I just weighed in for Weight Watchers (this was my first week) and I lost four pounds, 12 ounces. Notice how I got the ounces in there. That’s a can of beer, people. I lost four pounds and a can of beer, and I am damn well going to report it. By simply leaning in on my toes, I have found that I can make the scale numbers fluctuate two or three pounds. Weight Watchers really needs to engineer that shit out.
It’s a good thing I lost weight this week. Otherwise the starvation would’ve been for nothing. I’m pretty much hungry all the time. And not just “I could eat” hungry. It’s more like Sally Struthers Feed the Children hungry. This probably has something to do with the fact that my pre-Weight Watchers eating habits had stretched my stomach out to the size of a Samsonite suitcase. So now, I am in the process of shrinking my stomach down to a coin purse – a little one, like the kind that you squeeze and the crack opens up like a shiny rubber vagina. I had one of those when I was little and I would play with it for hours. Coin purse that is. Well, OK, vagina too. But I digress.
Let’s hear it for untitledhusband. He surprised me with not one, not two, but three gifts. Three good gifts, at that:
Gift #1: Gourmet Chocolates (interpretation: “I love you at this weight and the weight you’d be if you ate these every day.”). No matter the holiday, you can never go wrong with chocolate. Not with me. Sock lint dipped in chocolate? Sign me up.
Gift #2: Freaks and Geeks DVD (interpretation: “I love you because you have heart.”) I will never understand how this show got shit-canned after one year and “Walker, Texas Ranger” was left to roundhouse his way through the nineties. Which reminds me, if you are down with wasting one hour that’ll you’ll never get back, do it here.
Gift #3: One of these bracelets, which I have been lusting after for quite some time now. (interpretation: “I love you enough to listen, take notes and plan ahead when you ask for something specific.”) Thank god he knows me well enough not to buy me a gold and diamonds heart pendant from Kay’s.
What can I say. I love my boo.
I was recently challenged to reveal five things that you don’t know about me. I thought learning that I put ketchup on my macaroni and cheese didn’t really qualify, so I decided to dig a bit deeper. Some of these things I haven’t even talked about with untitledhusband. This wasn’t easy, but I feel better now that I’ve put it out there.
1. I was a cheerleader in high school. I didn’t really enjoy it, but I liked the idea that I was able to achieve the ideal of being a cheerleader. I still have the uniform in my closet.
2. When I was in junior high, I was fat and unpopular. When I was in high school, I was regular-sized and popular. Life is so much easier when you’re not fat.
3. When I fly, I tuck the seat belt in by my side so the stewardess won’t see that it doesn’t fit around me. I know they have seat belt extenders, but I’m too humiliated to ask for one.
4. The first record (OK, cassette) I ever bought was “Get Lucky” by Loverboy. The last record (OK, CD) I bought was “1000 Kisses” by Patti Griffin.
5. I have a successful career, a nice house, a gorgeous husband and a beautiful child, yet I cannot find the courage to attend my high school reunion — all because of my weight.
untitledhusband and I went out last weekend to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Never one to be overly romantic, he kept with tradition by not opening doors, taking my arm or even waiting for me as he sprinted across the movie theater parking lot to make the previews.
But alas, he made up for it all later, while we were at the restaurant. Quietly and without judgment, he pulled the table towards himself, so I could slide my large bod into the booth gracefully — just as he does every time we go out to eat. A simple gesture, yes. But it says so much. Red roses, diamonds, chocolates — you can keep them all, because I cannot think of anything more romantic than this.
On second thought, maybe I’ll hold onto those chocolates…
I love my husband’s family. Don’t get me wrong. But I cannot figure out how he managed to sop up half their cumulative IQ all by himself. These people are the most generous, sweet, god-fearing people you will ever meet — not that fearing god makes one sweet and generous. But sometimes I have to wonder if we’re not dealing with a touch of dain bramage.
The last time we were home, we made the mistake of busting out the board game “Cranium.” We would’ve had better luck making a mental connection if we had walked into a Wal-Mart and started speaking Latin to the door greeter.
There is this part of the game called “Humdinger” in which one person must hum a song, and the other team members must guess the title. Here is an abridged sampling of the numerous cards they had to return to the deck, because NO ONE on the team knew the songs: “Coming to America” by Neil Diamond, “Open Arms” by Journey, and “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles. I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be forced to surrender your U.S. citizenship if you don’t know that first song? “They’re coming to America. TODAY!” I am ashamed to admit how many rush hours that little ditty has gotten me through. Put me behind the wheel of my earthfucker after a long day at the Evil Empire and I AM the fucking Jazz Singer.
To be honest, I am surprised the family lineage ever made it here from the old country. I mean, it would’ve required someone knowing how to get through the turnstiles on Ellis Island — a bona fide MENSA test for this lot. Now, if they would’ve had some church hymn Humdingers in the deck, they would’ve smoked our asses like a Swisher Sweet.
The one good part about playing board games with the whole fam damnly is that we get the opportunity to observe the intelligence (or lack thereof) of untitledhusband’s youngest brother’s girlfriend du jour. To qualify for the position, it appears that said girl’s jugs must be larger than her head (or at least a medium-sized honeydew). To their credit, these girls have all amazed me with one thing — their ability to remain standing upright regardless of the laws of physics. Ugh. For about one millisecond, I pity them. Then I remember that their monsterous milkers are accompanied by size 2 jeans.
But alas, it all evens out somewhere, people. All the brain power in the world cannot save me from the humiliation of having to rummage through the underwear table at Lane Bryant, looking for a pair that will both cover my ass and refrain from binding after a spin in the “hotter than hellfire” dryer cycle (the only heat setting impatient untitledhusband will use when doing laundry). For while I’m doing this, you can be sure that sista-girl is rockin’ out in Hot Topic, trying to decide between the leopard-print thong and the beaded halter top. Oh well. I know I could never sleep at night if I couldn’t hum the chorus to “Baker Street.”