because i can

normally, i scoff at people who dress their dogs in little outfits. these same folks are usually the ones carrying their little dogs around with them in $1100 specialty purses. (do you think those little dogs leave little "presents" for mommy in those purses? just a thought...)

anyway, when i was cleaning out my closet a few weeks ago, i came across an old navy sweater that met its fate with the washing machine and died a horrible shrinking death. (this shrinking death is nothing like the horrible shrinking death my "fat clothes" have undergone recently -- that is merely one of the unsolved mysteries of the universe. or a big fat clue my big fat ass needs to go back on a diet in a big fat way. but i digress.)

so what better way to say goodbye to a old friend but to drape it around the shoulders of my two favorite girls in the universe -- buffy and muffy. otherwise, known as the devil dogs, chloe and sadie.





all they need is pearls to make jen lancaster proud.

ode to chocolate

o chocolate, how do i love thee? let me count the ways...


my developing addiction to chocolate is moving towards new heights. only a few days ago, i opened my purse and in my haste to pull out my wallet, i pulled out a giant-sized giardella chocolate bar.

we're not talking "snickers gets you going sized bar". nope, we're talking six servings sized bar of chocolate and almonds.

before someone stages an intervention to save my thighs whose cellulite is acquiring cellulite, the chocolate was a gift, i swear. i was holding it for a friend who brought it back for me from san francisco. i swear, officer, i was only holding it!

a hem. a goddess girl, actually. and it was my chocolate, alright. all mine.

* * *

seeing as chocolate is the one thing that can tame my savage soul at that time of the month, the one where it feels like i am being pelted in all directions by a thousand tiny grains of sand, irritating me to no end, until i feel as if i am ready to explode.

like how i freaked out on a poor unsuspecting boss, when i picked up the phone on friday. "which part of it?" i barked into the phone to answer her question as to whether i had made any progress on my ever-growing to-do list. it wasn't her fault. all she wanted was an update and i unleash an evil spirit of hades on her.

i didn't realize until i started to talking to her how stressed out i really was. i felt like i could cry. my head pounded. my tail twitched and i felt increasingly agitated. my claws lay extended, ready at a moment's notice. her question was the mouse that crossed my path. swat!

it was only once i got off the phone and realized what i had done did i realize my others symptoms. fatigue, exhaustion really. the pimple the size of mount helens erupting on my face. the mood swings that make sybill look even-keeled. yup, i was deep into the throes of the three scariest letters in the alphabet -- p. m. s.

or so mam tells me. and past co-workers who would track my cycle on the calendar in order to ascertain my normal bitchy from my psycho-insane-i-kill-you-bitchy. flug, you remember, you kept the calendar updated.

so which is why my emergency bar of chocolate, heaven sent by one of the goddess girls came to such a sweet end on friday when i tore into it the way a crocodile wraps its prey in its jaws, performing death rolls with my mouth as i swallow it last creamy goodness.

what? get your own damn chocolate bar.

capitalizing on a good book

imagine how this must sound in a staff meeting: “the lord is my product; there is nothing i shall want.” what is seemingly at odds here is the intersection of religion and commerce as it relates to the large number of and variations of bibles sold in the marketplace each year.

strangely enough, i stumbled across of all things – a bible store – recently when shopping at the outlets nearby. mam and i joked about its close proximity to the nine west store where we were heading.

“close enough,” he said, “that he expected its customers to be the husbands of the shoe-shopping wives next door praying to avoid bankruptcy.” (my brave, dear husband preferred to do battle against the evils of nine west directly – by pouting in the aisle, watching me hunt for and try on new boots.) so when cindy crosby’s article “not your mother’s bible” in the october 30, 2006 edition of publishers weekly came across my radar, well, i knew well enough to acknowledge divine inspiration when it presents itself.

in today’s marketplace, the same mentality that gives rise to many different pairs of brown boots available at nine west exists for bibles sales as well. while a relatively stable market exists for bible sales, selling the “good book” may be more difficult than one would think. as the article points out, in most cases, the very people who are buying bibles already own between three and 10 copies. (note to self: must remember this argument for next shoe-shopping excursion.) how can an industry expect sustainable margins from sales on a product that people already own? while content will be the same in most cases, the key differentials between bible a at home and bible b on the shelf will be two of the four p’s of marketing lingo – packaging and positioning.

but it’s not as simple as changing the color or heel height of its current product to focus consumer attention on the new product. as the ms. crosby notes in the article, there are pratfalls lurking in this market: “wrapping your arms around this market is like hugging an 800-pound gorilla – it’s huge, it’s intimidating, and it can turn on you.” publishers must handle with sensitivity any changes to what some consider “a life manual divinely inspired by god” to avoid alienating its core audience. when changes are made to the bible’s format, you will find changes to be lumped under one of four main categories: 1) readability, 2) portability, 3) usability, and 4) attractiveness.

by focusing on these areas, publishers have brought to market bibles with additional commentary for better understanding of the text, waterproof and pocket-sized versions as well as a host of other colors and cover styles. pink faux leather bible with matching prayer beads, anyone?

but as any good marketer realizes, even with a divine “product” and audience-approved packaging and positioning, price is still a factor. for publishers, this most often means outsourcing production to keep already slim margins from disappearing like meatless fridays after vatican ii. another oddity mentioned as specific to the bible industry in the article is the missionary angle of spreading the good news. one publisher mentioned donating nearly 26 million copies in 2004, a factor that surely impacts the bottom line. (what, you thought those bibles found in hotel nightstands just appeared there magically?)

but despite all of its possible pitfalls, publishers who heed the call to makeover the bible for consumer consumption have realized steady sales. while readership is generally nudging lower each year, the number of people professing to read the bible is growing with latest figures noting about 96% of evangelical christians admit to having read the bible in the last seven days. (what's scarier - the fact most people don't read daily newspapers anymore to keep abreast of current events or the fact that they read a book written 2000 years ago at least once a week?)

with a readership this large, capitalism is happily answering the call of christianity by offering a diverse product lineup designed to fit every shape and color. just like the two new pairs of brown boots i scored that fit over my fat calves. hallelujah!

sucker punch

with all of my medical melodramas that i have encountered in my ... ummm, 29B years, i can usually tell when i am on the road to recovery -- my doctor's office staff stops treating me like a princess.

yup, no more spur-of-the-moment appointments, no more just-go-right-back,-the-doctor-is-weighting-for-you greetings and certainly no frequent stepping on the scale routines. i usually attribute this to the "why torment the sick and dying anymore than we need to" mentality?

but today, folks, i must be healthy. not only did i have to wait a week?!? to get an appointment for bloodwork, the nurse who would be doing my lab work asked me to step on the scale.

"'scuse-ez moi?" i asked innocently, pretending not to hear her as i drop my work bag into the chair in the examination room.

"let's just step over here and get your weight." she tried again.

shit, i looked right at her as she said it while i'm thinking i have a good 6" over her and i'm not wearing heels. i can take her down pretty quickly, without needing to sit on her. if i pretend not to hear her again, she's going to fit me for a hearing aid before i leave today.

inside my head i rage a great conversation with all the reasons why that might not be a good idea; my favorite one involved me telling her to just punch me in the stomach instead -- either way, if i stepped on the scale or if she slugged me in the gut, i was pretty much assured to feel sick to my stomach and angry for the rest of the day.

instead, i gulped, slid out of my fuzzy, no-name wannabe uggs clogs. i stepped up. and before i could let the air naturally fade from my lungs, it hit me...

oy.

turns out 12 days of potato really did add 12 pounds of blubber to my growing spare tire in the belly since i last stepped on the scale sometime in august.

it's a good thing my course of treatment should be wrapping up soon, she pulls another stunt like today and the sucker punch may be for her.

un-christmas

now that we are firmly apres-christmas (ljam, that means after, not before), i am ready to un-christmas my house. i know that once that is done we can march firmly into the doldrums of january and into my most favorite time of the year -- organization season.

organization season marks the time of year, when after receiving lots of christmas doodads, tchotkes and clothes you discover you didn't really need or want, you need a place to stash your christmas booty. this should not to be confused with your christmas "bootay", the ultra-fine, rap-model's girlfriend's posterior you developed during your 12 days of potato feasting. although finding a place to park that these days can be problematic as well.

thankfully, i am starting to un-christmas as i write this. the stock market is closed for a national day of mourning because an ex-president has died, enabling me to enjoy an unexpected vacation day. i'm telling ya it's the best thing republicans can do for me these days is to keep dying. c'mon bush senior -- you're about time, aren't ya? momma needs a holiday!

in the meantime, i am going to work on dismantling the dying tree that lay in my family room, festively decorating in cheap pieces of glass and ribbon and lights that mythbusters swear won't catch on fire unless i heavily loaded the sucker with extension cord after extension cord of c9 bulbs. i'll put away the fake pointsettia plants i use to save li'l miss chloe from a certain death if she went crazy chewing the leaves on the real plant like she did on the plastic.

i'll put away the stockings that were hung by the chimney with care so that i can now use my fireplace without worrying about my living room going up in flames. the nights will be less bright now that the army of inflatable santas, rudolphs and homer clauses will be put away until next year. maybe the stupid people who designed them will come up with a valentine version like "cardiac my heart" with little replacement valves and cholesterol that float about inside the bigger heart that will beat bloody red. of course, you'll probably just find ones with insipid teddy bears instead with the words, "i wuv you" on the side. blechhh. how corny. let's ban them like trans-fat in a new york deli.

c'mon january, be still my organizing heart!

12 days of potato

seriously, it's no wonder i feel like a mushroom cap in my clothes these days. we are deep into the time of year, i affectionately refer to as the 12 days of potato.

my 12 days of potato may be very similar to your 12 days of christmas cookies, or 12 days of office party lunches but is in no way to be confused with 12 days of sobriety. 12 days of sobriety would enable me to fit in my pants without first crying a little bit and secondly, dodging buttons that burst off like little rockets these days. (someone at work was nice enough to find one of my buttons that took flight this week and oh-so-anonymously left it in the bathroom stall for its owner to claim. thank you kind soul, now mam can stitch the sucker back on for me.)

one of my friends left me a voicemail the other day while i was out of the office over christmas: "hey, just calling to bitch that my pants are so tight today, i can't breathe. oh well, just thought you would understand." this is my same friend who had a meltdown in the bread aisle at trader joe's when she undertook a serious 10-day fast to fit in bridesmaid's dress.

but the 12 days of potato is partially all my fault. the official start of the 12 days of potato begins on PMD (pierogie-making-day) and officially ends when i can no longer fit into anything that resembles clothing in my closet. my friends, that day is here.

for 12 days, no one holds a butterknife to my throat to demand i eat pierogies until i start to resemble the fat little doughy pillows myself. for 12 days, no italian mafia forces me to order bruschetta and gnocci (more potato) at not one, but two holiday dinners back-to-back. of course, gluttony is to blame for a lot of my squishiness around my belly. the other part i blame on a fcukin' microscopic blood clot that tried to take me out this summer and now forces my vegetarian-self to eschew green leafy vegetables.

(oh, the irony, my cholesterol levels were fine before the bloodclot. now, i'm afraid to have them checked to see how much damage my cheese-and-bread restricted diet has done.)

that's okay, with less than 36 hours left in the fcukin' horrible year known as 2006, i'm ready now to go all double-0-seven on my fat cells in the new year. cheers, baby.

breathe, just breathe

it’s 10 am on the week before christmas and i just want to scream out loud. i don’t belong here right now, my to-do list is sitting here mocking me with things yet to buy, pick-up or complete by days end. instead i sit here and attempt to complete some insane, inane things at work and i am wondering why i am here and not there, and how i got this far behind?

my frustration is growing -- growing pissed at the season, at work, at my family – grrrr. and i still don’t understand why i am so grrrr lately.

breathe, just breathe.

the simplest things are setting me off – a coworkers glib “you’ll get it on friday” comment when he knows i won’t be in on friday caused me to seriously contemplate standing up, grabbing his neck in my hands and twisting it loose from his shoulders. allie mcbeal would have been proud of my dream sequence, it would have ranked with the best of hers on her television show. and the fact that he was referring to my christmas present, well, that just made me want to cry.

breathe, just breathe.

in fact, everything makes me want to cry this week. the charities that keep hitting me up for money, the abused animals in need, the families without heat or food or gifts. the world is a sad sad place and the fact charities play sucker bets with busy souls like myself who may not be totally insensitive, but are removed from knowing what is going on in the world, well, that just makes me want to cry to. here, just take my money, alright. you’re worse than a pick-pocket. i would slug a pick-pocket who attempts to mug me and take my money. a charity hits me up and i’m reaching for kleenex and my wallet.

breathe, just breathe.

i’m not a crier. grrr-like riot girl, yes. bitchy? hell ya. crier? not on your life. except when i’m pms-ing. oh sweet plastic jesus tucked in a dog-house manger left out on the front lawn! i’m pms-ing at christmas. family-togetherness has never been so frightening a concept except when i’m getting ready to rag as mam calls it.

breathe, just breathe.

now, another all-spirited-up-for-the-holiday-coworker approaches me with a tin of home-made baked cookies, peanut butter chip snickerdoodles with a hershey’s kiss on top. oh, wait, is that a peanut butter-filled hershey’s kiss? how the hell can i say no to a pms-blessing in disguise? chocolate and peanut-butter makes everything better. the bigger question is how can i keep my face out of the tin and save any for my other coworkers who pass and say they’ll wait until after lunch to take one. lunch is hours away right now. “gimme chocolate now!” screams the pms-bitch lurking inside me. “there may not be any left after lunch for you sniveling, i’ll-get-it-to-you-on-friday coworker. mwah-hah-ha-ha!” yes, sometimes pms-bitch scares me, too.

breathe, just breathe.

which is why this christmas season is killing me. i’m a scrooge under the best of circumstances, a fault i believe acquired while working in a mall in the christmas season. any addition of a hormonal imbalance and family dysfunction just adds more fuel to my growing fire.

i just gotta make it through the next few days alive. a thought i’m sure mam is praying for these days too. as long as i just breathe and only threatento jack anyone with chocolate and peanut butter in a 5-mile radius, i'll be alright.

drop the cookie, beeyatch.

on santa's naughty list

while researching some things for my final project for class (i am beginning to think i will be in grad school forever) i needed the url for a website i tracked down the night before. being the tech-savvy girl that i am, i decided to check my browser's history file.

which is why i am now convinced i am on santa's naughty list.

christmas time each year is a crap shoot for me as to which list i wind up on. some years i manage to keep my anti-social urges in check. (sometimes, people even say i can be... ahem, nice.) admittedly though, there are far fewer of those folks than the ones who call me a bitch, but que sera sera.

so what does this have to do with my research project? well, lemme tell ya. it involves a little thing called curiousity and something about how it killed a cat, which just so happened to be right after the cat swallowed poor tweety bird who flapped about in a frenzy, yelling "i deed, i deed see a puddy tat!"

at christmas time, no one should ever use the view history option on their web browser. mam and i are both pretty big online shoppers so it's no surprise that either of us would choose to do our holiday shopping for one another online.

sooo, do i think of this before i go digging through our recent web travels? nope.

any sane, rationale person would think of this immediately after they realize "wow, we've been on a lot of websites recently". then that person would promptly close the window after getting what they had intended to find in the first place.

i am not that sane, rational person. nope. not even close.

in my defense, the site that i decided to visit was one of his snowboarding/skiing websites. you know the kind, where the skater folks look all hip, with great hair and hip bones jutted just so. not at all like reality where one's lips are horribly chapped, one's nose is red and helplessly weeping snot while wearing windblown hair that's not at all like sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair but just knotted and tangled like a homeless person.

what my snooping self did was try to snoop on something that was not on his impossible-to-extract-from-him xmas wish list. instead, i get a preview of my christmas morning feigning excitement and choking down fear of careening down an icy hill wearing his present. looking like a newborn gazelle (wow, i've never compared myself to a gazelle before) learning to walk (okay, maybe it should be a foal that i am comparing myself to) on brand new legs, or in this case -- a snowboard.

after three mouse clicks, i realized all of his web searching was for snowboard jackets and paraphenalia for those of the female gender. for one moment there, i did find myself wishing he was into wearing women's clothes. but i'm not that lucky to be married to a cross-dressing, snowboarding afficiando.

no, the son-of-a-bitch was trying to outfit ME in his little snowbunny outfits! obviously he's forgetting that i am neither of the size to be considered a bunny (more like a "snow walrus" these days) nor have the inclination to spend my time outside in the cold on my ass blowing snot rockets like there's no tomorrow. with tangled, nasty hair to boot, thank you very much.

no way is this mamacita into playing those reindeer games!

10-6-12-8-14.... hike!

the range of clothing sizes in my closet is growing at roughly the same rate as the size of my ass.

each article of clothing found in that closet represents a dream, a stage of my past life or present tense. i can pick up a sweater and remember when i last wore it and how it felt or made me feel. i can pick up a pair of pants and remember wistfully when my thighs were that slim and gaze in wonder why at that point in my life did i think i looked fat? i can remember the male friend who remarked that yes, i did indeed have a shelf-ass and the ensuing laughter that following at my posterior's expense.

even with my many sizes, no matter how awful it may look now if i can even get it over the rolls, i have trouble parting with a garment. to rehome that pair of pants signals defeat in any future attempts to wedge my shelf ass into them. what a sad day!

the day i decided to throw away my only pair of size 6 jeans - ever - i died a little on the inside as i cried a bit more on the outside. the pain never quite goes away after that, although the next time it happens, the healing time shrinks a little like throwing cotton pants in the drying for too long.

the process to decide to part with those pants or sweaters is a lengthy one. by the time i've developed the kutzpah to admit defeat and rehome the close, they are often hopelessly out of fashion. admittedly, i am not a fashion-plate to begin with, add the measure of time and well, we're going old school. my poor skinny friends (da bitches!) who inherit them can only finish what i halfheartedly start by giving them their final nudge to good will.

in the good ol' days when i used to shop at goodwill and salvation army (salvo to those in the know), i used to wonder who got rid of all these wonderful clothes. now i know -- some other radically shrinking or expanding folks.

digesting the skinny person within

there is no greater foe to a chubby chick than a mutherfcuking camera.

you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.

the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.

ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.

the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.

the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.

back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.

you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.

"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.

until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)

all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.

damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.

bread and cheese for the soul

how often does the saying "be careful what you wish for" actually friggin come true?

true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.

and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.

and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.

smokin.

so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.

and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.

confessions of a not-so-bronze goddess

during most months of the year, people often remark on how fair and porcelain-like my skin is.

during the summer months, those same people ask there is something wrong with me.



pasty is my motto because really, there isn't any other way to be. my childhood was spent ("thanks, mom!") with agonizing sunburns from lackadaisical sunscreen applications. my blister-burn-repeat summer schedule made most things -- summer camp, a day at the beach, a ball game, even playing outdoors -- an ordeal for me.

and it's not like i am an albino where my little pink retinas will burst into flames upon seeing the sun and my skin lights up like a vampire at breakfast. i'm italian for crissakes but the german in me makes it's a wash.

well-meaning associates suggest short but frequent trips to a tanning salon. to which i often think, if someone wanted to commit suicide would we recommend only putting their head in the oven for short bursts of time? frequent trips to the cancer box is not in my future, in part, i think i might just combust if i went in.

"your friend?" the ditz behind the counter would say as she looked up at you, "she's toast. they're wiping her crumbs out of the bed as we speak. do you have an urn you wanna take her home in?"

although i enjoy being out in the sun, sometimes the course of action necessary to protect myself is not worth the efforts. sunscreens. hats. glasses. umbrellas. constantly seeking the need for shade is all a vexing struggle to win a war against the damn thing the world spins around. (and you thought you were the center of the universe!) and, after all the precautions, only to still burn and look like a pot of boiling water was thrown at me.

oh, i've tried self-tanners. for better or for worse, my sudden bouts of tanning are short-lived simply because of the effort involved with maintenance. i am lucky i remember to shave my legs everyday.

okay, once a week. (but it's still better than when i college i attempted to craft the "au natural" look. my husband is convinced he is still picking hair from between his teeth.)

i am simply lazy. and i have a thing for weird smells, nothing makes my lips curled back than getting a whiff of foul air and then realizing the chemical smell is coming from me. all to avoid the faux pas of what one magazine refreshingly described as, "tanned fat looks better than white fat."

and while we all know the white shorts are the enemy of both the fat and the pasty, i still long to one day, slide into a pair of white shorts, with long tanned legs sticking out of them (that are my own).

until they make that little pill, i'll just need to hide out in my lair until after after the sun goes down.

measure up

we all have our inner demons which fill us full of self-doubt and chip away at our self-esteem. maybe if we shine the light on these demons they won't seem so bad in the daylight.

some demons that make me feel as if i don't measure up. sometimes i feel:

like my house, my clothes, my job, my body will never be good enough (and i don't know exactly who they won't be good enough for.)

as if i have not accomplished enough professionally

as if i am hideously ugly

like someday everyone will finally realize i am an idiot

like choosing the small, no-name college with a free ride was not all it's cracked up to be

out-of-place working in the boys club despite working towards changing it

like a sell-out for working in a "boys club"

like a sell-out not working in an animal's or women's shelter

like getting married young was a mistake

like getting married to my best friend was the best decision of my life

like i need to spend more time thinking of others

like i need to stop worrying about what others think

like i need to practice loving instead of hating no matter how much more fun it is to be snarky

like i'll never have enough money to be stable

like the class i was born into isn't good enough

like i will never escape where i came from even though it shapes everything about me

like this time, my diet will work

like things are going to change this time

like money is not the answer but it certainly helps ease the pain

like stability and trust can be highly overrated except in your self

like i'm a crappy doggy mom for not spending enough time with my girls

like i'm a crappy wife for not treating my husband with more respect

like i am invincible and utterly indestructible

like i am achilles and covering my heel

i am bored until a new challenge presents itself and i find myself wanting to be bored again

like the more things change, the more i stay the same.

and if you move real slow, you can hear the sound of silence.

dogercise

when my husband came home with the elliptical machine i never thought i would also get a personal trainer. or two.

after breaking into a sweat watching my husband and brother carry the hefty piece of machinery to our second-floor crap-room (i fully expected them to scratch the walls), i realized it was time to put up or shut up. my flabby thighs had no more excuses to not get to the gym. the mountain had come to mohammed. fat cells be damned!

besides the fact that my ass had now taken on the proportions of a dancer in a rap music video (shake that booty, booty!), the rest of my clothes were getting tight. so much in fact as when my concave boss announced her pregnancy, i felt sick.

i knew even in her 9th month of pregnancy that i would still weigh a good 30lbs heavier... when i was in my "thin phase". argghh.

when she told the crew of us assembled in her office, she asked is anyone else had an announcement to make. although i cannot say i spoke to anyone to confirm or deny, i swear heads turned towards me.

feeding my tapeworm and cheesy bread addiction led to a startling new discovery:

not only did i think i was the office piglet, but now apparently others thought so, too.

or maybe they were thinking i was pregnant and hadn't told anyone yet. what i really didn't want to tell anyone was that my expanding waistline was due to blindly eating a full bag of meredith's mess -- a scrumptious blend of almonds, chocolate chips, raisins and cashews from 'nuts to you' after lunch. or the cheesy bread course that came with lunch.

it was my own undoing. but now, i have dogercise.

after getting said elliptical machine from my archnemesis -- my mother-in-law -- i needed to actually use it. it only took only one morning to determine that i really am not a morning person.

that coupled with perhaps some of the best sleeping-in weather for the year (crisp and cool, windows open) killed any shot i had about working out twice a day as i originally schemed.

my method of fast-tracking my summer weightloss plan about 2 weeks before the official start of summer was to exercise my ass off. literally. workouts twice a day, 1200 calories, drunk dieting and a plan to stay away from adelle, my enabling drinking partner.

all of which got shot to shit. leaving us to the point in the story where my personal trainers come in. i was panting away on the elliptical one night -- "bouncing" as my husband calls it -- when i realized i wasn't the only one panting. ("things are just bouncing all over the place," he says. the sad part is that he is watching me from behind.)

seems sadie the rocking rottweiler was panting behind me and was none too happy. it seems the movement on the elliptical with arms flailing about on me and the machine made her nervous. it was also her kryptonite -- she was scared to get whacked by either of us and so kept her distance.

now if you know sadie, you'll know she prefers to be within licking distance of me at all times. the longer i stay on the elliptical, the longer i avoid a tongue bath from her. the longer i avoid the tongue bath, the more it pisses her off and will cause her to bark words of encouragement to me, "get down here momma so i can give you a kiss. right NOW, mamma. awww c'mon." pure magic, baby.

next in our circuit training is a tag-team affair. they tend to leave me alone to stretch (their daddy needs to bribe them with a cookie to give me a free 5 mins) before we head into crunches.

lemme tell ya, you have not done crunches unless you do it with these two trainers barking at you. first, sadie sits on your feet, firmly planting her 90+ lb wiggle-butt on top of your toes. chloe stays at your head, encouraging you with feathery kisses on your moving forehead.

after a few minutes, they switch positions. chloe head down to your feet and lays across chewing the rope toy or your shoelaces (whichever it doesn't matter) while the real workout begins with sadie. you know the burn of doing crunches? the sore, pulling feeling in your gut?

now feel it with a 90lb rottweiler flopping across your flabby abs. oommph! if she doesn't succeed in sucking the wind out of you, she gives you more incentives to keep moving -- she's now within licking distance of your face. from personal experience, now its the time to begin working the lateral abdominals muscles by moving side to side. like a crocodile, sadie has trouble following quick side-to-side movements. when you've had enough torture, you can finally release with a few quick stretches.

downward-facing dog was not obviously never practiced by someone with the real thing.

drunk logic

i love the way a drunk person thinks and the stupid theories they come up with.

my husband, for example, came home pissed drunk tonight after heading out after work with coworkers. but mind you, he was not drunk.

nope. he was not drunk after having 3 margaritas from a joint that has a "3 margarita limit" sign on the wall.

nope. it was the house. our house that made him sick.

he was fine until he walked in the door, as if passing through our threshold increased the toxicity of the alcohol flowing through his veins and ran roughshod over his stomach.

silly drunk. i'm not sure which i am more amazed about -- him driving home "while he was fine" or the fact that my house has special powers to make alcohol more potent.

we definitely need to use that as a talking point if we ever decide to sell the house. now uses 40% less alcohol. parties are cheaper. drinks more potent.

what's not to love?

fat cells 5, diet 0

my fat cells are giggling right now. they have succeeded in another victory over my diet.

oh, it was a tough match today. my diet was fired up having done 60 minutes of cardio last night and ate well enough on the 1200-calorie plan to make a dent in the previous night's dinner of 2 stale pieces of pizza and bag of doritos from the hospital cafeteria. i even drank two bottles of water.

my diet feels motivated when i wake up with a slight hunger in my belly, and when in the shower, i can feel my pelvic bones. i imagine that one day -- there will be no soft rounded bulge in between them. but my diet has been on a mission. 5 straight week of loses (gains in poundage) has stressed both me and my diet out. we tell ourselves we're doing everything right while blindly omitting the sins of asiago cheese bagels, breadsticks and pizza we've fornicated with those weeks. (see a pattern -- cheese, bread, cheesy bread. ah, if only life were so simple!)

but the fact of the matter is, unless i shake that ass at the gym, the needle on the scale isn't moving. i could starve myself; but even if i had the willpower (1 hour past missing lunch and the tapeworm in my belly starts acting like the alien in "alien" -- lemme the fuck out of here now so i can go to quiznos!) nothing would really happen to my fine, pear-shaped, bootylicious bod.

no, i need to torture myself, kicking and lunging at imaginary people, tirelessly bike to nowhere for an hour and end up just where i began . . . with a bubble butt and marshmallow thighs*

my diet's strategy for a win (lose) this week, was simple -- get the ass moving at the gym. i was on spring break this week, the one night i am i class that i blame for my failure on the scale was cancelled. i had no excuses this time. i could be a winner (loser).

once again, the cards were stacked against me like the flapjacks that i haven't eaten in god knows how long!

monday night -- sadie had a vet appt to get stitches removed. scratch.

tuesday night -- no school, but had to work late. scratch. (don't worry still have a solid 3 nights in a row.)

wednesday -- get a phone call for a family emergency (hence the hospital). scratch and point for the other fat cells for the pizza & doritos.

thursday night -- i got you sucker. boo-yah!

friday night -- tonight. a night that could tip the scales in a positive way . . .

brick. as in "she's a brick h-o-o-o-u-u-se. she's the one. the only one. built like an amazon."

+ + + + + + +

nope, not getting to the gym when hubby is striken with a bout of tequila flu and reenacting the exorcist in my bedroom. after sucking all the cold out of our downstairs bathroom's slate floor, his attempt to make it to the upstairs bathroom to suck the cold from there was unsuccessful.

really, i'm not sure why he thought this in the first place since the upstairs bathroom is carpeted and the thought of laying on that nasty carpet makes ME nauseous. and i haven't thrown back a few toxic margaritas from tex-mex this evening.

in between his drunken mumbled apologies and promises to clean the carpet (damn right!) i think i hear the giggling and hi-fives from my fat cells on another victory.

*marshmallow thighs? oh yeah, that is one of my mother's famous back-handed compliments given to me a few years ago. as in, "your thighs are so soft... like soft, marshmallow pillows." unfortunately, she said this in front of my younger brother, who has vowed to never let me live it down.

crunchy lasagna

a whole day spent chopping and baking for a veggie lasagna crunchier than a tortilla chip.

:: how to make a crunchy lasagna ::

the girls had some knowledge of my cooking disasters like shiny meatloaf. this was their first time eating my mistakes.

i’m sure they were a bit worried. i was worried enough to take a day off from work to cook. me cooking wasn’t natural... it was like asking mother teresa to visit a strip club for world peace.

:: we don't need no stinkin' directions ::

finally, after much chopping, praying, and cursing (do you know what a béchamel sauce is?), my masterpiece went into the oven.
precooked lasagna noodles made the whole process move pretty quickly after all the vegetables were ready. in the meantime, meg showed up first without so much of a whiff of a pre-meal big mac on her breath. (the pre-meal is just in case
a hazmat team was outside when she arrived.) she helped me with the last minute details of my insalata caprese.

she was even kind enough to help me pick the glass out of the salad when the pliers i was using to twist open the bottle of balsamic vinegar splintered in my hands like i was supergirl... and i don’t think lisa and liz ever heard that story until now.

:: friendship is spelled "t-u-m-s" ::

liz and lisa showed up next and shortly after their arrival the crunchiest pasta noodle ever was brought to the table. all three quietly picked up their steak knives to saw through their pasta.i was certain that someone would get hurt from swallowing either a shard of glass or freaking noodle.

their utterly blind stupid trust that my cooking would not kill them (before they could get to the hospital) kept me from taking a lasagna noodle to my wrist. my friends crunched their way into a place in my heart forever that night.

snowstorm survival kit

as mother nature prepares to coat the mid-atlantic region with up to 12 inches of snow, a little preparation is in order. a trip to the ack-a-mee and other fine establishments to stock on some essentials if you will.

a proper snowstorm falls on a weekend. much to the chagrin of school students and teachers alike, but you know what? tough titties. you get the whole fcuking summer off, give the rest of us "cubicle dwellers" a break.

see by having the snow day fall on a weekend, no one has to go anywhere, or sit in hours of traffic to travel a few miles. normal drivers lose all sensibility when it snows and businesses certainly don't shut down for snowstorms unless 3 feet of it dumps on us. medical workers and other emergency service peeps need to report to work regardless of the conditions. the world doesn't stop for white stuff.

so now as the flakes fall, my essential snowstorm survival kit:

  sweatshirt, fleecy pants (preferably with an elastic waistband), cozy socks and slippers;

  one or more good bottles of wine;

  loaf of crusty bread, cheese and anything chocolate (for sustenance);

  books! lots of books. a preferable ratio is 1 book per 1 bottle of wine but that's just me;

  a cozy chair with my faux-fur throw and roaring fireplace.

if anyone needs me, you know where to find me.

my lips (and lunch) are sealed

dammit, i hate when they mess with my lunch.

as a chubby chick, i have bounced from one diet to another. the latest is jenny craig. part of jenny's shtick is you gotta eat their food, which ain't half bad if you consider eating half of what you'd normally consume appealing. that's why the other part of it is you consume buckets of "free foods" all fibrous fruits and veggies meant to fill you. hah! instead you fart like a lactose-intolerant wild animal after eating a meal of baked beans and cheesecake.

really, you could blow yourself around the room with the amount of farting that occurs. of course, being a vegetarian, i am doubly curse as most items contains beans. bean-o can't save me.

for lunch today i brought one of my "jenny" meals to scarf down "pasta fagioli". pasta and you guessed it -- beans.

which is fine. except they changed the glue formula on the package. so after microwaving (my kind of cooking) until hot, i'm left trying to pull the plastic cover that is now fused to the container to eat my lunch.

let's examine how many ways this could go wrong:

i could continue to poke at the tiny tear in the corner until it splashes me in the face or eyes -- which with my luck -- will definitely cause blindness.

i could violently attempt to rip off a corner and most certainly scald my hand in the process.

i could violently attempt to rip off a corner of the package and instead of scalding my hand, flip the entire fcuking package over covering my desk, me and whatever outfit i've got on that day in tomato sauce.

i could wait for it too cool before attempting removal of the cover, but then again, that defeats the purpose of heating your food in the first place.

i could whip out my handy dandy hacksaw that i keep in my desk draw for occasions just like this. what, you mean you don't have one?

perhaps jenny's new shtick isn't about making better choices or portion control but if you can't get access to your food, you can't eat it.

butt out of it, part I

as i leaned over the bathroom sink watching the brown mucus i had just coughed up swirl down the drain, i knew i had enough.

i was going to quit smoking. and the world around me shuddered.

even on my best days as a smoker, i was bitchy. those closest to me were quite relieved and excited that i finally had decided to quit smoking but deep inside, i knew they were also concerned for their own safety. they loved me but they also loved their life, too.

we were entering into uncharted territory. they had seen the anger in me when i spent a year on steriods fighting my blood disorder. my husband was a bit panicky over what monster he would be living with when i gave up my nicotine. he knew some of my darkest moments on the prednisone -- shaking "the club" at another driver who cut me off in traffic with my window rolled down, cursing and shouting i was going to get out to kick his ass -- he was afraid. very afraid.

he also knew the edginess i felt when a nicotine fit brewed inside me. my addiction snarled until the demon could be satifisfied.

what was i doing? smoking in some perverse way was meaningful to me in ways that only other smokers can understand. it was part of me, my identity, my pleasure and my frustration. cigarettes stood by me when all others failed. when i needed it -- no matter day or time -- it was there.

how would i ever drink coffee or alcohol again? like chocolate and peanut butter, each tastes fine on its own; but paired together? yummy! my decision required more than simply cutting back on my trips to wawa.

ugh! i needed major changes in my life. never again would i light up as soon as i got in the car. no more coffee and cigarette in the morning to psyche myself up for the coming day. no more deep conversations over coffee and cigarettes with one of my best gal pals. no cloak of lighting a cigarette at the bar to mask my insecurities of the moment, to make me tough, to make me strong.

good goddess, this wasn't going to be easy.