For some reason*, I have not been able to keep anything down since Sunday morning. Vomiting made me think of my teenage years.
Those very few friends who read this blog (step it up, bitches!) might not know I fought an eating disorder for years starting when I was a teenager. It wasn’t Karen Carpenter Bad, but I’ve always been obsessed with how much I eat.
(Note: I did starve myself when I was 14. Hid food. Threw up what I ate (which wasn’t more than 100-200 calories a day). Wore baggy clothes. Ate laxatives like they were candy. Then my mom rubbed my back one day and felt my McRibs through the sweatshirt I was wearing to hide how much weight I’d lost – in the summer, in Texas, for fuck’s sake! She threatened to put me in a hospital where they would “hook an IV up to your arm and you’d have to gain weight,” so I started mainlining tubs of Pillsbury chocolate frosting. And boxes of Ding Dongs. I finally went from 85 pounds to 105. And got five cavities.)
I never really did get over it completely but I generally manage to talk myself down from the ledge these days. And while I am pretty small, I am not in any way skinny (but feel free to tell me, “Oh, but you ARE” because I love compliments and am not one of those idiots who won’t accept them. Okay, “skinny” might not be a compliment to some, but it is to me. Hence the eating disorder. Well, that and the control freak part of my personality.) People have asked me, “Aren’t you embarrassed to tell people you have/had (whispered – St. Elmo’s Fire reference, wonder who will get it) an eating disorder?” I feel like everyone who knows me already pretty much already knows I’m a nut job anyway (or realizes it five minutes after meeting me), so what difference does one more thing make to that reputation? Does a heroin addict tell others, “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to shoot up now?” NO. So why should I hide my crazy light under a bushel? Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!
Even though I’m not on that crazy train anymore (it’s more like a crazy cross-town commuter bus these days, or a quick crazy taxi cab ride), I still study labels like a motherfucker. I wrote in an earlier post that I had to Google “how many calories in a bottle of wine” – that was part of the 80% made up shit. I’ve known for YEARS how many calories are in a bottle of wine. I also know that it’s a huge mistake to drink sweet alcoholic beverages (more sugar, dumbass! plus a really nasty hangover) and that a really good bar will carry diet tonic water. I tell people I typically don’t eat my carbs, I drink them. (P.S. Someone told me about a carb-free vodka. I may be doomed to buy a liver off the black market.)
I mentioned going on my Austerity Campaign re: food and drink – that was supposed to happen after vacation. Of course (very predictable!), it did not. That reunion was coming up and I knew I’d cheat (not on food but yeah, booze). So tomorrow I am attempting to go on the straight and narrow. Again. Lofty goal: three months (the non-BF can stop laughing now). More realistic goal: one month. No bread, no booze and I have to start eating salads again (I love veggies – should not be a problem). I will miss those fucking Pillsbury Grands biscuits in the mornings, though.
It’s not like I’m one of “those people” who keep a bottle in their car (not like you could in Texas anyway) or in their desk drawer. Hell, I don’t even have a liquor cabinet. Or a liquor shelf. (The non-BF says it’s because I would drink it as soon as it got there, but he’s just exaggerating. A little. Hon, those two bottles of white wine you left here on Saturday? Well, they are gone. I swear, the dogs must be drinking again!) And I won’t drink something just because it is there (proof – five bottles of red wine sitting next to my Vita Mix for over a month now because I really cannot stand that shit. The red wine, not the Vita Mix. I like my Vita Mix.) I just love dry white wine. It’s like grown-up Kool-Aid to me. I’ll drink vodka but I am not as crazy about it as I am about gin (see Evidence below). In fact, I may name my next pet Juniper Berries just because it would make me smile to yell out its name for shitting on my floor.
So tonight, wine is having its Farewell Tour at my house. After this past high school reunion weekend, my Check Liver light came on and I really need to lose some weight before vacation later this year.
Oh hell, my cousin reads this shit. Now he will think I’m a lesbian as well. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
Since this is in no way a diet blog, going forward, my detoxing/weight loss program will be the elephant in the room. We will all be aware of it but no one is to speak of it. The bitchy mood I’ll be in could cause me to go off on y’all. But since I’m from the south, I’ll be all polite and shit about it.
[I’m proactive for the most part, so anyone who wants to send me hate mail for making light of a serious subject like aneroxia nervosa or heroin addiction, feel free to do so. email@example.com If you can’t laugh about something bad you went through, you’ll really go crazy. Besides, sharing my story might help someone else and I’m all about that. Feel free to email me about this if you want to talk about it. The eating disorder, that is, not the heroin addiction. And if you are addicted to heroin, talking to me won’t help at all. I’m not licensed and I don’t really want to deal with all of that, sorry! P.S. You haters better use correct grammar, punctuation and spelling, or I’m going to have a field day with your ass!]
Oh, and on a totally different subject…for the record, proof that I am and always will be The Original Non-Girlfriend. Look at those little fuckers! Aren’t they cute?! And yes, the swirly dog is the dead one. RIP Buzzy. Sadie is still hanging in there but she is blind as a bat and about five pounds thinner. She is still the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen. Bitch.
It so fucking SUCKS dogs don’t live as long as we do.
I spent all afternoon/evening sleeping off the reunion and woke up just one minute before the non-BF called from the City of Brotherly Love, where he flew to just to see a concert. I know, he sucks. I wish I could be him sometimes. Well, minus the penis, because those things really must be awkward at times. I certainly wouldn’t want to walk around with that shit hanging off of me. But I digress.
After being chastised for “not talking enough” (motherfuckingHELL, that is a first! and dude, I just woke up!), he talked long enough to really get me awake just to let me off the phone to go and eat a pizza. This is when I decided to Nair off his eyebrows the next time he falls asleep at my house.
I personally HATE Sunday nights because it is the end of The Fun Weekend and the beginning of Having To Go Back To Fucking Work, so of course I am bitter and we all know what that means. A list.
Bitches, it’s what I do best. Besides shopping. And naked drunk blogging. And Excel spreadsheets. And embarrassing the non-BF. Deal with it.
Overheard This Weekend:
- I’m the most fun when I’m horizontal!
- (about getting a tattoo) Do it! You won’t regret it. Especially because you are never going to be fat, so bonus, it will never stretch out and look like something else.
- I’m sorry I put my tongue in your ear. Here’s your earring back.
- Mr. Swirly shit in the bed. No, I think it was an accident. Sometimes those things just squeeze themselves out.
- (on how much I had to drink at the reunion) I only had 4 gin & tonics. Well, five. Okay, so maybe I lost count. Fuck you.
- She was more nervous than a whore in church on Sunday (No, wait, I overheard that back many years ago. From a male boss. Fucker actually had the nerve to get upset when I took offense with his misogyny.)
- Where’s the fucking syrup?
- How about some eggs and hash browns with your Tabasco sauce?
- Oh, he’s calling me again. DENIED.
- You know, you could be really pretty if you tried.
- Hello, baby girl.
- Where is Whore Island and when can I move there?
- I’m quite sure no one will remember that you called her sister a slut.
- At least you fell down wearing fabulous shoes.
I totally crashed my younger brother’s high school reunion last night with my best friend from high school. Since I cannot be allowed out in public to drink by myself, she was my babysitter.
High school reunions are pretty much a kitchen pass for amateur drinkers. You know the ones – their wives have no interest in being bored hearing stories about the good ol’ days and they “let” their husbands out for a night. Or girls who get drunk and decide to feel you up. No thank you, I’ve already done my breast self exam this month. How nice of you to offer, though.
Then you get that bitch who has a hard time walking in heels when she is sober, let alone falling down drunk. Literally. The one who stumbles and takes a few friends out with her on the way down.
One woman was trashing her husband right in front of him. Another guy claimed to be “very afraid” of his wife (my bestie had to pry him off of me). It was pretty loud in the place, so I found myself nodding my head and grinning like an idiot while people were talking to me. For all I know, they could have been saying, “I’ve been a serial killer for the last seven years” and I would have responded, “Really? That’s great!”
We were responsible and spent the night at the bestie’s apartment. I am dangerous to sleep with because I’ve been known to punch the non-BF in the face and arms in my sleep. I also speak gibberish and laugh a lot, which makes total sense since I do that on a daily basis while I am awake. I didn’t hit my best friend, though, just started doing some kind of Jane Fonda workout with my left leg and then draped it over her for a while. I’m tons of fun at slumber parties, let me tell ya. And her idea about a Waffle House breakfast was fabulous except that I forgot that eating bacon usually makes me throw up so, yeah, my morning ended up sucking there for a while.
It was a fun party, though, and I’d do it all again. Just not anytime in the near future. I have confirmation that I didn’t do anything too stupid, and I was able to keep up my reputation of being The Most Fun. I’m just glad I didn’t think to show people how I can put both of my legs behind my head at the same.
To buy or not to buy…
I spent 90 minutes this morning on my Shopping Spreadsheet. That’s one and one half hours I could have spent:
- Working out to try and rid myself of the Booze Belly
- Taking the trash out (shit! the garbage truck is here! shit shit shit!) and folding clothes
- Learning Spanish (¿Dónde está el cuarto de baño, por favor? ¿Podría conseguir alguna ginebra?)
- Discovering that freetranslation.com thinks “gin” is a city in Switzerland – and that the website is smoking some serious crack
- Composing a witty retort to the two vitriolic Facebook emails I got yesterday when I stated I wasn’t against gays marrying
- Deciding I didn’t really give a shit what narrow-minded, judgmental people say (or in this case, write) to me – but then what would I do with the other 89 minutes?
- Writing a best-selling novel
- Thanking the baby Jesus that my parents taught me it was okay to think for myself
- Googling “naked Adam Levine”
- Pinning recipes I’ll never, ever make
- Wishing I was taller…and blonder
Anyway, after spending all that time on my shopping spreadsheet, it’s down to this: The Michael Kors bag and flats, or the 4 pairs of jeans (two are cords, really fun prints), 3 cardigans and the animal print cami.
Soooo…you tell me: Bag/shoes or clothes? Clothes or bag/shoes? All of it? None of it? It’s such a dilemma.
Hell, I’ll just buy some booze and then I won’t care one way or another.
One day, back in 2002 or 03, I woke up and went to my den (where my only-TV-at-the-time resided) and turned on my television. I had all the movie channels back then (and never, ever really watched any of them, which is exactly why I don’t have them anymore. But anyway.). I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to work, so I surfed the channels with my Clicker.
[I have ALWAYS called my remotes “Clickers.” I will NEVER NOT call them a Clicker. Strange pet peeve of mine, but I hate the word “remote.” It sounds so insincere and, well, remote. They are Clickers. Don’t argue with me on this one.]
Okay, so I am breezing through the channels and I stumble across a movie that is just starting. Note that I said I wasn’t in a real hurry to go to work. So I begin to watch.
“I’m voting for Dukakis.” (Amy, I know you still LOVE this line!!)
The whole sitting-around-the-table-for-a-family-dinner-even-though-it-was-pizza-and-greasy-ass-pizza-at-that scene totally captured my attention. That could have been ME at age 16 or 18 or whatever the hell age Maggie Gyllenhall was in this movie!
Except I didn’t get into Harvard. I barely made it into the local commuter-state-school. Not for lack of intelligence, I just didn’t care for homework in high school. Plus I had the flu when I took my SATs. And my desk broke while taking it. I have plenty of excuses.
When I first started blogging back in 2004, I joined some kind of blog network that I don’t even think exists anymore, or else has been replaced. It was a network of bloggers in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. In that group, I met two fellow bloggers whom I love dearly (one sorta blogs now, one doesn’t), and they became my good friends.
It really all started with Donnie Darko, though. I remember a post I wrote entitled “Who The Fuck Is Donnie Darko?” about two weeks before I actually found out. That was about three weeks before I met up with some of the best bitches I have known in Dallas. LOVE YOU GIRLS!
As a small child, when I discovered I was born on a Wednesday, I got all depressed. And it really isn’t truthful, at least not about me. “Wednesday’s Child is full of piss and vinegar” might be more accurate in my case. (“Full of shit” is really probably more like it.) I doubt that either of those would make for a good nursery rhyme, though. (I’m partial to The Stinky Cheese Man, so it is no wonder I try to rewrite childhood tales with a more cynical twist.) I wanted to be that “Full of Grace” kid, since I tend to trip over my own feet and have ever since I can remember. Plus, I can’t dance for shit.
Then there is the whole birth order crap I read about when I was a young adult. I never got it, because since I’m a middle child (AND the only girl), I supposedly felt left out and misunderstood while growing up. Supposedly. Yeah, I was a bit insecure when I was younger, but I grew out of that nonsense. And I never really felt left out. I went out of my way to make certain I wasn’t. As the non-BF says, “Somehow, you always seem to end up the center of attention.” And as my mom once told me when I was bitching about something and mentioned having low self-esteem, “I don’t think you suffer from low self-esteem. I think you suffer from too much self-esteem.” (I am surrounded by so much positive support, I could just shit.)
Truth be told, I’m one of those annoying hearts-and-flowers people. I’m pretty much always optimistic. Okay, so maybe about 50% of the time I am optimistic, and 50% of the time, I just don’t care (half full, half empty? I’m the one who says, “Who gives a flying fuck? Top that bitch off!“). Happy is pretty much how I am most of the time, even if I do like to bitch about things a little too much. (Bitching makes me happy – that’s the secret, my friends. That, and dogs. Well, and alcohol. And shopping.)
Speaking of happiness, can a dog get depressed? Because Mr. Tail is pouting on my bed right now since the non-BF is out of town for business for the next two days. That dog went from happy to sad in 60 seconds flat. (And he got a lot more goodbye kisses than I did when I did the Airport Run. I expect presents when the non-BF returns to make up for this very obvious slight on his part.) I typically get weekend visits while the non-BF retains weekly custody. The routine was altered; I just threw that little dog’s world for a loop!
(I know the answer already, of course they can!, but I Googled it anyway.)
I thought it might be fun to look at the Images tab.
And then there was this, which made me snort my drink through my nose by accident.
Best “can dogs get depressed?” image, though…
I would be depressed, too, Leo, if I had hair like that. I’m just saying. Thank God Kate got the Leo on the right and not the Leo on the left.
What is UP with that fucking CURL on his forehead?
- It’s sad when you go to make a gin & tonic and forget to add the gin. Perhaps a drink is not what you really need right now?
- The Office Mate told me, “Oh, your hair looks good today!” Now I’m wondering how bad it looked all the other days.
- The other dogs in this house have it made because Rainbow (aka the Maxi Pin) always looks guilty, even if he has been lying on his ass on my bed for an hour, sleeping.
- I am deathly afraid of bees. Once, at a gas station, several bees were buzzing around me as I attempted to fill my tank. (Why are bees always at gas stations??) I ran around screaming and flailing my arms in the air. The clerk was nice enough to turn on the intercom so I could hear how hard everyone inside the store was laughing.
- I don’t care how old they are, the Honey Badger and this always make me laugh:
- I seem to attract stalkers for some reason. There was the BF that had me followed (by someone ELSE) in college, a blog-stalker I had years ago, a guy I had ONE date with who sat outside my apartment calling me over and over when I wouldn’t answer the door, girls that want me to be friends with only them, and old men in grocery stores.
- My girl Min Pin lifts her leg to pee. My boy Min Pin squats. Maybe giving him a pink Thunder Shirt isn’t really helping this issue?
- I am one of those annoying people who posts photos of their meals on Facebook. Feel free to hate me now.
- The Office Mate and I went shopping at lunch today. I bought some shoes and totally walked around for 30 minutes complaining about having buyer’s remorse. She told me I could easily return them NOW because we were still in the store. Me: “Fuck that shit, it will pass.”
- Clowns scare the ever-loving SHIT out of me. I hate clowns. Last year, I went on a trip overseas and too late I learned I had booked three nights in a Clown Hotel. WTF?
- Stationing yourself beside the crudite platter at a party kinda negates the healthiness of eating all those veggies when you drown them in ranch dressing.
- Not only do I have a Pizza Ordering Spreadsheet, I also have a budget spreadsheet, a dog medication spreadsheet and a shopping spreadsheet. And I’m not a Numbers Person. I just really ❤ Excel.
- I miss my friend, Dan The Man. He used to leave random, strange voice mails for me when he was still alive. Like “I really, really like David Hasselhoff,” and “Don’t come outside, I’m waiting downstairs to kill you.” It’s hard to find friends like that.
The non-BF is always trying to find a reason for me to stop taking my Crazy Pills. Every ailment I claim to have, he says, “Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.” He will ask if I checked on the side effects, did I talk to my pharmacist, etc. I told the Office Mate today that he does NOT want me to stop taking my Crazy Pills.
I knew she would agree. Before I got on them, I was a Super Bitch. Now I’m Just A Bitch.
So this morning, during our daily commute phone call (my commute is 5 minutes, so really it’s HIS daily commute call), I said my nose was hurting. I think I have been complaining about my nose hurting for about three weeks now.
Him: Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.
Me: Nope. It’s allergies because of this stupid hot weather in Texas. It is a Snot Fest every morning these days.
Him: Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take, and BOOZE.
Me: Nope, booze only intensifies the drowsiness side effect. And I don’t drink while I am operating heavy machinery. I learned my lesson after that forklift incident.
Him: I think you need to talk to your doctor. You’ve been saying your nose hurts for a while now. I think maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.
(Note: The non-BF will never call them by name. I have no idea why. I really should Sharpie “Those Pills I Take” on my bottle.)
Me: No, it isn’t Those Pills I Take. Okay, if I am going to be honest here, I was cleaning my nostril some time back, and I scratched the inside and it hasn’t fully healed yet.
Him: So basically, it’s because you’ve been picking your nose, and all this time you’ve been blaming it on the weather?
I’m so glad he doesn’t get grossed out by stuff like that. Or things like the time my IBS flared up and I shitted (shat?) my shorts. He’s so awesome that way.
My quote up there is from Samantha Jones and I’d post a photo of her, but I can’t find one that isn’t copyrighted (YET), and after hacking my hometown’s Wikipedia page yesterday, posting a copyrighted picture today may very well be pushing it.
I took one of those stupid “Which Sex And The City character are you?” quizzes a long, long time ago, back before the non-BF. Naturally, I scored Samantha. Like there was ever a doubt.
These days, I’m probably more Charlotte (minus the husband and two kids) because, yeah, she shit her pants, too. And I totally have one of the Tiffany & Co. necklaces she was sporting in one episode. Plus, I am sorta classic/preppy in my dress style. And I’m very particular about certain things. Well, most things. Personality-wise, though, I’m a combo of Carrie and Miranda – high maintenance and bitchy. But in a really good way.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I love Web MD and self-diagnosis. As the non-BF said, “Five minutes and an internet connection and you’re a MD.” In all honesty, I’m really healthy (all that clean living I do!) and the only health issue I have that isn’t self-inflicted is allergies. (And IBS, but that might actually just be Booze Shits.) However, everyone I know in the Dallas area has allergies. Our air quality is for shit here.
Still, I’ll get a headache and a pain in my lower leg, look up “pain in head” and “pain in lower leg” and five minutes later, I decide I have tumors in my brain and fibromyalgia. I had a car accident earlier this year, and they did a CT scan because I kept getting dizzy. It was much easier to handle than the MRI was (I crawled out of the tube and had to be talked down from the ledge). The doctor told me he had the results.
Me: It’s a tumor. Do I have tumors? I bet you found a tumor.
Him: (Silence, and a strange look.) No, everything is fine. Your brain is normal.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Him: You seem disappointed that you’re okay.
When I posted on Facebook that my brain was normal, quite a few friends objected. My friends list is a lot lighter now.
I just got my over-sized Miniature Pinscher, Rainbow (aka the Maxi Pin) a Thunder Shirt. Being skeptical, I kept all the packaging and the receipt because I really didn’t think it would work. If it’s on an infomercial late at night, it can’t work, right?
I put that bitch on him and went to get my keys, walked outside the front door, closed it and used the clicker to make my car honk. Normally, the little shit gets all frantic and starts barking if I even appear to be leaving the house. (Applying perfume is the worst, since dogs have a strong sense of smell. He knows that I’m leaving because if I am staying home, I don’t really care whether or not I am stinky.)
Not a sound. Total silence. He did run to the door, though.
Since then, I’ve done it a few more times. Every time, he doesn’t bark. I am going to send those Thunder Shirt People a cookie bouquet and pledge my first-born to them.
I think 17 times is overkill, though. It works, bitch. Just leave it alone already.