An update of sorts.

So I guess the writing has been a little spotty for the past year. What can I say. I’m kind of an all-or-nothing girl, which is something I need to change — for a lot of reasons (food being one of them). It’s good for my well-being to write. So I’m going to write when I can. That may mean once a week… or once every three weeks. We’ll see. Seeing that some of you are still out there, waiting for some sign of untitledlife is humbling as well. I am amazed that anyone is still out there. So thanks for pulling me back into the fray.

I have a lot to update you on. Let’s see. I’ve lost 108 pounds and now weigh 255 pounds. It’s a lot, but it could be more. That makes me a size 22, and a 20 sometimes. I’m tall and curvy, so I think it looks better than it sounds. I think. I’ll post some pictures here soon. I’m just happy to not be the fattest person in the room anymore. There I go with my lofty goals. But really, I’m quite happy with my weight loss. I hope it continues. I’ll get into it more in a future post.

We’re also trying to get pregnant, but it’s not going so well. My eggs are follicly challenged. Or follicly collicky, as I like to say. I have PCOS, so I have plenty of eggs, but they’re all duds. I’m taking Metformin to control the cysts, and I’ll start Clomid next month. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to shots, with a dash of intra-uterine insemination thrown in for kicks. After all, it’s not a party until someone jacks off in the closet. In a sterile specimen container. With four nurses in latex gloves outside the door. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to in-vitro. Good times. Expensive times.

I get a little crazy about this whole infertility thing. It really pisses me off that I have no control over this. Surely there must be something I can do to make this happen. I have way too much love for one child to bear. I can’t possibly expect untitledson to shoulder all these kisses, hugs and ear nibbles. They will destroy him, or at the very least, turn him into one of those boys who sits home with his mother to watch “Dancing with the Stars” and knit cat berets. The boy needs a relief pitcher. Or someone smaller and weaker than him to endure the occasional noogie. And if mommy has to endure the bi-weekly transvaginal ultrasound to make it happen, so be it.

I got the magic stick.

I knew it would eventually happen. I just thought I had a few more years to go. untitledson has unearthed my little friend — the battery-operated one I keep in my bedside table. It happened after our new dog (yeah, we just got a new miniature Dachshund about a month ago) holed up underneath our bed to drop a load. It’s a king-size bed and the defiant little beast knew just what to do. He busted out his abacus and determined the one four inch by four inch spot that would place him out of our reach.

“No! NO NO NO! No poopie!” I screamed as he assumed the position. How could something with ears as cute as his do something so heinous? Pooping under our bed. On MY side of the bed, no less. For a moment, I considered pooping in his kennel just to teach him a lesson.

So there we layed — helpless, heads to the floor, watching untitleddog pinch off a steaming fatty on our new cream-colored shag carpet. After he skulked away, I took my Pier One bamboo back scratcher (recently dubbed the poop stick, due to its new functionality) out from my bedside table and pulled the turdlet towards me, being oh-so-careful not to create a trail of crumbs in its wake. Given untitleddog’s fondness for defacating in the most unreachable of places, my dexterity at this task has gotten quite good — enough so that I wonder if I didn’t miss my calling in the sport of curling. Once within grabbing distance, I swathed the poop in a thick mass of wadded up toilet paper and wisked it away to the toilet.

Following this ordeal, I scrubbed my hands like a surgeon and retreated to my easy chair so I could finish reading my book. I am deep into chapter seven when I notice untitledson standing at my side, holding my vibrator. I must take a moment here to clarify that this isn’t a big old Hong Kong jelly dong. I mean, what kind of girl do you take me for? I had to drink two glasses of wine and watch three episodes of “Sex and the City” just to muster the courage to order it from the Adam and Eve web site. It is truly the Janet Reno of vibrators — austere and hardworking, just there to do its job, ma’am. It has three settings — low, medium and annihilate. One could easily pass it off as a back massager, and I’m sure there is a 76 year-old nun somewhere that uses it as such (that is, when she’s not using it to scramble her eggs).

“Give me that!” I squawked, horrified by the convergence of my two lives — that of loving mother and filthy street whore.

“I’m I’m I’m… using it to scare away the POOPS!” said untitledson, obviously taken back by my panicked tone. If only it were that easy. I envisioned myself using it in the backyard. Instead of pooper scooping, I’d point my buzzing wand at the turds and watch them dissappear in a poof of sparklies and fairy dust. The neighbors would marvel at my ingenuity before embarking upon a search of their own at Home Depot.

I took the device back to my bedroom and placed it in the bedside table, assuming untitledson would forget where he found Pandora’s box… or that which Pandora puts in her box. Oh, how I underestimate his curiosity. I have since found untitledson back there on several occasions, peering into the drawer with silent awe. He knows he should not be there, but yet he cannot look away. When he’s 14, he’ll remember all this and the puzzle pieces will snap together. Only then will he know his mother for the nasty slut she truly is.

It’s the thought that counts.

I do not deny that I am difficult to buy for. If there’s something I want, I get it for myself. But I am learning that when a family member asks for gift ideas, it is in my best interest to pony up. Otherwise, I run the risk of receiving the same kinds of things I have received in past years:

  • A big Pepto-Bismol pink calculator made of flexible plastic that one can roll up like a sleeping bag (or use as a sleeping bag, for that matter). I’m contemplating busting out this bad boy during my Monday morning project status meeting. Palm Pilot, be damned.
  • Three days of the shits (aka a chub of summer sausage). I can now attest that The Burning Ring of Fire has nothing to do with rings or fires.
  • A series of religious novels about a ragtag band of Quakers (at least, this is what I think the books are about, given the cover art). C’mon people. Perhaps I was not clear. I do not read anything that does not feature a de-frocked maiden, assless chaps or a naughty vicar on the cover.
  • A gently used Tupperware container. OK, so I received this for my wedding. But I could not pass up the chance to call this to your attention. It was USED, with scratch marks and everything. It was my “something borrowed.” I don’t know what’s worse — the fact that someone gave me used Tupperware, or the fact that it’s currently in my fridge, filled with sweet potatoes.
  • His and her copies of “The Purpose Driven Life” (one for me, one for untitledhusband). Duly noted, people. Duly noted. But I can assure you that I indeed have a purpose, and right now, it has more to do with the battery-operated device in my bedside table than it does with this shitty-ass tome.
  • A t-shirt with a blurry photo of untitledson ironed onto it that says “I love my Mom.” While I couldn’t bring myself to throw away anything with my son’s face on it, this creation did inspire me to make a t-shirt for untitledhusband — one that features MY face on it. I make him wear it to work on casual Fridays, that is, when I’m not using his lifeless ballsack as a coin purse.
  • A teddy bear wearing what can only be described as a blue doiley, a faux pearl necklace and matching earrings. The creature came perched in a little wicker chair and looked like a crusty old drag queen who’d spent the entire weekend smoking Misties and watching the Bette Davis movie marathon on Turner Classic Movies. And here I thought bears plugged their buttholes with pine needles and hiberated during the winter. Oh wait, that’s me.
  • Enough black soot to soil every wall in our home (aka an industrial-sized box of vanilla scented candles from the dollar store). We use them to light up our jack-o-lanterns during Halloween.

Given my past luck, I left no room for error this year. I was specific. I asked for a set of Lancome makeup brushes (which I got), a giftcard to a specific salon (which I got), a hand blender (did not get), a sports watch (did not get), and any of the Post Secret books (did not get). But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit weepy about not receiving crocheted can coozies or season six of “Murder, She Wrote.”

The last ride.


On Saturday, we had untitleddog put down. He turned 9 last May, and has been plaqued with health problems. I’m not going to run down the list of reasons we had to do this. I feel like I’m trying to justify our decision, and at times, I’m not completely sure we did the right thing. Some days, he was fine. Other times, he’d puke up every drop of water he drank. He’d pee on the floor. His back was so sore, he couldn’t climb stairs properly. But yet, I’m not sure we did the right thing.

He hopped into the car so willingly¬ on his last morning, excited to be going¬ for a ride. untitledhusband rolled the windows down and let him get his sniffs of the humid summer air,¬ which smelled of grass clippings and sunshine.¬ untitledhusband gave him a chocolate chip cookie,¬ and told him we loved him, that he was a good dog. Then he¬ carried him¬ in to the vet’s office, set him on a steel table, and held him as¬ he got¬ his last shot.¬ He was always good about getting shots — he never whimpered or pulled back. He just took them.¬ It¬ lasted about 10 seconds,¬ and untitledhusband held him¬ to his chest as¬ untitledog’s breath left his body.¬ When he returned home, I could tell by¬ untitledhusband’s face that¬ he would carry that moment with him forever. ¬

untitleddog’s fur was like warm velvet. I called him “an¬ electric blanket on legs.” There was nothing better than having him at your ankles in bed on a cold night. He used to put his Kong (the only dog toy he couldn’t destroy) between his front paws and drag it around the yard¬ in¬ a backwards motion that looked like humping. He ate tampons whenever he could score them. He would chase a plastic ball around the yard like a seal in the circus, leaping at it and sending it skyward with his long nose. He once escaped from a plastic dog kennel, using his teeth to tear through the hard plastic. The caper resulted in an abscessed tooth, which required an expensive extraction. I held him like a baby every night when untitledhusband and I were separated, for at the time,¬ I thought I’d never have a baby of my own.

A year later, when we brought untitledson home from the hospital, untitleddog sniffed him up and down and declared him good.¬ If he was jealous, he did not show it.¬ Throughout the ear pulling and smothering and hugs, he was always a gentleman. Or dog. A gentledog. In the last few months, he’d taken to sleeping in untitledson’s toddler bed — perhaps because it was easy to get in to. It made me sad to think that untitledson would not grow up with him around.¬

I¬ sit here crying, for I’m not sure we did right by him. And now, it doesn’t matter what I think.¬ It’s done. I hope I can quit crying about this at some point. Cry headaches are such a bitch.¬ Wherever his little soul is, I hope he understands why we did what we did. I hope he knows how¬ empty¬ the house feels, and how sad I get when I see his Milk Bones in the pantry. As we told untitledson, he’s in heaven right now. His body no longer worked. The good part is that his back is no longer sore, and he never throws up anymore. The bad part is that he can’t ever come home.¬ ¬ ¬

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‚Äôt 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 ‚ÄúClean Up Your Own Backyard.‚ÄĚ

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.”