Stomach under seige, day 4.

Like I said in my previous post, I am now on my pre-surgery blended diet as of Monday. And I will be on it for two more weeks until my surgery on Feb. 12th. I am happy to report that I haven’t cheated once. I haven’t even licked a potato chip. The reason for the blended diet — to help me lose even more weight before surgery, shrink my liver and shrink my stomach. For those of you who interpret “blended diet” as an endless buffet of strawberry margaritas, let me clarify:


1 serving Coco Wheats


16 oz homemade smoothie (fat free sugar free yogurt, banana, 1/4 c orange juice)


1 cup instant mashed potatoes

1 Soup at Hand soup, no noodles or chunky items

1 fat free sugar free pudding cup


1 fat free sugar free jello cup

1 package of instant oatmeal (prepared with water)


1 cup fat free refried beans, thinned with taco sauce

1 cup fat free sugar free pudding cup

1 cup pureed hamburger

Also, no carbonated beverages are allowed, along with no drinking during meals. I must drink 8-10 glasses of water a day (which hasn’t been hard for me). Putting more into the gullet has never been an issue. I’m also trying to scoot glasses of milk into my routine as often as possible (milk is a recommended drink post-surgery, given the high protein).

For anyone out there who thinks I’m being a pussy about this, I challenge you to try it for one day. Sure, it seems like a reasonable amount of food, but here’s the thing — it’s all BLENDED. This means your stomach never has anything to glom on to, and you never get full. OK, you are somewhat satisfied for about 45 minutes after eating the mashed potatoes or the refried beans. And by somewhat satisfied, I mean the fullness you experience after you bogart the green olives from your grandma’s relish tray before Thanksgiving dinner. At all other times, you are hungry. Pull-a-cheeseburger-out-the-trash hungry. Squirt-condiment-packs-of-mayo-into-your-mouth hungry. Knaw-your-own-arm-off-eat-it-throw-it-up-and-eat-it-again hungry.

I feel myself entering a state of starvation zen. I see the normal folk eating their sandwiches and popcorn and chocolate chip cookies. I feel a million miles away from them, sitting in my cube at work, sucking down my cream of broccoli. How in hell did I end up at this point? Damn you, Snickers! Damn you, Cheez-Its! Damn you all to hell.

I’m trying to just accept the hunger. I’m sure if I were to hork down some sesame chicken — just this once — my doctor would probably never know. But I can’t open that door, because I won’t be able to close it again. I really want to do this right. I know I’m working towards a goal — one that’s easily visible from here. I just need to hold on for a few more weeks. It’s the whole week thing that seems unachievable. Getting through this one day, I can do that. Now I just need to keep getting through the days until February 12th.

I have told three people about this surgery – untitledhusband, untitledmother and untitledmother-in-law. Oh, and my boss (thought she might wonder where I am for those two weeks). I plan on telling no one else, besides you all. I don’t know why I want to keep things so private, but I think it has something to do with the public nature of being fat. You have to wear your demons on the outside, for everyone to see. Now, I just want to pull the curtain and deal with this in private. I don’t want to be the subject of whispers and gossip. I don’t want every pound lost or gained to be a matter of public record. Soon enough, the weight loss will be obvious. If anyone is brazen enough to ask me where my ass went, I will be honest. But until then, I’ll just sit here and quietly starve.

The jihad has begun.

I’ve talked a bit in the past about bariatric surgery. Well, I have been approved by my health insurer (which was a huge friggin’ surprise) and we’re a go for February 12th. This all sounds somewhat sudden, but it has been a work in progress for about eleven months.

Anyways… in about three weeks I will undergo a laparoscopic surgery in which my stomach is stapled down to the size of a Tic-Tac, all in hopes that I will one day be able to shop at Banana Rebublic. You were hoping I was going to say Hot Topic, weren’t you? I can’t wait to buy clothes I actually like (hello booty pants), as opposed to clothes that just fit. I can’t wait for the day that people don’t look at me with disgust. And I can’t wait to get on an airplane and sit comfortably in my seat. It’s tough being fat. No matter what you achieve, you’re still viewed as a slob, and you’re still ashamed to go back to your high school reunion.

Anyone who thinks this is the easy way out, well, let me tell you. I first had to be on a physician-supervised weight loss program for six months. I wrote down everything I ate for 180 days. Then came the psychiatric evaluation. Do they really think I’m going to unfurl all my freak when I’m trying to prove I’m sane? Then the hospital where I’m having the surgery made me lose weight — they wanted me to lose 10 pounds in one month — over the holidays no less. I did them a few better and lost 13. This weight loss happened after they reduced me to tears, telling me they wouldn’t let me have surgery unless I proved I was “compliant.” Being able to say no to Christmas cookies — if that isn’t compliant, I don’t know what is.

Now I have to be on a blended diet (jello, applesauce, mashed potatoes, oatmeal) for THREE WEEKS prior to surgery to shrink my stomach, my liver and help me lose more weight. What kind of sick fucking joke is this? The only thing getting me through this is the thought that somewhere on a remote deserted island, the Survivor contestants are eating less than I am. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK! Don’t think I wouldn’t slit your throat with a plastic spork for some queso and tortilla chips right now. I could do it, and no court of law would convict me.

I mean, it’s not that I don’t know HOW to diet. I could, for example, tell you how many calories and fat grams are in that Ding Dong you’re holding, as well as how many turns you’ll have to take on untitledmother’s Ab Lounger to burn it off. Did someone say Ding Dongs? Just give me a moment here…

OK, I’m back. The thing with us fat people is that we have some sort of chemical disposition that makes food like a drug to us. We feel incomplete unless we eat. It consumes our every thought. Me and chocolate — it’s like Whitney Houston and her crack pipe. And I’m saying this in all seriousness. The only time I wasn’t subject to this Vulcan mind control was when I was pregnant — which makes me think that fatness (I refuse to use the word “obesity” or god forbid “morbid obesity”) is hormonal or chemical.

I want you all to take this journey with me (I KNOW you want to come), so I’m going to post pictures of myself along the way, along with updates and musings on what it’s like to eat a pureed peanut butter sandwich. I imagine it will go something like this: “Today I ate a piece of bread and was stuck on the shitter for FIVE hours.” “I wonder if I can blend Swiss Cake Rolls?” “I bet I could make me a handsome set of luggage with this leftover skin.”

I hope that when the year has passed, you’ll get to see something cool — kind of like when you were in second grade and got to watch the butterfly emerge from its cocoon. It’s either going to be like that, or like watching a stick of butter melting in a pan.

How I earned my humiliation patch.

As part of my prerequisites for my bariatric surgery, I had to have a psychiatric evaluation. I must do this, along with six months of physician-directed diet and exercise. Six months. Jesus, what’s going to happen in six months? I’ve spent 25 years being the fattest person in the room. Trust me when I say that there is nothing a doctor knows about diet and exercise that I didn’t already know by age 8. I knew the fat grams in a Chips Ahoy cookie before I could tie my own shoes.

Talking to the psychiatrist, she asked me what my first fat memory was. I thought for a moment, and said “second grade.” It was in second grade that I joined the Brownies. I was so excited to go the meetings with my friends and do all the fun things that a group called the Brownies must surely do. Hey, maybe they sat around and ate, gasp, brownies all day. Now that’s an organization I could put my weight behind.

It was all good until it came time to order uniforms. I was only slightly overweight, but none of the uniforms came in my size. I was devastated. There were no husky sizes to be found. I mean, why be a Brownie if you couldn’t wear the brown jumper? untitledmother took matters into her own hands and sewed me a Brownie uniform out of thick brown corduroy. It was most obviously not standard issue. The only thing more embarassing than that brown abomination was when I split my pants in gym class while playing “Clean Up Your Own Backyard.”

Looking back on this scenario, it just pisses me off. How fucked up is it that an organization designed to boost the self-confidence of young girls was directly responsible for ruining mine? Thinking about this got me all worked up, so I went to to check out their current offerings. Low and behold, they now carry plus sizes for the kids and adults. God blessit. As untitledhusband so keenly noted, “it’s the least they can do, considering their organization freely peddles fat and calories door-to-door in every town in America.”

I had a dream. I had an awesome dream.

I woke up the other morning after one of those vivid dreams — the kind that plays out in your mind like a movie. And, of course, I am one of those annoying fucks who can’t keep her dreams to herself. Upon waking, I feel this overwhelming urge to share. If I let it fester all day and keep it to myself, I’ll just end up reciting it to you a few hours later, after I’ve forgotten all the important facts. After telling untitledhusband about this particular dream, he said, “You sooo have to write about that on your blog.” So here goes.

I had a dream that I was dating DJ AM and that we were condo shopping out in Hollywood. All the realtors and condo association members were kissing our asses because we were rich and famous, and that felt good. untitledhusband asked me if we were swapping bariatric surgery stories, to which I insultingly replied no. I mean, HELLO. I am ALWAYS thin in my dreams. Now that I think of it, I may actually have been Nicole Ritchie in my dream, which means I was really really thin. I must be spending way too much time reading Perez Hilton. Goddamn you, Perez! One day, I will get fired, and it will be for the five hours a day I spend at your lascivious web site.

The action then jumped to me arriving at The Ivy (famous Hollywood eatery). I was no longer Nicole Ritchie — I was myself. I remember trying to sweet talk the maitre de so he’d think I was someone important and let me have a seat in his precious restaurant. He walked me to a small wall-side table, in a different room than everyone else. If I had any plums, I would’ve protested by saying, “No one puts Baby in the corner!” But as it turns out, I’m as big of a wuss in my dreams as I am in real life. Perfect.

Oh well. It’s probably for the best. If Patrick Swayze would’ve entered the equation, DJ AM would’ve been forced to kick his ass. Swayze would’ve challenged him to a dance-off, and AM would’ve whipped a CD at him, slicing the tendons in his knee, thus ending his career. At least now he’d have an excuse as to why he’s done nothing noteworthy since “To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar” (which, I am ashamed to say, I saw in the movie theater). I have the retinal scars to prove it.

OK, back to the story. I was meeting untitledmom at The Ivy for Mother’s Day brunch. I remember feeling excited, because she was going to see what a Hollywood big shot I had become. After I took my seat, I noticed she was really late, so I called her on my mobile. She was flying into town for the occasion.

As her phone rang, it occurred to me that I should’ve called earlier, or picked her up at LAX. Poor woman can’t even go through the McDonald’s drive-through without her On Star. Turns out she was still at the airport, pacing the sidewalk like a frightened marmoset, too freaked out to hail a cab or shuttle. I had to surrender my table at The Ivy (sigh) and leave to go get her. I was pissed, cause I really wanted to eat me some waffles.

That was it. That was my dream.

Now, the first person who figures out the logic behind the title of this post can ask me any question they like. I will answer honestly (as long as it’s not too revealing) and publish my reply in the comments section of this post. You’ll also get my undying respect. Since that in and of itself is not much of a prize (in fact, it may be a disincentive), I thought I’d better up the ante. Yeah, I know. Merry fucking Christmas.

Skeletor and me.

No post on Friday, and a late post today. My apologies, people. Things have been a little crazy in the untitledhousehold. Here’s a little rundown of what I’ve been filling the last few days with – trying to prepare home for sale, dealing with another failed pregnancy attempt, oodles of freelance work, new homes plans to review, and oh yes, untitledhusband’s surgery.

That’s right. On Thursday, untitledhusband had back surgery (herniated disk), so I was at his hospital bedside. He’s on the mend, walking around like that girl in Sixteen Candles with the neck brace (Joan Cusack, maybe?). I thought I might be able to write as he slept, but I was a little distracted by daytime TV. It seems Carol Anne cannot look away from the light.

I hadn’t seen The View in quite a while, and I must say I was a little disturbed by Star Jones’ appearance. From the neck down, she looks fantabulous. But her face has this Skeletor thing going on. All the fat loss has left her with these buggy eyes and Joan Crawford eyebrows. She looks like one fierce bitch. But I feel for her. Here she’s gone on this amazing weight loss journey, only to find herself looking like a drag queen in the end. Oh well. Carry on, Priscilla. Don’t let the haters keep you down.

I’m taking this all into consideration, for I have decided to have weight loss surgery myself. Since we are once again not pregnant and it was our last month of trying (we have been trying for a year and a half), I have decided to move on. And who knows – maybe once the weight comes off, my body will accept another baby. I’m not counting on it or anything. If nothing else, I have learned to expect nothing.

This probably seems like it’s coming out of left field. But I’ve been seriously considering this for about two years. I held off, because I wanted to have another baby first. But since it looks like that’s not going to happen, I feel the time is now.

I’m sure the first few weeks will be a bitch, since I’ll only be able to consume things like Jello and broth. That, and I’ll have a six-inch incision in my abdomen. (I like how my first concern is about the food, though.) But I feel this is the right thing to do, and the right time to do it. I just hope my face doesn’t look like James Carville’s when all is said and done.