Today I came upon several revelations that I would like to share with you.

1) What a difference a day – and a haircut and color, plus a manicure – makes. Yesterday I was flustered and pissed off and ready to take on the world, one cupcake at a time. I was determined to drive my non-weight-loss-having ass to Rochester to have a tete-a-tete with my surgeon as I was convinced he missed the mark and shrunk my bladder and not my stomach. The first week I lost almost 17 pounds, then I had my one week checkup and apparently caught some bad juju and for the next 6 days continued to lose nothing. Nada. Zilch. While this may be normal in anyone else’s world, it was just unacceptable in mine. I have no patience for this kind of thing, and I have too much weight to lose and too much pre-surgical smack talk to live up to. It was at that moment I realized why none of the thousand other diets I’ve tried have worked. Not because they set me up to fail or because the world was out to get me, but because I got frustrated while my body took a few days to adjust to the massive change it was undergoing and said screw it. Now that I had no choice but to stick it out, I realized that I was the one self-sabotaging all those years, not the Chips Ahoy or the buttered bananas. Foiled again! I stepped on the scale this morning and my faith was renewed when I saw the number was 3 pounds lighter. And to think I was ready to behead the man who made that happen. Sacrilage!

2) I do not like ankle weights. Period. I bought them with the best of intentions, put them on today, hit the program button on my treadmill and proceeded to walk straight to the gates of Hell where I burned for a full 30 minutes. At the end of my session I was dragging my left leg, hanging half off of the treadmill, drooling like I had a case of Bells Palsy and calling the treadmill names that I am sure are extremely offensive in Gaelic. It was not pretty. And it will never happen again. I will save the ankle weights for walks outside, if for no other reason then I can take them off if I choose and throw them into someone’s shrubbery and tell Tim they fell off and I was too tired to carry them home.

3) Despite my all out hatred for the ankle weights, I did have a revelation. In two weeks I have shed 19 pounds. 19 friggin pounds! That is a one year old. I. shed. a. one. Year. Old. Putting on those 10 pounds worth of ankle weights was eye opening. It finally clicked what it does to your joints when you carry around even that small amount of weight. It didn’t feel good, and it hurt, and I hope to never see the real 10 pounds ever again.

4) Lastly, and most importantly, I have found that when you are, shall we say, less than slender, you tend to rash in places that are not pleasant. I am pretty sure even thin women experience this. I am talking about the rash that occurs on the crease between your upper thigh and your lady space. I realize this is not a pleasant picture but let me paint it anyway. The fiery madness that occurs in this area after hours of walking and sweating is like a vaginal caning that never ends. I swear when I touched it, smoke came off of my flesh. Fear not, my loyal constituents, for after some hydrocortisone cream and a little loss of dignity, I was right as rain and ready to attack the dreaded treadmill once more.

I am proud of myself for making it out of the funk I was in for a few days. A year ago, I would have wallowed in it – and in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey – which I still totally crave – but can live without. But today, I got up off of my funked out ass, took a shower, got my hair did, had a mani where they didn’t burn my cuticles off, and got back to walking off the pounds. If that isn’t a monumental moment than I don’t know what is.

My brain is tired. The kind of morning after tired when you took sleeping pills or OD’d on Benadryl the night before. It’s the kind of tired where everything is hazy, and it is perfectly acceptable to lie on the couch staring at the TV even though you’re not really watching it. I drifted off into a conscious sleep this morning. One minute I was watching Sister, Sister and the next minute The 700 Club. It was like being in alternate universes. It was at that point that I decided to walk the treadmill.

Now, very strange things happen when I am on this thing. First off all, I seem to get all the best ideas for my blogs while walking that thing. And I never want to stop, and very seldom have a pen and paper hanging off the safety string so most of the time they get lost in a puddle of sweat and dignity when my adventure is over. So on this fine morning, I thought to myself, “Self, you have a very expensive gadget, commonly referred to as a cell phone, at your disposal, and it probably has a voice recorder on it. If you use it, you could totally justify the extra $30 a month you pay the man”. Sure enough, there it was, and off I went, rambling non-sensically into my phone making statements, at time leaving tiny synopsis’ like I was a therapist and my puppies were sitting there telling me their deepest, darkest secrets, and eventually I was doing bad impressions. God help me if my neighbor walked by when I was amusing myself because he might have felt the need to call for assistance and then those men in the white scrubs would come and give me one of those lovely jackets that allow me to hug myself all day.

A funny thing happens when you record yourself speaking. The voice that comes back is not AT ALL like the voice you thought was going in. I felt like James Earl Jones in a Verizon commercial when I heard myself talking. I suddenly felt the need to belt out a rendition of “What a Wonderful World” because I had this deep raspy voice that could either be like $2.99/minute sexy, or “I have your child” creepy. It’s a thin line.

The second odd occurrence whenever I am on the treadmill is that I have this completely misconstrued image of what my body looks like. When no one is here I will rock a tank and some yoga pants like it is my job, as opposed to when people are home and I swim in an oversized t-shirt and sweats. When I am going on the treadmill, building up a good sweat, feeling positive and singing out loud, in my head I look like Jillian Michaels, but without the stubby man hands. Then every once in awhile, I catch a glimpse of my actual self in the reflection of the TV, and guess what? So NOT Jillian. More like the fat woman who ATE Jillian, spit her out, covered her in chocolate and ate her again. And then snacked on Bob. Maybe not so over the top, but definitely not like the image I pretend to be when no one is around.

Lastly, using the treadmill always ends in me mopping the kitchen floor. When I am on it I have a clear view of the wooden floor and the sunlight hits it just so and I can see every doggy paw print, scuff mark and footprint, and then my OCD kicks in and I have no choice. The only thing better would be a mop with a handle that extends so I can mop the floor and walk on the treadmill at the same time. Oh, and if I could actually look like Jillian Michaels when I am done, that would super fantabulous too. Please and thank you.

Yesterday, something truly wackadaisical happened when I was walking. Some crazy guy on the radio said that Ricky Martin came out of the sparkly gay closet and totally admitted he likes outties over innies and I thought OMG NO WAY and LOL, didn’t we all know that like 15 years ago? See, strange things happen when lost in the world of walking.

Belly Bombs and Bariatric Booms!

I don’t know what the hell happened Friday but I had my first surgical WTF moment. I had a pretty amazing day before what I like to call “Attack of the Pouch”. I had a great full day of exercise, went through my closet and realized half of it is already too big, and sat down to a lovely dinner of tuna and refried beans. About a half hour later, I realized I was just short of reaching my protein goal for the day, so I had a glass of Skim milk with some sugar-free Hersheys syrup (which is totally on my “food do’s” list). About 20 minutes later, BOOM!!! It was like an all out assault on my gut that rendered me completely helpless, curled into a fetal position on the couch, crying like a little girl and Lamaze breathing. I swear I thought the end result of that immense pain would be me pushing out a 10 pound turd or a three headed alien. And it just wouldn’t friggin’ end!! It came in waves like a recurring tsunami. Every time it subsided and I could breathe again, it would come out of nowhere and devour my insides like a rabid dog with a dead raccoon in its sights.

I have no idea what brought this on. I have followed my diet to the letter, never cheating, never going off course. I measure and weigh and strain my food within an inch of its pathetic life, I take bite sized bites a few minutes apart like a Princess in Training, and I don’t drink 30 minutes before or after a meal. I mean, I am a rule follower for the first time ever, and this is my PUNISHMENT??

I am not a weak willed person, and I have a great tolerance for pain, but if someone asked me to murder their dog to get rid of my pain, I would have given it some serious consideration. Ok, may I wouldn’t have murdered the dog, but I probably would have kicked it and called it a name. And by kick, I mean gently push aside with my foot. Cause I’m a sucker for pups. And a pain pussy apparently. It sucked in ways that my past suckiness had not yet achieved.

I woke up with a pain hangover. It was a dull thudding reminder of the night before that started in my belly button and rose into my chest. I was afraid to eat. Or breathe. Or move. I didn’t want to risk going through that again. Tim spent some time looking up different kinds of pain from bariatric surgery and couldn’t find anything that matched my pain exactly. The only thing I can imagine it to be was “dumping syndrome” but my understanding was that this only comes from overeating or overindulging in food you shouldn’t be eating. And I did NOT do that. However, if that is at all what dumping syndrome feels like, you can be guaranteed, Bariatric Demon, that I will be skinny forever, because there is no chocolate chip cookie or frothy latte worth that kind of pain.

Because of this little episode from hell, I was put on workout hiatus Saturday and I must say, I DID NOT like it. Back in the day, I would have feigned an infected hangnail or imaginary PMS to get out of working out, but now I enjoy it and I have been banned. In my own house. And it sucks. I got up and reorganized the house and moved pictures around and put away winter things, thinking it would cure me of that which ails me – the need for speed. Well, the whole 3mph on the treadmill kind of speed, but still. It sat there and leered at me like a forbidden mistress and I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel it beneath me as I breathed heavy and sweated and got lost in the lust of the exercise of it all. Dirty treadmill sex, that is what this overweight exercise whore needed.

But like my love affair with all things chocolate, at least for that day, it was not to be. Because my body formed a mutiny attack on me, and I had to lie there and play dead for the day hoping it would sniff me, realize I’m wasn't moving and venture on.

Happy Birthday to Yoooouuuuu!!!!

I would like to wax philosophical for a moment, for today, is a momentus kind of day. My son, my baby, my last child has just turned double digits. The Big 1-0 people. And it makes me feel proud, and sad, and excited all at the same time. My children were born into a tainted marriage, but I have somehow managed to raise them with a filtered love full of possibilities and encouragement. I shield them from the things they are too young to understand, and this gives their hearts room to love unconditionally in all aspects of their lives. I shield them without blocking them, and I love them without impeding them. When they are happy I laugh with them, when they are sad I cry with them and hold them, when they are scared I protect them and when they are disappointed I remind them tomorrow is full of brand new possibilities. When they piss me off I remind them, Because I'm the mom and I said so!

My son, Sam is an incredible kid. He is handsome, first of all. Like, the kind of handsome that you just know could end him up on Sixteen & Pregnant if I’m not really, really careful. And he is smart. Like Rainman-Whoppner-is-on-in-five-minutes-i-don’t-like-Kmart-underwear smart. The kid can add like he sees calculators where most of us see trees. And he enjoys learning, which makes me even more proud as a mom. He is compassionate and kind (most of the time) and although he struggles with ADHD, there are these calm moments when he just looks at you and your heart instantly melts, and you can’t help but to fall in love with him. He is protective of his mama, annoying to his sister, endearing to small children and animals and the best son I ever could have hoped for. He is an athlete, and although he gets easily frustrated when he can’t instantly master something, he keeps going until he knows he is doing his best. Thus far, I have had the honor of watching him play football and basketball, and the intensity and the heart that he puts into it when he is playing is second to none. Oh, and he’s GOOD. Like mama might be able to buy a new house instead of pay for college because he could get a scholarship, good.

Sam is the kind of kid who will frustrate you to the point that you wonder if there is any way any child could possibly have any less common sense. He will leave wrappers and crumbs all over the kitchen no matter how many times you remind him to clean it up. If you ask him to throw something out, he will take it to the next room and leave it just out of your sight. He likes to jump out of dark corners to share the bejesus out of his sister and then laughs. He gets in trouble at school sometimes for the most ridiculous things, like smacking his sister in the back of the head in the lunch line because she told him the 6th grade girl that likes him must be mental. Or he gets in trouble for things like having to be the loudest person in the room and talking over people. I mean, really, he is 10. And a boy. ‘Nuff said. He is dirty, at times smelly, always messy, and always way too loud. But he is MY son. And I love him more than I love to breathe. He is mine.















The aforementioned sister - WORD!



Sam is a child that was never supposed to exist (thanks to Cervical Cancer when I was 22) and he was a child I never knew I wanted. But from the first time I saw his angelic and beautiful face, I couldn’t remember what my life was like before him.

He makes me crazy, and frantic, and happy, and amazed every day. I have no doubt he will grow to be an incredible young man. And if he ever loves another woman even remotely the way he loves his mama, she will be a lucky woman. So, to my amazing son, I love you. Happy 10th Birthday to the most incredible little man I know.

(PS. He probably won’t see this for like, weeks, because mom and Tim got him a PSP for his birthday and he has entered another dimension. Hopefully somewhere in between his MLB virtual playoffs and his NCAA Football game, I can get him to take the earbuds out long enough to read this!)

















The Man, The Myth, The Video Game Player - and the Birthday Boy!

Who da man?? I da MAN!! (Well, (wo)man, but still!)

Every morning as I pass the treadmill with my tablespoon of egg white and sad little cup of yogurt, I grimace at the treadmill. I watch the clock intently knowing that soon, very soon, I am going to have to get on that thing and find new and sparkly ways to pass the time spent with that plastic monstrosity. The treadmill is the fat persons version of a dope dealer. You walk up to it carefully, cautiously, and look around to make sure no one is watching as you trepidaciously step onto its rubber mat and reluctantly push START. Your legs start to move and before you know it, you’re smoking a joint…ahem, walking on the treadmill. The first few times, you feel like it’s not a big deal. You could start or stop this at anytime, but then….then…..you find the program button. Little preset workouts designed to challenge you and kick your ass, and before you know it, you’re on the machine. And you like it. And you don’t care who sees you doing it. There is no turning back.

Throughout the years, I have not been able to master the treadmill. I had never tried a “program” or inclined anything past the “oh shit I’m walking parallel to the wall” phase, but today my friends, I ventured. And it was joyous.

My previous attempts usually involved walking at ground level, no faster than 2.5mph on a good day. Usually about 20 minutes was my ADD max, sometimes 30 if it caught me on a good song or two while listening to the radio. Today however, I decided to try that sneaky little button full of inclines and declines, speed increases and decreases, and for a moment…i. thought. i. would. DIE. But I didn’t. At 3.0mph on a 5.0 incline, my legs started to feel a little shaky, I was sweating in places I was sure I never cleaned, and my ears were ringing. My ass was jiggling so hard I’m sure it looked like it was standing almost still. But then, my calves numbed a little, the sweat started to smell like victory, and as I went faster and higher and my heart beats faster and faster, I am releasing all these crazy things called endorphins, and I realize….I’m happy. Just pure, unadulterated, children on the swings on the playground with the wind in their hair, HAPPY. I finished the entire 30 minute workout. I burned 200 calories, walked 3200 steps, 1.4 miles and I got off of that thing and jumped around in jubilation like Rocky! I realize to avid treadmill enthusiasts this sounds like childs play, but to someone like me, it was like winning the Stanley Cup. Or putting down the Ben & Jerry’s after a spoonful. It was momentus.

I even ran for a short time. Ok, so it was more like a gaited limp, and it only lasted a minute, but it was a run just the same.

And, although I should have collapsed into a heaping mess of sweat and cellulite on the floor, I feel AMAZING. I never thought I would say this, but I can’t wait to do it again.

Don't Rain on My Pureed

My bariatric surgery was not the warm, fuzzy, “I will hold your hand and walk you through this” kind of doctor, and he didn’t have to be, because he was just that good. His reputation and his success rate allowed him to be the coldest, most heartless human being in the universe because his results spoke for themselves. I could totally picture him with perfectly coiffed hair and a bad ass tan, strutting around on Greys Anatomy with his “I am gonna be the new chief, perform all the best surgeries, and bang all the hot young interns” arrogance. The day he came in for the initial consultation, he managed to speak to a room filled with fat people and not once make eye contact. When I went in for my pre-surgical consult, my husband and I sat there in uncomfortable silence as he wrote down pages full of info about me (which I found strangely amusing since he didn’t KNOW me!), tapped on my abdomen a few times, quickly pointed out that the incisions would be here, here, here and here without actually looking at my abdomen and then ran out of the room. I’m pretty sure he a narcissistic sociopath with a genius IQ who still thinks girls have cooties but I didn’t care. He got the job done.

One of the incisions I have is directly below my boob. Anyone that knows me, knows it took some assistance to make this incision. One to hold the boob (what a tough job!) and one to make the incision and insert the scope-like thingamabob. Now, at the the risk of sounding conceited or full of myself, I am just going to take a minute to point out that 35 years, two kids, and extra weight have not diminished the bad assedness of my rack. They are pretty fantastic. Which is WHY I am telling you this story about my surgeon.

The morning after surgery he came in wide eyed, with a grin from ear to ear, to see how I was feeling and I swear on everything holy, he never once looked at my face. He focused intently about 6” south of my eyes the ENTIRE time. It was a little disconcerting and wee bit creepy, yet oddly flattering at the same time.

If I had known all I had to do to get him to warm up and seem mildly approachable all those months before surgery was give him a view of the goods, I would have attended all of my meetings topless.

In any case, I had my one week check on Wednesday and everything went off without a hitch. She said I am rocking the recovery process and far exceeding their expectations. She warned me against overdoing it and burning out, and most importantly (and I never thought I would be happy about this), she told me I could eat pureed foods!! I know that in general it sounds gross, but pureed tuna or chicken is still a cut above protein shakes and pudding cups all day. Plus I can have scrambled egg whites and mashed potatoes and some veggies! It’s food Nirvana for this eating impaired fat girl.

After time, does my food cherry grow back? When my year sentence is up, and I can partake in a lovely cheeseburger or a small order of fries once again, will it hurt? Will I feel dirty after? Do I have to bring protection? It’s been a long time since I’ve been a food virgin. I hope I remember how to do it.

You Drive me Crazy (whoo whoo)

Let me just say, as much as I miss living in the city and being close to stores and my family, I do NOT miss the aggressively driving MORONS on the road. And I have a special burr in my ass today over a very specific driver that brings out the road rage in me like no other. I am talking about the bleached blonde soccer moms in their Lexus and BMW SUV’s who think they own the road. Let me break it down for you.

These Starbucks-venti-non-fat-double-foam-triple-shot-caramel-macchiato drinking, cell phone talking, Juicy pants wearing, oh-so-2008 UGG boot wearing, soccer moms drive with the intelligence of a cracked out monkey in a shit factory. They pay attention to nothing and no one around them and act like our measly American cars are not worthy of being on the road they drive on.

The swerve from lane to lane, don’t realize their mirrors are for anything other than applying lip gloss, and generally assume that we all got the memo that there is a sale at Christopher & Banks or Black & White that they MUST get to, and we should all put our plans on hold until they get to mall, take up two parking spaces, and walk through the stores with their oversized Gucci knock-off sunglasses still on as if they are avoiding the paparazzi.

Most of these women are stay at home moms, with school age children, who spend their days getting mani/pedi’s, have housekeepers, make morning trips to the gym just so they can show off their new Yoga pants, walk the treadmill for 10 minutes and walk out with a protein shake. Not to mention they show up to the gym with fully coiffed hair and a full face of makeup with no intention of breaking a sweat. It’s the N.Y version of the Desperate Housewife. And she pisses me off.

Because generally, when I am on the road, I am a pretty gracious driver. I do the speed limit, I stop fully at stop signs and wave people through if there is any conflict as to who should go, I obey cross walk laws, and when I am on the thruway with a destination in mind, it is with the understanding that all the other drivers on the road have a destination as well and we all want to get there in one piece and not get cut off by some high maintenance house whore on her way to get her eyebrows waxed.

So, SUV driving mom of two with a bad root job and an attitude, let me give you fair warning. When you meet me, I may seem like I am a pleasant person with a sparkly pink aura, but if you cut me off on the I-390 one more time, I swear on everything holy, I will sneak into your bedroom while you sleep, steal all your Juicy Couture, cut up your credit cards, cover your UGG’s in dog shit, and fire your housekeeper. Don’t make me go all inner-city ghetto on your suburban ass.