I can justify murder if I have to

It’s just one of those days…for frozen yogurt. Ben & Jerrys Chocolate Fudge Brownie FroYo, to be exact. Shit happens. I am a true fat girl, because I can justify any “bad food” choice, any time. I need this because ___.So, because I have nothing better to do and Tuesdays are bad tv days, here’s my list.

Why Griffin needed to buy that Damn Ben & Jerry’s FroYo:

• It’s a bazillion degrees outside and my car’s a/c is busted
• I had a crappy therapy appointment, therefore, ice cream should naturally be involved in the post-therapy ruminations
• I was at Wal-Mart. come on. land of junk.
• It’s That Time of the Month, where women want  need chocolate
• my neighbors just sold their house. their house, is attached to mine. It’s a duplex. Sooo who knows what kind of crazy people/snobs/weirdos with brats just bought it and will take my parking and/or want to talk to me in general. Stress!
• It’s hot. Did I mention that it’s hot?
• Gas prices. (Really, they’re not that bad, but I just felt like saying it)
• I’m gonna have to wait 2 weeks to see a new episode of True Blood
• Because really, I just wanted some fucking ice cream.

 

So that’s the list. I’m sure there’s more. But it’s Ben & Jerry’s, it really needs its own post.

 

Men are skinny bitches

All right, I’ve decided that it’s officially not fair that my boyfriend can eat, seriously an entire pizza in one sitting and LOSE WEIGHT.

I don’t get this. He drinks giant bottles of Dr. Pepper, Arnold Palmers, and eats entire jars of peanut butter in like 2 days. Annihilates boxes of crackers (where 1 sleeve = 1 man-serving), eats 6 slices of toast at ones, and…he loses weight. His pants are loose. He’s on the smallest notch on his belt. What a fuckhead, seriously.

I’m convinces that God either has some really awesome way of getting back at men for this in the future, or He just really likes fat women. I mean, I look at a carb. I LOOK at it. And I gain 5 pounds.

I really do believe, that, collectively, women are FAR more useful, smarter, and better than men in general. I walked past a book the other day at B&N titled something like “If Women Ran the World, Shit Would Get Done”. And it’s so true.

But still. I am angry. I should NOT be able to fit into my boyfriend’s jeans. No.

Whiny post? Yeah. But I felt like it, shit. Just, shit.

Time is tricky.

Okay, the last week has been blurry. There’s something in my brain that is making me lose chunks of time…like ask me what I did yesterday, and I really have to think about it for a second. Is that what 23 is supposed to be like?

Really, though, my daily routine tends to be so…routine in its blandness that it’s not really worth remembering. I know, I’m supposed to be out “seizing the day” and all, but, seriously, it’s hot. The heat index is like 100 every day and the a/c in my car? It’s still dead as a doornail. Shit.

So, here I am, on the couch, curled up with a stack of the Sookie Stackhouse novels and watching TV on DVD (best. invention. ever.)…

But I did:

• Get a tattoo
• 2nd shoot a wedding
• get my prints back from my first roll of film with the Holga, and am pissed because they look too good, I wanted light! leaks! and blurs! and messed up stuff! But it’s okay.

So of course I have pictures of my tattoo. I took these right after I go it, so of course it looks kind of angry and ouchy and such.

 

Yep. I got my tattoo. I modified the Sigur Ros baby to hold a book that says “314″. My high-weight. And a quote from some of their liner notes. Of course I’m going to be one of those people that gets their “number” tattood…but I’ll be damned if anyone else will have the same style.

And tattoos? They tell you that they hurt-ish, yes, but they don’t tell you that while they’re healing they itch like a bastard. Still…I kind of want another one. A quote. Diane Arbus. Chuck Palahniuk. Sylvia Plath…the possibilities are endless. Will I be the 80 year old lady with a bunch of nerdy quotes on her? Well, I’ve already got an alien baby…

Summer…

I really need something to do with my time. Since discovering that jobs give me panic attacks, all I’ve been doing is reading library books. Seriously.

Since I started keeping a “record” of library books I’ve checked out, since April 16 of this year I’ve checked out 97 items.

97 items. Isn’t that kind of ridiculous? I think so.

My sewing machine has pretty much given up the ghost. That sucker used to make me…hundreds? on eBay. But nobody buys one-of-a-kind cutsey skirts anymore because, well, everyone sells them now. It’s sad that fabric costs more these days than to just go out and buy a ready-made piece of whatever.

Ok, ranty. I’m having these days. I’m having a hard time shaking them. I’m having a hard time trying to cut-out the “bored eating” I’ve been doing for a while now. It’s hard to not “bored eat” when I’m, well, bored.

And if I see one more of those stupid “when you’re bored, do ____ instead of eating!” lists, I’m going to commit homicide.

Just one of those days…

Today I keep thinking about when I was big, and depressed, I would say to myself “if I were thin, I wouldn’t be this way.” And here I am, 2 years later, still “this way”. Crazy as a loon. Popping Klonopin like there’s no tomorrow.

It just never stops. And now that I’ve gained like 15 pounds (or more), it’s driving me up the wall. I stand in front of the closet and cry, literally, like a fit-throwing child that can’t fit into their favorite dress anymore.

We all have these days. Mine just keep getting darker, and darker. I called my psychiatrist and made an appointment, though really, deep down, I know I won’t take any more of the antidepressants she’s prescribed me because I have this sneaky feeling that Celexa helped me pack on this extra fluff. It’s always easy to blame anyone but myself, right? But still. Why add fuel to the fire?

It’s just one of those days…all I want is reruns of True Blood and many, many naps.

I need to work on my coffee-snobbery.

Ok, so I go to the same local coffee shop every single day (except Sundays, in which they are closed, in which I kind of die a little on the inside because of ). And I’ve gone there for over a year now. I walk in the door, they instantly start making my iced-nonfat-extra-shot-latte. And then I sit my ass down and enjoy the music. Because they play Sigur Ros and Regina Spektor and Iron & Wine  and, uh, not that shit that Starbucks has to crank out.

But my point:

At least once a week while I’m sitting, I watch a wide-eyed girl (it’s ALWAYS girls) with their potentially-leathery tan, flip-flops, a designer bag, nose in the air—I watch her walk up to the counter and say this: “Hi. Uh. Do you have anything blended? Like, a frappucino?” and they go, “No. We can do iced drinks. But no blenders.” And then she walks out the door, deflated and pissed. It makes me giggle.

But then! The other day, this: “I want something iced. That is decaf. And doesn’t taste like coffee.”

Hello?! You’re in a COFFEE shop! Go to Dairy Queen! I wanted to scream at her. Really. I need to control my anger and total coffee-snobbery.

Speaking of addictions, True Blood is coming on soon. And it’s a little pathetic, how excited I am, even though Sookie’s Southern accent is really, really horrible (I do NOT sound like that!).

Since when are libraries “cool”? I don’t like this.

Ok, seriously, I want to know why the patrons of the local library are so wildly, unabashedly, rudely aggressive…? Is it the summer heat? Is it the fear that maybe, just maybe, they don’t have any copies of whatever Oprah has told them to read this month? I don’t know.

All I know is, I’m glad that nobody ever really wants to read what I do. There is no vulturous crowd hovering over the Mental disoders/diet memoirs/eating disorder books. No. As a matter of fact, I’m starting to think that I’m the only one who even knows where those sections are. I’m cool with that.

But one problem I noticed today: the library has essentially become a large, air-conditioned  free babysitter. Children. Everywhere. Not really reading anything. Just kind of running around like they ate a bunch of lollipops dunked in cocaine. Where are their parents? I kind of wanted to just randomly go around and show them random pictures from the Mutter Museum books. But that would be wrong. But potentially really, really entertaining (for me).

So I’m off to read the Carnie Wilson biography, naturally. I’ll read anything written by someone with WLS. It’s a strange obsession.

The beach, buffets, and big bikinis

So the beach was interesting. On the first night we were there, of course we had to hit up the closest seafood buffet. And with my, uh, special needs, I wasn’t really looking forward to it. I hate crab legs.

So imagine my surprise when the buffet price was $25 per person. Uh, no. I asked if I could pay the child’s price, and I explained my situation. And then the typical thing happened: they give you the up-and-down glance, the “really? what a freak!” kind of shifty glance, and then they ask me if I have my surgeon’s card.

Um, no. I never asked for a “card”. I had surgery 2 years ago. I’m really not comfortable asking them to bend their rules for me. I never have, not once. But this time…it was either go to the buffet, or eat sand. So I asked. Because, seriously, 25 bucks…there’s no way I could eat that much. They let me pay the child’s price, at $11. I probably ate $5 worth, haha. But it was nice of them.

So I think I’ll dodge buffets from now on, unless I line my purse with Ziploc bags. =)

As for the swimsuit/baring my jiggle to the world: well, it wasn’t fantastic. I looked in all directions before taking off the cover-up. But really, no one LOLed or gasped or started crying from the horror, the horror. To be perfectly honest? I saw a LOT of gals in teeny-bikinis that, let’s face it, should have probably gone with something else. I’m not here to judge, but…5 minutes (seemingly) after having a baby, or still while hugely pregnant (I saw both), you should probably reconsider the two piece suit/dental floss. And after the age of 60, the Pink-brand-monokini is probably a bad idea.

I’m sure they probably said the same thing of me: “Oh my God, she NEEDS to be covering up that weird saggy-leg thing going on and those bat wings! A full body suit would do…”

Anyway, it was fun. I got in the ocean. Sort of. I hate the squishy feeling of stray seaweed wrapping around my toes. And the stray jellyfish, floating next to me…I got in the ocean, that’s what matters. So what if it was only 15 minutes?

Pictures, eventually. I took my Holga…and I’m lazy, so it might take a while to go get it developed.

The seafood buffet, thine enemy.

Ok, so I’m going to the beach tomorrow. My dad is shooting yet another beach wedding (oh, I missthe days when beach weddings were rare, i.e. special and unique, like snowflakes. hah.)…and I decided to tag along and use this as an excuse to take a vacation.

So really this trip is bittersweet. I’m not as small as I’d like to be. I can’t just romp on the beach in a bikini, lest I frighten the children, and maybe even the tiger sharks that are apparently EVERYWHERE. And then there’s the buffets.

Oh, the buffets. I haven’t been to a buffet since surgery. For obvious reasons. But my dad insists upon hitting up all of those all-you-can-eat/bacchanal-esque seafood buffets. And I have a feeling they will laugh in my face if I’m all like “can I pay for a children’s plate, please?”. But really, I refuse to shell out (haha) like 15 bucks for a cup of seafood and veggies.

On the positive: there’s nothing nicer than the sound of the ocean outside your window.

AND. I have new hair.

And. My dog really, really likes to get all-up-in-my-face with her leash and demand that we go somewhere. So I turned her into a lolcat. Well. loldog.

She’s ridiculous.

They’re out there, somewhere…

Summer, ohhh summer, it is here. It is hot as hell. The a/c in my car doesn’t work. Hooray!

Instead of toning up for a “summer/beach figure”, I’ve fluffed up a bit. Yup. My guess is I’ve gained like 15 pounds. Everyone says I’ve “settled” where I need to be. And you know what? Fuck that. Because I am not comfortable here.

So what do I do? I don’t know. This is the point, post-op, where there are no more answers. You get so far out that no one can help you anymore. You’re supposed to know everything. Like graduating from college. Here’s your diploma! Now, go away. I’m getting the feeling that I will never know how to be an A+ WLS patient. My head is still in fat land. I still have the urge to eat like everyone else and/or eat like a total moron more than I should.

Soo here we are. I did the Last Diet Ever. I can/will never diet again, sure. But the way we have to eat is like a diet. I’m still trying to find my way around in the dark. And right now I feel really alone. To complain/sound whiny/bitch and moan. But I’m 2 years out and don’t know anyone else out there who is where I am, or close to my age, or whatever. I know they’re out there.

Where, though? obesityhelp.com is kind of dead now. At least, I don’t really relate to anyone there anymore. Is it too much to ask to find people my age who are past the whole “omg this is amaaazing I’m losing 10 pounds a week!” stage? I dunno.

Oh well. Other news? I’m going to the beach next week. Looking forward to it, yes. Even though I turn red like a lobster EVERY single time I go, no matter how much spf 75 I roll around in. But it’s my first “not hugely fat” trip. So it should be interesting. I might make the children cry with my batwings and legjiggle and such. But who cares? It’s my vacation. And I have a cute suit.