Hunger Games

There is a fine line between listening to what your body is telling you, and brainwashing your body into feeling something you want it to feel. As children, we are taught to clean our plates. Don’t be wasteful. After all, there are starving children in Africa. As we get older, we continue the practice. All too often it’s to the point of gluttony and we spend most of our adult life trying to change those habits.


My lesson for the week: it’s ok to feel hungry. You don’t have to indulge every hunger pain with food. Sometimes you may just be thirsty, bored or you want a reason to nibble on that Snickers bar that you shamefully keep hidden behind the bananas in your drawer.

I have always used the “hungry response” excuse to eat. Even now I do it, and I definitely know better.

Me: I’m hungry.

My Body: No you’re not.

Me: No really, I feel the rumblies in my tumbly and only a large caramel macchiato and a chocolate chip cookie will make me feel better.

My Body: Don’t you have banana in your purse?

Me: Maybe……

My Body: Do you plan on running a marathon today?

Me: Um, no.

My Body: Put the cookie down. Back away from the caramel macchiato. Slowly, and no one will get hurt.

Me: But…..

My Body: Exactly, your BUTT will be the one paying for your mid day tryst with carbs and sugar.

Me: But, I’m hungry.

My Body: Eat the fucking banana, asshole.

Sometimes, we have to allow ourselves to be a little uncomfortable. Not every impulse needs an immediate response. Sometimes we have to throw the snickers bar in the garbage, cover it up with ketchup and dog shit, make ourselves a nice cup of tea and wait 30 minutes. If you’re still hungry after your “waiting” period, have some fruit. Have some oatmeal. Have anything but that Snickers bar.

You’ll thank me later. So will your ass. You’re welcome.

You gotta know when to fold 'em....

It would be a moot point for me to tell you that I haven’t written anything in awhile. Most of you have probably forgotten about me, given up on me, or have been reading my old blogs repeatedly while you waited for me to get off my lazy ass and put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, if you will.


Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to write because…well, my mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. And I have been a wretched bitch with an acid tongue and a shitty attitude to boot. So I felt it was easier to obey mama’s rules.

But today, I am going to lay all of the cards on the table in the hopes that by going all in, and letting you know the good, the bad and the flabby of my last 6 months, that I will allow myself a clean slate so I can go back to the ridiculous, unfiltered and happier posts that you all seem to love so much.

So, incase you were living under a rock or you were too busy watching a fucking DOG win America’s Got Talent, you probably know I lost a little weight. And that I became obsessive about gaining it back. And that I exercise like a hamster on crack. Just in case you had forgot.

Well here we are, two and a half years and about 180 pounds later and there are days that I feel fatter than I did the day I couldn’t buckle my seat belt on an airplane. Ridiculous, right? I mean, if I can be vain for like half a second, I’m not hard on the eyes. Not skinny, but certainly not fat. My face is holding it down despite 37 rough years on earth. Mind you, I have enough extra skin to make an entirely new human, but despite that I don’t look bad in a pair of jeans.

Most days, I am proud of myself. I accept the extra skin and the stretch marks as parts of my journey. They remind me of where I came from, and where I never want to be again. For awhile I was obsessively thin. Everyone had an opinion.

“You’re too skinny”

“Where did your boobs go?”

“Did you forget to eat today?”

I know people thought they were being funny, but seriously, fuck you. And I say that with love because that’s just how me and the people I love most talk to each other. So I say again, fuck you. Of course I looked too skinny compared to looking like a sweaty sumo wrestler trying to wiggle himself into a clown car.

Then things started to….how shall I say this? Settle? My body reached it’s plateau and just kind of “sank” into place. My weight stayed the same but my hips widened a little and I started to get soft around the middle again. So I kicked up the workouts. Gained a little weight thanks to some late night Barefoot Muscato. Put a little junk in my trunk and some oomph in my twin set up front thanks to running and yoga. Finally, I felt good. Finally, I felt at peace with myself. Sure, I realized I no longer looked like I was one carrot stick from becoming emaciated. Sure, my cheek bones weren’t as prominent and I had to trade in my Junior’s size jeans for real women’s jeans (at 37 should I really be wearing juniors clothes of any sort anyway?). But I could finally look in the mirror, see past my kangaroo pouch of a stomach and my flabby legs, and think, “Damn girl, you look good.”

One day that all changed and I’m not sure why. One day I walked outside and felt the eyes of the world on me. Judging me. Whispering about me.

“Did you see Lisa? She put some weight back on, huh?”

"So much for gastric bypass. I guess she should have kept her fat clothes a little bit longer.”

“Is that her ass or two pigs fighting for the last piece of grub?”

Ok, no one was really saying that, but the fucked up little voice in the back of my head made me believe they might be. And it is making me nuts. Because, I know how hard I continue to work. And truth be told, I have a good handle on food and how to enjoy things in moderation. And I would rather be a comfortable size 8/10 and be able to enjoy a glass of wine or a handful of chips once in awhile, than to live on protein based foods and exercise myself to death trying to be what no one else but me really expects me to be.

I did this so I could live a real life. And now I am and I can. And I have done it because I have an amazing support team. So many people have listened to my bitching and moaning about my insecurities and how “fat” I am.  And how they haven’t all lynched me, strung me up by my short and curly’s and poked me with rusty needles to shut me the fuck up, is beyond me. But I love them for loving me enough to wait for me to love myself. Wow, that’s a lot of love.

So, now that I have come clean about all my dirty secrets and darkest thoughts, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually enjoy just being me. Whatever size that might be.

Through The Eyes Of A Child

Growing up, I always pictured my “hero” would be someone older, and distinguished looking, with grey hair and a slew of lifetime accomplishments under their belt. Someone like Maya Angelou,




or Morgan Freeman….



or Angela Lansbury.



Don’t hate. Murder She Wrote was the CSI of the 80′s, ya’ll.

I never knew that a child, or should I say two children, would be the people who would give me the perspective I need to see the world as it truly is: full of possibility.

I mean once you get past the eyerolling, the sighs, the dirty laundry, the smelly shoes, and the conversations you have that they ignore while texting LOL, LMAO, and OMG to their friends, my kids are pretty cool.

And they teach me to be present. And in the moment. Even if they are assholes teenagers.

I mean, who isn’t inspired towards greatness after seeing this:



And you can’t help but to forget everything and just smile at this:



Those are my heros. Those are the little people I figuratively look up to. They are my joy, my pain, my pride, my mentors, my view of a world I never knew existed.

And, even if they never cure cancer or win a Super Bowl, they will always be my one true contribution to this crazy, screwed up world. I will always know I made this life just a little bit better by making them a part of it.

Beverly Hills, 9021...Whoa!

Dear Mr Plastic Surgeon Genius (who is obviously mistakingly reading my blog but is super generous and philanthropic),

I need a tummy tuck. Badly. Like almost as badly as that annoying Gosselin lady after she popped out like a bajillion kids. Or that crazy Octo-Mom bitch who obviously has issues and probably has excess stomach skin hanging to her knees by now (we all know they only look good thanx to Spanx and trick photography, right? RIGHT?!?).

You probably didn’t accidentally stumble across my other blog: http://flabninja.blogspot.com/ so I can’t expect you to know that I lost 185 pounds. Stop laughing, I am serious. I know, impressive and gross all at the same time. The funny thing about gastric bypass is that all you are focused on is losing weight. Not so much on what will happen when your flat ass deflates like a Macy’s day float on Black Friday.

I don’t have any money to pay for the surgery and I have shitty insurance but I am a really good hugger and I will post really nice things on this poorly made and virtually unknown blog for free.

How can you pass up that offer, right?

In case those aren’t good enough reasons to perform this totally necessary (if not completely vain) surgery, let me give you some other super awesome reasons as to why you should donate your time:

1) I will clean your house for like….ever. Everyday. Even the corners. And that would be way cheaper than paying your housekeeper, although I am sure Esmeralda will be very upset and her 70-jillion kids will starve and will all stand outside your house screaming obscenities at me in Spanish. I figure at the rate of minimum wage, I should be paid off in the year 2025. No biggie.

2) If house cleaning isn’t your deal, I am really good kisser. And when I get drunk I kiss EVERYONE. So I can repay you in kisses. Don’t worry about my husband, I am sure he will be in if it means him not listening to me whine about my “jowls of a dog” or begging him for $5000 anymore.

3) I am funny and I like to make up songs about my dog based on current pop music. I know this doesn’t seem like a worthwhile detail, but I could provide free entertainment to your clientele while they sit in the waiting room anticipating their collegin injections or breast implants or whatever it is that you do, aside from giving away free tummy tucks. I know some of them won’t be able to laugh because of all the Botox, but I assure you they will think I am funny.

4) I am nice. Most of the time. When people are watching mostly, but still…nice. And you would look super nice for doing something really nice for a nice person. The universe will surely repay you in good Karma. And your wife will give you blow jobs. I mean, she didn’t say she would, but I can only assume that is what wives of fancy plastic surgeons do to keep a fancy plastic surgeon husband around.

5) I will go all Kirstie Alley on the the web and video tape myself strutting around the house in a bikini with index cards that say “Body by Dr. (insert name here)”. Again, free advertising yo!

6) Because I am begging you. Please fix me. Please make me feel pretty again. Please take away this constant reminder of the abuse I have put my body through so I can, in turn, stop abusing myself. Did I say please?

7) As a last resort, I will leave you alone. After the tummy tuck, of course. I’m a stalker, but I’m not stupid. You fix me, I stop standing outside of your house with my hand in my pants. Deal?

So, in conclusion, these are all very valid and super awesome reasons for you to give me a free tummy tuck. Consider yourself welcomed. It’s the least I can do since you are giving me a $5000 makeover. I will await the call from your receptionist to set up our appointment. Thursdays work for me.

Love and Tummy Tucks,
Lisa

Two years and 190 pounds ago....

Time flies when you're becoming less fat, I guess.  Saturday will mark two years since my gastric bypass surgery.  It hardly seems possible that two years ago I was 317 pounds and waiting for my life to start.  It's been so crazy that I can hardly wrap my head around it.

So, how did I get this fabulously fit (yet flabby) body?  I mean, aside from surgically altering my entire physiology and putting my nutritional absorption abilities at risk?  Well, I run and do yoga.  A lot.  And not always because I want to.  As a matter of fact, I would much rather be sitting at home drinking wine, eating Cheetos and watching the Investigation Discovery channel plotting the untraceable death of my enemies. 

I mean running is dangerous, and not because I could wear out my knees, give myself heart failure, or fall on my face ruining my money maker either.  I watch all the crime shows.  I see it all the time.

“Mother of three abducted while on morning run.  No suspects have been found.  Her body was found in a bush near her house, with strangulation marks from her sneaker laces around her neck and an empty Mountain Dew bottle shoved in her vagina.”

 It happens.  Just ask Dateline.  Running mothers are a target, for real.  And I don’t even like Mountain Dew.

But I run and risk my life for the sake of a tighter ass, and the ability to wear my Victoria’s Secret push up sports bra.  I mean, it’s black and hot pink and makes me look like a buxom woman, rather than the B cup wonder I have become.

The past two years have been a roller coaster.  And I love rollercoasters because I think of:

A)    The fact that I can now lower the “safety” bar down without my stomach preventing it from clicking into place so I don’t go through a loop-de-loop and plunge to my death

 And

B)     I love anything that I am afraid of.  The adrenaline and the “I did it” moment that comes at the end is better than an orgasm.  Well, unless the orgasm is followed up with diamonds.  Then I take the actual orgasm over the rush, duh.

But this rollercoaster has had lots of unexpected turns and twists.  Some days the line to the coaster is short, you get to ride more than once, and when the secret camera snaps a picture of you to buy for a gazillion dollars at the end of the ride, you look like a goddess with the wind sweeping through your hair, rather than a stroke victim stuck in a vacuum tube.

Some days, there are nothing but road blocks.  Some days, you wait in line for hours, hoping you don’t fart after eating too many jalapeno nacho burritos because there is a hot guy standing behind you. 

Some days, the fucking coaster cars get stuck half way up the first really steep hill and you sit there like a moron, getting a neck cramp, while the hairy, bald guy with a wonky eye and no teeth fixes it, all the while smelling like the worlds biggest pot plant.  When the ride gets moving, you get motion sickness and vertigo and throw up the chili dog, cheese fries and chocolate shake you ate just before deciding that the rollercoaster was a good idea…..

And you throw up, both on yourself and onto the hot guy you spent two hours flirting with while in line.  Yeah, some days are just like that.

But in the end, I am embracing the choices I have made.  I am embracing my new life, the ability to run, the pride I see on my children’s faces, and the road blocks that will never stop me.

The bitch smells like vagina.

See this face:




She's cute as hell, but she smells like vagina.

No joke. The bitch straight up smells like day old vaj and it's not cute.

No amount of doggy baths or sprays makes her smell any different.

How is she going to get a man smelling like that? As a two legged bitch, I have never been at a bar and had a man walk by and say "Dayum girl, you smell like yesterdays vagina and it's turning me on! Can I get yo' digits?"

You would be the girl that everyone whispered and pointed at in the corner of the bar. And no one would sit on the toilet seat you used in the ladies room for fear that the smell was the result of some STD or unknown vaginal discharge.

I don't want my dog to be the dog all the other bitches talk about. She's way too pretty to be "that dog".

Hopefully getting her spade will mysteriously rid her of her feminine hygiene issue. Otherwise, she better start wearing rainbow colored collars and hoping for that one butch dog that enjoys the pungent aroma of her lady parts.

Warning: Contents under pressure may explode and high five you IN THE FACE.

I realize that by putting my blog out there for all of the world to see, it makes me accountable for the shit that comes out of my mouth.

I also realize not everyone will like what I have to say or how I choose to say it.

To which I say:



Because this is MINE. And I choose to share it with YOU. But, if you don’t like what I have to say, you can make the choice not to read it.

I will not stop swearing. It’s therapeutic for me and it sets the tone for how I am feeling and the way I would like to express it.

If you don’t want your kids to see it, don’t let them read my blog. Have them de-friend me on Facebook. I promise, my day won’t be ruined because I wasn’t alerted by social media about their exploits at open skate with their BFF’s or why their pimple faced boyfriend likes the school skank.

If you are offended by what I write you may either

A) Not read my blog

B) Grow a thicker skin

C) Gain a sense of humor and stop taking life so seriously

D) Fuck off

That last one was a little harsh, but if you were hurt by it feel free to exercise your right to options A, B or C.

I use my blog to vent. About morons, kids, ex-husbands and everyday bullshit that annoys me, amuses me, or gives me pause.

I have verbal diarrhea. And a broken internal filter. So when I blog about shitting my pants, or hating the People of Walmart, take it with a grain of salt, and just fucking laugh.

Life isn’t meant to be taken so seriously. No one makes it out alive anyway.