Well, this is my second week of being medicated (with actual prescription drugs rather than Mars bars and Folgers Bistro Blend). I feel like poo warmed over. Which is really nasty when you think about it.
I'm so sleepy I can't stand it yet when bedtime comes I'm wide awake watching DVR'd episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter and Billy the Exterminator.
In between bouts of vomiting from my temperamental gallbladder, that is.
My baby girl weaned herself this week so I made my husband take me to get new bras yesterday. I went down a whole cup size, but my boobs are so deflated these days that I don't really notice. From DDD to DD. I guess I know where the 5 pounds I lost went. Now instead of some milk filling in the voids of the fleshy pouches otherwise known as my boobs they're filled with air. Or nothing rather. They just hang there until I fold them up neatly and nestle them in my new bra.
Which brings up the next item. Yesterday I was trying on shorts at Lane Bryant (Hey! Let's put these fat lady clothes on the mannequins but pin them in the back so they look normal! We don't want the women shopping here to get a complex!) and I could have worn a 20 if it hadn't been for my stupid lower stomach.
Instead of just a little pooch or whatever I've got a full-blown fanny pack, made of flesh, permanently attached. When the hell did I become a marsupial? Forget Babyhawk, maybe I can just slice it on open and place my baby in the pouch. If it were 1992 and said fanny pack were, say, day glo orange or pink and I had a flew slap-bracelets on hand then maybe I'd be okay.
Until then I am contemplating:
A) cutting off the flab with my fancy Santoku knife and then giving myself an impromptu boob job by stuffing the flab inside my deflated boobs
B) performing liposuction on myself with vodka anesthetic and a ShopVac
C) contacting the creator of Spanx and asking her if there is any possibility of a permanent pair of Spanx that will adhere itself to your flesh, preferably in bodysuit form, and to please hurry up because I'm totally dying over here
D) becoming a full-time hermit
On the plus side, in case of national emergency I can most likely store water like a camel.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
June 4, 2010
And the plot thickens.
I, the self-proclaimed fat mom, have an honest to goodness medical condition that prevents me from losing weight.
I have hypothyroidism!
God only knows how long it's been untreated. I read that it can cause pre-term labor, acne, your hair falls out, you can't sleep, and a sleugh of other issues.
I am so glad that someone actually believed me! I am not crazy!
Okay, maybe I am.
That's all I have time for now. I haz a tired. Goodnight!
I, the self-proclaimed fat mom, have an honest to goodness medical condition that prevents me from losing weight.
I have hypothyroidism!
God only knows how long it's been untreated. I read that it can cause pre-term labor, acne, your hair falls out, you can't sleep, and a sleugh of other issues.
I am so glad that someone actually believed me! I am not crazy!
Okay, maybe I am.
That's all I have time for now. I haz a tired. Goodnight!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010
A whole month since I've posted? Gah, wth have I been doing with my life?!
I've lost 6 pounds. So now I weigh in the 260's. Hooraaaaay.
I wish I could apply for The Biggest Loser, because they'd whip my ass so hard that I'd lose all of my weight in a couple of weeks. But I'd be the one falling off the treadmill, crying in every episode because "no one likes me" and "I can't do it." Jillian would take me outside where we'd sit on the steps and I would cry. She would tell me that I'm worth it and it's time to focus on me. We would hug, do an impromptu commercial for Wrigley's Sugar Free Gum and Brita water filters, then she would continue to beat my fat ass into oblivion.
I would get sent home for being below the yellow line most likely. I like to think that I'm a likeable person, but if you ask me how I'm doing I'm usually going to tell you all about the problems in my life. Which is also probably why most of the only friends I have are on the interwebz. But even they get tired of me.
I've been trying to lose myself in cake decorating. I'll think I'm doing an okay job until I use The Google to look up some ideas, because then Duff and all of those other superhuman cake decorators make my stuff look like poo. Sure, I put it on Facebook (at my son's request, because EVERYTHING goes on FB, right?) but I don't know if people truly like my cakes or if they feel obligated to say so.
I love seeing picture comments. Love it. But when it's a picture of myself and someone says how pretty I am it's hard to not come back and say "You LIAR!" Because, get real. I know that I am not pretty. If I were pretty I wouldn't have 8,000 chins. Maybe my face is alright but the rest of me is disgusting.
She of the saggy boobs and unibrow.
And since it's summer and nine million degrees out I'm resorting to wearing the dresses I wore last summer--when I was 6 months pregnant. I look the same though, so it doesn't even matter. For all you know, I could have a petrified fetus in there or something, making me look pregnant for the rest of my life.
I had a dream that I got some Shape-Ups shoes. I woke up and had sore calves. So I won't be getting those, although my son did ask his Gigi if I could buy new shoes.
Because "she's the regular boss. You're the boss when Daddy's not here. But when Daddy's here you're not the boss. And Gigi is the boss of everyone."
She said yes, I could get new shoes, and he said "See, Mom? She didn't get on to you!" Thanks, son.
While on the phone with Nana the other night, she asked my son a question. He said "Hm...let me step into my office and think on that one."
Really?
I'm going to go drown myself in buttercream.
I've lost 6 pounds. So now I weigh in the 260's. Hooraaaaay.
I wish I could apply for The Biggest Loser, because they'd whip my ass so hard that I'd lose all of my weight in a couple of weeks. But I'd be the one falling off the treadmill, crying in every episode because "no one likes me" and "I can't do it." Jillian would take me outside where we'd sit on the steps and I would cry. She would tell me that I'm worth it and it's time to focus on me. We would hug, do an impromptu commercial for Wrigley's Sugar Free Gum and Brita water filters, then she would continue to beat my fat ass into oblivion.
I would get sent home for being below the yellow line most likely. I like to think that I'm a likeable person, but if you ask me how I'm doing I'm usually going to tell you all about the problems in my life. Which is also probably why most of the only friends I have are on the interwebz. But even they get tired of me.
I've been trying to lose myself in cake decorating. I'll think I'm doing an okay job until I use The Google to look up some ideas, because then Duff and all of those other superhuman cake decorators make my stuff look like poo. Sure, I put it on Facebook (at my son's request, because EVERYTHING goes on FB, right?) but I don't know if people truly like my cakes or if they feel obligated to say so.
I love seeing picture comments. Love it. But when it's a picture of myself and someone says how pretty I am it's hard to not come back and say "You LIAR!" Because, get real. I know that I am not pretty. If I were pretty I wouldn't have 8,000 chins. Maybe my face is alright but the rest of me is disgusting.
She of the saggy boobs and unibrow.
And since it's summer and nine million degrees out I'm resorting to wearing the dresses I wore last summer--when I was 6 months pregnant. I look the same though, so it doesn't even matter. For all you know, I could have a petrified fetus in there or something, making me look pregnant for the rest of my life.
I had a dream that I got some Shape-Ups shoes. I woke up and had sore calves. So I won't be getting those, although my son did ask his Gigi if I could buy new shoes.
Because "she's the regular boss. You're the boss when Daddy's not here. But when Daddy's here you're not the boss. And Gigi is the boss of everyone."
She said yes, I could get new shoes, and he said "See, Mom? She didn't get on to you!" Thanks, son.
While on the phone with Nana the other night, she asked my son a question. He said "Hm...let me step into my office and think on that one."
Really?
I'm going to go drown myself in buttercream.
Monday, April 26, 2010
April 26, 2010
Well, here we are again!
So far, in the last week, I have GAINED 11 pounds. FML.
Weight Watchers my ass. What am I doing? Watching my weight go up? And then I get on the Wii Fit and I had set a weight loss goal, right? I gained 3 pounds and it was like "Whoa! What did you DO?!" It had several options to choose from, such as "I ate too much" or "Late night snacking." I chose the "I don't know" option.
FB was judging me with their lap band and cosmetics ads.
Next thing you know I'll be featured on POWM wearing a MuuMuu and a pair of hot pink Keds with my butt overlapping the sides of my all-terrain scooter. To your Rascalls!
I finally bought my first pair of shorts in I don't know how long. I can't wear them because I get the dreaded "triangle effect." You know, when you're walking and your shorts ride up your butt from your thighs rubbing together.
"Let me by, I'll let you by" they say, slapping together in the breeze.
I felt like I looked somewhat decent in them at first. Then I noticed you could see the loose skin hanging down to my already nasty looking thighs. Wtf am I supposed to do with that? I tried tucking and folding it in but there's really nowhere for it to go, unless maybe I use some duct tape (fixes everything!). I was excited because they go down to my knees, past the Bermuda Triangle, and I mean, come on! They're shorts! I don't have to wear jeans in the hot Texas sun anymore!
Yeah, forget that, because I look nasty as hell. I don't know what I'm going to do. I got a hair cut thinking I would feel better about myself if I did. Wrong! I still feel like poo.
And now, the part of the blog where my son says randomly funny things!
Him: Mom! Look, it's a big truck! What's it carrying?
Me: That's a beer truck. It carries nasty, nasty beer.
Him: Beard? Santa has a beard.
"My TV is magic because it never ever turns off. "
"It's an emergency! Call 911! We're missing America's Funniest Home Videos!"
And between my two sons:
Son #2: Get outta this car! Get your butt in that house right now!
Son #1: NO.
Son #2: Get out of that car! RIGHT NOW!
Son #1: Well. I will just call 911 and the police will come and get you. But they only come on Mondays.
So far, in the last week, I have GAINED 11 pounds. FML.
Weight Watchers my ass. What am I doing? Watching my weight go up? And then I get on the Wii Fit and I had set a weight loss goal, right? I gained 3 pounds and it was like "Whoa! What did you DO?!" It had several options to choose from, such as "I ate too much" or "Late night snacking." I chose the "I don't know" option.
FB was judging me with their lap band and cosmetics ads.
Next thing you know I'll be featured on POWM wearing a MuuMuu and a pair of hot pink Keds with my butt overlapping the sides of my all-terrain scooter. To your Rascalls!
I finally bought my first pair of shorts in I don't know how long. I can't wear them because I get the dreaded "triangle effect." You know, when you're walking and your shorts ride up your butt from your thighs rubbing together.
"Let me by, I'll let you by" they say, slapping together in the breeze.
I felt like I looked somewhat decent in them at first. Then I noticed you could see the loose skin hanging down to my already nasty looking thighs. Wtf am I supposed to do with that? I tried tucking and folding it in but there's really nowhere for it to go, unless maybe I use some duct tape (fixes everything!). I was excited because they go down to my knees, past the Bermuda Triangle, and I mean, come on! They're shorts! I don't have to wear jeans in the hot Texas sun anymore!
Yeah, forget that, because I look nasty as hell. I don't know what I'm going to do. I got a hair cut thinking I would feel better about myself if I did. Wrong! I still feel like poo.
And now, the part of the blog where my son says randomly funny things!
Him: Mom! Look, it's a big truck! What's it carrying?
Me: That's a beer truck. It carries nasty, nasty beer.
Him: Beard? Santa has a beard.
"My TV is magic because it never ever turns off. "
"It's an emergency! Call 911! We're missing America's Funniest Home Videos!"
And between my two sons:
Son #2: Get outta this car! Get your butt in that house right now!
Son #1: NO.
Son #2: Get out of that car! RIGHT NOW!
Son #1: Well. I will just call 911 and the police will come and get you. But they only come on Mondays.
Friday, April 16, 2010
April 16, 2010
Today, my friends, was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Today, after 6 months of grueling stomach aches and vomiting I decided to go see the doctor mentioned in my very first post. He of the morbid obesity and alcohol, that is.
I guess I should've expected what was coming to me, especially after stepping on the scale. I figured I had gained about 15 pounds.
Tell her what she's won!
16 pounds of ass-jiggling flab, that's what! Congratulations! Would you like fries with that?
FML.
So anyway, I was hoping that since my hair is falling out, I'm gaining weight for no reason (No, sorry, no Cheetos for me anymore), I feel like poo and I am violently ill several times a week that I could find a solution.
Apparently if I would just lose weight and quit being the big fat turd in the punch bowl I would never have health issues again. I don't even know what to say, really. I'm hurt, sad, frustrated.
Whoever said breastfeeding makes you lose weight is a LIAR!
On the other hand, at least a handful of people are on my side. Here's what my son has to say about the whole ordeal.
"Hello, Police? Mommy's doctor called her fat. You'd better come get him and take him to jail. He can only have bread and water."
"Hey, Mom? Maybe I can pretend I'm sick and you can take me to the doctor so I can tell him not to call you fat."
Forever Fat,
The Fat Mom
Today, after 6 months of grueling stomach aches and vomiting I decided to go see the doctor mentioned in my very first post. He of the morbid obesity and alcohol, that is.
I guess I should've expected what was coming to me, especially after stepping on the scale. I figured I had gained about 15 pounds.
Tell her what she's won!
16 pounds of ass-jiggling flab, that's what! Congratulations! Would you like fries with that?
FML.
So anyway, I was hoping that since my hair is falling out, I'm gaining weight for no reason (No, sorry, no Cheetos for me anymore), I feel like poo and I am violently ill several times a week that I could find a solution.
Apparently if I would just lose weight and quit being the big fat turd in the punch bowl I would never have health issues again. I don't even know what to say, really. I'm hurt, sad, frustrated.
Whoever said breastfeeding makes you lose weight is a LIAR!
On the other hand, at least a handful of people are on my side. Here's what my son has to say about the whole ordeal.
"Hello, Police? Mommy's doctor called her fat. You'd better come get him and take him to jail. He can only have bread and water."
"Hey, Mom? Maybe I can pretend I'm sick and you can take me to the doctor so I can tell him not to call you fat."
Forever Fat,
The Fat Mom
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Yesterday was egg hunting time at school. I had a vision of my boys running through the yard, picking up every egg in sight. Then we would have someone take a picture of our smiling faces and go through our haul once we got home. Then I would steal the skittles and hide them in my purse.
Or not.
The boys, upon hearing "go," immediately froze. Every egg I would show them another child would run by and swoop up. Every kid in the class had a bucket overflowing with candy, all except mine. They managed to pick up 3 of those nasty, gritty candy eggs that no one eats. All hell broke loose when my older son saw the Easter bunny. He screamed. He was in hysterics.
For one thing, I was afraid this would happen as he is already terrified of men with mustaches (see previous post). He took off running. Somehow in the mix his pants got unbuttoned, so as he was running his boxer briefs became exposed and he would NOT stop so I could fix them.
Pants on the ground, pants on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your pants on the ground.
My younger son followed suit and started screaming as well.
I did manage to have a picture taken, me squatted down (which was no small feat), baby girl in the BabyHawk, boys on either side of me screaming and trying to run in the opposite direction.
Luckily it gave me a chance to wear my new Sperrys (Thanks, Mom!).
This morning I'm wearing a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, cropped sweats and the aforementioned new shoes. We're supposed to go to the country club this morning and watch my kid sing, but I'm just not sure whether the old gal can hang this morning.
Anyway, doody calls!
Or not.
The boys, upon hearing "go," immediately froze. Every egg I would show them another child would run by and swoop up. Every kid in the class had a bucket overflowing with candy, all except mine. They managed to pick up 3 of those nasty, gritty candy eggs that no one eats. All hell broke loose when my older son saw the Easter bunny. He screamed. He was in hysterics.
For one thing, I was afraid this would happen as he is already terrified of men with mustaches (see previous post). He took off running. Somehow in the mix his pants got unbuttoned, so as he was running his boxer briefs became exposed and he would NOT stop so I could fix them.
Pants on the ground, pants on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your pants on the ground.
My younger son followed suit and started screaming as well.
I did manage to have a picture taken, me squatted down (which was no small feat), baby girl in the BabyHawk, boys on either side of me screaming and trying to run in the opposite direction.
Luckily it gave me a chance to wear my new Sperrys (Thanks, Mom!).
This morning I'm wearing a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, cropped sweats and the aforementioned new shoes. We're supposed to go to the country club this morning and watch my kid sing, but I'm just not sure whether the old gal can hang this morning.
Anyway, doody calls!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
March 25, 2010
Well, we got a new puppy.
So now I'm up to my ears in all different kinds of excrement. Yum!
Last night, after cleaning my boys' room and getting them in bed, I went to shut the closet door. I was finishing up a few things so I could plop in the tub and read Eclipse for the 4th time. Anyway, I stepped in something squishy and warm, and no, it wasn't pee.
I screamed for my husband and hopped one-footed to the bathroom so I could get it off. If you've never witnessed a 250 pound half-naked woman hopping down a hallway then hallelujah, because I fear both my husband and dog are scarred for life.
I probably registered a 7.0 on the Richter Scale.
After picking my son up from school today he told me about all of the other children beating him up. He's been known to elaborate quite a bit, but I let him continue. He said "All of the girls and three boys beat me up. This is where they beated me up" and showed me his thumb. I said "Well, I guess we need to amputate it." He said "Yeah, and I need an aquamarine 'inja suit so I can heeeeeeya them."
I tell you, he would've done Chuck Norris proud. My son's first roundhouse kick and no one saw it.
A few weeks ago we were eating dinner and he refused to go to the bathroom by himself. "What if a purple mustached man grabs me?" My husband felt compelled to say "What's that over there?!" My son went under the table and refused to come out. I told him we were going to Nana's the next day and he said "Can't go, Mom. I had a stroke."
Next thing I know he'll probably say he has Alzheimer's or cervical cancer.
So now I'm up to my ears in all different kinds of excrement. Yum!
Last night, after cleaning my boys' room and getting them in bed, I went to shut the closet door. I was finishing up a few things so I could plop in the tub and read Eclipse for the 4th time. Anyway, I stepped in something squishy and warm, and no, it wasn't pee.
I screamed for my husband and hopped one-footed to the bathroom so I could get it off. If you've never witnessed a 250 pound half-naked woman hopping down a hallway then hallelujah, because I fear both my husband and dog are scarred for life.
I probably registered a 7.0 on the Richter Scale.
After picking my son up from school today he told me about all of the other children beating him up. He's been known to elaborate quite a bit, but I let him continue. He said "All of the girls and three boys beat me up. This is where they beated me up" and showed me his thumb. I said "Well, I guess we need to amputate it." He said "Yeah, and I need an aquamarine 'inja suit so I can heeeeeeya them."
I tell you, he would've done Chuck Norris proud. My son's first roundhouse kick and no one saw it.
A few weeks ago we were eating dinner and he refused to go to the bathroom by himself. "What if a purple mustached man grabs me?" My husband felt compelled to say "What's that over there?!" My son went under the table and refused to come out. I told him we were going to Nana's the next day and he said "Can't go, Mom. I had a stroke."
Next thing I know he'll probably say he has Alzheimer's or cervical cancer.
Monday, March 1, 2010
March 1, 2010
Well, it's freezing. Usually March in Texas means Daisy Dukes and weenie roasts. Alas, it keeps snowing and raining and snowing and raining. This precipitation is killing me.
Usually I hate warm (or even nice!) weather because the bees come out. It's my personal belief that bees sniff me out like pigs searching for truffles. I've never been stung and plan to keep it that way. Damn bees. Same goes for wasps, but at least they don't chase me.
Before I put myself in a Snuggie-induced coma I have to share a conversation between my older son and myself.
Him: Mom, you can't find me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: No, you can't. You can't see me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: How?
Me: Because I'm magic. I'm like Santa Claus.
Him: No you're not, because if you were you'd bring me presents.
Really? Sometimes I wonder if my son is really a senior citizen in a four year old body. All of the stereotypical behaviors of a geriatric man are there: pants pulled up to the boob area, unknowingly passing gas, "I can't hear the TV," "I can't eat that," complaining when others are in the yard, and perhaps the best one, how he gives himself a combover every morning.
He also loves to douse himself with Old Spice. If only he had some of the hair cream that my Pop uses.
This morning I had on my men's 5X sweats and stuffed myself into the only pair of jeans I could find so I could run some errands. I filled up my coffee cup and we headed to the post office. Now you'd think that our puny town could afford to fill the enormous dips in the Post Office driveway, but they opt not to. I suppose they think everyone wishes to turn their vehicle into a mechanical bull. Anyway, my dear, sweet husband often forgets that a minivan does not ride like his truck. He came flying out of the drive and my coffee went flying as well. And spilled all under my left butt cheek.
Pants that are too-tight are uncomfortable by themselves, but when they're damp and smell of old coffee they're even worse. We went to eat lunch, and yes, I walked into the restaurant looking like I'd peed my pants.
Needless to say, when we got home the sweatpants returned.
Until next time...
Usually I hate warm (or even nice!) weather because the bees come out. It's my personal belief that bees sniff me out like pigs searching for truffles. I've never been stung and plan to keep it that way. Damn bees. Same goes for wasps, but at least they don't chase me.
Before I put myself in a Snuggie-induced coma I have to share a conversation between my older son and myself.
Him: Mom, you can't find me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: No, you can't. You can't see me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: How?
Me: Because I'm magic. I'm like Santa Claus.
Him: No you're not, because if you were you'd bring me presents.
Really? Sometimes I wonder if my son is really a senior citizen in a four year old body. All of the stereotypical behaviors of a geriatric man are there: pants pulled up to the boob area, unknowingly passing gas, "I can't hear the TV," "I can't eat that," complaining when others are in the yard, and perhaps the best one, how he gives himself a combover every morning.
He also loves to douse himself with Old Spice. If only he had some of the hair cream that my Pop uses.
This morning I had on my men's 5X sweats and stuffed myself into the only pair of jeans I could find so I could run some errands. I filled up my coffee cup and we headed to the post office. Now you'd think that our puny town could afford to fill the enormous dips in the Post Office driveway, but they opt not to. I suppose they think everyone wishes to turn their vehicle into a mechanical bull. Anyway, my dear, sweet husband often forgets that a minivan does not ride like his truck. He came flying out of the drive and my coffee went flying as well. And spilled all under my left butt cheek.
Pants that are too-tight are uncomfortable by themselves, but when they're damp and smell of old coffee they're even worse. We went to eat lunch, and yes, I walked into the restaurant looking like I'd peed my pants.
Needless to say, when we got home the sweatpants returned.
Until next time...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
February 25, 2010
Yeah, I know I suck at this whole blogging thing.
BUT!
I've been busy.
A couple of weeks ago we had ceramic tile put in our house and I've been trying to get my house back in order. Epic fail. Then yesterday we got a new couch and I had to do the whole flight-of-the-bumblebee speed-cleaning thing because God forbid someone come in my house and it smell like ass.
Which, by the way, it did.
I noticed it when I walked by my sons' bedroom. It was most definitely a formidable scent. Reminded me of dumpster juice. Finally I decided to brave the smell and see if I could find the source. I expected to find some sort of deceased small mammal, perhaps a raccoon, but instead I found a long-expired cup of what was once chocolate milk. It had leaked into a Rubbermaid tub.
Oh, I know how it got there. When you tell your four-year old son to "clean his room," he assumes that throwing things into the closet is a perfectly acceptable solution.
We put said nasty Rubbermaid container on the back porch, threw the cup away, opened the windows and went Febreze crazy. The smell dissipated, thank heavens, but the trail-o-crap that follows my children everywhere did not.
I bought some touch-up paint for our living room and I know damn good and well that I gave them the right paint sample. Too bad it came out about 3 shades darker than what the room was. So I spent two days painting over boogers and scratches and poorly-drawn train tracks while listening to my iPod. Then it looked like crap, so I painted the whole room.
But then I missed some spots and had to go over those. But it didn't look quite right. So I painted the baseboards. And then the front door didn't match so I had to paint it too.
It was like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie: Interior Decorating Edition.
This morning I feel more like what I imagine a 90-something woman would. My joints are creaking and I'm shuffling rather than walking across the floor. My hips hurt and my arthritic wrist is acting up.
Maybe if I'm lucky I can take a hot shower, wash away all the traces of motherhood with the new Bath and Body Works shower gel I got the other day, take the time to shampoo AND condition my hair. I might even shave my legs! I'll apply a clay facial mask to zap my zits, casually blow-dry my hair...
Or, I'll take a two minute bath, be finished before the water's finished running and not even get all of the chocolate smears off, all the while being yelled at by a two year old in a pull-up and high heels that "I poop! Sorry I poop in my bed," forgetting a towel so that I have to drip all the way to the linen closet, remember that I have no clean underwear, throw on the aforementioned yoga pants, hair goes in a ponytail and voila. Tres chic.
And after writing that, I'm too tired to actually take that bath. I think I'll sit here and smell funky instead.
Besides, it's time for Maury, and you are NOT the father.
BUT!
I've been busy.
A couple of weeks ago we had ceramic tile put in our house and I've been trying to get my house back in order. Epic fail. Then yesterday we got a new couch and I had to do the whole flight-of-the-bumblebee speed-cleaning thing because God forbid someone come in my house and it smell like ass.
Which, by the way, it did.
I noticed it when I walked by my sons' bedroom. It was most definitely a formidable scent. Reminded me of dumpster juice. Finally I decided to brave the smell and see if I could find the source. I expected to find some sort of deceased small mammal, perhaps a raccoon, but instead I found a long-expired cup of what was once chocolate milk. It had leaked into a Rubbermaid tub.
Oh, I know how it got there. When you tell your four-year old son to "clean his room," he assumes that throwing things into the closet is a perfectly acceptable solution.
We put said nasty Rubbermaid container on the back porch, threw the cup away, opened the windows and went Febreze crazy. The smell dissipated, thank heavens, but the trail-o-crap that follows my children everywhere did not.
I bought some touch-up paint for our living room and I know damn good and well that I gave them the right paint sample. Too bad it came out about 3 shades darker than what the room was. So I spent two days painting over boogers and scratches and poorly-drawn train tracks while listening to my iPod. Then it looked like crap, so I painted the whole room.
But then I missed some spots and had to go over those. But it didn't look quite right. So I painted the baseboards. And then the front door didn't match so I had to paint it too.
It was like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie: Interior Decorating Edition.
This morning I feel more like what I imagine a 90-something woman would. My joints are creaking and I'm shuffling rather than walking across the floor. My hips hurt and my arthritic wrist is acting up.
Maybe if I'm lucky I can take a hot shower, wash away all the traces of motherhood with the new Bath and Body Works shower gel I got the other day, take the time to shampoo AND condition my hair. I might even shave my legs! I'll apply a clay facial mask to zap my zits, casually blow-dry my hair...
Or, I'll take a two minute bath, be finished before the water's finished running and not even get all of the chocolate smears off, all the while being yelled at by a two year old in a pull-up and high heels that "I poop! Sorry I poop in my bed," forgetting a towel so that I have to drip all the way to the linen closet, remember that I have no clean underwear, throw on the aforementioned yoga pants, hair goes in a ponytail and voila. Tres chic.
And after writing that, I'm too tired to actually take that bath. I think I'll sit here and smell funky instead.
Besides, it's time for Maury, and you are NOT the father.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
January 30, 2010
Well, today is Saturday. When you're a stay-at-home mom and your husband farms it really doesn't matter what day of the week it is because they're all the same. Except Sunday, when we're late for church every week.
Most days I decipher what day it is by what's on TV. And then I get really cheesed off when I see that Maury isn't on during its alotted time slot. And neither is Ghost Whisperer.
I really like GW. The episode is not complete until JLH cries. Gives me bizarro dreams though, like I get when I eat chili. GW also gives me indigestion.
Earlier today we decided to venture off to Walmart and Tractor Supply. While we were at Walmart I saw this dude with the bottom half of his head shaved while the top was halfway down his back in a ponytail. Kind of like a reverse skullet if you will. Mulletastic even.
Each trip to Walmart, I make sure that I at least have some makeup and decent clothes on. Whenever we get home I immediately check peopleofwalmart.com to make sure I'm not on there. Most of the time I do look like a Walmartian though, so who am I kidding. At Tractor Supply the cashier tried talking to my oldest son. He's 4. It went something like this:
"Is that your little sister? She sure is cute!"
"I can't talk to you right now. I'm looking at stuff."
"Why not? You can't look at stuff and talk to me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because why? That's not an answer."
"BECAUSE I CAN ONLY DO ONE THING AT A TIME!!"
I then stepped in and said "Where in the world did you hear that?"
"From you."
And they say kids don't listen.
So tomorrow is 5th Sunday lunch at church and I'm making a "Better than Sex" cake. I'll let you know how that pans out. I'm pretty sure that the elder ladies would keel over and die if they knew that's what it was called.
I just hope they don't see my "O" face.
Most days I decipher what day it is by what's on TV. And then I get really cheesed off when I see that Maury isn't on during its alotted time slot. And neither is Ghost Whisperer.
I really like GW. The episode is not complete until JLH cries. Gives me bizarro dreams though, like I get when I eat chili. GW also gives me indigestion.
Earlier today we decided to venture off to Walmart and Tractor Supply. While we were at Walmart I saw this dude with the bottom half of his head shaved while the top was halfway down his back in a ponytail. Kind of like a reverse skullet if you will. Mulletastic even.
Each trip to Walmart, I make sure that I at least have some makeup and decent clothes on. Whenever we get home I immediately check peopleofwalmart.com to make sure I'm not on there. Most of the time I do look like a Walmartian though, so who am I kidding. At Tractor Supply the cashier tried talking to my oldest son. He's 4. It went something like this:
"Is that your little sister? She sure is cute!"
"I can't talk to you right now. I'm looking at stuff."
"Why not? You can't look at stuff and talk to me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because why? That's not an answer."
"BECAUSE I CAN ONLY DO ONE THING AT A TIME!!"
I then stepped in and said "Where in the world did you hear that?"
"From you."
And they say kids don't listen.
So tomorrow is 5th Sunday lunch at church and I'm making a "Better than Sex" cake. I'll let you know how that pans out. I'm pretty sure that the elder ladies would keel over and die if they knew that's what it was called.
I just hope they don't see my "O" face.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
January 28, 2010
Well, today I woke up with full intentions to work out on the Wii Fit. What better way to start the day than with a CG Jillian Michaels yelling at you?
Instead, I chose to start my day with various women screeching about their deadbeat sperm donors and how they're "a billion percent sure he IS the father of my baby." Except the surprise is on them because once Maury opens that magic envelope it's all over. The guy, once booed by the audience, is redeemed by their clapping while the girl makes the obligatory run backstage where she collapses on the couch. Of course, Maury chooses to be a source of comfort, to offer as many paternity tests as possible until they find the guy. Six or seven shows later the chick gives up. Maybe.
I should really get a life.
Today, though, my husband took me, our oldest son and daughter out of town since it was pouring outside and he couldn't work (he farms).
If Maury was mistake number one, then lunch at Chili's was number two (hehe...number two).
I know how many calories are in a burger and fries at Chili's, and it's a lot. There are several items on their Guiltless Grill to choose from and they all look good. There's even some new stuff! So what did I do?
I ordered the burger. WITH bacon. Big, thick pieces of bacon. And I ate most of it too. Normally I get coffee or water whenever we go out but today I got Dr. Pepper. It was delicious.
After that we went to the mall. I strapped the baby in the carrier and off we went. I have discovered that if you carry your baby in a sling, etc, then said carrier will disguise your huge fat roll.
I bought some nail polish and a bottle of Clinique Happy, because if I'm going to be a fat ass I don't want to smell like a stinky greasy one.
At Old Navy I bought some new yoga pants. I don't do yoga, which makes me an imposter I suppose, but I don't care. I heart stretchy black fabric. Add some ill-fitting tank tops and some pigtails and you've got the world's most uncool 23 year old.
Come dinnertime my son was asking for McDonald's, and what kind of mother would I be if I deprived my son of the comfort that is the Chicken McNugget?
I guess you can figure out what happened next.
But don't worry, I got coffee this time.
Instead, I chose to start my day with various women screeching about their deadbeat sperm donors and how they're "a billion percent sure he IS the father of my baby." Except the surprise is on them because once Maury opens that magic envelope it's all over. The guy, once booed by the audience, is redeemed by their clapping while the girl makes the obligatory run backstage where she collapses on the couch. Of course, Maury chooses to be a source of comfort, to offer as many paternity tests as possible until they find the guy. Six or seven shows later the chick gives up. Maybe.
I should really get a life.
Today, though, my husband took me, our oldest son and daughter out of town since it was pouring outside and he couldn't work (he farms).
If Maury was mistake number one, then lunch at Chili's was number two (hehe...number two).
I know how many calories are in a burger and fries at Chili's, and it's a lot. There are several items on their Guiltless Grill to choose from and they all look good. There's even some new stuff! So what did I do?
I ordered the burger. WITH bacon. Big, thick pieces of bacon. And I ate most of it too. Normally I get coffee or water whenever we go out but today I got Dr. Pepper. It was delicious.
After that we went to the mall. I strapped the baby in the carrier and off we went. I have discovered that if you carry your baby in a sling, etc, then said carrier will disguise your huge fat roll.
I bought some nail polish and a bottle of Clinique Happy, because if I'm going to be a fat ass I don't want to smell like a stinky greasy one.
At Old Navy I bought some new yoga pants. I don't do yoga, which makes me an imposter I suppose, but I don't care. I heart stretchy black fabric. Add some ill-fitting tank tops and some pigtails and you've got the world's most uncool 23 year old.
Come dinnertime my son was asking for McDonald's, and what kind of mother would I be if I deprived my son of the comfort that is the Chicken McNugget?
I guess you can figure out what happened next.
But don't worry, I got coffee this time.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Hello!
Hi.
My husband has been trying to get me to do this for a very long time now. "They" (whoever they are) say to write what you know, and what I know is fat. I consider myself an expert on fatness, actually. Why, you ask?
I'm morbidly obese.
Of course, I'd never think of myself as morbidly obese because let's face it; I can tie my own shoes, walk up a flight of stairs and I don't need a friggin' Rascall Scooter to get around. But, my doctor (as well as the rest of the population) has officially deemed me a fatass. This came to no surprise but for him to use the term "morbidly obese" was flat-out embarrassing.
So I took my prescribed diet pills. I could hardly sleep, I rarely ate, and cigarettes became my best friend. Fast forward to my next doctor's appointment. Weight loss = zero. The cycle continued for several months until I finally just threw in the towel.
"Do you drink a lot of alcohol?" I was frequently asked at my appointments.
"No," I replied, "but if you don't stop with the questions I may start. And soon."
So what now? Blood work, urine tests, the list drags on.
"You're fine. There's no reason you physically cannot lose weight" he tells me.
I may be fine, but that doesn't make the dimples in my ass magically disappear. Isn't there a way for me to lose weight while I sit on my rear watching Maury and eating Cheetos? Because that would be super.
They suggested I try gastric bypass surgery, but I have no health insurance because I'm too heavy. Thank you, Columbo, because I had no idea I was fat before you sent me a letter.
So what is a girl with saddlebags, boobs that look like the long balloons a few months after the party's over, cottage cheese thighs and a butt that looks like it was smacked with a bag of nickels to do?
Welcome to The Cellulite Chronicles.
My husband has been trying to get me to do this for a very long time now. "They" (whoever they are) say to write what you know, and what I know is fat. I consider myself an expert on fatness, actually. Why, you ask?
I'm morbidly obese.
Of course, I'd never think of myself as morbidly obese because let's face it; I can tie my own shoes, walk up a flight of stairs and I don't need a friggin' Rascall Scooter to get around. But, my doctor (as well as the rest of the population) has officially deemed me a fatass. This came to no surprise but for him to use the term "morbidly obese" was flat-out embarrassing.
So I took my prescribed diet pills. I could hardly sleep, I rarely ate, and cigarettes became my best friend. Fast forward to my next doctor's appointment. Weight loss = zero. The cycle continued for several months until I finally just threw in the towel.
"Do you drink a lot of alcohol?" I was frequently asked at my appointments.
"No," I replied, "but if you don't stop with the questions I may start. And soon."
So what now? Blood work, urine tests, the list drags on.
"You're fine. There's no reason you physically cannot lose weight" he tells me.
I may be fine, but that doesn't make the dimples in my ass magically disappear. Isn't there a way for me to lose weight while I sit on my rear watching Maury and eating Cheetos? Because that would be super.
They suggested I try gastric bypass surgery, but I have no health insurance because I'm too heavy. Thank you, Columbo, because I had no idea I was fat before you sent me a letter.
So what is a girl with saddlebags, boobs that look like the long balloons a few months after the party's over, cottage cheese thighs and a butt that looks like it was smacked with a bag of nickels to do?
Welcome to The Cellulite Chronicles.
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