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.

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.

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.