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untitledlife



One girl's struggle to escape her fat pants.



Updated: 2017-04-19T13:29:35Z

 



An update of sorts.

2008-04-08T02:43:41Z

So I guess the writing has been a little spotty for the past year. What can I say. I’m kind of an all-or-nothing girl, which is something I need to change — for a lot of reasons (food being one of them). It’s good for my well-being to write. So I’m going to write when … Continue reading An update of sorts.

So I guess the writing has been a little spotty for the past year. What can I say. I’m kind of an all-or-nothing girl, which is something I need to change — for a lot of reasons (food being one of them). It’s good for my well-being to write. So I’m going to write when I can. That may mean once a week… or once every three weeks. We’ll see. Seeing that some of you are still out there, waiting for some sign of untitledlife is humbling as well. I am amazed that anyone is still out there. So thanks for pulling me back into the fray.

I have a lot to update you on. Let’s see. I’ve lost 108 pounds and now weigh 255 pounds. It’s a lot, but it could be more. That makes me a size 22, and a 20 sometimes. I’m tall and curvy, so I think it looks better than it sounds. I think. I’ll post some pictures here soon. I’m just happy to not be the fattest person in the room anymore. There I go with my lofty goals. But really, I’m quite happy with my weight loss. I hope it continues. I’ll get into it more in a future post.

We’re also trying to get pregnant, but it’s not going so well. My eggs are follicly challenged. Or follicly collicky, as I like to say. I have PCOS, so I have plenty of eggs, but they’re all duds. I’m taking Metformin to control the cysts, and I’ll start Clomid next month. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to shots, with a dash of intra-uterine insemination thrown in for kicks. After all, it’s not a party until someone jacks off in the closet. In a sterile specimen container. With four nurses in latex gloves outside the door. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to in-vitro. Good times. Expensive times.

I get a little crazy about this whole infertility thing. It really pisses me off that I have no control over this. Surely there must be something I can do to make this happen. I have way too much love for one child to bear. I can’t possibly expect untitledson to shoulder all these kisses, hugs and ear nibbles. They will destroy him, or at the very least, turn him into one of those boys who sits home with his mother to watch “Dancing with the Stars” and knit cat berets. The boy needs a relief pitcher. Or someone smaller and weaker than him to endure the occasional noogie. And if mommy has to endure the bi-weekly transvaginal ultrasound to make it happen, so be it.




The definition of fierce.

2008-03-19T13:50:26Z

So I haven’t posted in months. Well, if anyone is out there, you shall be rewarded with this. Now I know what untitledhusband and I will be wearing for Halloween this year. I wonder how he’ll feel about dropping from the ceiling like that. Thanks to Perez Hilton for posting this.

So I haven’t posted in months. Well, if anyone is out there, you shall be rewarded with this.

Now I know what untitledhusband and I will be wearing for Halloween this year. I wonder how he’ll feel about dropping from the ceiling like that.

Thanks to Perez Hilton for posting this.




My mother, the twat.

2008-03-19T04:16:40Z

All of you with kids – does your mother charge you for babysitting? I’m not talking regular sitting, because that, in my mind, would call for some remuneration. I’m talking once-in-a-blue-moon sitting. In fact, this is only the second time we’ve ever asked untitledmother to watch untitledson in all of his four years. I’ve got to ask, because untitledmother recently charged me $100 for watching untitledson for one week. It was during a Montessori sabbatical, and the sitter we had lined up bailed at the last minute. We were in a major bind.

All of you with kids – does your mother charge you for babysitting?

I’m not talking regular sitting, because that, in my mind, would call for some remuneration. I’m talking once-in-a-blue-moon sitting. In fact, this is only the second time we’ve ever asked untitledmother to watch untitledson in all of his four years. I’ve got to ask, because untitledmother recently charged me $100 for watching untitledson for one week. It was during a Montessori sabbatical, and the sitter we had lined up bailed at the last minute. We were in a major bind.

So I called untitledmother about two weeks prior and asked her to come down for a week and watch him. “I can even pay you,” I said, being what I thought was gracious and now know was just plain foolish. “Yes, I can do that. But I WILL need to get paid, since I am taking some days off work.” “That’s fine,” I said, since I had no other options. I mean, she wouldn’t actually follow through and demand payment, would she? I thought that perhaps after spending some time with her untitledson, she’d melt a bit and see that taking money for watching one’s own grandchild would be a bit callous. I was wrong. She cashed that check faster than Larry Birkhead.

A little context here – two weeks after watching untitledson, I took off four days of work to stay with her during her bariatric surgery. During this time, I incurred numerous expenses, including about $100 in gas and $60 in meals. This doesn’t even count the pain and suffering I endured while watching her sleep off the anesthesia (which was like watching an old troll suffocating on her own neck fat).

During the hospital stay, I had to beg her to spring for my motel room (she was going to make me sleep in a hospital recliner, until hospital staff informed her that isn’t appropriate). Did I ask for reimbursement for my meals and parking and gas? No. Did she even offer reimbursement for these things? No. So how can she charge me for watching untitledson, knowing that in two weeks, I was going to take four vacation days and numerous hits to the pocketbook to take care of her?

What a twat.What makes me fume even more is that every year, she watches her granddaughter (my brother’s daughter) for one week during the summer. She takes about three days off work, and pays daycare for the other days. Total cost to my brother = $0. Why does she charge me for sitting, but not him?

I’d bring up all this fuckery to her, but she has a way of justifying everything in her own mind. It’s the same thing that makes her quietly retreat when it comes time to pay for dinner. She’ll weakly say, “Oh, let me get that…” as I pick up the bill, and drop her hand back to her lap before I can even respond.I believe in karma, in so much that it is my karmic responsibility to usher justice to her doorstep. I’d love to recoup my $100 (and the $160 she owes me for the gas and meal expenses I incurred during her surgery stay). But teaching her a lesson is most important here.

Oh, did I mention that I have her credit card info written down here in my dayplanner? Seriously, I do. Half-tempted to publish it right here and let you guys have it at.




Easter Monday.

2007-09-17T18:55:13Z

I am not dead. Life’s just gotten away from me here… but I promise I’m still around. I am working on a longer post for tomorrow, but until then, here’s a teaser of what’s up: I am fine (now down to 267 pounds, bitches). I am wearing size 22 pants (used to wear size 34). … Continue reading Easter Monday.

I am not dead. Life’s just gotten away from me here… but I promise I’m still around. I am working on a longer post for tomorrow, but until then, here’s a teaser of what’s up:

I am fine (now down to 267 pounds, bitches).

I am wearing size 22 pants (used to wear size 34).

untitledmother has now had the surgery too (another story altogether).

untitledmother recently charged me $100 to babysit untitledson for one week (don’t even get me started, OK now I’ve started myself – post forthcoming).

untitledhusband has been wicked busy with freelance work (thus my absence, being as shit and household chores run downhill).

I just dropped $600 on Pottery Barn bedding (what the hell is WRONG with me?).

I am starting up a charity fund (to pay off my Pottery Barn bedding).

I’ve been listening to Kanye’s new album and loving it.




Do these shorts hide my thunder?

2007-07-20T02:16:49Z

I have also been surprised at how I have taken to exercise. I work out 4-5 days each week, doing 32 minutes on the elliptical, and about 15-20 minutes of weights. It's not a leisurely workout, with me reading Good Housekeeping or something. I really get after it. The proof is in my hair. When I return to work after my lunchtime workout, I look like a truckstop whore who bathes in a bathroom sink. untitledhusband would say that's completely unrelated to my workout, bless his heart. Gosh, I feel a tad sheepish even posting, it’s been so damn long. Perhaps it would be less awkward if I just faded away into blog oblivion. Work’s been a shitstorm as of late, and I barely have time for my 3 o’clock popcorn. Blasphemy. Don’t know if I’m looking any smaller, but I thought I’d flop it out on the table for you all to see anyway. Let’s see, as of this morning, I have lost a total of 85 pounds (65 since day of surgery). I am size 24/26 now, which means not only can I shop in Lane Bryant. I’m not even the biggest size in Lane Bryant. (If you feel the tremor where you’re at, that’s me shaking my bony ass). Only 65 pounds, and you had surgery five months ago? Well, yes. Turns out I’m a slow loser. There are these old women on www.obesityhelp.com that have lost 20 pounds more than me at this point, and they don’t even exercise. Argggh! It’s kind of a bummer, but oh well. I have to stay focused on the big picture. I weigh 85 pounds less than last summer. Even if I didn’t lose another pound, it would’ve been worth it. Last month, I lost like one or two pounds. Talk about a mindfuck. Meanwhile, I lost two inches from my waist. Anyone who diets has to know this happens. Now I’m losing again, but the inches are staying stable. The body is a fucked up temple filled with evil gnomes. The kind that make you weigh 280 this hour, and 276 next hour. I mean, seriously. There’s just no excuse for those shenanigans. After doing a little research, I found out that the main reason that I am a slow loser is that my surgeon bypasses less intestine (like 105 cm). The benefit is that I have fewer food intolerances and nutrient malabsorption issues. In other words, I won’t be sucking up what’s left of my bones with a Dustbuster when I’m 50. The drawback — the weight comes off slower. At the end of year one, we all supposedly even out. The hardest part right now? I’d say the eating. If I eat even a few bites past my limit, I am very uncomfortable. To the point where it just feels better to throw up. Don’t worry – there’s no looming bulimia here. If I was capable of bulimia, I would’ve fully embraced it and I wouldn’t have needed surgery. There’s no pattern as to what makes me sick. I’ve thrown up on a small quantity of light microwave popcorn (which I’ve eaten many times before and many times after without consequence). I’ve also thrown up on, duh, a Cadbury egg (bock bock UGGGGGGGGH), a too-big protein bar (maltitol sweetener), and a Smart Ones fettucine and broccoli meal. Meanwhile, I have tolerated chips and queso and M&Ms (again, small quantities and not very often). So like I said, no rhyme or reason. I just have to come to terms with the fact that every now and then, I will hurl. But again — it’s worth it. The most unexpected part? Ah, there are many. I was surprised at how quickly I began to feel better. After 20 pounds lost, I had exponentially more energy. My blood pressure had dropped considerably as well. My mental state, which I did not realize was suffering, has also improved. When you feel good and look good (comparitively), everything just seems sunnier. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday seem more like Friday, if you know what I mean. I have also been surprised at how I have taken to exercise. I work out 4-5 days each week, [...]



The joy of socks.

2017-04-19T13:29:35Z

This revelation has me awaiting the return of thigh-highs -- socks that would make even the thinnest of legs look like paunchy, cottony Greek columns. Socks that could double as Wilt Chamberlin's sleeping bag. They would protect my inner thighs from the inevitable chafe of my early morning spins on the elliptical. I would gladly rock the look of the fat chick from Meatballs if it meant I could forego the Gold Bond for just one summer. But being an overweight 36 year-old from the Midwest, I fear my vision might be misinterpreted as high-functioning autism or worse yet, fashion ignorance.

Last weekend during a shopping-induced frenzy, untitledhusband and I dropped $473 at the mall. We don’t know how it happened. We went there to buy me a few new bras. My old ones have gotten a bit big, and were making my girls looking less like melons and more like two zucchinis. I also got some running shoes, workout clothes and socks, which turned out to be the hardest decision of the day.

So I walk into Lady Footlocker and drop the bomb. “I’m going to start running, so I need some running shoes and socks.” It can’t be everday that a girl of my size walks in with this kind of optimism, but the sales clerk held it together regardless. Once she recovered, she hooked me up with the most comfortable shoes I have ever worn outside of my Crocs, which made me question the cartel responsible for withholding these babies from the general non-exercising population. Must one run (or even leave the couch for that matter) to experience such comfort? Blasphemy.

After overcoming the orgasm induced by said shoes, I headed towards the large barrel filled with white athletic socks. “Low-rise or mid-rise?” she asked. I must’ve stood there for five minutes, trying to decide. This was a conundrum, for I am from the generation that has seen every sock trend imaginable. I have clear memories of wearing purple and gold knee-shooters while playing basketball in junior high. Somewhere between then and high school, socks became scrunched (all the better to showcase those pegged jeans). Now, it seems we have the invisi-sock. Unless there is a market for hosiery that only covers ones toenails, there is nowhere to go but up.

This revelation has me awaiting the return of thigh-highs — socks that would make even the thinnest of legs look like paunchy, cottony Greek columns. Socks that could double as Wilt Chamberlin’s sleeping bag. They would protect my inner thighs from the inevitable chafe of my early morning spins on the elliptical. I would gladly rock the look of the fat chick from Meatballs if it meant I could forego the Gold Bond for just one summer. But being an overweight 36 year-old from the Midwest, I fear my vision might be misinterpreted as high-functioning autism or worse yet, fashion ignorance.

So until the sock apocalypse arrives, it looks like I will be wearing the shorties. Every other part of my body is well-covered, but my ankles are out there, naked and free, spotlighting vein patterns that only moms and injured gymnasts have. I have one body part free from jiggle and stretch marks, and by god, I ought to flaunt it.




Open wounds.

2007-06-13T21:08:18Z

When we go to untitledson’s soccer games, I can feel his apprehension when he realizes that he knows nothing about sports. I see how he avoids getting oil changes on his car. Talking to the mechanic reminds him just how little he knows about things that a father teaches a son. When he says that he is so over his dad, I nod and smile, knowing that being fatherless has damaged him in ways he can neither comprehend nor admit.

I think perhaps the shittiest thing about Father’s Day is having to pick out a card for untitledhusband’s dad. He left his family and the state when untitledhusband was 8, so he could shack up with his girlfriend. Since he paid his child support, his parental responsibilities were fulfilled.

untitledhusband has been cleaning up the mess ever since. After the divorce, he watched on as his already-thin mother lost 10, 20, 30 pounds seemingly overnight. She’d melt into her bed and quietly cry and pray, cry and pray. It wasn’t quiet enough, for he’d always hear, doing whatever he could to keep his younger brother from hearing. He’d listen on and wish that he could superglue her back together. She’d bake cookies, fold laundry and pour cherry Kool-Aid into the Flintstones jelly glasses for him and all his friends, as if this whole mess had never happened.

The meager paycheck of a single mother couldn’t support a mortgage, so they moved around from rental house to rental house. For a short time, they lived with Grandma and Grandpa. They’d settle in, and soon find themselves displaced when a whole family who could make a house payment moved in. Every box that was packed and unpacked was a crude reminder of everything his father took with him when he left.

He had a nervous breakdown after his dad split. Being man of the house before you’ve even hit puberty will do that to you. He’d lose his shit every time his mother left the house or deviated from her daily routine. His mother stopped at the grocery store for a few mintues after work one evening, and came home to find her oldest son hysterical, thinking she had been in a car accident. During his next visit, his father grabbed him by the shoulders, confronted him about the child psychologist bills and declared that he was perfectly fine. And so that was that.

Now, I watch on as untitlehusband takes his father’s phone calls on holidays and yes, Father’s Day. It’s always less like a conversation, and more like a job interview. The dialogue is punctuated with nervous laughter and obligatory ice breakers. “So how is the pond coming along?” “I hear you’ve had no rain down there.” As much as he says that he couldn’t care less about his father, I can see just how much he does.

No matter how old he gets, untitledhusband will always be this nervous, unsteady boy around strong older men like his father, whether it’s his boss or the waiter at Friday’s. When we go to untitledson’s soccer games, I can feel his apprehension when he realizes that he knows nothing about sports. I see how he avoids getting oil changes on his car. Talking to the mechanic reminds him just how little he knows about things that a father teaches a son. When he says that he is so over his dad, I nod and smile, knowing that being fatherless has damaged him in ways he can neither comprehend nor admit.

Deep down, I think untitlehusband feels that if only his father had loved him more, he might have stayed. And so he will forever and always be trying to prove himself to a man who didn’t deserve his love in the first place. Unfortunately, Hallmark just doesn’t have a Father’s Day card for that.




Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?

2008-03-21T17:58:30Z

Now that he’s not running for re-election, it is a free-for-all at the pump. Bill never would’ve let this happen. Bill would’ve had Ann Coulter personally siphon every last vehicle in Dubai with her mouth before letting gas prices get this high (and she would’ve liked it).

Seen at work parking ramp – a white Hummer (one of the really big ones) with the following bumper sticker: Got freedom? Thank a solider!

Son, I think your bumper sticker would carry a bit more clout if you were driving something that got more than five miles to the gallon. It’s amazing to me how many people out there don’t connect our excessive gas usage with the sacrifice our soliders are making.

I, too, currently drive an earth-fucking Jeep (and we plan to replace it with a hybrid or something smaller as soon as the funds avail themselves). I would be embarrassed to place a yellow ribbon or American flag on my vehicle right now, knowing damn well that if the Middle East didn’t have oil, we wouldn’t be over there.

I also think that it’s no coinkydink that we are paying $3.25 for a gallon of gas, and our president’s family business IS the oil business. I imagine a little switch under his Oval Office desk. Memorial Day weekend, with no choice but to drive long distances? ON. Approval rating just hit an all-time low? OFF.

Now that he’s not running for re-election, it is a free-for-all at the pump. Bill never would’ve let this happen. Bill would’ve had Ann Coulter personally siphon every last vehicle in Dubai with her mouth before letting gas prices get this high (and she would’ve liked it).

On a related note, have you ever seen anyone other that short balding middle-aged white men driving Hummers? Dude, it would be much more cost-effective to forego the Hummer and simply wear a shirt that says, “My mind is not the only thing that is small.”




Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

2008-03-21T17:59:23Z

Did y'all hear that the Duggars are pregnant again -- with their 17th child? Discuss.

Did y’all hear that the Duggars are pregnant again — with their 17th child? Discuss.




Mother of the year.

2008-03-21T18:00:45Z

“You must, under NO circumstances, EVER share this with anyone. ANYONE. Especially vindictive and jealous untitledsister-in-law. If you ever do tell, know that I will confiscate all those bottles of unused fat burning pills of yours – the ones you spent my college fund on – crush them and make you snort them like Keith Richards at his father’s funeral. Do you understand? I think we’re long overdue for a flaming post about untitledmother. She makes it so easy, continually providing material for me. How thoughtful of her. This past week, she did something that was by far the most hurtful and infuriating thing she has ever done. For an entire year before I had my weight loss surgery, I contemplated whether or not I should tell her about it. She is notorious for not being able to keep a secret. Not sure whether it’s due to laziness, vindictiveness or stupidity (methinks it’s a combination). I don’t tell her a whole lot anymore, for I clearly remember when she told everyone I was pregnant with untitledson – AFTER I told her not to tell (it was five weeks out, and I had just fallen down a flight of stairs and as a result, had to have ankle surgery). I told her not to tell anyone – I just wasn’t ready to share, and it was quite risky, given what I had just gone through. Of course, she told. Fucking whore. I mean, is nothing sacred? So this time around, I thought for an entire year about whether I should share my weight loss surgery with her. For 11.5 months, I decided that no, she should not know. She is not to be trusted. As surgery neared, I thought, “What if something happens to me? She needs to know. What kind of child would not tell her mother that she was about to undergo major surgery?” I also thought how heartbroken I’d be if my own child could not trust me with such news. If untitledson had kept this from me, wouldn’t that mean that I had pretty much failed as a mother? I think so. So I took a leap of faith. I put my balls in the blender. But first, I swore her to secrecy. I must’ve prepped her for 10 minutes before telling her. “You must, under NO circumstances, EVER share this with anyone. ANYONE. Especially vindictive and jealous untitledsister-in-law. If you ever do tell, know that I will confiscate all those bottles of unused fat burning pills of yours – the ones you spent my college fund on – crush them and make you snort them like Keith Richards at his father’s funeral. Do you understand? DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?” She said yes, of course. OF COURSE SHE COULD KEEP A SECRET. Then I told her what I had told only five other people in my life (untitledhusband, boss, untitledmother-in-law, and untitledbrother-in-law and wife). These other people, I trust completely. Every conversation about the surgery since then, I have told her, “Remember, you cannot tell anyone. Even if they wedge your maxed-out credit cards under your toenails.” Yes yes, she assured me. She would under no circumstances tell. So here we are, three months later. And guess what – she has told. Not just anyone – untitledsister-in-law. The one person who most did not need to know. She left me a voicemail about it on Mother’s Day (after I had traveled home for the weekend, given her a gift, and paid for her lunch, no less). “I screwed up! I told her about your surgery. It just slipped!” Notice there was no apology in there. I’ve spent the last week thinking about how I want to deal with this. I have not talked to her yet (we normally talk at least every other day). I am upset that she told, but I am more upset that she has showed zero contrition for her actions. No apology note. No flowers. Nothing. What kind of mother does this to her child? She knew how serious this was to me. How d[...]