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.
Monday, April 26, 2010
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.
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