Monthly Archives: March 2012

Back on Track

Standard

I’m recommitting, for the 8541th  time, to lose weight. Because.

Just because. And because we all know that one chick that got skinny and became an unbearable ass, I’m making you all some promises:

1. I promise to not post before and after pics of myself on facebook.

        1a. I also promise no bikini shots, no mini skirt shots, no “check me out, aren’t I a hottie, and you better comment on how smokin’ I am or I will unfriend your ass quicker than a Biggest Loser contestant puts the weight back on” shots in general. Those make me vomit. Plus, I have shitty, stumpy, pasty legs, even when I’m skinny.

2. I promise to not evangalize about the miracle of weight loss. I FUCKING HATE those bitches. I want to cunt punch every single former fatty who preaches, “nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels!” Sure it’s true. It’s also fucking obnoxious.

3. I promise not to rob those around me of their enjoyment by eating like a damn martyr or vocally abstaining from something because, “oh gosh no, I just can’t!” Bleh.

4. I promise not to obsess over putting on a pound or two. Once I hit 10, I reserve the right to freak the hell out and do a juice cleanse.

5. I promise not to become a delusional cougar and hit on your teenage sons. I will stay happily married to the man who loved me when I was fat. He rocks. He’s also earned a hot wife. Plus, let’s face it. Those women are NEVER as sexy as they think they are and who the hell wants to sleep with a teenager?!?

So there you have it. I heard that sigh of relief. You can sleep easy tonight. What promises would you like to hear me make or make yourself?

I will NOT honor any promises asking me to shut the hell up.

 

Advertisements

I Am SO Jessica Fletcher!

Standard

Humongous bangs are not a welcome sound at 6:45.  (There is a perfectly filthy joke in there somewhere, but I’m too weary to find it. Apologies)

Gaping holes in your garden fence are equally distressing. As are ravaged shrubbery. (Again, a truly revolting dirty joke in there…but alas, weary.)

I saw her standing by the car door. I called out, “Are you okay?” She obviously was fine enough to flee the scene of an accident, since that’s what she did.

She didn’t leave me empty-handed though. I scraped a few paint chips off my broken fence boards, called my husband, and fumed my way through the day. The damage was minimal. I wasn’t upset about the bush, the fence, the scare. I was livid that she had run away, without taking responsiblity. My poor teenager endured a lengthy rant about the topic, all the way to school. My mother endured another after the children had been dropped off. I updated my Facebook status, took pictures, called the police. And fumed.

My husband came home and after tossing some leftovers in front of my children, I told him to get his sweet ass back in the car. We were going sleuthing. I totally got to be Velma, yo.

First thing, not even 5 minutes and a half block up the street, we turned into a cul-de-sac, finding a blue car with significant bumper damage. “Jinkies! That’s it!” I cried, then lost my glasses and asked a dog to find them.

Scratch Velma, that’s not how I roll.

We got out of the car, matched the paint chip and I photographed the front bumper and the license plate. My husband knocked on the door. (He’s all Benson, I’ve got Stabler Rage oozing from my pores.) He asked if they knew who the car belonged to and the woman was immediately bristling. Yes, she did, why did he want to know? I knew by the look on her face, her posture, everything was reading, “Oh hell no.” S’okay lady, I got a fair helping of that myself.

“Well that car crashed into my fence this morning.”

“My daughter’s car got hit in the parking lot at school today. She had the vice-principal come out and take a photo. We filed a police report.”

Then I grabbed the woman by the throat, cuffed her, shoved her against the wall and Mirandarized her ass.

No, I didn’t. I have all the rage, but none of the Stabler machismo. Damn my womanly vagina!

“My car was hit in the parking lot at school. I didn’t even go down Solano, I picked up Susie.” says the miscreant. 

“LIAR!” I screamed, “LIIIIAAAARRR!”  Sigh, I wasn’t Carol Kane in Princess Bride either. Even my exciting stories lack good characters.

My ever reasonable husband shrugged and said, “Well, we’ve got this all over our fence, and it matches your daughter’s car perfectly.”

“What do you want to do about this, ” Mom asks.

“Well, I don’t really want to file a police report on a hit and run.” I chimed in. (I actually did do that. )

So she came out of the house and looked at the paint chip, realized it was indeed from her daughter’s car and proceeded to tell us about how her daughter’s a 4.4, elected ASB president for next year, scholarships all lined up, so of course, she’s going to believe her first. Sure, lady, whatever. I’m pretty sure the cops won’t but we can go that route, if you so desire. Because in addition to the hit and run, your daughter filed a false report. Sort of sure that’s gonna have some reverb, if you know what I mean.

It gets better. Mom is a teacher at the high school. She follows us to our place to inspect the damage and apparently, Little Miss Hit n’ Run comes clean on the way over. Mom tells us this is her first big mistake, she’s such a great kid, she was late to pick up a friend, blah, blah, blah. Mom is concerned that this is going to get out at school. I would be too, lady. Not once, does the daughter apologize. That mendacious little twat sat in the car the entire time. Not once does the mother apologize. Her husband will fix our fence and work some horticultural voodoo on my bush. (HA! That one fucking wrote itself. Dirty jokes for the win!) We were neighborly and understanding, because we’re cool like that, but the minute I got inside, I began ranting about lame-ass parents and lying high school bitches and first. big. mistake. my. ASS!

Because if that woman honestly thinks she knows a fucking quarter of what her daughter pulls, she’s even crazier than I am. No kid is that good at constructing an alibi, first bull outta the chute. That kid involved her vice-principal and the police to cover that bonehead move up. Girlie got brass balls and stone cold eyes. She’s no first-timer.

Bonus Points: I made it through the night without wine or chocolate. Screw Stabler and Velma. I’m getting hot and gonna be Stephanie Plum. No more Lula for this chick.

About a Danish

Standard

I just said to myself, aloud, “You do NOT want that damn danish!”

I can assure you: I want said danish very,very much.

But almost a week into the 17 day diet and a break this weekend to have pizza and wine (and yes, a danish and coffee) with some old friends, well, I have to be a good little soldier or the past several days will have been for nothing. So while I want that danish, with all my fatty heart, I will not eat the danish.

This morning was stressful and hard. A neighbor ran their car into our back fence and took off, I pulled a “do over the weekend” project out of my son’s backpack. This morning. He’s Student of the Week, which is a big deal and something he’s been pining for, so skipping was not an option. We slapped together an “All About Me” poster in 10 minutes, but he was still late. Sigh.

Coffee and a danish sounded good. Really good. I even took a mug out. But then I realized, food fixes nothing but hunger.  40 years old and I’m just now learning this, but better late than never, right?

In related news, it’s cold. In the flurry of activity this morning, I neglected to weigh myself. I just did and read a 4 pound weight gain, which undid all my progress. Oh, hell no. I said to hell with the cold, stripped down to undies and shivered while I weighed again, twice. 243, both times, which means I actually lost a pound. Yay!!! I had no idea I was wearing so many clothes, but hey, as I said, it’s cold.

Suddenly, I really don’t want that danish.

Actually, I do. So I’m just going to throw them in the trash now, okay?