I’ve been doing a lot of Deep Thinking, which is not easy for someone like me. Even if gnomes hadn’t absconded with my brain and eaten it slathered with ice cream and sprinkles, I think the three children and chronic migraines would have done a number on it. (I strongly feel that gnomes have a sweet tooth. That is neither here nor there.)

I think that I have part of A Plan worked out, and I’ll tell you a bit more about it tomorrow.

I haven’t managed to accomplish much this week beyond “drink my weight in coffee,” which, if you knew what I weighed, you’d be a step ahead of me, because I don’t like to weigh myself.

I know you’re supposed to watch “trends over time,” and “not get bogged down in the details,” but that’s a steaming pile of bullshit. I’ve gained (and lost) 60-90 pounds with each of my three babies and I’m telling you, Pranksters, I get bogged down in the details every. fucking. time.

I’ll start on a diet, right? And because I’ve got a Glandular Condition (read: hypothyroidism) and, like I’ve previously stated, I’ve gained and lost a metric fuckton of weight with each of my babies, I know how to do it properly. If you want to lose weight, it’s simple: eat less crap, move your ass.

So I get all EYE OF THE TIGER for Week One. I run to the grocery store and stock up on egg whites and skim milk and edamame and yogurt I feel all smugly superior as I DELIBERATELY don’t buy any Uncrustables or Captain Crunch. I may even sneer in their general direction.

Because I WIN.

Instead of lazily refreshing The Twitter and my email all day while popping Junior Mints into my mouth, I get up off my ass and I vacuum. Snappily. I pump my three pound weights and I’m all, LOOKIT ME GETTING INTO SHAPE. I’M A WINNER, BITCHES. I eat eggs and drink protein shakes and I scoff at junk food. I’m SO OVER EATING JUNK FOOD BECAUSE I WIN AT LIFE. Painstakingly I document every single calorie I put into my body.

I spend hours thinking about how many calories toothpaste has. I buy new running shoes and a new sports bra because, well, I’M A FITNESS GURU NOW, Y’ALL. In the few moments I spend online, I research the best vitamins and herbal supplements for weight loss.

I practically skip to my first weigh-in, flexing my muscles, convinced that I’ve lost twenty pounds. My clothes fit better. I look Dead Sexy. I’m going to be in a bikini in NO TIME.

I’M A WINNER.

Smugly, I look at my reflection in the mirror as I wait for the scale to calculate how awesome I am. I wonder if I can, perhaps, develop a scale to measure awesomeness. I bet my Pranksters can help with that. They’re awesome. Like me. WHO IS AWESOME.

Blink, blink, blink goes the number.

It stops blinking.

I’ve gained three pounds.

Um.

What?

Huh?

I’M A FITNESS GURU. I EVEN BOUGHT RUNNING SHOES AND EVERYTHING. HOW COULD I HAVE GAINED WEIGHT WHEN I AM A FITNESS MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE?

It’s clear that my scale is broken. That’s the only explanation.

I test that theory by recruiting one of my children, the nine-year old, who can vividly recall what the scale had said twenty minutes before, and twenty minutes before that. He’d been weighing himself all week. Ah-HA! My inner Sherlock Holmes cried. It was clear to me that he had broken it.

Blink, blink, blink, the scale flashed.

60.8 pounds.

Exactly the same, he said happily, scampering off, leaving my crushed ego in his wake.

Well, I reasoned, standing there in the bathroom, my self-esteem plummeting, I was probably getting my period. I hadn’t looked at a calendar or anything, but it was probably just period bloat. Not that I normally turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow man when I was surfing the crimson wave, but still. THIS TIME IT HAD TO BE.

Except no. When I thought about it, I realized that it was the middle of my cycle.

Okay, so maybe I had to poo. That had to be it! But just as I was comforting myself, I remembered that I’d had Chipotle hot sauce the day before and the lining of my colon had been stripped bare.

Well, uh, HM, I stood in the bathroom thinking: I probably should try and pee. Maybe it was all that Diet Coke I’d had to drink the day before. I pushed on my bladder with both hands, willing my kidneys to work harder, faster. After a couple minutes, I felt like I’d gotten rid of every ounce of extra liquid in my body. Hell, I probably looked all shriveled up and shit, like a particularly large and pasty raisin.

I got back on the scale. That had to be at LEAST six pounds…right?

Blink, blink, blink.

[exactly the same number]

How the hell was that even possible?

Didn’t the scale KNOW that I was on a DIET?

I flounce off to the computer to order a diet book. Because NOTHING scares a scale into moving the proper direction (down) more than a diet book. Also: I’m a FITNESS GURU. I’m going to MAKE IT. I’m a WINNER. My resolve is strengthened!

Week Two:

I drink lemon water the WHOLE NIGHT BEFORE my weigh-in to make sure that I’m not retaining any water. I’m so dehydrated by the time I wake up that my tongue is actually stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’d normally guzzle some coffee to unstick it, but I’m ready to get on the scale. I’M A WINNER.

I’ve lost two pounds! YAY!

Wait. That’s still a pound heavier than when I’d started this stupid diet. Um. That’s not so Winning-y.

I start trolling for diet advice and have found a mysterious quote that pops up over and over: “Remember, muscle weighs more than fat!!!” I spend an inordinate time wondering how the hell that makes any sense. Realize they are talking about density not weight.

I wonder how much hair weighs. Because if it weighs a lot, I may go all GI Jane.

I can do this. Deep breath. I WIN AT LIFE. Sorta.

When I’m not feeling a little deflated.

Week Three:

Have lost another half a pound. Still half a pound up from starting weight. I’d left the diet book in the bathroom where the scale can see it. Figured I could try bullying the scale into submission. I was quite sad to note that the diet book was proven ineffective at scaring scale into telling me that I’ve lost sixty pounds in a week.

I have now thrown diet book away for being bullshit.

Also: have looked into removing the heaviest of my unuseful organs. Have decided that the heaviest of my unuseful organs is probably my brain. That kid from Jerry Maguire said it weighed like 8 pounds or something.

That’s a LOT of pounds.

Week Four:

Have gained four pounds. Status: actively homicidal.

Also: looking into profit margins of a tapeworm farm. Healthier (and probably includes less jail time) than a killing spree. Possible Killing Spree Targets include everyone with discernible waistlines and perky people on The Twitter who only tweet about “loving (insert trendy form of exercise) OMG!” and “how much weight they lost this week LOL OMG BBQ STFU ASSHOLES FU SHOOT ME.” Also: the producers of The Biggest Loser for making anyone on a diet feel like shit for not losing weight more quickly (AND MORE SAFELY, YOU FUCKING FOOLS).

Weeks Five Through Elevnty-Niner-Infinity Times Three:

Diets are bullshit. My scale is an asshole. Jillian Michaels can kiss my dimply white ass.

I go back to refreshing The Twitter and my email thirty-five-niner times a day but continue eating less crap and moving my ass more. I’m just not so fucking cheerful about it. I’m nobody’s ray of fucking diet sunshine. Instead, I concern myself with trying to decide which version of Hair of the Dog is better: Nazareth or Guns and Roses.

Then, because the scale has Borderline Personality Disorder, it’s all, Aunt Becky! COME BACK, I LOVE YOU, GO AWAY, and the numbers finally go down without the aid of a tapeworm.

Which is fortunate. Parasites are so 1880’s.

Also: This picture had nothing to do with anything except that I found it when I was “organizing my desktop” (read: deleting old cactus videos).

Last fall, I set my sights on a new coat. It wasn’t just any old coat, of course, but an electric-blue Goal Weight Magic Trench Coat that I immediately called “my Sgt. Pepper’s coat.”

I imagined all of the antics my coat and I would get up to; the places we’d explore, the mischief we would manage. I’d found my Magic Coat at French Connection, and just as I was imagining my Trench Coat and I running off into the sunset after Gold Thieves a la Young Guns, I saw the price.

As brilliant a coat as it was, it wasn’t worth $300 bucks to me. Even if it WAS made by French Connection.

French Connection, I hear you Pranksters saying, why the shiballs would YOU Aunt Becky, shunner of all things fashionable, care? I mean, you own a NECKLACE with your NAME on it. Not very high fashion.

And I’d say, “Pranksters my love for French Connection is a long-standing. I’ve loved them more than I’ve loved anything else, ever. A company that could be so brazen, hilarious, yet refined at the same time is right up my alley.”

Oh Pranksters, let me show you why:

The full name of the company is “French Connection, United Kingdom,” and I am classily showing you why I care very, very much for this company.

Trust me, you wear this puppy in public and people stare. You’re using profanity without using profanity.

I own several FCUK shirts that say things like, “Bourbon FCUK,” “Too Busy To FCUK,” and “FCUK Me.” They rule.

Also: I put the “ass” in “classy.”

Anyway, my brilliantly gorgeous coat which, I should say, is not emblazoned with the “FCUK” moniker, well, it eventually went on sale. When the price dropped to $75, I decided it was Action Time.

Gleefully, I ordered my Magic Coat.

When it arrived, I hung it in my closet as added incentive for me to reach my Goal Weight. I’d see it magically hanging there, ensconced in plastic and remind myself that, hey, I didn’t need to eat bullshit food. Not when I had a jaunty blue Magic Coat eagerly waiting for me to wear it.

Weather in Chicago is one of three things: Ass Hot, Ass Cold, and Construction, and it’s been Ass Cold since I bought the coat. It wasn’t until this weekend that I had a chance to pull my jaunty Magic Trench Coat out.

It fit.

I’d made my goal weight*

#win!

It took a couple of hours for me to finally put my hands in the pockets of the Magic Trench Coat, and when I did, I was shocked when my fingers came across something. I’m not a person who uses my pockets as actual STORAGE (unlike my mother, who keeps the equivalent of a rolling suitcase in her pockets), so it was odd to feel ANYTHING.

I pulled out this mysterious object. Was it a bomb? A pen? A wad of used tissues? The Lindbergh baby?

Nope.

A set of car keys.

Not MY car keys. Not Dave’s car keys either. Not car keys that belong to ANYONE I know.

My Magic Trench Coat came with a free car. A free Jaguar.

That coat really IS magic.

Now…I just have to find my car. Perhaps THAT is what my Epic Road Trip will involve: finding my new car. It’s not technically stealing if I own it already, right?

*probably. I don’t weigh myself.

————-

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve found, Pranksters?

On the list of things that I hate (including thousand island dressing and Farmville), shopping for pants is right up there. It’s probably in the top five, and if I were an organized list maker, I’d be able to tell you that for sure. But I’m an ENFJ which is like fancy mumbo-jumbo for saying that I don’t like making lists, I think.

It’s worse when I’m fatter because, obviously, who wants to go shopping for pants that look like they could be made by Olag The Tentmaker? And worse, who wants to PAY for that privilege? I know, I know, you’re supposed to just buy what fits you, but honestly, I’m a vain bitch and I don’t WANT to buy something that reads a number that makes me hyperventilate. I don’t CARE if I have to squeeze myself into it, I’ll take the smaller size, thankyouverymuch.

Or I did, until I had some babies, gained a fuckton of weight and realized that you can’t just magically make yourself squeeze back into your size 6’s without some real effort.

So, for every size that I am, I buy one or two pairs of pants and when I outgrow them–the DOWN way, I mean–I toss ’em and buy another, smaller pair.

I learned a long time ago that you should always buy pants a little snug when you’re dieting so you don’t have any room to grow, and really, who DOESN’T want to go down a size? Honestly, now. That’s pretty much cause for celebration with a nice, tall glass of water!

I’d bought myself new pants a couple of months ago, one a standard size, and the other with some what I like to call “torture panels” that are designed to suck you in in your gut and your thighs. Flattering for when you’re going out, for sure, but they were the step DOWN from the standard size.

I considered those to be a gradient from that same size. If you’re a man, you’re probably shaking your head because a 32 is a 32 is a 32 right?

Women’s sizes don’t run that way. A size 6 is NOT a size 6 is NOT a size 6 which is why our heads spin when we have to go clothes shopping if we have any problem areas. Me? I always have had a gut. I’m getting a tummy tuck when the weight is all gone, but for now, I have a gut and it makes pants shopping annoying.

So I’m in my bedroom, and I can find my Torture Pants, the size BELOW that, the pants I am currently wearing (dirty from the garden) but not the standard size I am looking for. I had seen them several weeks before, in my bedroom and now, nothing. They weren’t under my bed. They weren’t BEHIND my bed. I hadn’t been wearing them because they hadn’t fit properly before and now I was sure they WOULD fit.

Desperately I searched my bedroom. I pulled apart my closet, looking at all my skinny clothes mournfully while I diligently searched for my pants.

Where.the.fuck.were.my.pants?

I grabbed a shopping bag and carefully began to sort out the maternity clothes I SHOULD have gotten rid of months ago. I sorted sheets. I found an old bottle of perfume I’d thought I’d lost. And still, NO PANTS.

I went downstairs and looked in the basement to see if they’d gotten thrown in the laundry. NO PANTS.

I checked in Ben’s room to see if somehow, he’d overlooked that he could have fit his entire body into the leg of the pants, decided they were his and put them away into his dresser. NO PANTS.

I then checked in Mimi’s room. Had someone stashed them oddly into her walk-in closet? Nope, just toys. I made a mental note to clean it out this week and wandered off, furious. Where the HELL were my PANTS?

I had worn them in my room. I had taken them OFF in my room, deciding that I’d WAIT and wear them again when I could actually BREATHE while they were on my person. That meant that unless they’d become intelligent, they couldn’t have actually LEFT the room on their own.

I quizzed the usual suspects and as is the case when I ask about the poo stains on the toilet seats, it was all deny, deny, deny.

So if matter is neither created nor destroyed, where the shit are my pants?

———————

My conclusion to my search for the crystal ball-gag is up at Toy With Me.

A couple of years ago, when Atkins was The Thing everyone was doing to lose weight, a local lumber yard had this particular sign up on their marquee ensuring that I would always be a loyal customer, providing I ever needed a fence, “TRY OUR LOW CARB FENCE!!” Because if that wasn’t hilarious, I didn’t know what was.

Pretty much everyone I knew was doing Atkins besides Daver and myself because I was doing a regular old diet and Dave weighed 140 pounds. I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that eating a pound of bacon a day (although highly tasty) was somehow good for your cardiovascular system.

Then again, I didn’t exactly run a mile a day or anything either, so I had no room to point fingers. I just jealously watched them pile the bacon on their cheeseburger, no bun, as I ate my spinach seasoned with…lemon, no salt.

It was no surprise to me that I found myself once again dieting away the sixty pounds of baby weight after Alex was born and now again after my daughter. I’d like to be all “Yeah, dude, those donuts were WORTH it,” but sadly, I am one of those unfortunate souls who just gets FAT when she gestates. I sort of look like McDonald’s Grimace before I deliver, if he were pink or I were purple, or maybe a fire hydrant, if I were more yeller.

With both Mimi and Alex I put on another 20 pounds of post-partum thyroiditis weight which to me just seems fucking UNFAIR, but it is what it is, and there’s no real use stamping around my house about it NOW. Mostly because I’ve already done my stamping. Luckily, I am the Worst Case Scenario for almost all of you reading, so you can all feel smugly superior to me and my wonky metabolism but for those .00002 of you reading who feel my pain, I AM HERE WITH YOU, SISTER/BROTHER.

At the end of March, I went back on Weight Watchers, even though I’d been eating well, it was good to keep an eyeball on it. It’s a good diet, genuinely, and I do the online stuff because while I know that the group is supposed to be good, let’s face it, I’m not in need of the help. Or if I am, I don’t want it.

Mostly, I don’t have the energy to sling my ass to meetings on a weekly basis when the online tools are RIGHT THERE (and the access to the forums alone are worth the membership fees)(because forums often = CRAZIES).

Like the other times I’ve done it, it’s WORKING. I’ve actually lost about 10 pounds, in addition to the 20 post-partum thyroiditis pounds that I’d dropped before.

BUT THEN, I got this great idea, because I am full of them: I incorporated the DIABETIC diet into my Weight Watchers Diet! I am not a diabetic and I cannot be all Wilford Brimley and “I have The Diabeeeetttuuusss” on your ass, but the Diabetic Diet is pretty much a fucking great diet for you.

(Diabetic Diet is NOT Atkins, by the by)

Um, holy shit, I lost an additional 4 pounds this week which is AMAZING because I barely eat carbs as it is because I know they’re like The White Devil and this wasn’t like a huge stretch. I never lost weight like that because I am not blessed with any sort of metabolism that does much besides wheeze and groan at me.

So maybe I won’t look like Grimace by the end of the summer after all. Or I will, but in a slightly LESS fluffy form.

After all, we’re going on a CRUISE, Pranksters (details coming on TUESDAY!) and I have to be DEAD SEXY for you.

Because I gain a metric fuck-ton of weight when I’m gestating crotch parasites, I am also stuck removing it once I am done expelling the parasite from my body. Shockingly, the weight doesn’t just “fall off” of all of us. Especially those of us with GLANDULAR PROBLEMS.

*kicks thyroid*

Anyway, so I’m on a diet*. Why? Because I really don’t want to be fat.

One of the things that I had to give up was the delicious sugared syrup in my coffee. It’s not that I couldn’t use it because I COULD, but I’m trying to use less carbs and I know that you can use the stuff with Splenda, but honestly I think Splenda tastes like licking the devil’s butthole (and I am being GENEROUS here) so I just go without.

Until I came up with a BRILLIANT solution!

Extracts! I could use VANILLA fucking EXTRACT! There was nothing not awesome about that solution!

Until the cap got all stuck on and shit and I was denied the delicious vanilla flavor I had grown to love. So then I turned to it’s more delectable cousin: ALMOND extract.

Now, I love an almond latte like it’s my job, so this was an ideal solution for me, except in those rare moments when I’d wonder if I was being poisoned (I have a vivid imagination, y’all) until I remembered that I was in charge of the almond flavor addition to my coffee.

The other day, I was drinking my almond flavored coffee and I noticed that it had a bit of, well, BITE to it. Almost an alcohol flavored bite. It was weird, because I certainly didn’t add any alcohol to my coffee, but there it was. I could taste the booze, just underneath it all.

Hm, I thought to myself. That’s curious.

Then I promptly got distracted by staring at my cat’s butthole (there are SPIES in there, Pranksters!!) and forgot about it.

Yesterday, I finally read the bottle of fancy-pants almond extract. There it was, in bold letters: 35% ALCOHOL. DO NOT LEAVE AROUND CHILDREN.

Turns out that all of this time, I’ve been wondering why the hell I’ve been so fucking TIRED in the mornings, it’s because I’ve been getting sauced by accident. What the fuck kind of fool gets inadvertently drunk off ALMOND EXTRACT?

So I’m off the sauce this morning, and I’m going to guess that coffee will be a hell of a lot more effective in waking my ass up this way.

Also: I will probably have less of a hangover by lunchtime.

*Weight Watchers**

**Yes, it works.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done lately (besides read my blog)?

Whether I’m shoveling buckets of food in or cradling the porcelain bowl like it was the lone port in a storm I tend to gain a lot of weight when I’m pregnant. As I like to brag, I tend to gain MORE weight when I can’t eat, which would make me an excellent famine survivor, should zombies and the undead rise from their graves.

It’s all about how you spin it, right?

Because the last time I had the stomach flu, I also ended up gaining weight. You’d think I was lying, except for why the hell would I tell you about carrying my poo around in a bucket and then lie about gaining weight? In terms of orders of magnitude, that simply doesn’t make sense.

If I was gonna lie, I’d tell you that I just won the Nobel Peace Prize for Awesomeness.

Because, OBVIOUSLY.

So, anyway, a couple of months ago, I confessed to you, Fair Reader, that I needed to shed some 60 pounds of baby weight still stubbornly clinging to my ass. Lord knows that my ass must get jealous of all the attention my stomach gets and feels it necessary to get pregnant too.

I bought Alli.

You know, the drug they advise you not to wear white pants while you take it? The one where they suggest that “treatment effects” might cause you “discomfort” and/or “anal leakage?” It seemed a better course of action than a tapeworm, so I dutifully took pill after ever-loving blue pill.

Until my hair started falling out.

Whoops!

“Bald” and “fat,” not two words I needed to hear in conjunction with Aunt Becky, so quickly to the computer I dashed, and there it was, bold as day: patients with thyroid disease should consult their doctor before starting this medication.

Well, fuck me sideways with a chainsaw. I have mother-humping thyroid disease. Nice going, dipwad. Way to READ those warnings, ass-bag, nimrod, moron, fucking brainiac.

Truthfully, the Alli, besides making for some interesting bathroom ass-plosions, wasn’t working anyway. I dutifully ate better and I’d managed to gain a pound. I guess there really IS no quick cure for weight loss, eh?

Anyway, turns out, my thyroid crapped out on me once again in a condition called postpartum thyroiditis. It happened after I had Alex and and it’s happening again now, so catching it and increasing my meds to the TOP OF THE DRUG MANUFACTURERS DOSE (doesn’t that make me sound AWESOME?) should help with Operation Lose My Fat Ass.

Also helping is the Topamax, which has jump started the whole process by making food taste like rancid cheese.

Today marks Day 1 back on Weight Watchers–a diet, which, I should add, is awesome–and while I don’t expect it to work miracles, knowing that the scale already is moving in the proper direction makes me feel like a real human again.

I don’t think I can explain how frustrating it is to do all of the right things and still feel trapped by a body that won’t cooperate. Wait, actually I bet a number of you CAN understand that, just probably for different reasons.

Also, I hate to brag, but I’m pretty sure I lost at least 21 pounds ordering The Shred off Amazon, but I wouldn’t actually know because I tossed out my scale several months ago because it was broken. Well, it was broken or my 8 year old weighs 23 pounds in which case, I probably should get his malnourished ass to the hospital soon for Nutritious Things.

So, today, I order a new, unbroken scale and I’m back to tracking points and anxiously awaiting dreading my Shred DVD so that I can get my out-of-shape ass kicked by that horrifying bitch, because It’s Time. No more excuses, no more apologies, just accountability.

God, I wish a tapeworm would work.

(Maybe we should form a support group or something.)(hold me)(HOLD ME)

I was thinking about it sort of sadly as I perused the stacks of new and hip clothes at H & M on Saturday (also I thought about this: when the fuck did the 80’s come back in style?) that I haven’t worn my Real Clothes–the ones I’d had for years–since 2006. After I’d gotten pregnant with Alex on my birthday (so THAT’s the way it is in my family)(also: guess what *I* got for my birthday that year?)(answer: a fetus) in 2006, as I turned 26, I almost immediately began to gain weight.

I’d fallen into the I’ll eat everything I can think of because it’s good for the preschus bay-bee trap when I’d had Ben, and it took me years to beat those 60 pounds off. So when I got pregnant with Alex, I was bound and determined to gain the recommended whatever it is. I was exactly what I weighed when I got pregnant with Ben as when I got pregnant with Alex, and it was on the high end of normal for my BMI (lest you take from this that I have been skinny since I was 15) (because I haven’t), so I was shocked at my week 9 visit when I’d gained 9 pounds.

It was shocking because I’d been barfy the whole time and not really eating and Jesus H, !9! pounds! THAT’S A TON OF LBS for someone who isn’t eating.

So yeah, the elastic band trick through the pants laughed in my sad, fat face and I immediately had to buy some maternity pants. I know plenty of people who can easily squeeze themselves into their old clothes for months, but since I carry my extra weight in my belly when I’m thin, it’s just freaking more uncomfortable when I’m pregnant. And since so many things about pregnancy are uncomfortable, why not eliminate what you can when you can?

(especially when you cannot eat either hot dogs OR soft cheeses) (assholes)

Anyway, I digress.

I’d lost all but 15 pounds of Alex weight when I got pregnant with Amelia, and piled 60ish pounds on top of that. The result is not pretty. I’ve tried the Alli, which, even with the oily ass-butter, didn’t help. I tried cutting out fast food, cupcakes and butter as food groups, and still nothing. I knew I was going to be fat for BlogHer and while I wasn’t happy about it, I thought at least a couple of pounds might budge.

Not yet, ickle grasshopper. It doesn’t appear that my body has gotten the message to drop these pesky pounds, and so fat I will be. Diet and exercise, just as an FYI, don’t ALWAYS work.

I considered calling in fat to the conference, but since I already paid for my tickets and got self-absorbed enough to have business cards made, I figured I probably was stuck going. Besides, skipping an event because you’re fat? Kinda pathetic, yo.

So there I was, in H & M trying to find anything that might fit. I got discouraged enough looking at the legwarmers and oversized shirts that I left for greener (read: fatter) pastures. I did end up finding pants, and I will tell you that I actually cried when I saw the size.

It’s going to take awhile to get these pounds to consider budging, and I guess that’s okay, even though maybe I should take up a Little Debbie Habit since I already look like I have one. I’ve found a way to work exercise into my schedule next month, once Ben is done with swimming lessons, and I’m probably going to try Weight Watchers again, after the conference just so I feel like I’m doing SOMETHING to combat this.

And decided that I’m (mostly) done apologizing for being heavier. Done. I’ll get the weight off, but in the meantime, I’m not going to shove myself into ill-fitting clothes. No, I’m going to do things that will make myself feel pretty: I’ll go tanning, get my hairs did, buy some freaking clothes. Why not celebrate what I’ve got right now?

But I celebrated last night. Not the loss of pounds, but the removal of clothes from my closet. Anything I hated, anything that wasn’t going to fit anytime soon, all that stuff, most of my maternity clothes, into bags. I filled up three garbage bags and I celebrated. The same way I celebrated when it rained in the wee hours of my birthday: I feel like I’m wiping the slate clean and starting again.

Last year on my birthday, when I was all pregnant and spotty and hormonal I remember hoping and praying that this year would be better and hahaha! 28 has been the hardest of my life so far. There’s obviously no guarantee that 29 will be any better because most of what happens is stuff I have no control over anyway, like that song about Jesus and the Wheel goes.

But I’m taking this all as a Good Omen. I’ll probably eat my words along with my humble pie slathered in ketchup because this is what I usually do, but for now, I feel lighter.

Come on up here and sit on your Aunt Becky’s lap and tell her, what do you find to be Good Omens?

————

I think I am going to make a separate page for the Amelia stories, which, by the way, thank you for reading and being kind about. I read up on the therapy for PTSD and apparently, talking about it rather than keeping it inside, you’re supposed to talk about it. And after I received the first bill from the therapist, I’m all “dude, I’m just going to tell the Internet. That’s free-er and stuff.”

One of the things I am terrible at, besides, of course, flagrant overuse of commas, jumping in and out of tenses like it was my job (ed note: it is not my job), Misusing Capitol Letters, and generally making people uncomfortable with the assumed familiarity that a nickname like “Aunt Becky” brings, is updating my loyal Internet Army about things I’d previously whined about.

It’s not that I don’t HAVE updates or think to tell you of them, it’s just that without collecting several things to update you about at once, the post becomes even more boring than normal. If my blog reads “and then (dot, dot, dot) and then (dot, dot, dot)” even I become irritated.

—————–

The Internet was both shocked and appalled that someone who has Crohn’s disease (or maybe NOT Crohn’s disease) would try a weight loss drug like Alli. And I was shocked and appalled that after cutting out butter as a food group, the scale zoomed up 12 pounds. Seemed mighty suspicious.

(my scale is broken)

But, because I’d tried Weight Watchers and found it to be too much work for someone barely sleeping and barely able to cook–thanks to a certain squally infant (read: The Daver)–I decided to go with Alli. Against the better judgement of many of my closest friends in the computer. Alli trumped a tapeworm (and since regular diet and exercise wasn’t cutting it), so I took my first pill with great trepidation.

I sat there at my computer for the first couple of hours, waiting for the butt-butter to liberally pour out of me. My diet wasn’t terrible to begin with–shockingly, I look as though I polish of boxes of Little Debbie every night–but everywhere I went I was told to not wear white pants (Thankfully for eyeballs everywhere, I do not own white pants), wear a panty-liner and to watch out for flatulence with particulate matter.

Terribly anticlimactic for me when absolutely nothing at all happened.

Save for this: I awoke the following morning–mornings are notoriously bad for my guts around these here parts–and waited for the spew, the pain and the cramping (this happens without Alli). It was only when I felt absolutely no pain whatsoever that I realized that I really HAD been in constant serious pain before this.

Day after day, I hesitantly popped the blue pill–waiting for the inevitable agony–and noticed that for the first time in many years, my guts felt oddly normal. Not like they were trying to eject themselves from my body cavity through my belly-button or like they were imploding. I’d never found anything–even Demerol–that controlled the pain I was in, I just sucked it up and dealt with it. Because what else CAN you do? Chronic pain is chronic pain and you get used to it.

So the drug that was supposed to induce terrible cramping, diarrhea and seepage made me…better. I swear on a stack of Bibles that I have never been more baffled.

I will admit before you, o! Internet, that I have indulged in some fattier meals and paid the price. The price was shockingly low, truth be told, and I’m not sure if it’s my particular GI anatomy or that I’m used to this pain, but I did pay. The oil, if you read in the wise comments I got on those posts, I should tell you, comes out of your body looking just like…oil. Neither here nor there, honestly, but sort of amusing.

I haven’t shat myself, ruined any pants (white or otherwise), and I’m not exactly sure if I’m seeing results. Like I said, my scale is broken, and I stupidly stepped on it a week or so ago while very bloated and noticed I’d gained a pound and a half. I moped about for awhile afterward and vowed to get the hell off the scale. It does me no good.

So there you have it. I am pretty pleased with it but cannot honestly tell you if I have seen results. I have no desire to be a slave to my scale, and I know soon enough my body will realize that it doesn’t desperately need my fat stores to feed a baby or nourish a fetus. Time will tell.

——————–

Earlier this week, my agents schlepped off my book proposal to the first round of publishers in the first of many months of “hurry up -n- wait.” The beauty of agents is this: not only do they know what to do, you aren’t rejected YOURSELF. I am not subjected to the “You suck ass” rejection emails, and the few rejections I have been sent (by my agents) have been ridiculously flattering.

I realize I sound not terribly excited and I know that’s weird, but like I said, I won’t hear anything for MONTHS. I’d much rather be excited about my new site design or this fantastic bottle of blueberry flavored vodka Daver bought me.

Another one of those “time will tell,” “laughter heals all wounds” stupid platitudely bullshitty statements that serve to annoy most people.

Like me.

—————-

Thanks to your votes, I made it into the top 5 Funniest Blogs, a title I know full well that I do not deserve. But I’m ridiculously flattered that I made it there and from here on out, the top 2 will be determined by a stealthy secret panel of judges. Actually, they’re not stealthy at all, they’re listed on the site somewhere, but I don’t read fine print and besides, what does it matter who these people are?

Cake Wrecks will somehow no doubt win both spots.

(I am super pumped to go through those posts and remove my pleas to you to vote for me. Because I felt like a total assbag begging you. Shit, I *still* feel like an assbag)

———————-

Amelia is still working on rolling over which means one of two things:

1) She gets flipped onto her belly and becomes furious and indignant about it

B) She isn’t sleeping because all she wants to do is “roll, roll, roll.” Indignantly. She is obviously my child.

Her scar, rather than shrink like everyone seemed to think it would–which, in hindsight, makes very little sense to me–is expanding rapidly towards her forehead. I am no longer sure the hair in the back will easily cover it, but this is okay. Hats, oh hats, they will become our friend.

Although my brother seems to think that a scorpion tattoo would be even cooler.

The stretching of said scar has shown that I was correct: there is another fucking stitch back there to be removed. Awesome. Even creepier is that you can now see her skull implants. Which, yeah.

Anyway, before someone pipes up with, “AT LEAST SHE HAS FEET! HOW DARE YOU COMPLAIN WHEN THERE ARE PEOPLE WITHOUT FEET!!!” I’ll end this post with an adorable baby picture.

Maybe green and sparkly won’t be her first choice in headgear. Can’t win them all.

(this post is sponsored by NO ONE. The opinions here do not reflect anything but that: my opinions. Which, as the saying goes, are like assholes. Because everybody’s got one.)

(also: thank you guys for your support about my book. I’m really pleased with what I’ve done and honestly, if nothing more comes of it, it’ll make some really well-edited blog posts)

So, yeah, the Weight Watchers thing doesn’t work if you have enough small children that your daily life involves playing Whack-a-Mole. Just when one goes down, the other pops up. I tried, but it just wasn’t working. I couldn’t count every fucking thing I put into my mouth and stay sane.

(some would correctly argue that I’ve never been sane. A charge I would not deny)

I don’t eat from stress, I don’t eat for joy, I eat when I’m hungry. Years of dieting baby weight off has taught me well. Problem with this is that I’m a terrible cook. A terrible cook for 4 picky eaters, so much of the time I rely on shitty-for-you-convenience foods, which, as any sane person knows, are bad for you.

Further evidence of my shitty cookery:

I pulled this package out of the fridge last week and NEARLY made it. ‘Til I realized that it expired in June of 2008.

I did manage to cut out Butter, Chocolate and Cupcakes as food groups and hoped that this would make a difference. It didn’t. My scale went up and down and up and down and up and down. Until I realized it was broken. And I only realized that once Ben made mention of having lost 15 pounds in 20 minutes without losing a limb.

But getting on the scale week after week to see the number go up and down and up and down got really depressing, so I stopped weighing myself. I will tell you that there is very little as frustrating as working your ass off only to see the scale stay the ever-loving same. I admit, I get a little jealous when I see other people drop the LBS like they’re hot.

Anyway, so a couple weeks ago, I went out and bought Alli, which is the half strength version of Orlistat, a prescription weight loss fat blocking drug. I’d heard about it last year, as I was fantasizing weaning Alex and I asked my father, who is a pharmacist, about the drug.

Always the straight man he responded almost entirely flatly with, “It can cause extreme flatulence with particulate matter.”

Well. Now. Doesn’t that sound appealing?

But, remembering that people often use tapeworms, surgery and drugs that can damage their heart to lose weight, a couple of wet farts sounded almost do-able. So there the box sat, unopened, while I waited for Amelia to wean Amelia off her last nursing session, figuring my trip to Cali would be the end. It was, although I was not actually out of the state (thank you Midwestern weather!)

Tuesday afternoon I nervously decided to give the whole thing a whirl. No one was home save for Alex, Amelia and I, and since two out of the three of us already shit their pants with stunning regularity, I figured I was in good company.

First I pulled this out:

I don’t mean to be crass* but this case looks like a dookie. Was that on purpose? Was I supposed to think “Wow, it’s a blue turd!” when I opened the package?

Then there was this:

Okay, so another poo shaped item in my Starter Kit. Because the best thing about poo-shaped items is having MORE of them!

This one is a cheat sheet for people who have, apparently, no idea what dieting involves. Helpful advice, I guess, if you’re like The Daver, who can single-handedly always pick out the worst possible meal as his favorite, but for me? I rarely eat egg yolks, I like lemon on my salad, and I haven’t slathered myself in butter in months.

With great trepidation, I opened up the bottle and pulled out my first pill (which was shockingly UN-poo shaped):

Little. Blue. Leakage.

I swallowed it with my lunch and began to wait for the cramping (ed. note: I have horrible cramping in my guts every day, so this wasn’t something I was afraid of. Earwigs, I’m terrified of, but crampy guts? No big deal.) and seepage.

Nothing. Zip. Zilch.

I took another pill with dinner. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.

Okay, I told myself as I went to bed that night, let’s hope you don’t shit the bed with butt butter. I awoke the following morning to…nothing. As I prepared my coffee (to which I liberally add Benefiber) and egg whites, I reminded myself that most symptoms are evident within 48 hours. Which meant I had more than 24 hours to go before I could say much about it.

Ah well, I said, Becky, you ALWAYS have churny guts in the morning. No big whoop.

And you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. I have had no cramping. No pain. No seepage. No butt-butter. My guts feel better than they have in years (ed note: for anyone who hasn’t been following along and taking notes, I have gut issues. Originally diagnosed as Crohn’s Disease, the GI’s aren’t sure anymore. They’re also major fucking assholes, but that’s neither here nor there).

Hour 48 will officially hit sometime around noon today and I feel…fine.

Since I do not have a scale, I will not be able to tell if the drugs are doing what they’re designed to do, but I’ll report back.

Until then, here’s a cute baby picture!

Amelia says: “My Mom is #1 in the #2 business!”

*that is a total lie. I always mean to be crass.

Actual comment by Ben:

(rubs my belly): “Wow! You look like you have another baby in there!”

Aunt Becky: *sighs*

The Daver: “Aww, you poor thing.”

Aunt Becky: *sighs*

Actual conversation with Pashmina, my former blogging buddy (who recently reminded me of a very seldom thought about fact about the two of us but has nothing whatsoever to do with this story or post):

Aunt Becky: “I don’t take laxatives but my ass is gonna try Alli when I quit nursing”

Pashmina: “DON’T DO IT”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “Seriously. Do. Not. Do. It”

Aunt Becky: “???”

(you can see I have a way with words)

Pashmina: “First, the point of Alli is that it traps fat and makes you shit like crazy when you eat something with too much fat in it.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll deal with some anal leakage.”

Pashmina: “second: Alli takes a LONG ASS TIME to get out of your system
you stop taking it and you’ll still be shitting buckets for a month”

Pashmina: “Third: it prevents nutrients from being absorbed by the bowel
so you’ll lose weight. And muscle tone. And valuable nutrients”

Aunt Becky: “Man that shit is tough. But it beats a tapeworm.”

Pashmina: “Now that I’d rather have.”

Aunt Becky: “Why don’t you get one?”

Pashmina: “I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Aunt Becky: “I think you could order one off the internet. Lemmie see.”

Pashmina: “I VERY SERIOUSLY DOUBT THAT.”

Aunt Becky: “Dunno, I’m looking it up.”

Aunt Becky: “Got it. http://wormtherapy.com/”

Pashmina: “OH COME ON.”

(time passes)

Pashmina: “Good, GOD. $1200 for a tapeworm?”

Aunt Becky: “dude. WILD.”

———
Meatloaf wrote “I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” about–I shit you not–donuts.

What wouldn’t YOU do? What’s one thing you’d NEVER do?

Also: I freaking LOVE the Internet. Tapeworms, who knew?