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.

In Search of Preppy Clothes for the "Fluffy" Woman

First, I apologize for being away so long.  It’s these damn kids.  They need parenting, like, EVERY day.  It’s exhausting.

Hubby, God bless ‘im, bought me a preppy little polo dress at Vineyard Vines.  He was all excited when he got home because he had seen this dress and knew it was my style.  I have several from Lands’ End, and I love the fit because it’s, um, generous through the mid-section . . .  a nice coincidence since I, too, am generous through the mid-section. 

I tried it on, but it was too snug for my taste. 

“It’s cute,” Hubby exclaimed. 

“It’s too tight through here,” I replied, sensuously and seductively grabbing my gut.

“That’s whatcha got . . . you gotta work it,” he said. 

So while I am flattered that Hubby loves me just the way I am and sees no reason why I should cover myself up, I knew I simply would not feel comfortable in the dress.  I decided to return it and look for something else.

I love the style of Vineyard Vines, and I was so excited when they opened an outlet store near our home.  The last time I had been to a Vineyard Vines was when we vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard.  (Or simply The Vineyard, as a true prepster would call it.)  However, they need to extend their women’s sizes.  They have clothing for larger men, but not for larger women.  Worry not, though: I have already emailed Shep and Ian, the founders, and expressed my concern that “fat girls want preppy clothes too.”

They haven’t written me back yet.

So I went to the outlet to return the dress, but they have a strict return policy.  Technically, customers cannot make returns.  I approached the two twenty-something saleswomen behind the counter, who were both adorably clad in Vineyard Vines attire,  and explained my situation. 

We had an awkward conversation in which I presented the XL dress that was too small, and we went through the whole I’m-sorry-it’s-our-policy-well-can-I-speak-to-a-manager routine.  They politely asked me to browse while they called the manager at home.

I could hear their hushed conversation:

“This lady has this dress and she has the receipt.  The dress is too small . . .  We don’t have any larger sizes than XL. . . . I feel so bad . . . I know, but it’s too small . . . “

Finally, they convinced the manager to let me return the dress and exchange it for something that would fit.  (Something from our Men’s section, perhaps?)

I mean, their logo is a whale, for goodness sake.
You'd think they'd have some large clothes.

So here’s my question, Shep and Ian:  WHY don’t you have fashions for the fluffy woman?  Is it because it requires SO much extra material to make clothing for a woman with a little meat on her bones?  Is it because you don’t want to picture a woman stuffing a Big Mac down her craw while looking preppy in one of your skirts and a string of pearls?  Is it because the men on Martha’s Vineyard are allowed to carry a little extra weight but the women are not?

My request is simple.  Instead of me putting forth the time and effort (which I am doing, btw, but it takes a looooong time) to lose weight, I want your corporation to extend your entire clothing line in order to accommodate my beer baby.

That is all.  Good day to you, sirs.

Embarrassing Myself at the Swimmin' Hole

I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, that I struggle with my weight.  I am a Lifetime Member of Weight Watchers, and I have decided that this means I will spend the duration of my lifetime watching my weight.  Watching it go up, probably.

I also believe I have outlined my feelings about wearing a swimsuit in public.  I despise it, and I happen to live in a neighborhood FULL of Beautiful People.  But my children love the pool and hanging out with their friends, and I don’t want to punish them because of my own insecurities, so I suck it up, suck it in, and head to the pool.  

A few days ago, I took them to the pool for an evening swim, figuring they’d splash around, tire themselves out, come home and get a bath, and go to bed.  It was all part of my master plan to watch Real Housewives of New Jersey in peace after they were asleep and perhaps enjoy a glass or three of wine get them some exercise and help them burn some of their boy energy in a healthy manner.  This is the first summer where I feel like I can sit within the confines of the baby pool and keep an eye on the older two in the big pool without fear of them drowning. . . not so much because of their swimming skills, but because they can reach the bottom of the pool with their feet. 

I took Small over to the baby pool because he exhausts me in the big pool.  He has NO fear of water, which is nice, except when he takes off at a sprint and jumps into the pool 5 feet from where I’m waiting for him with my arms outstretched.  

Upon closing the gate, I noticed my friend M’s Hubby was sitting on the side of the baby pool watching their youngest splash around.  Hmmmm . . . I thought.  I’ll walk gracefully over to M’s Hubby and engage him in polite and sophisticated conversation, perhaps about the upcoming presidential election or Lindsey Lohan’s most recent run-in with The Law. 

  

As I approached the baby pool, I was watching Small, who had jumped in right at the 1 foot mark.  That’s 12 inches, or approximately the size of one step on a stairwell.

Do you know what’s NOT approximately the size of one step on a stairwell?  The 1 foot, 10 inch section of the pool where M’s Hubby was sitting, and where I decided to step into the pool. 

I stepped into the pool as if I were stepping off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote in a Roadrunner clip.  Meep-meep.

I fell in, lost my balance, and landed on my *ss, no doubt making a splash big enough to cause a tsunami at the beach-entry end of the pool.  I imagine babies were flying into their parents’ arms as if they had been catapulted.  M’s Hubby was struck mute with a look of shock/horror and open-mouthed awe at the acrobatics he had just witnessed.

I picked myself up and sat on the edge of the pool next to him, and of course my swimsuit made that uber-flattering slushy-squishy sound as my wet suit met the wet pavement.  Super.

“You know,” I said, “you’d think I’d be embarrassed, but the fact is, this kind of stuff happens to me so often, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and wait for the next time I commit some act of self-humiliation.”

It wasn’t awkward at all . . .

Again with the Beer Baby . . .

I’m fat.

I get it.

It happened again.  We were at a cocktail party Friday night when someone asked me, “so which number is this for you?” and glanced down at my abs-of-steel region.

Ugh. 

“We have three, and we’re done,” I replied.  

“Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I added, which prompted her to say, “oh, you’re not fat!”

Well then why’d you just insinuate that I was pregnant?  Nobody sees Kate Moss at a cocktail party, (holding a wine glass, by the way,) and comments on her pregnancy.  Poor Hubby hates when this happens, mostly because he has to clean up the emotional mess that accompanies my death spiral of self-esteem. 

I get it.  I am fluffy.  Generally, I’m okay with it.  

An acquaintance (who happens to by gay, so I totally trust him,) told me I just need to own my plus-sizeness.  He’s right.  No one is fooled by what I wear if I try to hide my plumpness.  So I try to dress appropriately; I try to look nice and wear clothes that fit.  I don’t look frumpy (except when I’m wearing my bus-stop sweatpants and my puffy coat.  On a side note, puffy coats are NOT flattering, especially on big girls.  But damn if that coat is not warm.)  Since I carry a lot of weight in the front, I can’t rock a tight dress – I need something with an empire waist, which is more flattering, but which apparently looks like I own stock in Motherhood Maternity.

I carry my weight in my front.  (And hips.  And cheeks, and upper arms, and boobs.  But NOT in the rear.  My badonkadonk is more like just a badonk.)  Just to clarify, again:

Me pregnant:

The back side is F-L-A-T.
The front?
Not so much.

Me, pregnant and bloated with a beer baby:

My point is that I am making efforts to be more healthy.  I’m doing Weight Watchers . . . AGAIN . . . and I go to the gym.  But it’s going to take some time. I am never going to be a size 10, and I am okay with that.  I am fluffy because I prefer beer and pizza to salad and a glass of ice water.  I do not have a thyroid problem nor do I have a genetic propensity for obesity.  My body has borne three children and endured various other emotional/hormonal events, and it has not bounced back.  I OWN it.   

But for the love o’ pete, it hurts my feelings when grown-ups insinuate that I am pregnant.  I struggle with it every day and I don’t blame anyone else but myself.  I try to be a kind person, a good friend, an understanding wife, a loving mother.  I wake up every day and try to be all these things, and I know, intellectually, that these qualities are what matter most.  So when you meet me at a party, let’s talk about religion and politics, but NOT my weight, because that, my friend, is a sensitive topic.

New Year's List o' Things I Probably Won't Accomplish

I am not a huge fan of New Year’s Resolutions, mostly because I hate setting myself up for failure.  Don’t you think if I really thought I could lose 10 lbs. by simply resolving to do so starting January 1^st I would have done so by now? 

Nevertheless, I am going to attempt to hold myself accountable by putting some goals (NOT resolutions) out there in the universe.  And by universe I mean the World Wide Internets.  I must admit that I do not have high hopes.  Actually I foresee a post on December 31, 2012 that includes a video of the honey badger and which is titled "Guess Who Else Doesn’t Give a Sh*t?"  

Karma, if you’re out there, please help me out a little.  I try to be a good person.  (Relax, I didn’t say nice person, I said good.  There’s a difference.  This is how I earned the nickname Sweet B*tch in college.)

So here’ goes:

1.  Lose weight

I know everyone says this, but I really need to lose weight.  I remember joining Weight Watchers once . . . yes, I’ve joined MANY times . . . and hearing a woman say her goal was to lose 9 lbs.  NINE lbs.?  I don’t mean to undermine her goal, but to someone who needs to lose, um, more than 9 lbs., that sounds like a good night at Outback, not a goal weight. 

The thing is, diabetes runs in my family.  I don’t want my kids to have the fat mom, and I currently weigh more than I did when I was pregnant.       

Prom, 1991
Although looking at it now, maybe my
Big Hair just made the rest of my
body look smaller . . . 

I have many reasons why I need to lose weight, but the primary reason is that I am getting fat.  Not just “fluffy” like I was before; I mean I’m getting FAT.  I use food as comfort, and I need to remember that food is sustenance, not a hug from the pantry.  I also realize that I have had a distorted body image for a looooong time, meaning I thought I was fat way before I really was.  Now I really am.  (And for those of you who read my previous blog entry about people who post needy messages on Facebook in order to elicit sympathetic responses, this is NOT one of those times.  I don’t need sympathy; I need a life change.)

2.  Prepare and Eat Well-Balanced Meals

It’s no secret that I don’t like to cook.  I like to eat.  Cooking takes too long.  Since Hubby often works late or has evening meetings, I usually make something quick for the boys.  Then I end up eating remnants of grilled cheese or cold spaghetti.  I have turned my kitchen into a restaurant where each diner places his own order.  Since no one likes the same thing, I make grilled cheese for one, macaroni and cheese for another, etc.  Notice there are no requests for vegetables.  I have created these monsters, and I need to put an end to my family’s poor eating habits because I am the main culprit.  

3.  Spend less time on Facebook

Facebook is such a timesuck.  Because I’m so nosy curious, I spend way too much time snooping around in other people’s business.  When I think of all the creative things I could be doing with what little free time I have, it makes me cringe to know that I waste it by cyber-stalking people I barely know.  Plus, I have a bad habit of believing things I read on Facebook, like how happy/fulfilled/successful everybody is.  I need to work on my own happiness, and Facebook makes NO contribution to my overall well-being. 

4.  Stop saying “I’m sorry”

I don’t mean that I need to stop apologizing when/if I’m wrong.  I mean when someone backs into me in the aisle at the grocery store, why is my first instinct to apologize?  I feel like I’m apologizing for taking up space, and that ain’t right.                

5.  Start putting more effort into my appearance

Perhaps this sounds shallow, but I feel so much better when I look better.  I am not the kind of woman who can roll out of bed and look all fresh and eager to begin my day.  Just ask any of my neighbors who have bus stop duty in the morning.  I am aging, just like everyone else, (even though I have a firm plan in place in which I will remain 39 forever.  Not that I’m 39.  Because I’m not.  I’m 38.)  Anyhoo . . . I need to keep up with my hair, my skin, and my style.  (And perhaps shave my legs a little more often.)  There’s no reason for me to be wearing pastel-colored elasticized pants and embroidered blouses just yet.  I remember thinking my mom looked so pretty when she got dressed up and wore makeup, which she didn’t do often because she stayed at home with us kids.  I don’t want my kids to look at me and think, man, Mom cleans up real nice, when she washes her hair.  I mean I'm never going to be a Ginger; I'll always be a MaryAnne.  But right now I look as if MaryAnne got trapped on Gilligan's Island with a keg full o' beer and a never-ending supply of Doritos.

So there ya have it.  My goals probably aren’t much different from anyone else’s.  If I decide not to run the Honeybadger post next year, I can probably re-post this one.  It will probably be just as relevant then as it is today.  Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis . . .                                                       

Unadulterated *ss-Kissing

I have recently begun a campaign to get a shout-out on the Rants From Mommlyand blog.  (http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/)  These ladies, Kate and Lydia, are hilarious - they have this blog and now they've gotten a writing gig and everything.  Remember how Ellen campaigned to get on the cover of Oprah's O Magazine?

Ellen just kept talking about how she wanted to be on the cover of O Magazine, which was funny because Oprah is Queen of the Universe and she's the only one who is ever on the cover.  But it worked!  


So this is my campaign to get a shout-out on RantsfromMommyland.com.  They have a section called "Blogs We Love," and my current goal in life is to be ON THAT LIST.  

I sent them an email this morning, detailing all the reasons why they should love me:

1.  I loves Target.  When I lived in Manhattan, I used to take the subway 2 stops into Harlem to get my car out of the garage so I could drive it 45 minutes into Queens or Connecticut just so I could go to Target.  

2.  I have three boys, because even God knows that this house is only big enough for one princess.  And that would be me.

3.  I truly believe that if I am reincarnated, I will come back as Ms. Dolly Parton.  In fact, my signature karaoke song is "9 to 5."

4.  Though I birthed my last child a little over a year ago, in reality I've been trying to take off the baby weight (which consists mostly of chocolate and Doritos.  Original, not the Cool Ranch,) for about 8 years.  I am a Lifetime member of Weight Watchers, and I've decided that this means I will be struggling with my weight for the duration of my lifetime.

5.  I have the mouth of a sailor - but there are certain words I do NOT say, and I do my best not to HEAR them either.  I refer to nether-regions. 

6.  I was recently told by a perfectly respectable Tarot Card Reader that I am a deep person, and I have therefore dubbed myself the Dalai Mama.

7.  I need to find a way to make money doing this blog thing.  I'm a SAHM, and I would love to not have to justify to anyone my 7-days-a-week coffee habit.  My husband works hard to support our family . . . and apparently my caffeine addiction based on the amount of money and time I spend at Starbucks.

8.  My misadventures at the gym are Pulitzer Prize worthy.  You can't make this sh*t up. ( http://boymommynyc.blogspot.com/2011/01/zen-of-nugget.html)  You know the fabulous woman in the cute workout clothes whose hair stays perfectly coiffed throughout Body Pump?  (kate.)  That's not me.  I'm the fat girl in the back.

9.  I, too, have a shelf.  It's where I keep my crumbs.  I inherited it from my grandmother, who also called it her shelf.  Like me, she took pride in all of her chins and swore that her kidneys were next to her eyeballs, which is why she was so emotional.

10.  I buried my mother in a pair of Tweety Bird socks because I knew she wouldn't want to be wearing pantyhose for All Eternity.  Mama raised me right.

Check out their blog at rantsfrommommyland.com.  When I'm a rich and famous writer, world-renowned for my biting wit and sarcasm, I'll buy you a car.  I promise.

Thoughts on a Snow Day

My children went to school ONE day this week.  And it was Monday.  

1.  I’m on my third cup o’ coffee this morning.  I got the shakes, man.  I feel like Kramer.  And I’ve decided that I need to teach my children how to make coffee so I don’t have to get off the couch.

2.  I haven’t washed my hair since Monday morning, and I didn’t shower at all yesterday.  Yummy.

3.  I have consumed so many cookies and skipped the gym so many days now that I think I have regained any weight I may have lost on Weight Watchers.  I’m watching my weight all right . . . watching it increase.

4.  If I have to watch iCarly one more time, I may poke my eyes out with a Lincoln Log.  What I really want to watch is last night’s Jersey Shore, but I’m afraid Small’s first words will be “I’m going to Jersey Shore, B*tch!”  Then he’ll lift up his onesie, revealing his sweet little baby belly and yelling, “we got a Situ-ATION.”

5.  No one is buying my crap on ebay.  I have this lovely lighting set, complete with pendant, chandelier, and flush mount entry-way light.                                                                          

They retail for a good hunk o’ change, so I’ve tried Craigslist (where you can also purchase used auto parts and a murderer, if that’s your thing) and ebay, but nothin’.  I just want to make enough money to purchase what I really want without having Hubby utter the words, “you paid how much?”

You see, we have The Hundred Dollar Rule, as a result of what we lovingly refer to as the Coach Bag Incident.  Hubby bought a big screen tv which I didn’t think we needed.  But guess what?  He bought it anyway.  Coincidentally, a girlfriend had a Friends and Family discount at Coach, so I bought me a bag.  (Let it be known that that particular bag is STILL my favorite and I STILL carry it, so we shall consider it an investment.  Big Screen TV has been relegated to the basement.  So there.)  After the Coach Bag Incident and the yelling, knock-down-drag-out I’m goin’ to my mama’s fight conversation, we came to an agreement that if we were making a purchase over $100 we would consult the other.  So I would like to make enough money to cover my over-$100 purchase without having to consult Hubby.  I keep telling him I’m just trying to make a nice home for him . . . 

6.  We still have power.  My girlfriend, Mama Mia, is without power.  She keeps going to the gym to work out and take a hot shower.  Her husband, The Italian, does not.  Nor do her two sons.  So I’m a little concerned that Mama Mia smells nice and fresh while the Italian and the two little sausages smell like rotting Parmesan.  Just sayin'.

7.  Small has pink-eye, a runny nose, and is teething.  He constantly has Bonus Cheerios stuck to various body parts and/or inside his diaper.  He kinda reminds me of that dog, Snots,  in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.  Or one of Cousin Eddie’s kids.

8.  Medium got his cast off last week.  I told the doctor, “I like you and all, but I kinda hope I don’t see you again any time soon.”  He looked at Medium (broken arm) and Large (broken collarbone) and Small in his infant carrier, and said, “three boys?  I’ll see ya soon.”  This does not bode well for me. 

9.  Hubby and I actually had a date on Monday night.  Don’t get excited; it was a work function full of business people.  We argued all the way there about the logic of having the babysitter’s mother stay with her, since she isn’t used to babies.  I didn’t see what the big deal was, but Hubby suggested that maybe “we” wouldn’t be able to go out until Small gets a little older.  And by “we,” he of course meant ME.  So then we arrived at our destination and started drinking wine and listening to totally stimulating speeches (insert sarcastic eye roll here) and I started making a list.  A list of things I could be doing right now, all of which would be more fun than listening to boring people spout out of their pie holes.  It went something like this:

1.  Something inappropriate that Hubby wrote . . . something I think is really more of a Saturday night activity than a Monday night activity.  I mean, we’re not twenty.  It’s a school night, Dear.

2.  laundry

3.  Plot your slow and painful death

4.  Go grocery shopping

5.  Get the oil changed

Etc.

It was perfectly fine when it was just me and Hubby wink-wink-nudge-nudging each other at the table.  Except I was so buzzed by the time we left that I accidentally left the list on the table.  And it was titled “Things I Could Be Doing Instead of Listening to Boring People Spout Out of Their Pie Holes.”  Oops.  This is why Hubby can’t take me places.  I have a tendency to embarrass him AND to tell people how much I paid for my clothes.  Like the Partner’s Wife who now knows that I got my Christmas party dress at the Gap for $50.  Apparently there are some things we’re supposed to keep to ourselves. 

10.  This is what my family room looks like.  

And it’s snowing again.  

Head.  In.  Oven.