So I'm having coffee with Vicki this morning, not just because she makes the best damned cup of coffee In the world, but because she is a kindred spirit. Although you may think we are an unlikely pair of best friends because we are different in so many ways, we are alike where it counts........we were both dropped off on this planet accidentally when our transport stopped at Sheetz for a hot dog and we somehow rolled out the ass end. She reminds me as I remind her, that we are not alone in the universe. There is little or nothing that we fail to understand in each other. It's all the rest of you that confound us.
Vicki and I are Artists. I say that not to garner a compliment or to pat myself on the back for being gifted. It is only now, waaaaaay in to my forties, that I look on it as maybe sorta uh asset. So we didn't go to business school.......we didn't have long happy marriages........we don't have a retirement nest egg. We got to learn to live the tumultuous life of a creative person. That,my friends, can be quite a fucked up little thing right there. Trust me on this one. Take whatever preconceived idea you may have of the Artist blissfully painting away on a beautiful pastoral scene and shit can it. The reality involves bags of Funyuns and a wretched piece on the easel and the firm knowledge that this whole thing would be a lot easier if you just had some fucking talent.
Vicki and I share the view. That would be the view from the psychic hospital ward, where you are in a full emotional body cast, watching the universal road crew busily filling in the giant pot hole you just fell in, so no one else can get hurt. "You guys couldn't of gotten here yesterday maybe?!?" "No Ma'am.....didn't know the hole was there till you fell in" Alrighty then. Thank you and goodnight. OK....so you get busted up a little....but you get to produce these magnificent........ok so maybe not magnificent...these deeply felt........ok, so maybe misunderstood would be more like it......these universally accepted.......uh........ok so mostly overlooked......uh.......why do we do this again?? Because it's just who we are, or were, when we fell off the goddamned spaceship anyway. Who the hell knows.
So Vicki blocks out the waves of sensory overload by medicating and I wrap myself in acres of extra fat......and medicate.She loses her appetite and I stop at the store for Funyuns and orange soda. In our own individual and unique ways, we are learning to accept who and what we are. I laugh at the many things the gods have chosen not to bestow upon me but never address what they have given me, not the least of which is the ability to bounce when falling from a great height.........and color...and the scratch of a fine brush over canvas. Not such a terrible thing as terrible things go......and we have each other to share all of that creative wonderfulness with that I'm being completely sarcastic about.
My plateau has surrendered......down 29 pounds or 116 sticks of butter. As each layer comes off, a new piece of me resurfaces. Whouda thought there would be so much emotional work to do on a goddamned diet? If I had any fucking talent I might do a painting about it.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Top Chef
I love cooking shows. I love to watch all of that food, and cream, and butter being bandied about resulting in dishes lush with fat and unctuous mouth appeal. It's not that I want to eat all of the things I see.....I just like to see food handled....and comment on it to the dogs, "see...they ruined that with the dill" I'll say to Nickolai. He tends to agree with me because his tastes tend more toward cat shit. He lays his ears back and wags his tail and continues to lick where his testicles used to be. Nickolai feels that no dish can be enhanced by the addition of squid ink and he gets downright annoyed when it's suggested that spaghetti squash is a viable alternative to pasta. He and I frequently watch cooking shows together. His pointed insight is always refreshing.
Top Chef is one of my absolute favorites because the food is so obscure. I can sit back and wonder on what planet does Mom cook Cod with Parsley sauce,Billi-Bi Croquette and Zucchini Tenderloin fer' dinner. Even on a special occasion while dining out, you will not hear "man!...I could really go for some Tuna Tartare with gooseberries and a fried quail egg" coming from me. This sort of food exists in a world that does not include people like me. It is eaten by people whose palettes revel in squid ink risotto and tripe.......not so different from Nickolai and his cat shit predilection in my humble opinion.
Let me suggest to the powers that be at Bravo TV, that they consider a brief jaunt through my world. "For your quickfire challenge today, you will need to pull the meat off of two roasted chicken breasts while simultaneously fighting off six obnoxious cats who have mounted a three pronged chicken offensive. Your time starts now!!" "What do you have for us today chef Nancy?" "Well Tom....I have a raw mushroom salad with a yuzu emulsion" "PSYCH!!!.....not really......I have shake-and-bake pork chops and rice-a-roni cooked on a stove top with one wobbly working burner and an oven that is far too depressed to rise above 350 degrees today. Please enjoy" I can see myself losing the challenge to the guy who made a pot of puh-sketti with a jar of prego and 2 pounds of frozen ground chuck. Such is life in my world.
I have no regrets in this arena. Although the Gods chose not to bless me with a successful life plan or, a sense of style, or a smokin' hot bod, or the ability to engage in normal human relationships, or financial saavy,or............do I have any lorazepam in the house?........what was I saying?...........oh yeah.........regrets.....they did bless me with the occasional sense of the idiotic and access to pharmaceuticals which I suddenly feel a need for.
Top Chef is one of my absolute favorites because the food is so obscure. I can sit back and wonder on what planet does Mom cook Cod with Parsley sauce,Billi-Bi Croquette and Zucchini Tenderloin fer' dinner. Even on a special occasion while dining out, you will not hear "man!...I could really go for some Tuna Tartare with gooseberries and a fried quail egg" coming from me. This sort of food exists in a world that does not include people like me. It is eaten by people whose palettes revel in squid ink risotto and tripe.......not so different from Nickolai and his cat shit predilection in my humble opinion.
Let me suggest to the powers that be at Bravo TV, that they consider a brief jaunt through my world. "For your quickfire challenge today, you will need to pull the meat off of two roasted chicken breasts while simultaneously fighting off six obnoxious cats who have mounted a three pronged chicken offensive. Your time starts now!!" "What do you have for us today chef Nancy?" "Well Tom....I have a raw mushroom salad with a yuzu emulsion" "PSYCH!!!.....not really......I have shake-and-bake pork chops and rice-a-roni cooked on a stove top with one wobbly working burner and an oven that is far too depressed to rise above 350 degrees today. Please enjoy" I can see myself losing the challenge to the guy who made a pot of puh-sketti with a jar of prego and 2 pounds of frozen ground chuck. Such is life in my world.
I have no regrets in this arena. Although the Gods chose not to bless me with a successful life plan or, a sense of style, or a smokin' hot bod, or the ability to engage in normal human relationships, or financial saavy,or............do I have any lorazepam in the house?........what was I saying?...........oh yeah.........regrets.....they did bless me with the occasional sense of the idiotic and access to pharmaceuticals which I suddenly feel a need for.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Boogie on ladies
I'm minding my own business this afternoon and I stumble across a little article profiling a dance club called "Bounce" that caters to fat people. I'm sorry.....that's "heavy set" or "larger framed" individuals. "Fat" is evidently no longer politically correct. This is a club where us fat girls can wear reveling clothing and very short skirts thereby publicly exhibiting our, for the most part, truly heinous sense of style (sorry ladies....you know it's true) Let me just remind you people that I am a fat girl and you would have to get me severely liquored up to even show my chubby ankles in public. Does that make me a traitor to the cause?.....I don't think so.
Now what makes me really angry about this article is the two cents from the skinny bitch contingent who feel that it may not be the best idea for fat girls to feel too comfortable with themselves or feel too accepted by the general public because ostracizing, discrimination and humiliation are powerful motivators for a person to lose weight. Please don't take this the wrong way.......but I think it would be prudent and all together fitting if all you people, fat and thin, who agree with this statement, would please take a moment and head to your nearest expressway and check those double yellow lines reeeeeaaaally closely......kneel down and take a nice long look. Don't worry about the traffic. If you are still alive afterward, you can go home and kiss my ass.
Most of us fat girls are on our individual goddamned diets NOT because we want to wear tight and revealing clothing, NOT because we want to show off our thick thighs in short skirts, NOT because we want to shake our groove things along with the skinny girls at the dance club, but because we want to feel comfortable and healthy in our own skins. We aren't interested in your opinion or your feeble-minded judgement. I personally am highly motivated by my increasing ability to put on my shoes and breathe simultaneously. It's the small things folks. It's the small things.
Although I choose not to dress in spandex and boogie the night away (we all know my coordination issues). I fully support a fat girl's right to do so if she chooses, in an environment where she is not laughed at or sent home on the ass end of the velvet rope because she doesn't look like Cindy Crawford. I would encourage all "larger framed" ladies to embark on a diet and weight loss program if for no other reason than the ability to rise from a kneeling position without the use of equipment that beeps when in reverse. This was a powerful motivator for me because my job requires frequent kneeling. After only 27 pounds(grrrrrrrr.......fucking plateau!) I'm amazed at all the new things I can do like breathing, rolling over in bed, putting on undergarments without falling forward, and exiting my car with one leg out and one leg in instead of having to swing both legs forward and grip the door frame. These are the things that keep me going, and amazingly enough, require no input from society at large. Hmmmmmmm.
There is a lesson here people. Lets learn it. If not, you can always check those double yellow lines. Good luck with that.
Now what makes me really angry about this article is the two cents from the skinny bitch contingent who feel that it may not be the best idea for fat girls to feel too comfortable with themselves or feel too accepted by the general public because ostracizing, discrimination and humiliation are powerful motivators for a person to lose weight. Please don't take this the wrong way.......but I think it would be prudent and all together fitting if all you people, fat and thin, who agree with this statement, would please take a moment and head to your nearest expressway and check those double yellow lines reeeeeaaaally closely......kneel down and take a nice long look. Don't worry about the traffic. If you are still alive afterward, you can go home and kiss my ass.
Most of us fat girls are on our individual goddamned diets NOT because we want to wear tight and revealing clothing, NOT because we want to show off our thick thighs in short skirts, NOT because we want to shake our groove things along with the skinny girls at the dance club, but because we want to feel comfortable and healthy in our own skins. We aren't interested in your opinion or your feeble-minded judgement. I personally am highly motivated by my increasing ability to put on my shoes and breathe simultaneously. It's the small things folks. It's the small things.
Although I choose not to dress in spandex and boogie the night away (we all know my coordination issues). I fully support a fat girl's right to do so if she chooses, in an environment where she is not laughed at or sent home on the ass end of the velvet rope because she doesn't look like Cindy Crawford. I would encourage all "larger framed" ladies to embark on a diet and weight loss program if for no other reason than the ability to rise from a kneeling position without the use of equipment that beeps when in reverse. This was a powerful motivator for me because my job requires frequent kneeling. After only 27 pounds(grrrrrrrr.......fucking plateau!) I'm amazed at all the new things I can do like breathing, rolling over in bed, putting on undergarments without falling forward, and exiting my car with one leg out and one leg in instead of having to swing both legs forward and grip the door frame. These are the things that keep me going, and amazingly enough, require no input from society at large. Hmmmmmmm.
There is a lesson here people. Lets learn it. If not, you can always check those double yellow lines. Good luck with that.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Le Plateau
So here I am, three weeks in to this plateau. My first since starting my goddamned diet. I knew eventually it would come, a brick wall of failure that I know so well. I didn't plan terribly well for it but here it is nonetheless. My body simply refuses at this time to break the 27 pound barrier. Believe me when I tell you I have checked. I have gotten on the scale at every conceivable hour of the day and night to check and see if it will bump, even momentarily, to the magic 28 pound, 112 sticks of butter mark. No such luck.
I'm convinced the neighbors can hear me at 2:00 a.m. when I'm calling out to the scale like a gambler...."come 'on babaaay...mama needs a new pair of draws'!" and the ensuing string of profanity. I'm frustrated and in danger of giving up. Not really, so calm down you manufacturers of Funyuns. I know your sales have drooped but I'm not ready to jump back on your powdery onion like pseudo substance bandwagon. I've still got a few surprises up my draws' (if you will forgive the rather disturbing inadvertent visual) I may actually pull out Leslie Sansones Walk-Fit and risk ending up in the unit for observation because no one can possibly be that uncoordinated........well.........yes..........this is me we're talking about here......they really can be.
My sister Jennifer warned me that a plateau was inevitable. She has a way of seeing the bump in the road long before I stumble head over heels into it coming to a sliding stop on the right side of my face as my ass continues it's forward momentum. It's a gift she has. I don't actually think she has the power to see her own pit falls but is excellent at warning others. Every now and again I'll find her. "What are you doing down there Jen!?"........"Oh......just sitting for a minute" "You plan on climbin' outta there?" "Yeah.......eventually"....."Alrighty then....see ya" She is an amazing advocate to have, even if she does fall down and go boom just like the rest of us.
To give you an example: Today she sent me a photo of my wide load ass that she took at my nieces wedding back in July. There is the beautiful scenic overlook and vast sky and me leaning over the railing, my giant ass gleaming in the sun like a Humpback whale surfacing to breathe. Only Jennifer would take my picture like that as a way to document the effect of funyuns and Heath bar ice cream on a person's ass. I knew what she meant by it and laughed out loud at the picture. She was saying "Don't give up.....look how far you've come" and for that I thank you Jen. I needed the push. She reminded me that sometimes you can weigh the same but actually be smaller because you're building lean muscle mass. Is there really anyone on this planet that takes any degree of comfort in that little piece of information? I don't think so. I need to see the fucking numbers people!
I've been back on track with my goddamned doggie fitness program this week after a really convenient break because it was raining. Resuming the walkies have been difficult due to my dog's recent crack addiction. This is the only explanation I have for their behavior after 4 days of enforced confinement. While I'm at work......they're home smoking crack. Nickolai has had a set back. He got in to the pantry and ate an entire value sized bag of pupperoni. When offered a carrot because that's all I fucking have for him now.....he took it gently in his mouth.....then spit it at my feet. Maybe I should call Jennifer to take a picture of his ass. Little bastard.
I'm convinced the neighbors can hear me at 2:00 a.m. when I'm calling out to the scale like a gambler...."come 'on babaaay...mama needs a new pair of draws'!" and the ensuing string of profanity. I'm frustrated and in danger of giving up. Not really, so calm down you manufacturers of Funyuns. I know your sales have drooped but I'm not ready to jump back on your powdery onion like pseudo substance bandwagon. I've still got a few surprises up my draws' (if you will forgive the rather disturbing inadvertent visual) I may actually pull out Leslie Sansones Walk-Fit and risk ending up in the unit for observation because no one can possibly be that uncoordinated........well.........yes..........this is me we're talking about here......they really can be.
My sister Jennifer warned me that a plateau was inevitable. She has a way of seeing the bump in the road long before I stumble head over heels into it coming to a sliding stop on the right side of my face as my ass continues it's forward momentum. It's a gift she has. I don't actually think she has the power to see her own pit falls but is excellent at warning others. Every now and again I'll find her. "What are you doing down there Jen!?"........"Oh......just sitting for a minute" "You plan on climbin' outta there?" "Yeah.......eventually"....."Alrighty then....see ya" She is an amazing advocate to have, even if she does fall down and go boom just like the rest of us.
To give you an example: Today she sent me a photo of my wide load ass that she took at my nieces wedding back in July. There is the beautiful scenic overlook and vast sky and me leaning over the railing, my giant ass gleaming in the sun like a Humpback whale surfacing to breathe. Only Jennifer would take my picture like that as a way to document the effect of funyuns and Heath bar ice cream on a person's ass. I knew what she meant by it and laughed out loud at the picture. She was saying "Don't give up.....look how far you've come" and for that I thank you Jen. I needed the push. She reminded me that sometimes you can weigh the same but actually be smaller because you're building lean muscle mass. Is there really anyone on this planet that takes any degree of comfort in that little piece of information? I don't think so. I need to see the fucking numbers people!
I've been back on track with my goddamned doggie fitness program this week after a really convenient break because it was raining. Resuming the walkies have been difficult due to my dog's recent crack addiction. This is the only explanation I have for their behavior after 4 days of enforced confinement. While I'm at work......they're home smoking crack. Nickolai has had a set back. He got in to the pantry and ate an entire value sized bag of pupperoni. When offered a carrot because that's all I fucking have for him now.....he took it gently in his mouth.....then spit it at my feet. Maybe I should call Jennifer to take a picture of his ass. Little bastard.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
This could only happen to me
As I've stated many times before, where I go....weirdness follows. I had a rather embarrassing occurrence a few days ago that started me remembering some of my finer "this could only happen to me" moments. Let me just take you back a few days.
As usual, my cats and the dogs were beginning to rumble at about 2:00a.m. If I had any degree of control over my life, I would feed my animals at a convenient time like normal people do, but as it stands, after years of tending infant kittens who required feedings around the clock, I just sort of got in to the habit of feeding at 2:00 a.m. This left me a fairly decent amount of time to go back to sleep and wake up in time for work. Little did I know at the time that cats and elephants never forget. I am jumped, pawed, loved,licked, and meowed in to submission nightly.
So I'm up.....I stagger out of bed wearing my over sized tank top which is large enough to double as a boat cover, and super baggy sweats that were huge on me before I lost 27 pounds or 108 sticks of butter. My ponytail has migrated to a resting place in the vicinity of my left ear and is compositionally offset by a spray of pillow hair off to the right. I get downstairs and realize that the canned cat food is in the back of my car out in the lot. "Who's up at this unholy hour?" I ask myself and venture outside to retrieve the canned cat food for my little heathens.
Outside is a collection of police cars evidently dealing with some sort of a who haw in the neighborhood. No lights or sirens....just half a dozen of our city's finest all watching me.... strange voluminous weather balloon like creature staggering out of her dark townhouse. "No..I'm not in need of assistance.....just getting some Friskies thanks".....oh my God!....please just shoot me now....."No..I'm good...not having a heart attack.......just need to feed my .......cats" I try to straighten my hair and slink back in to the house. This could only happen to me.
I shut the door behind me and fondly recalled rushing out of my parents home many years ago shutting my over sized men's trench coat in the door. The stunned horror came rushing back to me as I remembered attempting to free my coat and realized that the keys were in my coat pocket which was firmly and irrevocably on the other side of the locked door. This could only happen to me. Evidently when God was handing out the ability to do something incredibly science-fiction stupid without witnesses.....I was in the ladies.
I could tell you stories of dogs stepping on poopy diaper adhesive tape and watching helplessly as the poop disappeared through the kitchen and around the hall. I could tell you about stumbling up the stairs when I was trying to do my best Marilyn Monroe wiggle for a guy I liked and having the fem prods in my purse scatter out like confetti.......yup.....this could only happen to me. What doesn't break me makes me stronger and one of these days, the Gods will tire of patterning my life after The Three Stooges and cut me some fucking slack here........please.
As usual, my cats and the dogs were beginning to rumble at about 2:00a.m. If I had any degree of control over my life, I would feed my animals at a convenient time like normal people do, but as it stands, after years of tending infant kittens who required feedings around the clock, I just sort of got in to the habit of feeding at 2:00 a.m. This left me a fairly decent amount of time to go back to sleep and wake up in time for work. Little did I know at the time that cats and elephants never forget. I am jumped, pawed, loved,licked, and meowed in to submission nightly.
So I'm up.....I stagger out of bed wearing my over sized tank top which is large enough to double as a boat cover, and super baggy sweats that were huge on me before I lost 27 pounds or 108 sticks of butter. My ponytail has migrated to a resting place in the vicinity of my left ear and is compositionally offset by a spray of pillow hair off to the right. I get downstairs and realize that the canned cat food is in the back of my car out in the lot. "Who's up at this unholy hour?" I ask myself and venture outside to retrieve the canned cat food for my little heathens.
Outside is a collection of police cars evidently dealing with some sort of a who haw in the neighborhood. No lights or sirens....just half a dozen of our city's finest all watching me.... strange voluminous weather balloon like creature staggering out of her dark townhouse. "No..I'm not in need of assistance.....just getting some Friskies thanks".....oh my God!....please just shoot me now....."No..I'm good...not having a heart attack.......just need to feed my .......cats" I try to straighten my hair and slink back in to the house. This could only happen to me.
I shut the door behind me and fondly recalled rushing out of my parents home many years ago shutting my over sized men's trench coat in the door. The stunned horror came rushing back to me as I remembered attempting to free my coat and realized that the keys were in my coat pocket which was firmly and irrevocably on the other side of the locked door. This could only happen to me. Evidently when God was handing out the ability to do something incredibly science-fiction stupid without witnesses.....I was in the ladies.
I could tell you stories of dogs stepping on poopy diaper adhesive tape and watching helplessly as the poop disappeared through the kitchen and around the hall. I could tell you about stumbling up the stairs when I was trying to do my best Marilyn Monroe wiggle for a guy I liked and having the fem prods in my purse scatter out like confetti.......yup.....this could only happen to me. What doesn't break me makes me stronger and one of these days, the Gods will tire of patterning my life after The Three Stooges and cut me some fucking slack here........please.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Bridal Adventure
This past weekend, my daughter Hilary and I had a mother/daughter day scheduled. We both had a Friday off and decided to spend it together. There were no hard and fast plans for what we were going to do so I was completely surprised when she called that morning and suggested rather sheepishly that we go look at wedding dresses.
Hilary was a complete disaster nervous wreck at the prospect of trying on gowns. She was fidgety and breathless which required that I perform my patented "nervous dance" which consists of me shuffling back and forth engaging all of my natural grace and rhythm into a cohesive interpretive dance. As we all remember, walking in place requires coordination that I simply do not have so you can imagine how well it was received. Threatening to chaperon one of her school dances and actually dance worked well when she was in middle school ("Oh God Mom noooooooo"), but as an adult, the most I got was a quick survey of the parking lot for witnesses.
I was pleased and proud to be the one to go with her on such an important day. You may think it would be a no-brainer, being her mother and all, but as Hilary knows all too well.....her mother was born without a sense of style. I don't know an a-line from a drop waist from a sweetheart neckline. The best I could do was sit on the cushy pink Victorian chair and try not to leave a stain or make a bad smell. Hilary's biggest concern was that she'd look like a "sausage link stuffed in a wedding dress" Not to worry....she looked stunning in everything.
As we are both on goddamned diets in an effort to look our best for her wedding, she was much less forgiving of her flaws than I was. In my eyes, she has none. In her eyes.....a different story. She said things like "double boobs" I have no idea what that means, and "back fat" and "stuffed sausage" and "face like a dinner plate". Her consultant was wonderful and pulled dresses that she thought would flatter her curvy figure."Did she just say that I need to lose 20 pounds!?" "No Hilary, she said that you could lose up to 20 pounds and you'd still be ok with that dress" "Are you sure??...I'm pretty sure she said I need to lose 20 pounds" "No...seriously Hil, she said you could lose 20 pounds". "That's what I said.....that I need to lose 20 pounds" "*sigh*.....do they have a bathroom here?"
At the end of 2 hours, she had picked out her wedding dress and vowed never to eat again. She called me this evening to tell me she had gotten up early this morning to work out. We have both re-dedicated ourselves to the goddamned diet and exercise plan and as Hilary says, we'll look "goddamned gorgeous" on her wedding day. Of this I have no doubt.
It was a perfect day aside from that unfortunate stain on the pink poofy chair..........this is me we're talking about here.
Hilary was a complete disaster nervous wreck at the prospect of trying on gowns. She was fidgety and breathless which required that I perform my patented "nervous dance" which consists of me shuffling back and forth engaging all of my natural grace and rhythm into a cohesive interpretive dance. As we all remember, walking in place requires coordination that I simply do not have so you can imagine how well it was received. Threatening to chaperon one of her school dances and actually dance worked well when she was in middle school ("Oh God Mom noooooooo"), but as an adult, the most I got was a quick survey of the parking lot for witnesses.
I was pleased and proud to be the one to go with her on such an important day. You may think it would be a no-brainer, being her mother and all, but as Hilary knows all too well.....her mother was born without a sense of style. I don't know an a-line from a drop waist from a sweetheart neckline. The best I could do was sit on the cushy pink Victorian chair and try not to leave a stain or make a bad smell. Hilary's biggest concern was that she'd look like a "sausage link stuffed in a wedding dress" Not to worry....she looked stunning in everything.
As we are both on goddamned diets in an effort to look our best for her wedding, she was much less forgiving of her flaws than I was. In my eyes, she has none. In her eyes.....a different story. She said things like "double boobs" I have no idea what that means, and "back fat" and "stuffed sausage" and "face like a dinner plate". Her consultant was wonderful and pulled dresses that she thought would flatter her curvy figure."Did she just say that I need to lose 20 pounds!?" "No Hilary, she said that you could lose up to 20 pounds and you'd still be ok with that dress" "Are you sure??...I'm pretty sure she said I need to lose 20 pounds" "No...seriously Hil, she said you could lose 20 pounds". "That's what I said.....that I need to lose 20 pounds" "*sigh*.....do they have a bathroom here?"
At the end of 2 hours, she had picked out her wedding dress and vowed never to eat again. She called me this evening to tell me she had gotten up early this morning to work out. We have both re-dedicated ourselves to the goddamned diet and exercise plan and as Hilary says, we'll look "goddamned gorgeous" on her wedding day. Of this I have no doubt.
It was a perfect day aside from that unfortunate stain on the pink poofy chair..........this is me we're talking about here.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Time limits
It's Sunday afternoon here in my ridiculous life. The dogs are sleeping in their usual place, right on my side of the massive king-sized bed. Why must I always fight for that position? It's not like there isn't plenty of space here people. There are chicken breasts in the oven for a casserole I'm making to feed me for a substantial portion of the week, and the sun has finally broken through after 4 days of rain. I'm quite happy to have maintained my 27 pound, 108 sticks of butter weight loss this week. I haven't done any dog walking and am quite surprised there hasn't been a flat out mutiny. You'd think it was an idyllic little scene wouldn't you?. Think again. This is me we're talking about.
I'm scheduled for my weekly Sunday afternoon panic attack. The simple truth is that I'm usually too busy during the week to have one. Sunday is the best time. I can loose my demons and let them romp around in the pit of my stomach for a while. They curse and twist and shout and lambada the forbidden dance until I'm in a state of anxiety. Then they send little fun messages of failure and destruction up to my brain until I finally shut them down for the rest of the week. I have to give them a time limit, otherwise they will monopolize all my vitally important energy and attention which needs to be focused on things like keeping the stink bugs out of the house and figuring out how I managed to de-program the universal remote. (My remote karma stands true and firm)
I had to place a time limit on all of my negative emotions, especially self-pity which was always one of my favorites. "OK Nancy.....you have exactly 5 minutes to wallow in self-pity.....GO!!!" "I'm never going to be anything" "I'm always the outsider and I'm going to die old and alone and...TIME!!! Done and done. I usually don't even have the time to generate a few tears. Like I said, it has to be that way if I'm going to accomplish any small but significant stink bug related task. Such is my ridiculous life.
So My Panic attack time has expired and it's time to move along with my damned day. I'm telling you people that were it not for my ability to see the humor in my life, I'd devote a full 10 minutes to feeling sorry for myself, and probably a solid half hour to my anxieties. As it is, the remote control mystery still remains to be solved, and I'm annoyed that the Barefoot Contessa said that my chicken breasts would take 35 minutes and we're rockin' up on an hour in the oven. I should have known that any recipe generated in the ritzy Hamptons would crash and burn in my fun house of mythical beasts and dust bunnies.
There is an extenze commercial on television. Some bone-head is talking about enlarging his penis while a beautiful woman with a perfect ass stairmasters in the background. What is the message here? Why am I struggling to keep my head above water and this fool is getting paid to talk about "That certain part of the male anatomy" which seems to require enlarging. Maybe with a larger penis, he can bag that babe in the background and achieve his life's goal.... penis-wise anyway. All this while women are struggling to have that perfect figure to entice Mr. penis-in-need-of-enlarging in to noticing them.
I'm going to take a moment and breathe.....and breath again.......and feel grateful for what I have in my life......which at this moment includes unlimited time for anger.
I'm scheduled for my weekly Sunday afternoon panic attack. The simple truth is that I'm usually too busy during the week to have one. Sunday is the best time. I can loose my demons and let them romp around in the pit of my stomach for a while. They curse and twist and shout and lambada the forbidden dance until I'm in a state of anxiety. Then they send little fun messages of failure and destruction up to my brain until I finally shut them down for the rest of the week. I have to give them a time limit, otherwise they will monopolize all my vitally important energy and attention which needs to be focused on things like keeping the stink bugs out of the house and figuring out how I managed to de-program the universal remote. (My remote karma stands true and firm)
I had to place a time limit on all of my negative emotions, especially self-pity which was always one of my favorites. "OK Nancy.....you have exactly 5 minutes to wallow in self-pity.....GO!!!" "I'm never going to be anything" "I'm always the outsider and I'm going to die old and alone and...TIME!!! Done and done. I usually don't even have the time to generate a few tears. Like I said, it has to be that way if I'm going to accomplish any small but significant stink bug related task. Such is my ridiculous life.
So My Panic attack time has expired and it's time to move along with my damned day. I'm telling you people that were it not for my ability to see the humor in my life, I'd devote a full 10 minutes to feeling sorry for myself, and probably a solid half hour to my anxieties. As it is, the remote control mystery still remains to be solved, and I'm annoyed that the Barefoot Contessa said that my chicken breasts would take 35 minutes and we're rockin' up on an hour in the oven. I should have known that any recipe generated in the ritzy Hamptons would crash and burn in my fun house of mythical beasts and dust bunnies.
There is an extenze commercial on television. Some bone-head is talking about enlarging his penis while a beautiful woman with a perfect ass stairmasters in the background. What is the message here? Why am I struggling to keep my head above water and this fool is getting paid to talk about "That certain part of the male anatomy" which seems to require enlarging. Maybe with a larger penis, he can bag that babe in the background and achieve his life's goal.... penis-wise anyway. All this while women are struggling to have that perfect figure to entice Mr. penis-in-need-of-enlarging in to noticing them.
I'm going to take a moment and breathe.....and breath again.......and feel grateful for what I have in my life......which at this moment includes unlimited time for anger.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Anonymous Ass
I'm in bed this morning, reluctantly endeavoring to wake up. Although I have a king size bed, space is always at a premium. The dogs and cats have me wedged into an unnatural position, and someone is making wind under the covers and it's not me. I wake long enough to survey the furry bodies strewn in every direction. A ridiculous site to be sure, and I am still clueless as to who is making a bad smell. Needless to say......I'm awake now.......and my eyes are watering.
I turn on the Today show. They are doing a story on health insurance being more expensive for fat people. "Fat people should pay a higher premium....smokers pay extra....fat people should pay extra"says a man on the street. "Great......this fool sits in judgement of me!...he's probably wearing women's underwear" My passionate outburst is met with a long husky groan from Nickolai. I don't think he's responsible for the air quality in my bedroom. I'm leaning toward Jet Black who is snuggled up under the covers purring loudly and looking a little too satisfied with himself.
They pan the camera at ass level on a city street and film a fat girl wearing waaaayy too tight khaki pants and continue to film as she walks away. That same, wide, anonymous ass is shown at least 4 times during the course of the segment. "Who's ass is that" I wonder out loud to the sleeping gaseous animals on my bed. Did they get her to sign a waiver? like..."We'd like to film your fat ass and show it repeatedly on the Today show starring Matt Lauer....could you please sign this release?" Did she agree to this? "Hey Mom!!.....my fat ass is going to be on the Today show on a segment about fat people not being able to get health insurance coverage!!!.....call Aunt Tippy in Topeka!!"
You know how I feel about this. The camera crew was sent to the street to locate a promising fat ass. "Make it really wide and puckery if you can........and wearing ill-fitting pants if possible" Having found their mark, they commenced to film. It's much worse to consider that no permission was obtained at all and someone came home to 16 messages on her voicemail claiming to have seen her fat ass on the Today show. "Hey Nancy.........did I see your fat ass on TV today?.....it sure looked like yours...it was on.. *BEEP* "your call cannot be completed as dialed, please hang up and fuck yourself *BEEP*
Do I have to remind you people that we are human, and have feelings and goals and everything? We are so much more than a lard ass in too tight pants. We have lives.....and jobs......and we have too many pets....one of which needs to go to the vet for excessive intestinal gas.......and we dream of a day when we will not be judged on our fat asses and poor fashion sense but will be accepted as contributing and valued members of society.
So there.
Bite me
I turn on the Today show. They are doing a story on health insurance being more expensive for fat people. "Fat people should pay a higher premium....smokers pay extra....fat people should pay extra"says a man on the street. "Great......this fool sits in judgement of me!...he's probably wearing women's underwear" My passionate outburst is met with a long husky groan from Nickolai. I don't think he's responsible for the air quality in my bedroom. I'm leaning toward Jet Black who is snuggled up under the covers purring loudly and looking a little too satisfied with himself.
They pan the camera at ass level on a city street and film a fat girl wearing waaaayy too tight khaki pants and continue to film as she walks away. That same, wide, anonymous ass is shown at least 4 times during the course of the segment. "Who's ass is that" I wonder out loud to the sleeping gaseous animals on my bed. Did they get her to sign a waiver? like..."We'd like to film your fat ass and show it repeatedly on the Today show starring Matt Lauer....could you please sign this release?" Did she agree to this? "Hey Mom!!.....my fat ass is going to be on the Today show on a segment about fat people not being able to get health insurance coverage!!!.....call Aunt Tippy in Topeka!!"
You know how I feel about this. The camera crew was sent to the street to locate a promising fat ass. "Make it really wide and puckery if you can........and wearing ill-fitting pants if possible" Having found their mark, they commenced to film. It's much worse to consider that no permission was obtained at all and someone came home to 16 messages on her voicemail claiming to have seen her fat ass on the Today show. "Hey Nancy.........did I see your fat ass on TV today?.....it sure looked like yours...it was on.. *BEEP* "your call cannot be completed as dialed, please hang up and fuck yourself *BEEP*
Do I have to remind you people that we are human, and have feelings and goals and everything? We are so much more than a lard ass in too tight pants. We have lives.....and jobs......and we have too many pets....one of which needs to go to the vet for excessive intestinal gas.......and we dream of a day when we will not be judged on our fat asses and poor fashion sense but will be accepted as contributing and valued members of society.
So there.
Bite me
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Bookstore
I went to the book store today. I'm not really sure why, but I felt the need. I am a great lover/hoarder of books of all shapes and sizes. When I reach a point in my life where my stack of books yet to be read is high enough that if it were to fall, would crush one of my beloved cats, I decide to cut me off any new purchases. I knew going in today that I would not purchase anything. If for no other reason than to protect Jet Black The Maniac. Where he goes, chaos follows. Jet will fling himself up on to the bathroom sink, slam in to my book, and springboard my glasses in to the toilet. I have to stand back and just absorb the moment.....the stark realization that this could only happen to me. If any one of my disturbed pets would upturn my stack....it would be The Maniac.
So I'm wandering the book store, resisting the urge to purchase and happen upon the diet and fitness section. The woman standing next to me also perusing the diet books, was wearing tight black leggings, an over sized T-shirt tied around her waist, bright red pumps, and large clangy gold jewelry. Her hair was died chestnut brown and, now I'm giving my best estimate here, had to be at least 187 years old. She was so painfully thin that one of my dog's inadvertent farts could have knocked her over. Jet Black The Maniac could have just as easily spring boarded her in to the toilet.
I have to ask myself at this moment. "What am I supposed to learn here?" Let me just clue you normal girls in to the "what am I supposed to learn here" moment. This is a tool that us fat girls use to come to grips with our waaaaay too numerous disappointments in life. Like when you're standing in line at the grocery store with funyuns and coffee ice cream after you've just run the dogs in the rain and run in to a high school classmate who still fucking looks the same and you suddenly realize while you're looking down in an effort to hide the wreck that is your face, that your socks are two different colors. "What am I supposed to learn here??"
We are a study in opposites. Me, chubby and plain in my jeans purchased at Wal-Mart. Her, the result of self help gone nuclear. Me, struggling for answers in a world that fails to understand me, and her, struggling to lift the "1001 uses for arugula" book that outweighs her by half. None of these books are for me. None of these lean, glowing, tan cover models can really help me get abs like theirs. It's all a repetitive regurge of shit that hasn't worked for fat girls since the dawn of time.
I leave the bookstore more aware than ever, that I will have to find my own way. That even though your metabolism runs like a Ferrari and mine runs on your basic matchbook and rubber band mechanism, I will fucking find a way to be comfortable and healthy in my own skin! and all of you people, fat and lean, tall and small, who were also dropped on this planet by the pod people are welcome to join me!........anybody?.........helloooooo........anybody?
So I'm wandering the book store, resisting the urge to purchase and happen upon the diet and fitness section. The woman standing next to me also perusing the diet books, was wearing tight black leggings, an over sized T-shirt tied around her waist, bright red pumps, and large clangy gold jewelry. Her hair was died chestnut brown and, now I'm giving my best estimate here, had to be at least 187 years old. She was so painfully thin that one of my dog's inadvertent farts could have knocked her over. Jet Black The Maniac could have just as easily spring boarded her in to the toilet.
I have to ask myself at this moment. "What am I supposed to learn here?" Let me just clue you normal girls in to the "what am I supposed to learn here" moment. This is a tool that us fat girls use to come to grips with our waaaaay too numerous disappointments in life. Like when you're standing in line at the grocery store with funyuns and coffee ice cream after you've just run the dogs in the rain and run in to a high school classmate who still fucking looks the same and you suddenly realize while you're looking down in an effort to hide the wreck that is your face, that your socks are two different colors. "What am I supposed to learn here??"
We are a study in opposites. Me, chubby and plain in my jeans purchased at Wal-Mart. Her, the result of self help gone nuclear. Me, struggling for answers in a world that fails to understand me, and her, struggling to lift the "1001 uses for arugula" book that outweighs her by half. None of these books are for me. None of these lean, glowing, tan cover models can really help me get abs like theirs. It's all a repetitive regurge of shit that hasn't worked for fat girls since the dawn of time.
I leave the bookstore more aware than ever, that I will have to find my own way. That even though your metabolism runs like a Ferrari and mine runs on your basic matchbook and rubber band mechanism, I will fucking find a way to be comfortable and healthy in my own skin! and all of you people, fat and lean, tall and small, who were also dropped on this planet by the pod people are welcome to join me!........anybody?.........helloooooo........anybody?
Friday, October 9, 2009
Legacy
As you all are well aware by now, normalcy is a DNA strand that was somehow missed in my double helix. I am convinced that this is the result of a dominant, rather mutated gene, passed down from a long line of abnormal people. We are going to set aside the fact that if we gathered all my ancestors in one large room, we'd better hope that the flooring is reinforced, and focus on their tendency to be outcasts and general loners of questionable stability.
My Grandma Flo was a large woman who's breasts when she was seated, extended well past her knees. She was a hard livin', hard drinkin' farm woman, complete with a bucket-o-drippins' under the stove and an old fashioned hand pump delivering water to the kitchen sink. Nothing that came out of her kitchen ever arrived without the complimentary pool of grease in which it floated majestically. She taught all of us how to mix her favorite drink. "Go mix your Grandma Flo a highbaawll". She lived quite happily without amenities and was very reluctant to change. She was well in to her 70's before she let go of her outhouse (a 2-seater!!) and moved into a place with actual indoor plumbing. I recently found a pair of shoes that I purchased 18 months ago. They're new......... my old ones haven't disintegrated yet.
My other Grandmother was an emotionally delicate woman. She would decide that her china cabinet needed to be cleaned, unload everything on to the dining room table and then take to her bed for a month because the stress had gotten to her. My own mother was a master of the passive aggressive. "Now Nancy, I don't want you to be upset because your father and I are arguing" she would say, patting my hand. "It's just very difficult what with.........well.......you know........what with your father being a shit-head and all." "Mom........I'm 33 years old...it's really OK...I get it". "Well I really hope so dear because your father can't help being a.......well.......an asshole". Alrighty then. This is the same woman who would balk at any foul language that came full force and emotionally charged out of my mouth. "Oh Nancy.......that's just so coarse".
So here we are, a family potpourri of alcoholism, and manic-depressive disorder, and your basic latent homosexuality with overtones of obsessive compulsive behaviors and I'm sitting here this evening wondering why in the fuck I'm so different from everybody else??!!! Hmmmmmm Einstein....lets think about why it is that I'm a middle aged single fat girl with no self-esteem who lives her life surrounded by psychotic dogs with issues and masturbating cats. It's because it's my legacy. It's a dirty job.......but someones gotta be me. I'm down 27 pounds (that's 108 sticks of butter)
Such is my life, because I don't see any of ya'll volunteering for the fucking position.
My Grandma Flo was a large woman who's breasts when she was seated, extended well past her knees. She was a hard livin', hard drinkin' farm woman, complete with a bucket-o-drippins' under the stove and an old fashioned hand pump delivering water to the kitchen sink. Nothing that came out of her kitchen ever arrived without the complimentary pool of grease in which it floated majestically. She taught all of us how to mix her favorite drink. "Go mix your Grandma Flo a highbaawll". She lived quite happily without amenities and was very reluctant to change. She was well in to her 70's before she let go of her outhouse (a 2-seater!!) and moved into a place with actual indoor plumbing. I recently found a pair of shoes that I purchased 18 months ago. They're new......... my old ones haven't disintegrated yet.
My other Grandmother was an emotionally delicate woman. She would decide that her china cabinet needed to be cleaned, unload everything on to the dining room table and then take to her bed for a month because the stress had gotten to her. My own mother was a master of the passive aggressive. "Now Nancy, I don't want you to be upset because your father and I are arguing" she would say, patting my hand. "It's just very difficult what with.........well.......you know........what with your father being a shit-head and all." "Mom........I'm 33 years old...it's really OK...I get it". "Well I really hope so dear because your father can't help being a.......well.......an asshole". Alrighty then. This is the same woman who would balk at any foul language that came full force and emotionally charged out of my mouth. "Oh Nancy.......that's just so coarse".
So here we are, a family potpourri of alcoholism, and manic-depressive disorder, and your basic latent homosexuality with overtones of obsessive compulsive behaviors and I'm sitting here this evening wondering why in the fuck I'm so different from everybody else??!!! Hmmmmmm Einstein....lets think about why it is that I'm a middle aged single fat girl with no self-esteem who lives her life surrounded by psychotic dogs with issues and masturbating cats. It's because it's my legacy. It's a dirty job.......but someones gotta be me. I'm down 27 pounds (that's 108 sticks of butter)
Such is my life, because I don't see any of ya'll volunteering for the fucking position.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
We love you Kirstie
OK.....so I'm in the grocery store, standing in line with my baked potato chips and diet sprite, and I'm perusing the tabloids while I'm waiting. I have to confess, when they do those photos of celebrity butts on the beach, all wrinkly and puckered like........well....... much like my own ass, I'm just a tad bit tempted to open the cover to see who's butt is who's. Anyway, there's my girl Kirstie Alley on the cover with a large headline about being at a weight that I have just recently achieved through my goddamned diet and fitness program (sheesh!!), and that shes heading to a "fat farm". The cover photo is taken at a very unflattering angle, which as all of us fat girls know, involves any angle that actually includes us in the picture. My heart sinks. "What the fuck is a "fat farm"?
It's time for athletic guy to check out his purchase of exactly one head of lettuce and a can of tomatoes. Must be a married guy. Yup, married guy. Theres the ring. His wife sent him to the store for lettuce and a can of tomatoes and that's exactly what he goddamned got. How do men do that!? No impulse purchases. No "oh look.....funyuns are on sale" just fucking canned tomatoes and lettuce. I'm still reeling from the picture of Kirstie. focus Nancy..... focus.
Young guy with no ass is next. An economy size bag of Starburst fruit chews and a box of condoms. Yeah.......I'm just gunna leave that one right there.
Older lady asks for two packs of cigarettes. $15.00!?!? you can't be fucking serious!! I bought my first pack of cigarettes for .50 cents. Oh God!!.....I'm fat....and old. Kirstie and I are the same weight and shes being packed off to a "fat farm" How bloody insulting are those words in every conceivable way! Why is there no public outcry against such blatant stereotyping and fat girl abuse! Maybe Kirstie should take out an ad in the next issue suggesting that that reporter be packed off to a "teeny tiny little penis farm"!!! I'm going to have a panic attack right here in the grocery store. Breathe Nancy, breathe. I want to scream! I want to grab condom boy by the hair and hit him across the nose with a rolled up copy of Kirstie and yell "We're not going to take this shit anymore!!" OK.......so maybe not condom boy because he's a little creepy but you get my point here.
I leave the store and go home to my dogs who don't care that I'm a fat girl. They love me anyway. The world could learn a lot about humanity and acceptance from dogs. "Oh good God Nickolai!!!......why must you get in the trash every fucking time I empty the vacuum canister!!?? "You little blue-eyed bastard heathen dog" "OK!!.....who peed!!!!" I swear to freakin' God.......I'm going to bed with a bag of funyuns if I had any, and all y'all better stay off the bed!!"
Good night Kirstie.......wherever you are.
It's time for athletic guy to check out his purchase of exactly one head of lettuce and a can of tomatoes. Must be a married guy. Yup, married guy. Theres the ring. His wife sent him to the store for lettuce and a can of tomatoes and that's exactly what he goddamned got. How do men do that!? No impulse purchases. No "oh look.....funyuns are on sale" just fucking canned tomatoes and lettuce. I'm still reeling from the picture of Kirstie. focus Nancy..... focus.
Young guy with no ass is next. An economy size bag of Starburst fruit chews and a box of condoms. Yeah.......I'm just gunna leave that one right there.
Older lady asks for two packs of cigarettes. $15.00!?!? you can't be fucking serious!! I bought my first pack of cigarettes for .50 cents. Oh God!!.....I'm fat....and old. Kirstie and I are the same weight and shes being packed off to a "fat farm" How bloody insulting are those words in every conceivable way! Why is there no public outcry against such blatant stereotyping and fat girl abuse! Maybe Kirstie should take out an ad in the next issue suggesting that that reporter be packed off to a "teeny tiny little penis farm"!!! I'm going to have a panic attack right here in the grocery store. Breathe Nancy, breathe. I want to scream! I want to grab condom boy by the hair and hit him across the nose with a rolled up copy of Kirstie and yell "We're not going to take this shit anymore!!" OK.......so maybe not condom boy because he's a little creepy but you get my point here.
I leave the store and go home to my dogs who don't care that I'm a fat girl. They love me anyway. The world could learn a lot about humanity and acceptance from dogs. "Oh good God Nickolai!!!......why must you get in the trash every fucking time I empty the vacuum canister!!?? "You little blue-eyed bastard heathen dog" "OK!!.....who peed!!!!" I swear to freakin' God.......I'm going to bed with a bag of funyuns if I had any, and all y'all better stay off the bed!!"
Good night Kirstie.......wherever you are.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Food in a box
It never ceases to amaze me how little we, as fat girls (and fat boys), are understood by the professionals who are advising us as to proper weight loss. Let me just throw in my little disclaimer to all of you who believe in Jenny or Atkins or the latest patented lime juice and stinkbug diet. If it works for you, rock on ladies and gentleman. My main question to myself was simply; "can I maintain this plan for the long term". It took me six weeks to get back to me but I finally got a straight answer; "yes, I can".
I happened to be channel surfing the other day and came across a Dr show, whose name I won't mention Dr Oz. He was advising a very overweight gentleman as to a way to learn portion control. He suggested putting your entire days food allotment in to a box and rationing it out during the course of the day. In the box was a salmon fillet, plain yogurt, broccoli.......you get the idea. The look on this man's face was so telling........the box could just as easily had road kill laying in it and would have been a damned sight more appetizing. Look Mr doctor fella.......I really don't care that a serving of liver will give me 1/3 of my zinc requirement for the day, hate liver....not gunna eat it, and if I don't have the discipline and self control to pass on hot wings and french fries in favor of salad, what the fuck makes you think I have the discipline to pile all my food in to a box at the start of each day. SHEESH!!!!....what are you thinking???? This is helping??
I'm going to clue you TV people in here....and while I'm at it, I'll clue in all you pole dancing, stripper fitness, crop top wearing cupie fitness babes as well. Real people don't have buns of steel or six pack abs. In fact for some of us, the only thing keeping our asses from falling off altogether, is the shelf of cellulite on the back of our thighs. We are normal people who need real food. We need unctuous, we need crunch, we need flavor and texture. Eating is one of the great joys in life. It is simply not realistic that we can suck on an arugula leaf with lemon juice and feel satisfied, or that we can choke down liver when we want pork chops. Will we lose weight that way? Yes Can we maintain that way? No way.
So here again is the crux of Nancy's goddamned diet: Eat well. Make smart choices. Eliminate the crutch eating and food obsessions. Eat well again. When I want hot wings and french fries, I have them. Just not as often. I eliminated funyuns, but I can get some really satisfying crunch from baked chips. I eliminated M&M's but a sugar free chocolate pudding really hits the mark sometimes. I eliminated double cheeseburgers and french fries, but pork tenderloin and rice is just as satisfying. I'm down 26 pounds (Thats 104 sticks of butter people) without piling my food in to a box or keeping a food journal, God give me strength!!!! Can you imagine some poor family member running in to that little piece of history? "Oh look!...Great Grandma's journal. How fascinating to get a glimpse in to her life!" Six saltines, 1 bagel without butter, 1 cup of steamed carrots, 3 ounces chicken breast........
Hilary, here's your Mamas food journal: "Confessions of a Funyun Addict- The true story of Nancy's Goddamned Diet- She followed no plan save her own" and you know what? If I succeed, it's all mine,...... and if I fail?, my plan is to blame Dr Oz.
This is my life.....such as it is.
I happened to be channel surfing the other day and came across a Dr show, whose name I won't mention Dr Oz. He was advising a very overweight gentleman as to a way to learn portion control. He suggested putting your entire days food allotment in to a box and rationing it out during the course of the day. In the box was a salmon fillet, plain yogurt, broccoli.......you get the idea. The look on this man's face was so telling........the box could just as easily had road kill laying in it and would have been a damned sight more appetizing. Look Mr doctor fella.......I really don't care that a serving of liver will give me 1/3 of my zinc requirement for the day, hate liver....not gunna eat it, and if I don't have the discipline and self control to pass on hot wings and french fries in favor of salad, what the fuck makes you think I have the discipline to pile all my food in to a box at the start of each day. SHEESH!!!!....what are you thinking???? This is helping??
I'm going to clue you TV people in here....and while I'm at it, I'll clue in all you pole dancing, stripper fitness, crop top wearing cupie fitness babes as well. Real people don't have buns of steel or six pack abs. In fact for some of us, the only thing keeping our asses from falling off altogether, is the shelf of cellulite on the back of our thighs. We are normal people who need real food. We need unctuous, we need crunch, we need flavor and texture. Eating is one of the great joys in life. It is simply not realistic that we can suck on an arugula leaf with lemon juice and feel satisfied, or that we can choke down liver when we want pork chops. Will we lose weight that way? Yes Can we maintain that way? No way.
So here again is the crux of Nancy's goddamned diet: Eat well. Make smart choices. Eliminate the crutch eating and food obsessions. Eat well again. When I want hot wings and french fries, I have them. Just not as often. I eliminated funyuns, but I can get some really satisfying crunch from baked chips. I eliminated M&M's but a sugar free chocolate pudding really hits the mark sometimes. I eliminated double cheeseburgers and french fries, but pork tenderloin and rice is just as satisfying. I'm down 26 pounds (Thats 104 sticks of butter people) without piling my food in to a box or keeping a food journal, God give me strength!!!! Can you imagine some poor family member running in to that little piece of history? "Oh look!...Great Grandma's journal. How fascinating to get a glimpse in to her life!" Six saltines, 1 bagel without butter, 1 cup of steamed carrots, 3 ounces chicken breast........
Hilary, here's your Mamas food journal: "Confessions of a Funyun Addict- The true story of Nancy's Goddamned Diet- She followed no plan save her own" and you know what? If I succeed, it's all mine,...... and if I fail?, my plan is to blame Dr Oz.
This is my life.....such as it is.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Honestly......really......no honestly
My name is Nancy Houston.........and I am a fat girl. Of this I am not ashamed. I have so many other things to be ashamed of, why pick on that one? Being said fat girl, I have a monster capacity for deception. Self being my favorite variety. To all you other fat girls out there...brace yourselves....I'm blowing the lid off one of our favorite lies. Here it is: "People really think that I eat a lot based on my size, but the truth is I eat very normally. I have a slow metabolism. No matter what I do, I just can't seem to lose weight"
OK.......this is me you're talking to. Whats your poison? Chocolate cake? M&M's?, Chicken McNuggets?, what? You don't need to tell me, or anyone. Whatever your secret food passion is.... whatever your guilty pleasure that takes the edge off a truly heinous day........own it. No one on earth can have a more embarrassing food obsession than mine with funyuns (ahhhhh funyuns!) Come on ladies!........give......honestly. You know what it is and you're ashamed of it, but there is power and freedom to be had by looking in that mirror (make it a small mirror at first, and try not to scare the neighbors) and saying "TWINKIES!!" right out loud.
I had this epiphany just last night while I was raking under the bed. Yes!.....I was raking under the bed and I'm not nearly as ashamed as I should be to say that I encountered more than one log jam under there. What I pulled out was my life in a nutshell (what an appropriate receptacle for my freakin' life!) It was a window in to the pre-goddamned diet-Nancy. What follows is a partial list of the crapola that crawled of it's own volition to a final resting place under my bed: Cat toys, stuffed dog toys, assorted silverware and dishes, at least a dozen sprite cans (diet of course), numerous and most assuredly odd socks covered in cat hair, several large femur bones that I can only hope originally belonged to the dogs, SIX!!! empty funyun bags, two empty cartons of Whoppers (I had almost forgotten about that little indulgence) you need to bite them in half and let the malted milk melt on your tongue, then eat the chocolaty outer shell........*focus*,tampon wrappers (how in the fuck?????....) the complete guide to "I Love Lucy", and my DVD copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren. (Did I really buy that?!......seriously??!!)
There was a lesson in all that crap sitting on my bedroom floor next to the leaf rake. It was a sign post to how far I've come on this journey. I would have been too horrified to share this story.....too embarrassed, because normal people don't have shit under their beds, but here it is! "I am a fat girl!!...and I got that way because I ate too many funyuns and whoppers!!...and I'm trying to change that!! and even though I've failed at everything else....I can succeed at this!!....and I have........and I wish.........and I'm...........seriously depressed right now. I can't believe that I actually bought a copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren. What kind of a freak of nature do you need to be to have your own personal copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren!!??
What the fuck??!!
OK.......this is me you're talking to. Whats your poison? Chocolate cake? M&M's?, Chicken McNuggets?, what? You don't need to tell me, or anyone. Whatever your secret food passion is.... whatever your guilty pleasure that takes the edge off a truly heinous day........own it. No one on earth can have a more embarrassing food obsession than mine with funyuns (ahhhhh funyuns!) Come on ladies!........give......honestly. You know what it is and you're ashamed of it, but there is power and freedom to be had by looking in that mirror (make it a small mirror at first, and try not to scare the neighbors) and saying "TWINKIES!!" right out loud.
I had this epiphany just last night while I was raking under the bed. Yes!.....I was raking under the bed and I'm not nearly as ashamed as I should be to say that I encountered more than one log jam under there. What I pulled out was my life in a nutshell (what an appropriate receptacle for my freakin' life!) It was a window in to the pre-goddamned diet-Nancy. What follows is a partial list of the crapola that crawled of it's own volition to a final resting place under my bed: Cat toys, stuffed dog toys, assorted silverware and dishes, at least a dozen sprite cans (diet of course), numerous and most assuredly odd socks covered in cat hair, several large femur bones that I can only hope originally belonged to the dogs, SIX!!! empty funyun bags, two empty cartons of Whoppers (I had almost forgotten about that little indulgence) you need to bite them in half and let the malted milk melt on your tongue, then eat the chocolaty outer shell........*focus*,tampon wrappers (how in the fuck?????....) the complete guide to "I Love Lucy", and my DVD copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren. (Did I really buy that?!......seriously??!!)
There was a lesson in all that crap sitting on my bedroom floor next to the leaf rake. It was a sign post to how far I've come on this journey. I would have been too horrified to share this story.....too embarrassed, because normal people don't have shit under their beds, but here it is! "I am a fat girl!!...and I got that way because I ate too many funyuns and whoppers!!...and I'm trying to change that!! and even though I've failed at everything else....I can succeed at this!!....and I have........and I wish.........and I'm...........seriously depressed right now. I can't believe that I actually bought a copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren. What kind of a freak of nature do you need to be to have your own personal copy of "The Queen" starring Helen Mirren!!??
What the fuck??!!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Confession...part 2
As I have more than established that my life is a ridiculous mess, I am again feeling the need to shine the light on areas that I've kept well hidden from people in general. What have I got to lose?? So here it is: I am now, and always have been, convinced that everyone in the world maintains a level of normalcy that escapes me. When God was handing out successful life plans, I had stepped out for a smoke.
For me, the world is separated in to two groups; normal people........and me. Normal women have husbands or significant others who share life's burdens. They complain that he snores, or laughs out loud at Sponge Bob, or buys them crappy birthday presents but all in all, there's love there. She cooks dinners and looks at fabric samples for the curtains. She pays the bills with the paycheck that he so dutifully hands over. He takes out the trash and goes to Home Depot on the weekends to get a new toilet flapper for the downstairs john. The linen closet is perfectly appointed and the toilet sparkles with fresh clean-ness. Once a month she gets down and washes the baseboards, and feels wonderful about her ability to get spots and stains of any kind out of clothing.
From the sublime, to the ridiculous; I have no husband or significant other. Being in a relationship would involve honesty and I'm simply not there yet. Being a fat girl really helps in this area because not only do I get to opt out of honest relationships, I get to lie to myself about the reason why. Cool! I snore and have actually been able to awaken myself with the sound of my own snoring. I laugh out loud at the violent cartoons from the 40's and 50's. I pay my own bills which unfortunately surpass my monthly income. I take out my own trash which sits in a large 55 gallon trash can that sits by my front door inside. There is something growing in the bottom of my toilet that has recently began signaling me in an effort to communicate. Everything I own is stained. I have never washed baseboards and there's a broken television in my linen closet.
I never sleep under covers. Sheets........not really. I sleep on top of a pile of blankies on my bed. When the top one gets dirty, I peel off a layer and a clean one is underneath. I keep my heat set at 60 degrees all winter long because fat girls need to be refrigerated. I have been known to have popcorn for dinner. I always check for Dimitrius before getting in the shower because if he sees my ass cheek brush the liner, he'll attack like it's the Loch Ness monster, and my dog panics at the sound of his own farts.
Now I ask you.......what man or significant other, looks at that list of qualities and thinks "That's the girl for me!" I'm really OK with that though. I'm learning through this journey how to accept myself anyway.....even if I am a demographic of one. There's no longer a need to hide behind layers of extra pounds. This is me...warts and all. OK, so mostly warts, but this is me is the point here people.
Is it hot in here or is it just me??
For me, the world is separated in to two groups; normal people........and me. Normal women have husbands or significant others who share life's burdens. They complain that he snores, or laughs out loud at Sponge Bob, or buys them crappy birthday presents but all in all, there's love there. She cooks dinners and looks at fabric samples for the curtains. She pays the bills with the paycheck that he so dutifully hands over. He takes out the trash and goes to Home Depot on the weekends to get a new toilet flapper for the downstairs john. The linen closet is perfectly appointed and the toilet sparkles with fresh clean-ness. Once a month she gets down and washes the baseboards, and feels wonderful about her ability to get spots and stains of any kind out of clothing.
From the sublime, to the ridiculous; I have no husband or significant other. Being in a relationship would involve honesty and I'm simply not there yet. Being a fat girl really helps in this area because not only do I get to opt out of honest relationships, I get to lie to myself about the reason why. Cool! I snore and have actually been able to awaken myself with the sound of my own snoring. I laugh out loud at the violent cartoons from the 40's and 50's. I pay my own bills which unfortunately surpass my monthly income. I take out my own trash which sits in a large 55 gallon trash can that sits by my front door inside. There is something growing in the bottom of my toilet that has recently began signaling me in an effort to communicate. Everything I own is stained. I have never washed baseboards and there's a broken television in my linen closet.
I never sleep under covers. Sheets........not really. I sleep on top of a pile of blankies on my bed. When the top one gets dirty, I peel off a layer and a clean one is underneath. I keep my heat set at 60 degrees all winter long because fat girls need to be refrigerated. I have been known to have popcorn for dinner. I always check for Dimitrius before getting in the shower because if he sees my ass cheek brush the liner, he'll attack like it's the Loch Ness monster, and my dog panics at the sound of his own farts.
Now I ask you.......what man or significant other, looks at that list of qualities and thinks "That's the girl for me!" I'm really OK with that though. I'm learning through this journey how to accept myself anyway.....even if I am a demographic of one. There's no longer a need to hide behind layers of extra pounds. This is me...warts and all. OK, so mostly warts, but this is me is the point here people.
Is it hot in here or is it just me??
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