Archive for April, 2007

She who folds my undies.

untitledmother-in-law is a saint, have I said this before? She came down to watch untitledson during spring break. She took off work to do this. Certainly this alone would qualify her for cannonization. Not one to shirk off her holy duties, she then proceded to sweep out our muddy garage, do all of our laundry (two week’s worth), change and wash her own bed sheets and empty our dishwasher on more than one occasion. They just don’t make women like this any more. Let it be said that the greatest gift you can give your daughter-in-law is a week’s worth of free childcare and laundry service. I don’t care that she (gasp) saw my period underwear. They’re clean, folded and put away neatly in my underwear drawer, now aren’t they. She did fail to fold our towels in the shapes of little animals and place them on our bathroom sink, but I have forgiven her for this transgression.

To thank her for her goodness, we thought about stuffing some cash into her purse. But this felt a little indentured servant to us. So instead, we took her shopping. We bought her some Crocs (she would never spend $30 on shoes for herself) and some dishes are Pier One. At one point, I was literally chasing her around Pier One, because she didn’t want to let us pay. Good lord, woman. Get over here before I whip you with this sprig of pussywillows!

We also took her out to eat several times. We knew this would be a dicey proposition, since she gets a little intimidated by glamourous destinations like The Olive Garden. Always up for a good squirm-fest, we opted instead for an even nicer local Italian place. We had hoped to expose her to the wonders on linguini with pine nuts or maybe the lobster ravioli. But instead she ordered, of all things, the goddamned pasta marinara (but only after mispronouncing marinara and asking if it was a white or red sauce). We could’ve just served her Chef Boyardee at home and called it good. I would’ve ordered some bruschetta for an appetizer, but that surely would’ve blown a gust of cold air under her skirt.

untitledhusband forced her to drink a glass of wine, and before we knew it, she was all red in the face, trudging up all the guilt-ridden issues from her past. Like why she adopted two kids when they were living on poverty level incomes. And why untitledbrother-in-law gets to live at home for free when he’s 23 years old, whereas untitledhusband was basically on his own by age 17 (when he graduated high school). This is a woman that thinks only with her heart. And those kinds of decisions are rarely the right ones. But nonetheless, she is still a saint.

Hi, I’m morbidly obese. Damn glad to meet you.

Sorry for the infrequent posting, people. Work has been kicking my ass as of late (and we all know how I like to stick it to the man and write during work hours). By the time I get home, make dinner, work out, and put the little man to bed, it’s 8:30. And damn if I don’t want to sit on the sofa and watch American Idol for the last remaining hour of my day. Viva Sanjaya (or as I like to call him, Indian Michael Jackson). Blake needs to win, but I just can’t get enough of the po-hawk. In fact, I’m hoping to replicate the ‘do for casual Friday next week. That ought to go over well.

The good news is that I have lost 38 pounds since my surgery on 2/12 (a total loss of 56 pounds, when you count my pre-surgical loss). I now weigh 305. My BMI has dropped almost 10 points. I’m no longer super morbidly obese, just morbidly obese. For a woman who is 5′8″, if you weigh 198 or more, you are considered obese. 264 or above, you are morbidly obese. 339, you are super morbidly obese. Two words that need to be permanently extracated from the English language — morbidly and obese. Jeez.

This whole experience has been friggin’ awesome, people. Awesome enough for me to dust off the word friggin’ and add it back into my vocabulary. And awesome, for that matter. So many people out there are hesitant to suggest the surgery because of the minute risk of complications, to which I say “blah blah blah, my big fat foot up yo ass.”

But I tell you — anyone out there who is 100+ pounds overweight needs to at least consider this surgery. And what if you’re 90 pounds overweight? Well then I say gain 10! A few McGriddles ought to do the trick. I know, I know. Everything you read will scare the bejesus out of you. I was scared, especially when I saw these awful diagrams of all the changes they make to one’s insides. I would have anxiety about permanently altering my perfectly normal anatomy. But truth is, if it was perfectly normal, I wouldn’t have weighed 361 pounds. And wasn’t my anatomy already altered by all the extra weight I was carrying around?

The docs will tell you “this is serious surgery.” And they are right. But knowing what I know now, I would gladly do it all over again — even if it meant I had to take out a $60,000 loan to pay for it. You just don’t realize how much mental and physical energy it takes to be overweight until you start losing. I was one of those people who said, “I know I am fat. But I am smart, I have a good job. I found a handsome guy to marry my fat ass, contrary to untitledmother’s predictions. I’m fine.” But really, I had no idea how sad I was until this weight started falling off. Housework is so much easier. I dare say it’s even a bit fun. I had no idea I could run the stairs and not be out of breath. I didn’t realize how much self-confidence I would gain by simply being able to wear cute clothes again.

I’m like the opposite of an anorexic. I’m now wearing size 28s and I feel like I should be trying out to be a Denver Broncos cheerleader. I know that’s funny (especially to those wearing size 14s and freaking out about it), but it’s true. I actually look for my reflection now, instead of avoiding it. It’s amazing how much happiness it gives you to look in the mirror (or step on the scale) and be proud of what you see. It makes everything in life (even folding untitledhusband’s skid-marked underwear) more sunny. What is it with men and skid marks, anyway? As untitleddad used to say, “wet fart.” Wet fart, indeed.

I feel almost completely normal these days. I can go out to eat, as long as I choose wisely. Some things I have had include 1/2 of a chicken fajita and some refried beans at a local Mexican restaurant, 3/4 of a grilled Buffalito at Buffalo Wild Wings, and 3 pieces of sushi. And yes, I get quite full off of this (you think I’d quit eating mid-fajita if I wasn’t full?). I made the mistake of eating 4 pieces of sushi once. ONCE. I ended up in the passenger seat of the Jeep, straight as a board until the food began to clear out of my stuffed stomach. “What? What? Haven’t you ever seen a person digesting before.”

Now, all together now — let’s ask untitledhusband to take my picture so I can post it for you!