broadcast live from hell - especially when I see Giada's flesh-eating teeth.
Exhibit A
I made small pieces of the bacon and chips, and you know?  The combination isn't half bad.  You can't eat it everyday, but bacon and chocolate?  Is good to try once in your lifetime. 
Saturday was pretty decent.  I had some sugar free Peeps, and made a tuna/egg salad at my sister's house.  Then we made a chicken tortilla bake, and I had a good deal of birthday cake.
Since I was cooking lunch on Saturday, I got to control a lot of the ingredients.  I made mustard-parsley roasted potatoes (I'll post the recipe later), asparagus, Caesar salad, macerated strawberries, and Dad grilled salmon and steak.  I also snuck some Easter candy from my niece's basket.  Manda?  You're welcome.
That evening I was with the Meyer clan again and ate on some ham, turkey, and way too much dirt pudding.  It was worth it.  I ate light on Monday, and arrived back in Chicago last night, too late for dinner.
Why am I sharing my food diary with all y'all?  Because it shocks the hell out of me.
I lost 3.6 lbs this week for a total loss of 25 POUNDS!  Woooooooooo!  I did okay!  They gave me a little 25 lb token and everything.  It's hanging on the end of my paperclip string.
I haven't forgotten my goal to lose 10 lbs in the next 3 weeks.  I'mma put the smack down and demolish those remaining 6.4 pounds.  Mark my words!
Count on more frequent posting, too.  I'm coming out of my writing funk.
So there's that,

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

More Things

It's worth noting that while I haven't lost, I've had some non-scale victories in the past 2 weeks.  I can fit into yet another pair of my toddler-aged pants.  I'm wearing them right now!  Wew!  I can set aside the black pants and merge colors and textures back into my wardrobe.  In the words of Barefoot Contessa, how bad can that be?
I've also been busting my ass at the gym and on the streets.  I'm headed home for four days this weekend, and I'm a bit worried about getting in some decent activity.  I might just have to live without it and keep on guard with my points.
Also, I think I deserve major snaps for not going apeshit over this old rich lady who keeps bringing her dog to DubDub.  She brings. Her. White. Cocker. Spaniel.  To each meeting and lets it wander around.  NOT COOL.  I have half a mind to bring in a big boa constrictor (and dress up like Britney in the Slave4U video), and be like, "Oh this?  This my boa.  I need it around my neck to keep me warm."  And when it wanders I'll say, "Don't mind her...she can't go anywhere without her mommy." 
Then I'll feed her a juicy rat and remind her to count her Points.
So there's that,

Miss Me

Hey Everybody - sorry for the delay in posting.  I've had a wonky two weeks.  Nothing bad, but I just haven't been feeling like myself, haven't been feeling very driven.
I skipped weigh-in last week because I was due for my p-rod, and my toddler pants were still fitting.  I weighed in today, and I'm still the same as I was 3 weeks ago.  I'm not upset or bothered by it.  I mean, at least I'm not 22 lbs heavier!  If anything, I'm pissed at myself for slacking off - not counting every point, purchasing little treats that I thought I could handle, munching on said treats, then pouring water on remaining treats and throwing them away.
Seriously.  I used to be able to keep a box of chocolate tea biscuits or thin cookies or biscotti in the high cabinet and take two months to finish them.  I could keep baked chips, too, and not down the whole bag.  Now it's all changed and they're calling to me.  They want me to idly devour them while I wash dishes or clean the apartment.  They want to sit on my lap while I catch up on Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
Sidebar:  I never EVER thought I would like BTVS, and I made fun of all my friends who did.  Then my pal Lyzz enticed me with her complete collection of DVDs.  I didn't have to pay to see the show or clog up my Netflix queue, so why not?  Let me tell ya, it's an unexpected delight.  I don't take it seriously, but it's campy out the ass and I do get into the romances and relationships.  When I finish one season, I immediately crave the next.  These are my confessions.
So I'm banning all snackysmores from my apartment until such time as I can get my monching under control.  I don't need you, treats!
This time around, I vowed not to set time limits on my progress.  But I've decided that in order to bust through this plateau, I need to focus on losing ten pounds within the next month.  I need to cut the crap, not give myself any freebs, and go back to calculated splurges that get me out of the house and not into my cabinets.
I vow to you that I will reach this goal on or before my Tuesday, May 5 weigh in.  So let it be written.  So let it be done!
So there's that,
PS - Thank you guys for reading and leaving your email addresses.  If I haven't written you yet, I'm on it.  If you ever want to write me outside of the blog, here's my email:

Monday, March 23, 2009

Ants In The Pants

Good News!
Back in September 2007, I bought a couple of suits for my new (now current) job.  Sad to say, I never got to wear them to work because I grew out of them by the time I started the job 2 weeks later.  I shouldn't say "grew out" - I gained 10 lbs.  It's funny, because I didn't remember them being snug when I tried them on at the store. 
Weight gain goes directly to my legs, thighs, butt and FUPA.  I can still wear the shirts I bought then, but the pants were relegated to the left side of my closet to gather dust.
Well, for the past couple of Mondays, I've pulled out the pairs of "new" pants to see if they could be moved into the rotation.  I wanted to ease the burden on the 2 pairs of black fat dress pants that have been working overtime for over a year.
This morning was a success!  I pulled out a pair of dark denim/gold weave trousers and nearly farted with glee as I buttoned them with ease.  How groundbreaking is this event?  The tags were still on the pants. 
I have pants as old as toddlers, and the tags have never been removed.  That's pretty unfortunate.
But today is a new day!  Henceforth, let March 23 be known as Closeted Pants Day.  Because mine?  Are officially OUT.*
So there's that,

*See what I did there?  I likened my pants to closeted homosexuals.  I know!

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Glass of Milk

About a month ago, I was standing in my kitchen talking to Mom on the phone.  I told her I'd been working with a hospital wellness program for almost a year, aiming to lose weight through frequent consultation with my doctor, a nutritionist, and a therapist.  They were recommending me for weight loss surgery so that in the event of insurance approval, I will have that option.


I was having a bad day, and I needed to cut through the small talk bullshit and tell my mom how I felt.  Even after everything I've said here about her issues and toxicity, she does have a mother's heart and can listen to me with sober ears when I tell her I'm hurting.  She may not always give the best advice, but she does empathize and share her love.


I might be approved for surgery, and it freaks me out.  A year and a half ago, my self-esteem was in such a bad place that I would have jumped at the opportunity; honestly, even the slight possibilities of malnourishment and death would have been better than the life I was not living.  But now there are so many factors that come into play.


  • Is it fiscally responsible?  Our economy is in the toilet, and I want to have surgery to quickly fix what a lifestyle change can improve over time?  Corporate insurance plans are higher than ever, and this procedure would put another burden on my own organization.  I love my job, and I don't want to negatively impact this group.  My doctor told me that the complications from obesity would do more damage to insurance rates – and my body – over time.  That's true, but…
  • I don't plan on being obese forever.  Not only is my weight on a downward slope, but I eat wholesome foods and exercise.  I got fat over the last 4 years because I ate right, but I just ate too much of it.  I have good blood pressure, no signs of diabetes, a strong heart.  I'm healthy, just fat.  It's the latter that needs to change. 
  • Would I be happy with myself if I lost weight this way?  Right now I am thrilled by my successes, however small, because they are proof of the good choices I make.  Success from weight loss surgery doesn't come from the choices made every day, but from the necessity of consuming small bits of food so that I don't rupture.  Plus, I must eat all day to meet protein and nutrient requirements that aren't met with supplements.  I can't fathom eating all day, and I can't see how I can work that into a normal social life.  It's the gastronomic equivalent of having an iPhone – both useful tools that become mindless habits, keeping you from full participation in a meaningful life full of other people.
  • After a few months of rapid weight loss, even with regular exercise, I will have excess skin.  I've come to see that as an inevitability, seeing as how my elasticity is shot from so many years of yo-yo dieting.  Hell, my thighs didn't have elasticity to begin with; they were always curdled with fat.  The point is will I just be trading one body issue for another?  I'm afraid it's just going to start an endless cycle of body dysmorphia, and that's how the cat lady got started.  If you give a mouse a bypass, she's going to want a brachioplasty. 


I started the conversation by telling Mom I was, as usual, upset with my body and myself for gaining back all of the weight I worked so hard to lose in the first place.  I told her I was ashamed of myself for falling off track after moving to Chicago.  Then I told her about the possibility of surgery and the above reasons for not doing it.


I said I've never been happy with myself, my body, and I don't think surgery is going to cure that.  But then again, is that too much to expect, to be happy with myself?  Is anybody really ever happy with themselves?
Mom said she wasn't.  She admitted she made a lot of mistakes in the way she dealt with certain things, with her role as a mother.  I thought I would appreciate hearing that, but I just felt sorry for her.  Yeah, she fucked up on some major things, but she always loved us.  We were always hugged and kissed and told we were loved.  She didn't think twice to report school bullies to the principal.  She made up some pretty awesome traditions for someone who wasn't raised with much herself.  For a teenage mother who didn't have the best examples of motherhood in her past, she kicked ass. 
For her to say she wasn't happy with herself broke my heart.  I don't think she'd ever said anything like that before.  Mom doesn't really have a friend; she doesn't let anybody close enough to her.  She's never really admitted she was wrong to any of us, so she has some guilt and negative feelings that really eat at her.  It drives her to drink, to depression, to isolation, to more erratic behavior.  As mad as I get at her, as hurt as I feel about the things she does, there are moments like this that make me realize how much she's suffering.  She can't open herself up to anyone because she's too bully, too proud, too scared.  It's easy to say that it's a monster of her own making, but I think there's a lot more to it.  If I have my bad Mom memories, and my sister has more of her own, imagine what Mom is holding on to.  To whom do you admit your most shameful failures as a parent?
It was one of the best conversations I've ever had with her.  I got to talk about weight on my terms, and she got to open up to another person.
I don't know what will happen if I'm approved for surgery.  My current successes are girding me against the decision, but I know full well the feelings and the history that drove me to research surgery in the first place.  Can I deal with another regain?  Can I manage my future?  More importantly, can I be happy with myself? 
If you give a mouse her dream, she's going to want another.
So there's that,