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.

Blah blah blah.

Okay, so here’s what I think.

I think that Celexa is making me fat.

I think eating like a shithead with a bottomless pouch for carbs is also making me fat.

I think looking at pizza on other people’s plates is making me fat.

Watching the Food Network/Good Eats is making me fat.

Really. I want to sit in a sweatbox for a month and stop letting all this life crap make me gain weight. I am terrified to actually stand on the scale and look at it myself. It’s pathetic: I got my boyfriend to memorize what I weigh. I don’t want to know. I know I’ve gained probably 10-15 pounds. Which is a lot in a little time. And enough to scare me shitless. After the RNY “honeymoon” is over…we’re on our own. I’m catching myself. I refuse to buy bigger sizes. I swore I would never have to buy a bigger size, ever. But right now I’m having muffin-tops that rival those giant ones at Costco.

I’m so over this pity party, almost. I was supposed to go to see Death Cab this week and I ended up having panic attacks and sleeping in bed instead. My childhood dog had to be put to sleep yesterday. None of my cute clothes fit. Wah, wah, wah. Life.

I’m just ready to live again. I want something to make me laugh. I should probably stop watching Six Feet Under so much.

I <3 the library, but not this movie.

I currently have 31 items checked out of the library.

This, is why my blog suffers.

I checked out the film Disfigured,  and it really stunk. I was excited about a film that combined the painful worlds of anorexia and obesity into one big meaningful mush of cinematic genius, and it fell short. Really, really short. I kept having the urge to fall asleep. Which is a downer, I really wanted it to be good. It shows one of the characters “giving in” pretty much and getting a gastric bypass. And of course that character is already a douche-bag that solicits sex for money and is portrayed as a total ass. That was annoying. SO. I’m not biased. Of coursenot, darlings. But it sucked. The characters weren’t relateable and the plot was pointless. I’m glad I got it from the library/it was free. Nothing wasted, except time.

Okay, well, since I had a gastric bypass/took the easy way out, I guess I need to go hire some hookers and be a total asshole. I need to get on that.

/bitter rant.

Cook yourself thin. Make meth.

I really need to stop looking at how people find my blog. I mean, “gladiator sandals with fat legs”?! What? That’s a first. People are weird. And I don’t think my legs look “fat” in my gladiator sandals. And if they do, well, shit. I’m wearing them anyway.

I’m ranty today.

I have a stack about 10-thick of workout DVDs. Today I did the 3 mile “walk away the pounds”. It was much better than the “introduction” dvd. I still think that woman is slightly insane. Like, walking is so AMAZING, you guys. It just, like, walks away all your health problems and worries and OMG LET’S WALK UNTIL WE DIE!

Heh. Oh, well, at least I got in a few giggles with that one. My legs hurt. So that means it works.

I keep seeing a commercial for this show called “Cook Yourself Thin”, and it sounds pretty much like Hungry Girl, only on TV. Well, I didn’t think anything of it until my boyfriend saw the commercial and he said “Hey, cook yourself thin?! It sounds like a show about making meth.” So now, every time I see it I laugh hysterically.

I still laugh at fart jokes, too.

Obsession: not just a fragrance.

I’ve had my nose totally buried in books lately. It’s a snowball effect, I’ve learned…once you read one memoir that mentions something else, then you have to go and Google that  book, and then, you know. Madness.

So it started with a memoir called “Food and Loathing“  (which is about an a compulsive eater/bipolar woman, very interesting if not a bit bland), which mentioned a photograph taken by Diane Arbus. A picture of twin little girls that depicts “all that is unfair with the world,” because one little girl is smiling and the other is frowning with slightly droopy eyes.

So. Thus begins my obsession with Diane Arbus. She used her camera as a shield against the world and took pictures of, well, everyone. Freaks. Big people. Little people. Couples. Rich kids. Drug addicts. Andy Warhol’s “factory” people. And she was amazing.

So I’m kind of thinking, holy shit, I want to totally do this. I want to photograph everyone. Everything. I’ve been shooting weddings with my dad for years, and I’m so bored of weddings. Bored of photo shoots with plastered smiles (you’d be amazed at how many people I’ve heard say “My mouth hurts from smiling!” in a pissy tone). I want to put my camera to interesting  use.

I think this obsession is a good one. Maybe.

Other: I checked out like 5 workout DVDs from the library again. Um, “Walking Away the Pounds” is for old people; I mean, it was 15 minutes long! And she was all “OMG this is amazing you guys!” and it freaked me out/pissed me off.  15 minutes of walking/moving in place? WTF kind of workout is that? Boring, that’s what. After that I popped in the NYC Ballet Co. workout. That, kids, has made every limb in my body ache. So, success.

Okay. I’m going to finish the Diane Arbus biography I’m reading. Seriously…if I could just channel this obsessive energy into something productive,  like, you know, school/a major/keeping a decent job without panic-attacking my way out of it/anything serious, then I would be much better off.