Prepare for Armaggedon. I'm Hungry and Cranky.

I’m in Week 3 of Weight Watchers.  The New Me will be debuting at the swimmin’ pool in approximately 40 lbs.  In the meantime, I am hungry and cranky.  And hungry.

People Who Bug Me:

1.  People who think a handful of nuts constitutes a snack.  A handful of nuts is a snack appetizer . . . what one eats before one goes whole hog into the bucket of nuts.

2.  People who insist that it’s difficult to reach the minimum daily food requirement on Weight Watchers.  Swing by the drive-thru for a Large Fry and shut the f*** up.

3.  People who claim they love Greek yogurt.  Tried it.  Hated it.  Reminded me of yeast infections.

4.  People who cook with jicama.  What the hell is jicama?

5.  People who think fruit is a dessert.  Cake is a dessert.  Ice cream is a dessert.  Brownies are a dessert.  Fruit is what you eat when you’re trying desperately to maintain your calorie intake while simultaneously trying not to eat your own arm off.

6.  People who eat frozen grapes as a delicious, savory, crunchy snack.  See #5.  Potato chips are a crunchy snack.

7.  People who follow recipes that call for tofu mayonnaise.  Mayonnaise good.  Tofu bad.

8.  People who think THIS is a muffin top:  

You wanna see a muffin top?  I’ll show you a muffin top!

9.  People who add bean sprouts to their salads.  If it looks like something I just sprayed with Weed Eater and/or paid my kid a dollar to pluck from my sidewalk, I ain’t eating it. 

10.  People who think that "dieting" is only about food.  This is what I have in my home for my three skinny children and my skinny husband.  It's about temptation and self-control and discipline and ohfortheloveo'pete are those chocolate chip muffins?

Did I mention I’m cranky and hungry?  And hungry.

Three Poorly-Mannered Children at the Grocery Store

Happy MLK/Inauguration Day, yo.

The powers that be scheduled a teacher workday last Friday, and today, of course, was a holiday, so we had a four-day weekend.  This would have been nice if we had someplace to visit, but alas we have been home all weekend, carting the children to and from various activities and birthday parties. 

I am ready for them to go back to school.

Today we had to make a pit stop at the grocery store because I had to pick up prescriptions.  As I have stated before, my favoritest thing in the whole wide world is to take all three of my children to the grocery store.

When we arrived in the parking lot, I turned off the ignition and gave them a warning that we were picking up prescriptions and fruit and that was it.  (Silently I repeated my mantra:  thou shalt not hit the wine aisle, thou shalt not hit the wine aisle, thou shalt not hit the wine aisle.)  All three insisted on riding in the cart.  Have you ever tried to bank a corner in the grocery store while pushing 150 lbs. on four wheels? 

We got out of there in record time and I was patting myself on the back for being so efficient and for refusing to turn down the snack aisle.  I instructed Large and Medium to buckle in as I removed the bags from the cart and prepared to take Small around to his side of the Swagger Wagon.  I had to wait a second though, because another family had pulled into the spot next to us and their doors were open as they exited their car. 

A mother and two children got out, and the mother giggled as I rounded the corner with Small. 

“You just made my day,” she exclaimed.

Hmmmm . . . I thought.  She’s enchanted by my infectious smile?  She recognizes the Swagger Wagon and knows me to be a safe and courteous driver?  I have hit celebrity status and she is thrilled to be in the very presence of that hilarious blogger known as BoyMommy?

“How’s that?” I asked, prepared to shrug her off with an awww, shucks and a modest eye roll.

“I just heard your son ask your other son ‘do you want to lick my butt.’  I have two more children at home and I’m just so relieved to know that someone else’s family is just like ours!” she explained.

Of course.  I replied, “well, I’m certainly glad I could be here for you Sister!” 

I knew it.  My life and my ill-behaved, potty-mouthed children make other people feel better about their own lives.  My work here is done.

Don't Tailgate the Swagger Wagon

Faithful readers, as you know, I like to take out my aggression via open letters to people who have done me wrong. 

I present to you an open letter to the teenager who was tailgating me this morning.

Dear Bad Driver,

We are nowhere near the Indianapolis 500 race track.  The posted speed limit for our community is 25 miles per hour. 

I was driving between 25 and 30 miles per hour for two reasons.  One, I am a law-abiding citizen, and two, it was 8:00 in the morning and school buses are traversing our streets.  Children are waiting at their bus stops, so it is ultra important to be vigilant and aware.  (This also goes for the woman in the black SUV who keeps doing the hands-in-the-air WTF sign when she has to stop for my boys' bus.  Calm yourself.)

Was your passenger in labor?  Bleeding profusely and needing immediate medical attention?  Trying to get to her dying grandmother before she took her last breath?  If not, then there was NO reason for you to be driving approximately 2-3 feet from my rear bumper. 

When I obnoxiously slowed down to 10 miles per hour, it was to draw your attention to how closely you were riding my @ss, not to get you to honk your (high-pitched, girly-sounding) horn and swerve out of the lane as if to pass me.  While I realize my pimped out swagger wagon may have led you to believe that I wanted to race, I can assure you that I did not.  I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s a mini-van, and I have no desire to play vehicular chicken.

And let me tell you something else: I was carrying my precious cargo.  It terrifies me to think that your carelessness and your aggression could cause an accident in which one of my children is hurt.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially if you've hurt one of her babies.

You are not invincible.  I know you think you are, but you ARE NOT.  Please act like the responsible young adult that your parents think you are.  I know they would be horrified to learn of your behavior behind the wheel.  

You will get where you need to be, I promise. 

Slow your sh*t.

Thank you,

BoyMommy

Not Pregnant. Just Fat, Thanks.

Wanna know how to make a woman (who may be slightly on the heavy side) feel like crap?  Ask her when she’s due.

I get it.  I carry weight through my middle.  I always have.  I can remember waiting tables in college and being asked if I were pregnant.  It’s not like I was wearing my apron up under my boobs; but neither was I a size 6.

I loved actually being pregnant because I felt like I finally fit into my body.  I can totally rock an empire-waisted shirt and elastic pants.  Perhaps I should just invest my clothing allowance in Motherhood Maternity or A Pea in the Pod and respond, “yes, yes I am!  We’re very excited!” every time someone asks me if I’m pregnant. 

 

I dress pretty conservatively.  I try to wear clothes that fit and are flattering to my body type.  I’m not fooling anyone if I try to squeeze into clothes that don’t fit just because the number on the tag is a single digit.  I haven’t worn single-digit clothing since I was 16.  I lost 40 lbs. on Weight Watchers before Large was born, but I STILL wasn’t a single digit. 

On Halloween night as we were escorting our offspring around the neighborhood, my girlfriend and I stopped to speak with another mom, with whom I had once taught high school.  We were discussing how we knew each other and how long it had been since we’d been colleagues when she pointed to my bowl-full-o’-jelly and said, “of course, you weren’t as big then as you are now,” implying that I was with child. 

I chuckled because I was worried she’d feel embarrassed if she knew the truth.  I was worried that SHE’D be embarrassed.  My girlfriend, a petite, skinny little thing, gasped and smiled, obviously not knowing how to react because this has never happened to her.  We turned to walk away and she said, “um, what do you do with that?”  She assured me, as girlfriends do, that I looked cute/fabulous/not pregnant. 

Later that night when I rehashed the whole episode to Hubby, he gave the requisite what’s-wrong-with-people, I-love-you-just-the-way-you-are speech and I went to bed, depressed and cranky.

Fast forward ONE week.  Seven days, people.

I’m at a cocktail party, chatting with someone with whom I have a casual acquaintance.  “You look great!  When are you due?” she asked.

Enough is enough, and I was not in the mood.  I’m tired of worrying about other people being embarrassed about their social faux pas while I graciously laugh it off, like I deserve to feel bad about myself because I’ve had a few too many donuts in my lifetime.

FLUFFY

PREGNANT

“Oh no.  Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I responded, and waited for her cheeks to turn red. 

She backpedaled.  “No!  I just meant!  But!  You look so good!”

“It’s okay,” I responded.  “It’s just that this is the 2^nd time in a week that someone has assumed I am pregnant.”  I walked away.  There wasn’t anything else left to say. 

I know she was embarrassed, I know she didn’t intend to hurt my feelings, and I know she didn’t say it to be mean. 

Poor Hubby had to deal with a meltdown of epic proportions that night.  “I’m tired of being fat!” I wailed. 

  

Please, I beg of you, on behalf of all the fat girls, do not say anything that even remotely insinuates pregnancy.  Unless you see a baby shooting out from underneath her skirt, keep your pie hole shut.  And, God forbid, if you rub my beer belly, be prepared to pull back a stump where your hand used to be.