Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?

Seen at work parking ramp – a white Hummer (one of the really big ones) with the following bumper sticker: Got freedom? Thank a solider!

Son, I think your bumper sticker would carry a bit more clout if you were driving something that got more than five miles to the gallon. It’s amazing to me how many people out there don’t connect our excessive gas usage with the sacrifice our soliders are making.

I, too, currently drive an earth-fucking Jeep (and we plan to replace it with a hybrid or something smaller as soon as the funds avail themselves). I would be embarrassed to place a yellow ribbon or American flag on my vehicle right now, knowing damn well that if the Middle East didn’t have oil, we wouldn’t be over there.

I also think that it’s no coinkydink that we are paying $3.25 for a gallon of gas, and our president’s family business IS the oil business. I imagine a little switch under his Oval Office desk. Memorial Day weekend, with no choice but to drive long distances? ON. Approval rating just hit an all-time low? OFF.

Now that he’s not running for re-election, it is a free-for-all at the pump. Bill never would’ve let this happen. Bill would’ve had Ann Coulter personally siphon every last vehicle in Dubai with her mouth before letting gas prices get this high (and she would’ve liked it).

On a related note, have you ever seen anyone other that short balding middle-aged white men driving Hummers? Dude, it would be much more cost-effective to forego the Hummer and simply wear a shirt that says, “My mind is not the only thing that is small.”

Mother of the year.

I think we’re long overdue for a flaming post about untitledmother. She makes it so easy, continually providing material for me. How thoughtful of her. This past week, she did something that was by far the most hurtful and infuriating thing she has ever done.

For an entire year before I had my weight loss surgery, I contemplated whether or not I should tell her about it. She is notorious for not being able to keep a secret. Not sure whether it’s due to laziness, vindictiveness or stupidity (methinks it’s a combination). I don’t tell her a whole lot anymore, for I clearly remember when she told everyone I was pregnant with untitledson – AFTER I told her not to tell (it was five weeks out, and I had just fallen down a flight of stairs and as a result, had to have ankle surgery). I told her not to tell anyone – I just wasn’t ready to share, and it was quite risky, given what I had just gone through. Of course, she told. Fucking whore. I mean, is nothing sacred?

So this time around, I thought for an entire year about whether I should share my weight loss surgery with her. For 11.5 months, I decided that no, she should not know. She is not to be trusted. As surgery neared, I thought, “What if something happens to me? She needs to know. What kind of child would not tell her mother that she was about to undergo major surgery?” I also thought how heartbroken I’d be if my own child could not trust me with such news. If untitledson had kept this from me, wouldn’t that mean that I had pretty much failed as a mother? I think so.

So I took a leap of faith. I put my balls in the blender. But first, I swore her to secrecy. I must’ve prepped her for 10 minutes before telling her. “You must, under NO circumstances, EVER share this with anyone. ANYONE. Especially vindictive and jealous untitledsister-in-law. If you ever do tell, know that I will confiscate all those bottles of unused fat burning pills of yours – the ones you spent my college fund on – crush them and make you snort them like Keith Richards at his father’s funeral. Do you understand? DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?”

She said yes, of course. OF COURSE SHE COULD KEEP A SECRET. Then I told her what I had told only five other people in my life (untitledhusband, boss, untitledmother-in-law, and untitledbrother-in-law and wife). These other people, I trust completely. Every conversation about the surgery since then, I have told her, “Remember, you cannot tell anyone. Even if they wedge your maxed-out credit cards under your toenails.” Yes yes, she assured me. She would under no circumstances tell.

So here we are, three months later. And guess what – she has told. Not just anyone – untitledsister-in-law. The one person who most did not need to know. She left me a voicemail about it on Mother’s Day (after I had traveled home for the weekend, given her a gift, and paid for her lunch, no less). “I screwed up! I told her about your surgery. It just slipped!” Notice there was no apology in there.

I’ve spent the last week thinking about how I want to deal with this. I have not talked to her yet (we normally talk at least every other day). I am upset that she told, but I am more upset that she has showed zero contrition for her actions. No apology note. No flowers. Nothing.

What kind of mother does this to her child? She knew how serious this was to me. How do you let something like that just slip? She said it came up in conversation.

untitledmother: “Oh, I saw her last weekend. She looks so good.”

untitledsister-in-law: “What do you mean, she looks good?”

untitledmother: “Oh, you know, she had the SURGERY.”

I feel so completely betrayed. I cannot trust untitledmother with anything, whether it’s a secret, watching untitledson for the day or bringing a dish to pass at untitled-mother-in-law’s holiday potluck (that’s right, she just shows up to eat). A true class act. At every turn, she disappoints. In lieu of helping us unpack after the move, she gave me a jar of jelly and a jar of salsa. I had to literally beg for her to work with untitledsister-in-law to give me a baby shower (first child, and probably only child for me, no less). Imagine having to beg for your own first and only baby shower. The only reason I haven’t cut ties to her is that I would never do that to untitledson. He needs to know his grandmother, even if she is a louse.

I suppose she is waiting for me to call, thinking, “Oh, she’s probably mad about this, too. She’s always overreacting.” I don’t think I am. I mean, I just want my mother to have my back every once in a while. I need to know she’s still looking out for me – and not just to find me so she can stab me. I know for sure that I will never tell her anything again. I don’t plan on calling her so often, if at all, anymore. I thought about telling HER dark secret – that she has a son she adopted out before my brother and I were born (my brother does not know). Do you have any thoughts on how I should handle this?

Re-learning how to type.

So I’ve been hacked. I take a writing hiatus for a few weeks (OK, almost a month) and the barbarians invade. I’m flattered. Now take your battering ram and Molotov cocktails and be off with your bad selves. There is truly nothing you can gain by hacking my little blog.

I just posted my most recent photo below (taken on Thursday, May 17th). I can finally buy clothes in Lane Bryant again, as evidenced by this very Lane Bryant outfit. I know, they are the devil — for only Lucifer himself would make sleeveless shirts and short shorts in size 28. I can assure you — you are NOT ready for this jelly.

It’s been so mentally therapeutic to buy clothes that somewhat reflect my tastes (as opposed to the tastes of, say, Liz Taylor). I can’t quite fit into leather chaps and crotchless undies, but you know damn well that’s where I am heading. It’s hard enough weighing 300-plus pounds. But it kills your spirit when you are forced to wear ugly clothes made of synthetic or paper-thin fabric simply because they fit. The horrible fat clothes are almost worse than being fat. Seriously.

I had an a-ha moment yesterday while at my three-month post-surgical checkup. The nurse started talking about the obesity gene. Not much is know about it, other than the fact that a child who inheirits the gene has little chance to escape it. 75% of obesity is inheirited. 25% of obesity is lifestyle. That’s what she said. Holy shit. I think of all the years I spent feeling guilty for my weight — all the years I thought discipline could solve my problems. God damn the medical society for even suggesting Weight Watchers or Xenical or Meridia to someone like me. You fuckers should know better.

Now, for the first time in my life, I am able to implement discipline effectively. I am not driven batshit crazy by the thought of a chocolate chip cookie. I still — and will always — need to exert discipline in eating and exercise. Surgery does not cure these things. It simply levels the playing field. I now get a bat, ball and glove like the rest of the normally-sized world. But I still need to push myself away from the hot dog stand and join the game.

Some other things I’ve noticed. Guys now hold doors open for me (they never did before). They even strike up conversations with me, whether I’m in the elevator or at the convenience store. I find this interesting, cause I’m happily married and wear my ring. I used to stand for minutes at the Clinique counter to get service. Now, she is right there. Theater seats are much more comfortable. The world is so hard on fat people — as if they need it.

I know I have said it before, but if anyone out there has a body mass index of 40 or above, you should seriously look into this surgery. Once you have it, you’ll wonder why you waited so long.