Fatty Brain Is Totally The Boss Of Me

I can't find my bathroom scale.

When we moved, it got relocated to some box, somewhere, and has disappeared into the abyss that is all the crap I have in storage and/or haven't unpacked.  And it's diving me NUTS.

I am a scale addict.  In fact, I'm a scale WHORE.  I haven't weighed myself in over a month and I have to say, it's stressing me out so badly that I may  need valium just to cope with the withdrawals.  Or Xanax.  Or copious amounts of alcohol.

I need my scale to let me know how I feel each day.  

Oh, shut up.  You don't know what you're talking about.

I've been changing my diet and eating super healthily and wouldn't you  know it, my pants are much looser and I don't feel like my head is being swallowed by my boobs.

Like this.

But without  my scale, these things could literally mean nothing.  Or something.

I mean, it could actually mean several things:

1.  That I got so incredibly fat that my pants stretched out and now feel loose, even right after I wash them.  (Most likely scenario.)

My house, all day, every day.  BYOFP.  (Bring Your Own Fat Pants.)  

2.  That it's all an illusion and my pants aren't actually looser, it's just that I've just lost all the feeling in my lower extremities due to their extreme tightness so they FEEL looser.  

3.  I actually HAVE lost weight, but ONLY in my boobs, which is why I don't feel like they're choking me to death anymore and the loose pants are more of an indication of shoddy workmanship than weight loss.  (Another likely scenario.  Though usually when I lose weight, my head gets smaller before anything else does so I walk around looking like Zippy Pinhead.  Tragic but True.)

4.  There's also a slight possibility that I'm full of shit and totally lying to myself about the alleged looseness of my pants, which may or may not be every bit as tight as they've always been.  

Why no, not at all... Your fat ass looks amazing!!

One of my biggest fears is the dreaded Putting On Of The Pants every morning.  Seriously.  When I get dressed in the morning, I ALWAYS have an "oh shit what if I fattened up like a freaking blowfish last night while I was asleep and now my pants won't fit and I will have nothing to wear and life as I know it will cease to exist and I will become the mother in What's Eating Gilbert Grape and they'll have to reinforce the floor boards under my chair so that the house doesn't cave in under my weight" moment.  Always.  I live in fear of not being able to hike them up over my thighs or my ass or God only knows what other lumpy, bumpy anomaly that might appear without warning on my body and cause me to be suddenly, tragically, Too Fat For Real Pants.  

I HATE when that happens.

On one hand, it's a sad commentary on how body image has totally warped my life.  I know it's a problem for me... and yes, I realize how sad and unfortunate that is.  I also know the psychological whys and wherefores that created this monster in my brain that constantly tells me that my happiness and self-worth totally and completely depend on what number appears on the scale on any given day.

I was bulemic in high school, and have never had a week, or even a day, that I'm not constantly aware of how much I weigh.  I'm always worried that I won't fit in a chair, or a booth, or an airplane seat, or a car, or the world... It's never rational but it's always there, in my head, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, like, "Hey fatty... sure that sidewalk is wide enough for you?  Are you going to fit through those double doors?  What if they find out tomorrow that water actually has more calories than any other substance on earth and you're here guzzling it like you're dying of thirst?  What then, Chunky?  What then??  Sure, have a big ol' salad for lunch... but remember... COWS EAT GRASS, DANIELLE!!  LOOK AT THEM!"

I doubt it will ever go away, but I do have hope that come a certain age, I'll just say "fuck it all" and start wearing whatever the hell I feel like wearing and screw anyone who doesn't like it.  I have fabulous visions of myself at 80 cruising along in my motorized scooter eating a Big Mac and wearing hot pants and a halter top, boobs and belly flapping in the breeze...

I'm sexy and I know it...

I want to embrace that NOW.  I want to be all, "Eff you, scale... I don't need you to feel fabulous!" and then wind up in an expose' of People of Walmart.  

I'm sexy... they hatin'...

Okay, scratch that.

I want to be all, "Eff you, scale... I don't need you to feel fabulous!" and then NOT wind up in an expose' of People of Walmart.

I'm sexy... they hatin'...

The obvious solution, of course, would be to go buy a new scale.  But that brings up a whole different list of problems.

For example:

1.  What if my old scale was 50 lbs off and I actually weigh even more than I thought I did?

2.  What if...

Okay, so actually it's just the one problem.  But it's a biggy.

All that's left for me to do is face my Fear of Pants, put on a pair, and pray that they go on, up, and over.

Oh, thank God... THEY FIT!!!

Eensy, teensy, puny little blog posting

UPDATE:  Javi had FIFTEEN kidney stones removed from his bladder, kidneys, and urethra.  He made it through surgery and is home now.  He still can't walk, so he has an appointment in two weeks for acupuncture, but the stones are gone and he is on the mend.  Thank you so much for all the good thoughts, well wishes, happy dances (Grammy) and prayers!!


I just took my little Javi dog to the vet for surgery.  He will need to stay over night and actually won't be allowed to come home until he pees.

Which reminds me a lot of childbirth, somehow.  I remember being told after Baby Numero Uno (hereby forever known as "Shea") that I had to "urinate and have a bowel movement" before they'd let me go home.

I lied like a rug just to get my sore and sorry ass out of there.  After being sliced from stem to stern and having a baby ripped from my loins, I made a promise to myself to never poop again.  I did not share that information with the nurse.  I just said, "Oh yeah... I totally pooped.  Totally.  Now, give me my baby and I'll be on my way."

Javi may not have that luxury.  He's probably going to have to show the evidence.  But he's a smart little doggy so he'll probably spill his water and say, "See?  Pee.  Right there.  Now call my mom."

I'm trying super hard to laugh this morning.  In reality, I'm scraping the funny off the bottom of my shoe, like a sticky piece of something that you're hoping is gum but also could potentially be dog poop.  

We took Javi in to the vet this morning and after I left him there, the vet called to tell me that he might not be well enough to do the surgery.

My choices were:  

1.  Go ahead with the surgery, but he might make not make it through.

2.  Don't do the surgery, but he will suffer and die.

The vet wasn't sure which one I'd want to go with.

Also, even if the surgery is successful and he comes out fine at the other end, he might not ever walk again.

They forgot to tell me that in person.  MUCH better to hear it over the phone, after they told me that the kidney obstruction was the reason he wasn't walking in the first place.

But have you ever been so worried and so upset that you just sat there and nodded your head, even though what you were being told made NO sense and completely contradicted everything that was said to you previously?

That's what I did this morning.  I nodded and "uh huh"'d and agreed and smiled stupidly and kissed my precious doggy good-bye, then got in my car and bawled all the way home.

But enough of that.

I'm going to share a Jessie story (my 9 year old disabled niece).  No one makes me laugh like she does. NO one.  

Last night we had pizza for dinner from Pizza Hut.  Dan and I went to pick it up without telling the kiddos and when we came home and sat down for dinner, Jessie looked at the pizza boxes and said, 

"What's that?"

Me:  "What does it look like?"

Jessie:  "Pizza Hut."

Me:  "So what is it?"

Jessie:  "I don't know..."

We had gotten half pepperoni and half cheese for Tori and Jessie, because one likes pepperoni and the other doesn't.  Usually (always) the one that doesn't like pepperoni is told to pick it off.

So when I flipped the lid of the box and displayed a magical pizza that was half and half, Jessie gasped in surprise and delight and clapped her hands.

"Aunt Dani!" she squealed, "HOW DID YOU DO THAT?"

I'm the bomb, y'all.

I.  Am.  The.  Bomb.

Motherfucker, I'm AWESOME.

That, in and of itself, is what will make me smile today.

A  9 year old thinks I can move mountains, change the world, and create a pizza that only has pepperoni on one half.

I am Legend.

Of Maury Povich, Ricki Lake, Nancy Grace, and Empty Heads

It was with great sadness that I discovered that Maury is no longer available for my viewing pleasure. 

It is also with great sadness that I discovered that Ricki Lake has a new talk show.

And that her talk show replaced Maury.

Okay, here's the unvarnished truth:

I'm not a Ricki Lake fan.

When I look at her, I seriously think she needs to be fat.  

Not in a mean way, but in an "Aren't you supposed to be fat?" way.

And when she talks about sex, I get that same uncomfortable feeling I get when my mother says the word "nipple" or "vagina."   (Which she's been doing with increasing regularity lately, since she's getting older and the body parts of her friends are beginning to come under scrutiny, in a medical way, of course.  One of her friends had a hysterectomy recently and my mother knew wayyyyyy too many details about the surgery.  It took everything I have in me not to stick my fingers in my ears and sing the "la la" song while she was giving me a second by second account of the entire procedure.  I'm all, "Okay, I get it... she has a vagina.  You have a vagina.  You know how to say "vagina."  How's the weather?")

I will pay you a million dollars if you stop saying the word "vagina."

Anyway, back to Ricki Lake.

Bottom line:  She's no Maury.

Topics on Maury:

I HATE when that happens!

This is good tv, y'all.

Top THAT, Ricki.

She's so busy being sympathetic to underdogs that she doesn't have time to find out who the Daddy is.  

She doesn't even have a lie detector technician on her payroll.  

What's up with THAT, Ricki??

You want to stop bullying?  Stand in line... so does everyone else.

You sympathize with gay teens?  Uh huh... and?  

You manage to locate a real 40 year old virgin?  High 5, babe... are you going to help her get laid?  No?  Then I don't care.

Sex therapy?  SOOOooo 1970s.

Did you find a 14 year old that had sex for a hair weave?  Of course you didn't... because you aren't Maury.

So now I have to watch Divorce Court at 10 in the morning because dammit, if I'm going to sit down for an hour and watch television, I want it to be meaningful.   

Apropos of nothing, I got totally distracted by this picture of Nancy Grace.  I wasn't even looking for it... it just happened randomly.    

Wow.  I just totally got caught in an endless loop of bad Nancy Grace photos.  I want to handcuff her to a salon chair and fix her eyebrows and do something different with her hair.  She looks like a pissed off lhasa apso.

Right??!

(Sorry... I went off on a tangent.  Mea culpa.)

So yeah... I don't want to watch The View.  Or The Talk.  Or The Whatever, featuring a multi-racial group of women discussing avant gard topics.  I have my own girlfriends I can chat with, thank you.  

Do you know what I don't have?  

I don't have any friends who don't know who their baby daddy is.

I don't have any friends who need a lie detector to tell them if their man is sleeping with their mama.

I don't have any friends whose husbands are accusing them of prostitution or having sex for a double cheeseburger or a free pizza.

I need that in my life, dammit!!!

I NEED MAURY!!!

Maury provides a distraction I occasionally need in my life.  I like knowing that out there somewhere are people with problems so ridiculous and so bizarre that my own First World problems look positively mundane.  I mean, yes, I need a job, but I don't need to prove to anyone who the father of my children is.

My husband has Asperger's and occasionally drives me up a freaking wall but he's never accused me of being a prostitute or having sex for a pizza.  And if he's 20 minutes late I'm not concerned that he's got a side job as a pimp after hours.

And yeah, I need to lose weight.  Dammitall that I have too much to eat.

Maury serves a dual purpose:  Makes me feel better about my life, gives me golden opportunity to mock the lives of other people.

Can Ricki Lake do that?

I think not.

At first glance I thought this said "I don't always have room in my lake..." and it struck me as hilarious.  Now, not so much.  But since I'd already uploaded it and put it on my page, I decided to just go ahead and leave it there.  Please pretend it says "Lake" and then think of Ricki Lake.  MUCH funnier that way.

*Sidebar:

This is what the inside of my head looks like right now:

Duhherrrrr....

I haven't had much sleep because I'm worried sick about my little Javi doggy.  He lost use of his hind legs last weekend and after taking him to the vet and being told that he has Renal Acidosis and is in the final stages before kidney failure and having to wait until Monday for his surgery, I've been spending a lot of time lying awake at night and making sure he's still alive.  I won't go in to the trouble we've had trying to even get a vet to see him because we're new to the area and are "non-clients."  Suffice it to say I feel helpless and angry and sad.  We've been trickling water down his little throat (he weighs 5 lbs) and giving him pain meds and holding him and loving him and treasuring his furry Javi-ness, but we can't seem to do anything to make sure he doesn't die or that he isn't suffering. 

It's breaking my heart.

Even Maisy, the biggest attention hog in the world, is backing off while we give Javi love.  She's been gentle and careful with him because he can't stand up and will even back off and wait her turn when I try to tempt him with a treat.  

Bottom line:  All the funny in my head is temporarily on hiatus.

Let me end with this:

If you remember on Monday, please think positive thoughts.

Please keep a good thought for a precious little black dog.  

xoxo