GOOD NEWS: I’ve lost seven pounds since yucky fast/cleanse thing started Sunday. Yee ha!!!
Now, I’m aware it’s mostly water, and that since what I’m drinking is mostly water, I’m sure to continue to lose more mostly water weight BUT I do feel less sluggish and gross. Side benefit: because I’m so dang full of water, I’m more sloshy than hungry, so there’s that. Now for the BAD NEWS: I passed out cold in the bathroom at 3am yesterday morning. Like did a slow slide off the toilet as the lights spun out in my brain and landed on the bathroom rug, my pants around my ankles as I slipped into a full on blackout. It was a very graceful blackout. Well, as graceful as you can be at 3am as you’re sliding off a toilet. Which, I’m going to be honest, can’t imagine was very graceful BUT the room was pin wheeling to darkness so I’m going to pretend it was pretty. All I could think as my face hit the bathroom rug was that I needed to not die because if I did die, Husband would find me in this oh so glamorous position and be even more traumatized than he is. He already can’t eat in people’s homes due to a few scary kitchen incidents; I can’t take the bathroom away from his happy places to be. I can only imagine what my obituary might say because he would be the one in charge of writing it and he has no problem telling the truth. Which means it would probably end up saying something along the lines of, ‘ej died in the early morning hours of June 16th on the floor with her knickers around her knees.’ A true fact but hardly one I want my high school crush to read as he sits down for his morning coffee. Not to mention that that embarrassing statement would make that evil b***h, the one that made my school life miserable, immensely happy. There is no way I could let that happen so I lay on the floor till the world stopped going dark and the shaking subsided, pulled my knickers back up and wobbled my way back to bed. At least if I died there, Husband could make it sound like we were 'making the sweet magic' when I died and not the unglamorous reality of, ‘Unhappy with her weight and looking for a life epiphany, ej stopped eating for two days and died in the bathroom.’ He could write something along the lines of ‘ej left this world in the throws of passion.’ Or ‘ej died in her loving Husband’s arms. He will be ready to date after a suitable morning period.’ But I didn’t die, of shame or lack of food - though the potential shame came close to killing me. Of course, in the light of day, with a few morsels of food in me now, I find the whole thing hysterical. I mean, the coroner would have to do an autopsy to find cause of death and Husband wouldn’t have likely found me until I was in rigor mortis so they’d have to load me on an ambulance covered in a sheet with my ass sticking out. Imagine the Mayor of Our Street trying to figure out what was under the sheet. I could take bets on how long it would be before she called Husband trying to find out what happened. "Hello, Husband. This is the Mayor. How are you? How's your dog? Your lawn is looking lovely... So, I noticed the ambulance..." And what if they thought Husband had poisoned me and they started looking through all our stuff al la CSI? I’ve got stuff on the computer that I’m sure could implicate me in a whole bunch of questionable things - I just Googled 'How long till rigor mortis sets in' for goodness sake! And who knows what’s on Husband’s computer. I mean he spent four months looking at microphone porn, who knows what else he’s got on his search history or stored on the hard drive. And I can just see the line of awkward dates that Husband is going to have to go on to find himself a new wife. Can you imagine Husband having to break in a new woman? Getting her to be okay with the routines that can’t change and the schedules that must be adhered to and the language that will need to be interpreted... Yeah, I’d love to be a fly on the wall watching that mess happen. But I can’t do that to her. Or him. So I’m eating again. I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson and that my eating habits have changed and that I’m sure to be as healthy as I was before I married and ate my way though each evening of trashy television watching but I know myself better. So, I'll see you back here in a few years, okay? Hopefully I'm not dead and my knickers are right where they belong.
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We have this tree fort in our backyard that was referenced a lot this weekend. Most everyone who looked at it wanted to know if we could get into it. Yes, we said, when we first moved here but now, after two years of Tennessee food, neither one of us could get the lower part of our bodies up the hatch hole. In fact, other than the squirrels and the owls, no one has been in the tree fort in two years. Which makes me sad. Not the fact that I haven’t been in it. It’s a freaking death trap of rotten wood and squirrel poop. No, the fact that I couldn’t if I wanted to is bumming me out. Husband and I were talking once about losing weight and he suggested taking an unflattering naked picture and putting it on a file with a time lock that will release if we have not met our weigh goal by the time allowed. Husband is bat shit crazy. I’m mortified over the picture that was posted of my last week while I was in the midst of a hot flash from an angle that makes me look wider than a bus. Why the heck would I try to take an unflattering NAKED picture and put it on a computer so that someone could hack it should they so desire and put all over the Internet. Yeah, I know that Sony emails are more exciting than a naked picture of me in all my phat-ness. So combine a fat faced fat assed picture with a tree house I can no longer get into and I’m apparently having a problem. And apparently, my issues with weight due to the aforementioned food, have reached the point where THIS HAS HAPPENED: IN LETTER AND EMAIL FORM!!!
Now, I doubt that Vanderbilt is stalking my Facebook page or driving slowly by my house as I waddle up the driveway to put out the garbage cans. In fact, I’m slim compared to most of the waddlers here in Nashville so I doubt a drive-by fat stalker would give me a second look. But, they got my information somewhere – damn water on the knee Dr.’s visit – and now I’m on the list for information about surgical weight loss and frankly I’m insulted. I’m not that fat! I’m PHAT! But in reality, my weight has reached the point where I’m going to need to buy new clothes and so because I’m cheap and vain, I’m aware that I need to do something about it now. I'm also aware that I've said this several times in the last few years but that was before I was fat-stalked by surgeons with weight loss knives. Now, when FIL was here, he was doing the 5:2 diets - eat what you want for five days and fast/eat no more than 600 calories on two days. While I can see that he’s has some major weight loss in the year since we’d seen him, I don’t think that five daily breakfasts of o.j. cereal, toast, two eggs, four pieces of bacon, coffee and two cookies on the days will be countered by eating a banana and a yogurt on the two fast days. BUT what I’m doing of eating whatever is near my face at all hours of the day isn’t doing much to change the slide up the scale. I actually paid attention to my food choices during FIL’s eating days and while most of them weren’t going to win me nutrition medals, my portions weren’t out of control. My eating hours and lack of movement were. At my healthiest, which was also my thinnest, I was walking to work six miles round trip. No only was I moving but my stress levels by the time I reached home were so dang low, I was too happy to eat what I shouldn’t. Here my movement is more like the 5:2 version: I sit on my ass for five days and move for two. And it’s not working. So yesterday I embarked on a brain change. (Again.) I’m starting with a three day fast of water and yucky cleanse stuff. Don’t judge you healthy nurse-y people. It’s my version of a kick in the ass. (And boy is that more grossly literal that you think.) Husband tried a three day fast a few months ago and it kick started his brain change. And that kick plus his new eating plan of only two meals a day– which I totally don’t approve of – has brought him a twenty-pound weight loss. Of course, he’s also been in the basement building the studio, moving and lifting and generally not sitting on his ass and that has totally helped. So has his not getting out of bed until 11am and having his first of two meals a day at lunch time. Of course that means his second meal is around 8:30pm, which is too late for me. By then I’m on my butt in front of the TV and digesting while lying down is not a good thing. So basically, I’m blaming Husband for my fat, non fort-climbing ass. Which I feel is an accurate point of view because I’ve gained 32lbs (!!!) and a mountain of debt since I met him so it really is his entire fault. To sum it all up, what I’m saying is I’m fat enough for Vanderbilt to send me multiple notifications about my fatness and it’s all Husband’s fault. It has nothing to do with my late night eating, lack of movement and love of fries. Glad I cleared that up. Now off I go to drink water full of pepper and cry. This will be short because it's FIL’s (father-in-law) last day, I went to a concert last night, I have two three-year-old friends coming over to play with screw-guns, I got four hours of sleep, blah, blah, blah… Husband doesn't like to stand next to FIL. He’s always asking me to stand in between them because he's afraid that people will look at him and then FIL and see the before and after picture. He’s not wrong. Husband looks exactly like FIL minus a few years and a few pounds. I don’t find the look-alike thing to be a problem. Sure, it seems like there will be a ‘hair springing from every orifice’ issue coming at me but I can nip that in the bud with the gift of a ear/nose trimmer and a pair of scissors for the eyebrows. And sure, the ‘I can’t eat in other people’s houses’ thing will likely get worse, but I think I can handle it. What I do find problematic is this: <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< This is FIL’s dressing table top. And this is Husband’s >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> It does not get better. Crap. BUT when it seems like the end is bleak, I get home after an impromptu concert date and find this piece of awesome: My messy, OCD, pain-in-the-ass, husband made this for the two three-year-old friends coming over to play with screw-guns. Per my request, it is a simple screw-gun project. Per his OCD, it is labeled, sanded and the appropriate screws have been pulled and laid out ready for screwing. <<<<<<<< THIS lovely attention to detail for a project that is for a pair of boys he has yet to meet while he's in the middle of finishing up the prison bathroom and his studio and pretending to visit with his father is why I will put up with the rest of the hairy mess that is coming at me. I have NO IDEA why he bothers to put up with me. Sometimes it is hard to see beyond the space you’re in right now, with its confused fog of feelings. Sometimes, it is hard to pull what is going on in your head into clear and coherent and precise thoughts. And then express those thoughts in sentences that don’t sound like disjointed rambling. Sometimes, it is impossible to put all the swirling emotions messing about inside into understandable and non-screaming statements that explain where you're coming from and why you need a dark corner to hide in until the tornado stops. And then sometimes you find the perfect picture that sums up the jist of all those dang words and thoughts and feelings and life is good. Because how can life not make sense when there is a Bag of Garfield out there for the taking?
And only for eight dollars? If only all life's problems were solved this easily. Not that I bought the Bag of Garfield for eight dollars, mind you. Just knowing that I could was enough for me. Wednesday. Yesterday, my friend and her husband drove from Nashville to D.C. Around the four-hour mark, she put up a comment on Facebook commending the fact that her husband had yet to drop an F-bomb during the drive. Shortly after that, she put up a post telling that he’d dropped eleven. At dinner last night, FIL mentioned that I had corrupted my friend. I was indignant. My friend doesn’t swear. I do – profusely - but my friend never cusses. FIL kept insisting that what he’d read was due to my influence that my constant conversations about inappropriate stuff resulted in her post. I didn’t understand. There was lots of back and forth between FIL trying to explain his point and me defending mine while Husband refereed. After a very heated ten minutes, it became clear that we were arguing two different points. And FIL’s argument was that he thought F-bomb meant farting and that he thought that my friend was outing her husband on Facebook as a multiple farter because of me! Because - and he actually said this after much prompting - because I am “always talking about vaginas and penises…”
!!! This totally untrue – well, maybe mostly true during this visit... and on this blog – statement was followed by me saying "fuck" a lot. But only to make a point within my argument about how my friend was not cussing and her husband was not farting and that I never talk about farting unless it’s the dang dog farting and then it’s obviously funny farting and that I don’t always talk about vaginas and penises. A point, by the way, that was totally lost when I said vagina and penis over and over and over again while loudly defending myself. My friend has three-year-old twins who are at the boundary pushing stage. This means one or the other or both are standing in a corner 'taking some time' during multiple times during the day. In fact, the other day, she sent me a text that said, ‘Here’s what is happening in my house…’ and a picture of each twin in a corner. Priceless! I think that something we forget as grown ups, is the need to take some time away from a situation. Time to reflect on what we've done. Or, perhaps to reflect on what we might have said to ones father-in-law or ones husband in the heat of WAY TOO MUCH together time. I think the moment I should have realized I needed a moment might have been when my new friend from Scotland 'shhhhh'd' me as I was relentlessly teasing FIL about the Scottish ladies sitting behind him in the bar. I was trying to get him to ask one of them out. “Go on, FIL, ask them out. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink!” And, I didn't stop when he shot me the look or when he moved over to our other friends and asked if they had a spare room he could stay in. Then, when I didn't shhhhhh, my new friend actually told me to leave him alone! Like reprimanded me like a parent does to a child annoying their sibling. I did not leave him alone. He did not ask the ladies out. My new friend was not impressed. Neither was FIL. Perhaps, had I shut-up, had I taken a time-out, I might not have spent Sunday night dropping multiple F-bombs and vagina penis bombs... Which is why I am putting myself on a self imposed time-out today. I will not, like my friends three-year-olds, be standing in a corner because; really all my corners are filthy and that will do make me angry. No, I am going to cover myself in bug spray, go outside and do horrible things to weeds and rocks and stuff until I can conduct myself as a polite human being. And then tonight, I’m going to go out and have drinks with my friend and decompress. If the time-out doesn’t work, the bitching about life is guaranteed to. If not, that corner is totally going to come into play... |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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