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,