Does this blog make me look thin?

No?
It should.

Sechs Punkte Fünf
Seis Punto Cinco
Roughly translated? That means six point five.
Pounds.
Gone.

So, I learned a valuable lesson today. And yesterday. It was a two day lesson. Some lessons take longer to learn than others. Some lessons I'm still learning. But this one, I think I've got.

I woke up yesterday, wiped the sleep from my eyes and rolled into the bathroom. I weigh myself first thing every morning. Before gravity has a chance to kick in and air weighs me down. I was up a pound from my gleeful post on Friday. A full pound. And I know what you're thinking: "4 pounds is nothing to sneeze at! What's she getting her knickers in a twist for?" Well, you have to remember, my initial weigh in was at night--with clothes--and I've been weighing myself in the morning, um, clothing optional. So that four pounds will be sucked up by food and clothes faster than you can say Olsen Twins.

Do you know what I gave up this week? A turkey tip sub to begin with. And coffee. And if you know me, you know that giving up coffee is tantamount to giving up oxygen. So when I got on the scale yesterday morning, in all my birthday suit glory, and discovered that I was up a pound from the day before, it sent me into a tailspin. Not a Top Gun your navigator and best friend dies kind of tailspin (that was a flat spin, but I digress). More like a mybodysucksandIhateeverything kind of a tailspin.

And when I woke up this morning, weigh in day, I did the same bleary-eyed trek to the bathroom. It's actually a short trek. Which is good. I am not she-who-walks-with-grace and a long early morning walk with eyes only half open is an invitation for disaster. A good way to fall on both knees (as happened on Saturday) or bump into walls (as happened on Sunday). Any such incident can create a bruise so scary, I'll run to the doctor with the perfect knowledge that I'm dying of some unknown tropical illness.

This actually happened a few years ago. One nurse laughed when I said I was coming to see the doctor for a bruise. She actually scoffed. Then she saw the bruise. She turned several shades of white (oh, yes, there are several shades of white: paste, mayonnaise, Casper. And those are only the ones I've been called on the beach.) and called several other nurses over to see it. "Oh, honey! What happened!?" A perfectly valid question for which I had no good answer. Nothing scares medical professionals more than hearing that you have no good reason for the grapefruit sized hemotoma on your belly. So they rushed me to the lab where Vampira took enough blood from me to feed the cast of Interview with a Vampire. Turns out I'm fine. Diagnosis: klutz.

So, anyway, I stumbled into the bathroom to strip off my clothes in a drunken stupor (oh wait, I gave that up after college. Karma points, baby. Lots of them). Ok, to peel my clothes off in a dreamlike state and step on the scale. Only to learn that I was still up said pound. You.have.got.to.be.kidding.me.

I spent all day in a bad mood. My mood was not improved as my day went on. I find it incomprehensible that the people who need my help at work are not sensitive to the fact that I was having a bad scale day. And kept calling. The day crawled by at a veritable snail's pace. I could not relax until I got on the scale for the "official" number. As I've mentioned before, I've been burned many, many times by the weight watcher's scale. I'd see the scale drop by a good 7 pounds in a week. I'd jubilantly climb up on the weight watcher's scale, expecting a medal at the very least for my efforts, only to hear that I'd lose point something. As in less that a pound. A good trip to the bathroom would produce more weight loss. So, no, I was not expecting great things at my weigh in.

Even so, I did all the right things. Under no circumstances was I going to allow my funk to bring me Dunkin Donuts. I'm pretty sure the siren song of a large iced coffee (milk, 4 splenda) was calling my name this afternoon. I was not going to give in. Instead, I went for my daily walk around the pond at work. It was 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity. But I went around twice. 1.3 miles on the pedometer, thank you very much. I ate my shakes and entrees with zest. Failure is not an option. But even as I tried to fool myself into believing that a measly 1 or 2 pound weight loss would be Ok, I knew it wouldn't be. I knew that seeing that number on the scale would make me cry all the way home. It would anger me so much that I'd want to hit people. It would induce me to yell at the HG for offenses not even yet committed.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to face that scale. I was not interested in knowing that, once again, my efforts were wasted and yet another diet was going to fail. And more importantly, every pound I don't lose is one more pound keeping me from my babies. Because that's what Frosty and Rudolph are. Just like their twins Chuck and Larry were. My babies. Yes, I suppose if you want to get all scientific and stuff, they're just embryos. Chuck and Larry were the first two we transferred in December. Frosty and Rudolph are the remaining embryos from that first round of IVF. So yes, in my mind I know they're just a mass of cells. But in my heart, they're my babies. I know they're my babies. And they're just waiting till I'm ready. But every pound I fail to lose is one more pound separating me and my babies.(For the record, we don't intend to actually name them Frosty and Rudolph. We're leaning towards Stalin and Adolph.)

But I went. I faced the scale. And it was kinder than necessary. It gave up a full 6 and a half pounds. I'm not sure if the HG called in advance and warned the nurse and the put the fix on the scale. Or if the weight loss gods finally smiled on me. Or if my hard work paid off. I'm not sure. I don't care. I actually suspect God has finally heard my prayers and is helping me do this. He knows I can't do it alone and He knows that I needed motivation to stay away from the Turkey Tips.

Although, right now I could really go for some Cold Stone....
But I won't.
SIX POINT FIVE!

Oh, and the lesson I learned? Relax.

Define "rockstar"

According to the Webster's Dictionary such a work does not exist. How wrong you are, dear Webster. And Merriam. How wrong you are.

Rockstar:

Yes, that's me. And not a great picture, either. (That's the Donster in the background. Well her neck. Hi Mommy! LOVE that necklace.) Yes, I have had one too many margaritas in this picture. But that's the point of posting this one. I'm defining rockstar and it seems only fair that said definition include extra alcohol. Ok, plus, if I'm being honest, it's the only half-way decent one I could find. So sad.

Can we talk for a moment about my nails? They look fabulous, don't they? I had just had a mani. I do love a good mani/pedi. The world is going to hell in an oil barrel and I'm still getting manis and pedis. I suppose it could be worse. Besides, if the $40 a month I spend on getting my nails "did" is what puts us in the poor house, well....at least I'll go with great nails.

But seriously. Why am I a rockstar? I have been on this diet for 4 days now and each day has presented a new and unique opportunity for yummy food eating.

Day one: Red Sox game. Who goes to a game when they can't eat anything? Isn't that like half the reason to go? I did not indulge.

Day two: Lunch with the girls at the 99. For one, they give you that yummy popcorn and wheat thins with processed cheese spread. Even as a certified (or certifiable) foodie, I am a sucker for the processed cheese spread. Also, they have this this drink. Grapefruit Margarita. Think summer in a glass (NOT that I'd drink during lunch....). And I drank a shake I brought, 2 glasses of water, and a diet pepsi. One of my friends had a honey mustard crispy chicken salad. With cheese. And flatbread. Oh, you sweet, sweet salad, even you cannot tempt me.

Day three: Got my nails done (hey, we're not headed to the poor house yet). I realize this does not seem like much of a temptation. But there is a new Thai (if you're reading the way I think, this is pronounced "thigh" because I amuse myself) place at the mall. And I could smell all kinds of Thai yumminess wafting into the nail salon (Gotta say, that's way better than the nail polish and acrylic I usually inhale). I'm all about the Pad Thai (pronounced correctly). And have been dying for some all summer. Nothing says yum like those flat noodles smothered in peanuty sauce goodness. But I got a large diet Dr. Pepper (note to Chick-fil-A: thank you from the bottom of my fatty toes for providing a diet drink alternative) and walked the mall. Then went home and passed out with a fever. That was unpleasant. (And not a joke. I really WAS sick.)

Day four: Company Picnic. They had teriyaki chicken kabobs. With little red potatoes. And grilled veggies. And grilled corn on the cob. Oh, and push pops. Remember push pops? The ice cream you push? Every time the jingle, jingle of the ice cream man was heard in my neighborhood, I would beg, borrow, and steal quarters from my mom so I could get one. They are the taste of summer to me (interestingly enough, the Grapefruit Margarita at the 9's is very similar...). Oh, did I mention the open bar? With pina coladas? No? Well let me just say that, while no pina colada will ever compare to those we had on our honeymoon at Disney World, any pina colada is good enough. But I had none of it. I did have a half melted plan-approved chocolate bar meal replacement. If you close your eyes and pretend that half your taste buds have been removed, it almost tastes just like a Hershey bar. Which clearly is as good as any teriyaki chicken kabob.

So that is why I am a rockstar. That and the FIVE, count them FIVE, pounds I've lost already. At least according to my scale at home. After having been burned by the Weight Watches scale one too many times, I know better than to count my pounds before they hatch. But I am so proud of my progress to date.

I have heard people say, "Weight Watchers works for everyone. If it doesn't work for you, you're probably not working the program." I've even said it myself. And when I said it, I honestly believed it. In all honesty, the program makes perfect sense. I've suggested it to dozens of people I know. And several have gone on to lose plenty of weight with it. I have a friend who hit her goal weight and is now using the program, successfully, to take off her baby weight. I honestly think it's fantastic. But you have to be patient for it to work. You have to be willing to spend weeks or even months or in my case, years, at a plateau. You have to be willing to sacrifice foods you want for a weight loss of less than a pound a week in most cases. And you have to understand that the women who run the weight watchers meetings are not medical professionals. They cannot tell you if you have a medical reason for your failure to lose weight. All they can tell you is how to work the program.

Here is an example of working the program. I got 28 points a day on Weight Watchers. Now, if I ate nothing but 1 point bars, at 100 calories each, that would translate to 2,800 calories a day. Which is way too much food for me! Now, of course, they will tell you that a one point bar is one point. But two one point bars is three points. That's fine. But if I'm eating one 1 point bar, a one point english muffin (also at 100 calories) and finishing up with a one point ice cream bar (also 100 calories), I can count them all as individual points. And I have just consumed 300 calories. For three points. Which is fine. And yummy. Those ice cream bars rock. But it will not lead to weight loss.

Another thing Weight Watchers does not consider is your individual body composition. Even Weight Watchers will tell you that it operates under the principle that their plan will work for most people. But there are always statistical outlyers. And they don't know if you're one of them or not. I am. Clearly. Because my failure to be successful in the long term on Weight Watchers was not a lack of willpower (hi, rockstar. With no margarita, push pop, or Fenway Frank to prove it) or effort...it was a lack of efficacy. It was simply not effective for me.

Now, in three weeks when I'm crying in my shake that I haven't lost any weight and it's not fair because all I did was order Chinese once, please remind me of this mini rant. In the meantime, I am putting my name up for consideration for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Because, hi, I'm a total rockstar. What my autograph??

How to Break Up with your Pitcher

"It's not you. It's us.

We like to win. You don't seem to agree. Let's still be friends."

So last night I was at the Red Sox game. I'm a huge Red Sox fan. Yes, I may be a New Yorker by birth, but I am certified member of Red Sox Nation. I love those boys.

Anyway, so we were at the game last night. We being my little sister and I. And after several conversations on the mound (such as the one above) the pitcher was escorted from the game (you say replaced, I say escorted). And not a moment too soon. For real, when you're pitching a major league baseball game, it is simply unacceptable to let up 3 runs in the third inning. Unless of course you're pitching against my boys. In which case it's pretty much a requirement. So off went Materson and in the 9th, we got my future third husband aka the best closer in the league (Johnathan Paplebon). Take a look. What's not to love? Yes, I did say "third husband". I can't very well marry him now. I think he's 12. I'll have to wait till he grows up. In the meantime, husband #2 (Jason Varitek) batted in the winning run.

Hey, the socks are dorky, but I do love the dorks (psst: Jason--call me).

Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to discuss baseball all night. I would, however, like to discuss the two girls who sat behind us. First of all, they were there sans boys, which is totally fine. I mean, the little sis and I were there sans boys. But we're, like, fans. And these two belonged on an episode of the OC. Well maybe not the OC. They were not nearly cute enough for that. (Um, I just tanked all karma points for the week, huh?) Ok, but they sat down and proceeded to whip out their cell phones fast enough to make it look like I move in slow motion when I flip off other drivers. They then spent the rest of the evening texting. When they weren't texting, they were busy gossiping about apparently everyone they know.
Which brings me to an interesting question: if they're busy gossiping about everyone they know, what do they say about each other when they're with others? Just a question. Which is why I don't gossip. (extra karma points. For real. Gossip is bad.) Honestly. You can bet your sweetass that if I'm saying it to your face, I've said it behind your back. Wait. Reverse that....you know what I mean.

So little sister and I had a nice long discussion on the way home regarding our mutual distaste for the Paris clones at the game. She said she didn't want to judge them. I said it seemed Ok to judge their actions. She felt bad for disliking them. I had no such reaction. Now, for the record, I love little sister, but I'm pretty sure she only felt like she should have felt bad and did not, in fact, feel bad. I say this because she indulged in Pairs and Nicole bashing with me. Also, I tend to decide that people feel the same way I do. Cuz I'm so always right. (um, for those of you who take me seriously, that was a joke). Besides, I was quick to point out that I don't think they're shitty people, just that they were annoying during the game. The last thing I want to hear at a baseball game is a conversation about who is sleeping with whom and who's not speaking to her boyfriend and OMG she got FAT.

They also seemed to have absolutely no interest in the game. I'm pretty sure one of them asked when the Patriots were going to make a basket. So I felt perfectly justified in saying that they were obnoxious. Heck, both Paris and Nicole might spend their free time reading to children at the Children's hospital and rescuing abused puppies. What do I know? Except that next time they want to blow $150 on a baseball game for no apparent reason, they should find other people to sit behind. Or skip the game and donate the money to save the rain forest.

But their discussion of who got OMG SO FAT, made me feel kind bad about myself. Just another reminder of how people see me. In my mind, I'm not all that fat. Mirror girl is adorable. So that's how I see myself. But then I see pictures and I'm reminded of the fact that only **I** can see mirror girl. Everyone else sees this:(For the record, I'm not the cute one in the red shirt. Even if she is wearing my hat. And this was clearly taken before we were invaded by the OC. Many thanks to the real fan in front of us who started the wave at least once and knew all the words to Sweet Caroline and took this picture of us.)
Whenever I see pictures of myself I want to wear a sign that says something like "Yes, I'm fat. I know. But I'm working on it. And I'm totally healthy. And not lazy. Come see me in a few months and you'll see." Which just goes to show how much weight I've gained in recent months. Because for a long time I was total camera slut. If there was a flash, I was your girl! I'm all about being captured on film. Just call me Gisele. But when I'm putting on weight, I shy away. Often violently. I don't like to see what other people see.

I think, though, the fact that I don't see myself that way (usually) will help me be successful on this new diet of mine. Because I know there is a wicked cute girl just trapped in this body. Mirror girl is not a figment of my imagination. After all, I went to the game last night and lunch with friends today and didn't eat a thing. I know. A majillionty karma points. I am sticking to this diet like glue. Fat free, sugar free glue.

I figure I have two options. Either follow the plan or don't follow the plan. Brilliant right? I was always good at math. And if I don't follow the plan, who am I hurting? Myself. And as we all know, I like myself. And I don't do mean things to people I like. Ok, ok. Macy's salesgirls and bad drivers notwithstanding, I also don't do mean things to people I don't like (it's that karma point thing).

But it's not just me, I also have Frosty and Rudolph to think about. No, Frosty is not a delicious chocolate almost-shake from Wendy's. At least not in this case. The Frosty of whom I speak is a cyropreserved fertilized embryo. His twin is Rudolph. They are the results of our last, failed (big sigh), round of IVF. I can't let them down. I don't like the cold and they're 1/2 me. They cannot be happy in their big vat of ice. I haven't even had them and I'm already a bad mom.

And, hi, if I'm going to marry a Major League Baseball player, I have to look good in pictures. I wonder how the HG is going to like having another guy in the house....and does anyone know the laws about polyandry (oh, that's a big 50 center) in MA?

The Other Shoe

People always say they're waiting for "other shoe to drop". So what's the other shoe and how do you know if the first one dropped? Does cat pee on your shoe count? The HG and I were getting ready to go to Six Flags last weekend; I went to put my shoes on and got a foot full of cat pee. Don't even get me started. Thank goodness they were just flip flops. And I was able to wash them and they're no worse for the wear. I ended up wearing different shoes and jamming a pill down the babygirl's throat (she does this thing where she goes into false heat and pees on things. A quick pill usually clears it up). And we're both fine now. Largely.

So does cat pee count as the first shoe dropping? Because lately I've had this nagging feeling of impending doom. I'm good times, huh? I'd like to say I have no idea where this feeling is coming from, but Google "gas prices", "US Economy", and "Coldplay" and you'll see what's getting me down. On the Coldplay front, my sister once got accused of plagiarism too, and it was a totally bogus charge (Hi, Mrs. Kerr. Oh, that's right, I'm calling you out.) so who knows what the real story there is. I do know that I love that song. (And I love me some Chris Martin. Gwyneth and I are fighting.)

Oh, speaking of random celebrities with whom I'm having imaginary relationships, I recently learned that my BFF Bennifer (Take 2) is in Cambridge again. I think it's rude that they come visit and don't call. A little dose of fame and suddenly they're too good for me. A few summers ago I was seriously stalking them (Them=Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner=Bennifer Take 2=my imaginary best friends. All of this adds up to irrefutable evidence that I'm certifiable.). Ok I wasn't "seriously" stalking them, but I knew they were living in the same neighborhood I was while Ben was filming Gone Baby Gone (eh. I give it 2 1/2 stars. Depressing. At best.). I figured that the odds were pretty good I'd run into them. I mean, how many people could possibly be in Cambridge at one time? (101,353 in 2000, but who's counting?)

I can't tell you how many times I almost ran off the road looking at all the women walking around with baby carriages. I was on the look out all summer. I even had an image of how our meeting would go. She'd (JG) be walking with the baby in a carriage. I'd see them and immediately know who she was. Of course, being the superfly cool chick that I am, I'd never let on that I recognized her. And that would be the key to our lifelong friendship. Which, I was sure, was inevitable. I mean, hi, I'm so fun. Anyway. I'd casually strike up a conversation with her as we walked to the Starbucks.

Me: Your daughter is beautiful.
JG: Oh thanks!
Me: What's her name?
JG: Violet
Me: Oh, what a beautiful name! So classic!
JG: Yeah, we wanted something "normal".
Me: Not like Apple or Banjo...
JG & Me: Laugh
Me: I just like classic names. Not silly celebrity names. (See how uber cool I am? I'm pretending to not know who she is.)
JG: Well, I guess you have to be as normal as possible when your life is that crazy.
Me: Probably. I can't imagine what having a million cameras in my face every day would be like. JG: I can't even imagine. (We laugh. She because she thinks I don't know her secret. Me because I do. I am so coy.)
JG: (Noticing my cute new shoes. Of course I'm wearing cute shoes.) Oh, I love your shoes! Where did you get them?
Me: You'll never believe it. Target. Amazing, right?
JG: Where is there a Target around here?
Me: (Gives directions) (also, this earns me some karma points)
JG: Thanks! I'll have to check that out.
We arrive at Starbucks
JG: You want to have a cup of coffee with me?
Me: Oh, I'd love to, but I can't today. (Gotta leave them wanting more)
JG: Oh, well here, let me get your number. My husband Ben and I would love to have you and your husband over sometime! It's so hard to meet people in this city....

And that's how our lifelong friendship would start. In my mind she and Ben take us out to dinner and insist on paying. We drink wine and eat bread until the wee hours of the morning. And after several bottles of a fantastic Pino Gris, I confess that I knew who she was all along and we all have a good laugh.

But alas, I never saw her on the street. The HG saw her heading into a local running store. And she didn't even wave. Rude. No wonder she finds it hard to meet people.

Ah well. I suppose my life will never be blessed with a celebrity friendship. And you know, that's OK. Because I have some pretty awesome friends. None of them have ever treated the HG and me to an expensive dinner with multiple bottles of wine, but they do often compliment my choice of footwear. And while we might not share bread, we have been known to knock back several baskets of fresh tortilla chips and margaritas. So you know, who needs Bennifer anyway? Not me.

One of my dearest friends just completed her first round of IVF on Thursday. Two perfect little embryos were transferred. I'm quite certain she'll get pregnant. I pray for it (4 Karma points) daily. Now, I admit, part of my hope for her is selfish (there go those karma points). Her success, no matter how deserving, will be evidence that I can be successful as well (can I have my karma points back?) Plus, she can tell me what to expect from the positive results of IVF. I'm afraid to say the "P" word. I'm both afraid for it to happen and for it not to happen. So using the word is sort of like saying Bloody Mary 13 times in the mirror at midnight. Saying it could make it happen. Scary. Saying it could also do nothing. Also scary. Best just to avoid the word.

So, in addition to pinning my hopes that the world isn't going to hell in a hand basket on my friends, I've been on the quest for good news lately. Without much effort (it's easy to find things that are posted on the Yahoo! front page) I came up with this gem. http://tinyurl.com/4cu4xq

The world better not go to hell. With my coffee habit, looks like I'm gonna be here for a while.

Well that sucks

I started a post on Tuesday. But didn't finish it until Wednesday. Now it looks like I posted on Tuesday. I did not.
So skip the plea for donations and you'll see the latest installment of my random thoughts.

Special for you.
Please enjoy.

And if you don't, please don't tell me. My fragile ego can't take it.

Yeah, I have a fragile ego like Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian. Despite evidence to the contrary it's just not true.

Donate.

http://american.redcross.org/site/PageServer?pagename=ntld_main&s_subsrc=RCO_DonateButton&s_src=F7ZWGR00

The Red Cross is in dire need of donations to help the midwest flood victims. If you can, please help.

They're following me

Pregnant women. They're every.where.

Think they're stalking me?

I've always wanted a stalker. Not a scary hide in the bushes and follow you to work kind. More like the send random gifts and worship the ground you walk on type. But not like this. It makes me sad. I'd almost rather a creepy stalker type who call me up and say, breathlessly, "I know what you're wearing". I'm not entirely sure why anyone would stalk me. Or care what I'm wearing. For the record, if you're interested in stalking me, I'm wearing a brown t-shirt and pastel striped pants. I don't match. My hair is 1/2 up in a ponytail. Because only half will fit. Yeah. I'm hot. Stalk me.

But for serious. I'm just really sick of pregnant women stalking me. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning from all of this. I feel like it must be something. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that, right? I don't feel any stronger. I'm tired of wanting to cry on a fairly regular basis. That's not strong. I'm like that other garbage bag in the Hefty bag commercials...wimpy, wimpy, wimpy. Besides my waist, there's nothing much about me that's hefty. I'm one big ball of depressing today, huh?

Even as I sit here, the HG is napping on the bed next to me. Why, oh why, can't that be enough to make me happy? It should be. Check this out. (Pictures in post are older than they appear.)

How cute is he? Too bad he sounds like this. http://www.audiosparx.com/sa/play/port_lofi.cfm/sound_iid.244211

But loud noises (I love Lamp. Bonus karma points if you recognize this reference.) aside, how can that not be enough for me? Look, I even got an extra furry guy tossed in for good measure. To be honest, the snoring used to bug me. But now I realize it's a good way to know he's still alive. So I'm all in. Dead husbands? Not so good.

So I was in Target yesterday to buy pedometers for the HG and me (I? Myself? Can I get a grammar check please?). Precisely because dead husbands are not good. The pedometer is part of our attempt to get healthy. And I swear to you, every single woman in that store was either pregnant or had a new baby. I assume it possible some of them were just pudgy. I often say I'd rather look pregnant than fat. I have pictures to prove it.

I started to wonder if all the pregnant women were like cars. Not literally like cars (that's mean. NEVER call a pregnant woman fat. Bad plan. They have super human strength and can kill you with one flick of their finger. I promise.). But you know how when you buy a car, suddenly everyone seems to be driving the same car? I assume this isn't true for the couple formerly known as Bennifer (take 1). I'm sure there are only so many Bentleys around. But otherwise, I'm sure it's true. I was in traffic the other day and there were, I kid you not, five other silver Corollas in traffic with me. My example would probably be better if I didn't drive the most popular car in America. I wonder if the HG would spring for a Bentley.

But since I'm so obsessed with pregnancy, I assumed that seeing pregnant women everywhere was a side effect of the obsession. I was totally ready to believe that until I got home and turned on my favorite show. (NO, not my Super Sweet 16) Hell's Kitchen (Psst: Gordon, call me! Better yet, stalk me.) I love Hell's Kitchen. What's not to love about a cutie British guy yelling at morons while they're cooking? It's got all of my favorite things: a snappy title, a cute boy, snark, and food. Oh, and fire. Best show ever. Anyway, I tuned in, hoping against hope that Jen would get booted (she did!). When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh.....and 80 pregnant woman. They actually had 80 pregnant women on the show to test the food created by the fabulous contestants. Really, it's brilliant. Who better to taste-test the food? And with all the hormones running around, honesty would not be a problem. (Again, Gordon, call me. I'm not preggers, but I'm totally hormonal and hungry.)

So, I changed the channel to TLC. I was hoping for Take Home Chef (he can totally take me home anytime), Stacey and Clinton helping someone see the error of her ways in the 360 degree mirror (What Not to Wear), or maybe a newly married couple spending too much money on a house with a mortgage they'll never be able to afford (My First House). But John and Kate plus 8 was on. It was footage of both of Kate's pregnancies.

I gave up and turned off the TV. Clearly, the pregnant woman are stalking me.

And not a single one left me a gift.

Hope Floats and other things that don't.

First of all. Please read this. http://preview.tinyurl.com/4pylkd

I'm not sure if I feel better or worse about the human race. I do feel like I need a shower. But it does show that hope springs eternal. Which is good. Hope rocks and according to bad Sandra Bullock movies (who?), it also floats. So now I feel like a bad person for laughing at this chick (-4 karma points. Would be more, but really. She's 24. And on husband #4. This is not on me.)


Is it sad, scary, or pathetic that she's 24 and getting married for the 4th time? I'm leaning towards all three. And I wonder. What does it say about me that I care? I wonder if my little blog entries make it around the world and if so, what do people say about them? For one, they probably don't. I'm so not that important. But if they did, I hope people wouldn't laugh at them. That's not very nice. I know, I know. I laugh at people all the time. See? I'm a terrible person (another -4).

But am I alone in that? I was reading a post on a message board earlier tonight that said something like "I got to the beach to laugh at the fat people in bikinis". Um. Hi. As a fat person, I find that offensive. I know I'm fat. You're just not supposed to notice. And for the record, no, I do not wear a bikini to the beach. I wear a tankini. Big difference. You know how sadly proud I was of my tankini? It was my first 2 piece ever. For real. My dad said that chubby girls shouldn't wear bikinis. Dad was right, but it still sucked. Chubby girls shouldn't wear bikinis (sorry ladies. You've heard of body by Jake. Well, if you have body by jello, cover it up.) I'm not saying you shouldn't shake what your momma gave ya, but you should shake it less if it jiggles. Or at least shake it under fabric. I bought my tankini for my honeymoon. And it covers everything. No little areas where flesh peaks out. But I love it because when I jump in the water the top floats up (like hope....) just a little and I can feel the water on my bare skin. Like skinny dipping. Without the skinny.


You know, though, I wish I had the self esteem to rock a bikini at the beach right now. I mean, hi, people can see that I'm fat. It's not a secret. True story. I have a friend (you know who you are. And yes, I'm not mentioning your name because I love you like that.) who refuses to wear sleeveless shirts. Screw that man. It's effing hot out sometimes. And have you ever noticed how some of the cutest summer shirts are sleeveless? Well anyway, she refuses to wear sleeveless shirts (I assume her father told her chubby girls shouldn't go sleeveless....). I asked her one day what she thought people would think if she suddenly showed up in something sleeveless. She said she was afraid people would think she's fat. I pointed out that it's not like people are looking at her saying "Hmmm...cute outfit. I wonder if she's thin. If only I could see her arms....". I know. Harsh. But true. She still doesn't wear sleeveless.


On the other hand, you have to wonder, why is it OK to wear sleeveless (in my mind) and not a bikini? Stacey and Clinton (please nominate me for what not to wear. I have pictures in a band uniform that prove I need their help. Two words: Sky blue polyester. Ok, that's three. You get the point.) would be appalled at the mere suggestion of someone other than the most svelte of models wearing sleeveless. I'm more of against the accumulation of too much skin. So no sleeves? Ok. Shirt that doesn't cover your middle? Ok if your tummy is smaller than my thigh. Oh new rule! Feel free to show off anything smaller than my thigh. Trust me, this rule provides a lot of latitude. I wonder what I'll look like when my tummy is smaller than my thighs. That'll be pretty funny looking. Like Popeye.


I wish I could be like the couple in the article. Just so hopeful that it's all going to be Ok. Regardless of all the evidence to the contrary. How do you get that? I try to be perky (I wear a push up bra and everything. The HG calls it a padded bra. For the record, it is not padded.) I try to find the silver lining and be optimistic. The HG always calls me his "little optimist". I am failing to come up with an example of this. But trust me. He does. I totally look for the best in people. Oh, like the salesgirl (is that PC? Perhaps I should call her the retail sales engineer) who I made cry at Macy's during Christmas. No wait, that's a bad example. But all I was doing was exchanging something. She was getting downright belligerent with me. So I suggested that perhaps retail wasn't the right profession for her. There are lots of other jobs she'd have been good at. Like Boston Bus driver. I think being belligerent is a job requirement. (+ karma points for me for helping her chose a more appropriate career) She burst into tears (lots of - karma points for me for making her cry). But seriously, all I said to her was that it didn't seem reasonable to me that I should have to pay more for the same shirt in a different size just because it was on sale when I bought it, but wasn't on sale when I tried to exchange it. She didn't agree. I suggested that perhaps her manager would be able to help. That's when she started to get belligerent. See? So.not.my.fault. (Can I have my karma points back? Thoughts?)


So, bad experiences with retail sales engineers aside, I do try to be optimistic and nice to people. And I do try to look for the best in life. Why can't I find it lately? I wanted to go home at lunch and take a xanax. I didn't. I had a 1/4 white chicken with squash and green beans from Boston Market instead. Comfort food. And good for me. And it worked. I guess that's the key. You gotta find hope and comfort in the little things. See? I'm totally an optimist.


While I may be an optimist, but I'm not smart enough for facebook. I'm really not. I want to be. How is it that 10 year old girls manage to figure this stuff out and I'm completely clueless? Apparently I'm not smarter than a 4th grader. I can change a tire but figuring out who posted what to my wall (what is my wall anyway?) is beyond me. I'm not sure what makes me older. This or 13 gray hairs that used to live in my head. They don't live there anymore. And my stylist is $140 richer. So worth it.


Ah well. Can't win them all. Except at Macy's. Where I did get the right shirt for the right price.

What's love got to do (got to do) with it?

Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?

Oh Tina, how wrong you were.

I often here people say to the young brides (you know, the ones on MTV's Engaged and Underage...now there's some quality television for you. It's like the prequel to Divorce Court. Or Maury "I am 1,000,0000,000% sure He my baby daddy" Povich) "Love isn't enough". What isn't love enough for? I think love really is enough to make a relationship work. Ok, if you're married to a gambling addicted boozehound who's only hobbies are sleeping with strangers and knocking over liquor stores....well, Ok, love probably isn't enough. But, why, oh why would you love that asshat in the first place? If you're going to love someone, you need to love yourself first. And hi, if you're married to that guy, I'm going out on limb with this: you probably don't love yourself very much. So let's just start with the assumption that when you wake up in the morning, you think for the most part you're an OK person. Yes, yes, we all have days where we think Amy Winehouse has it more together than we do. Hi, she's a Grammy winner. The only awards I've ever won were coloring contests. Oh, and I once got honorable mention for a poem I wrote in 2nd grade. (It was about butterflies, I think. Or rainbows. Or maybe Unicorns. I was in 2nd grade. Cut me some slack)


But I'm still pretty sure I've got it more together than Amy. Sure, on Friday I had a breakdown on the phone to the HG about how everyone in the world hates me and I'm like the "biggest loser ever" (Said in my best Gossip Girl voice--and no, I don't watch that show. I have, like, standards.). I was just not feeling the love. From anyone. The HG, though, being the sweet guy he is, just let me vent. He never says stupid things when I'm upset. Mainly because he rarely says anything when I'm upset. This bugs the bejesus out of me. But I think he's probably right. I mean, he can't win by trying to help. All he's going to do is give me something else to rant about. Best to keep quiet. And then send flowers. He figured that one out early in our relationship. What can I say? I married me a smart man.

And that's why I can say things like love is totally enough. Because it is. Because I love the HG, when I go upstairs and see that there are three coke cans laying randomly on the coffee table, desk, and chair (I don't ask anymore. What could the answer to that one possibly be that would make me feel better?), I just shake my head and bring them downstairs. Does it matter that he knows this bugs me? Doest it matter that I asked that the loft not become a shithole? Does it matter that one was empty, one has 1/2 full, and the other wasn't even opened (again, I don't ask....)? No. It really doesn't matter. Because I have 2 choices. I can get all worked up over it, tear downstairs and start slamming doors till he wakes up so I can pretend not to be mad at him (hi, he should totally know why I'm pissed. He's not only a nice guy who loves me, he's also a psychic).. OR I can just bring the cans downstairs and put them in trash (ok, geeze, FINE, I recycled them. And put the full one in the fridge. Happy now? Call off the envirocops). Cuz really, really, is my marriage worth a few coke cans? I could stay happily married or get all worked up over stupid stuff like coke cans and be miserable. Hmmm...let me think...

Now, I know, I know there is someone out there thinking "But if HE really loved YOU, he wouldn't leave the coke cans out in the first place." Riiight. Cuz we're all perfect to our spouses all the time. Well, I am. But I am perfection. (No for realsies. The HG just loves my random bouts of anger at the world. Just ask him.) The point isn't that you're not allowed to ever be upset with your own husband guy or boyfriend or girlfriend or wife or whomever the equivalent HG in your world is. I'm not stupid. Crazy. But not stupid. (See ma, I call myself crazy.all.the.time.) But pick your battles. Battling over cocaine? Ok. Battling over coke cans? Not ok. See my point? And if the guy you're dating suddenly starts taking drugs or sleeping around, love yourself enough to GTFO (get the fuck out). And for crying out loud DON'T MARRY HIM.

I'm hardly suggesting love will solve all the problems in the world. But if you pick right in the first place, it's certainly enough to keep you going. According to my girl Tina, Love is a sweet old fashioned notion. And I'm all kinds of old fashioned.

I'm not even sure what sparked that little foray into the hearts and minds of (wo)men. I guess I'm just sort of feeling all kinds of love for the HG today. He puts up with just so much. He really does. I can't possibly be easy to live with. Yes, I do all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. I make him coffee in the morning. I iron his clothes. I bring him yummy treats from S&S Deli (best.pickles.on.earth) and Cold Stone when I come home (hmmmm...why do we need a diet. Why...what could it be? Certainly not our eating habits. Silly.). Come to think of it, I'm like super easy to live with. What's not to love? I'm so the best wife ever. Especially if you ignore the mood swings that Mel Gibson look stable. Not that that's a problem. What are a few antisemitic slurs and drunk driving raps among friends? (for the record, I've never made, nor would I ever make, any antisemitic remarks. I plead the 5th on mug shots. You can't prove what you can't find....hey, did you know they don't let you smile during mug shots. Who knew? Well, now you do.) But sometimes my frustrations get the better of me and I start beating the paparazzi with umbrellas. No wait, that wasn't me.

But because I am stable (for real. In real life, I'm like the very picture of stability) I sometimes do things I don't want to have to do. Like this diet. I don't wanna do it. I'm scared. What if I can't do it? What if I pull a Kristie Alley? (No, i wouldn't start rocking the moo-moo.) But what happens if I'm a miserable failure? I don't know. I'm not good at failure. Wait, scratch that, I rock at failure. My college transcripts (that community college gig) will attest to that. Apparently you're supposed to do more than just pay for the class--they have this hang up about going to them, too. I had, like, better things to do (same Gossip Girl voice). Like spend my student loan money.

But if people didn't do things, like fall in love, because something bad might happen, we'd never do anything. If you want a job, you have to apply for a job. But what if you don't' get it? OMG. Worst.tragedy.ever. And shopping. Should you not shop because the jeans you've had your heart set on might not be on sale or, even worse, they are on sale but they store is sold out of your size? (Let's be honest, that's just down-right depressing.) And should you never try to lose weight because you might not? Um. Maybe.

But this whole fertility thing is like one big episode in failure. I think it just highlights the other failures in my life. It's not really failure so much as lack of success. Or I suppose more to the point, a lack of outward success. I am not ungrateful for my life. But of the big 4, I have 1. Big 4: boy, house, baby, dog. I guess I have 1 and a half. Two cats totally equal one dog, right? And they certainly cost as much as any baby. My goodness, those 2 have spent more time in surgery than Michael Jackson. And they have better noses. Probably because they still have noses. But I digress. I'm 33. I just want say 2 of the big 4. At this rate I'll be 63 when I get the other one. Imagine how scary that would be. Me at 63 shoving a bowling ball out of my crotch. I gotta get better at this.

Who says the TSA isn't there for you?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20080610/ts_alt_afp/ustransportaviationsecurity_080610211153

Um. Yeah. I'm not going to go into a long dissertation about personal liberties, but, hi, please don't look at my special places. They're special. They're for me, the HG, and all the doctors, nurses, and medical students at the fertility clinic to look at. Besides, I'd be darned impressed if anyone at the TSA could distinguish between my rolly polly belly (body by Jell-O!) and explosives. (Dear Homeland Security, I don't know how to obtain explosives, how to use explosives, or even what most of them are called. I also would never go to an airport sporting anything but cute shoes. Just so we're clear. Please don't strip search me.) Ok, but let's give props to the TSA for giving us all some motivation for losing weight. And just when you thought the government wasn't working for you.

At least the government isn't making those little "Parents with Infants" parking spots at the grocery store into a law. Like having a baby is somehow equal to living in a wheelchair. (I will not even attempt to figure out the most politically correct way to say this...handicapped, differently able, walking impaired. I'm not sure, I'm not going to try. Mad props to everyone in the world. Please refer to yesterday's singing of the coke song. Still stands.) So, I was at the grocery store today (I made pizza for dinner. Eh. Crust could have been better. It looked like George Costanza. There was SHRINKAGE! But it was otherwise quite tasty. The trick is to put shaved Parmesan on it right when it comes out of the oven. Write it down.) and I found a spot right up front. Which was so nice because generally the HG and I ascribe to the "just park it" philosophy of parking lot circling. Find a spot and fill it (This will be humors to the few, the proud, the Amway followers. Which I am not. I just know people who are. Please don't hold it against me.). So when I spy a spot right up front, I feel like I've been given a gift from the parking lot gods. And on the ninth day, God created parking spots. (Is this blasphemous? I think God has a sense of humor. He did, after all create us in His own image. Which clearly means that God is both funny and cute.) Well, I gunned it to "my" spot, and whipped my car into park, pulled up the emergency brake (oh, yeah Baby. I rock a standard. By choice. I am so badass.), grabbed my purse. And looked out the window to see a great big red sign which read "Customers with Infants parking only". Huh. So philosophical question here, let's define "infant". Does this infant have to be human? Does the baby attitude I'm carrying count? I say it does and proceed to walk into the store. Apparently, I was wrong. The woman in the spot next to me shot me the nastiest look ever. Yikes. I'm still scared. Ok, so I was honestly expecting her to roll out John and Kate (plus 8!) style with a dozen kids. At least. Nope. Not a one in sight. So what was up with the look of death? She didn't have an infant either. It's not like I was taking her spot. So I said "It's Ok. I'm infertile and there wasn't any place else to park the bitter bus. Beep beep." Not sure she found me amusing.

Oh, alright! I made that whole part up about the bitter bus. The rest of it's true. She did give me a nasty look. And she didn't have any kids. But I didn't say anything. I'm a lot more spice in the rack than spice in your chili. Plus, bitter in real life? Not so cute. I'm still not sure why she gave me the look. Are these spots **really** just reserved for customers with infants? Ok, if that's true, may I suggest some changes to the system? They should move the spots closer the cart return area. That's where moms need them anyway. And make them twice as wide as normal spots so when a frazzled mom is wrangling 4 kids in the car and forgets one, said child doesn't have to dodge other cars in the parking lot. She can just stand still (true story. It's ok, she came back for me. Almost immediately. And I do believe her story that she just miscounted heads. I do. She wasn't trying to leave me there. No matter what my sister says. And either way, she's stuck with me now) and wait.

Also, I suggest some new spots. "Customers in High Heels Parking Only". Have you ever tried to navigate a pothole filled parking lot in 4 inch heels? There should be spots INSIDE the store. How 'bout one for "Customers With Wicked Cool Cars"? They could be 4 miles away and diagonal. Each customer could take up 3 spots. "Pregnant Women Parking"....they have a porta potty and ice cream stand. And finally, the "Customers Who Really Have to Go" spots. Those spots will be marked with these signs:

That's an actual sign, from an actual bathroom that I actually used today. (I also bought a giant cookie and a diet pepsi. Lunch of champions.) I will never stop finding that amusing. I'm sure she's supposed to look demure. But she really just looks like she's doing the pee pee dance.

I wonder if we could use that same sign on the new TSA machines at the airport. They could function as both a warning and instructions. I repeat, nobody needs to see my special girly parts on the big screen. (Please read the link. All of this is a lot more amusing if you know what I'm talking about.)

Words hurt.

This is just a brief paragraph to make a point. Words hurt. Whether written, spoken or sung (I'm sorry, but when Ashlee Simpson sings, my ears hurt.) Be careful about what you say. What you say cannot ever be taken back. You cannot undo what you said. You can explain your intent, you can smooth over the pain. But you cannot make it not have happened.

You can be as caustic, witty, or snarky as you chose. But if you hurt someone, man up.

I'm manning up.

Does this silver lining make my butt look big?

So the baby nazi showed up this morning. Not unexpected. I mean, it never is. But it's usually a bit more like rain on your wedding day, the black fly in my Chardonnay. You know, not ironic. Annoying. Irritating. Downright angering. (Sorry Alanis. Gotta call 'em like I see 'em). And for the record, it totally rained on my wedding day. My mom says that's good luck. And cited her own wedding day as proof. Have I mentioned my mom is on marriage number 2? And it didn't rain at the wedding I was around to attend. Should totally have rained on that wedding day. (assuming we're proving the happy thing theory.)

I digress. Baby Nazi reared it's ugly head this morning. But you know, it's ok. I'm actually happy about it. Well, "happy" is a strong word. I'm somewhere between annoyed and not ready to beat someone. In fact, I didn't have the urge to shoot anyone and I managed to make it all the way home without flipping anyone off. Oh, and I didn't even compose any nasty emails today. (Lots of ++ Karma points!) Go me! Ok, I'm not really an angry person. No, really. I'm so not. I'm pissy. And snarky. And sometimes I'm forced to smack some sense into people. But angry? Not really. I'm expressive. Sometimes, I'm loudly expressive. But I'm a lover. Make love, not war and all that jazz (Raise your hand if you're now singing the soundtrack to Chicago in your head. **raises hand**) Hi, I dance in the grocery store. I'm so not an angry person. Wow this is a tad tangental. I know. You're shocked. I'm generally so on point.

Ok, so baby nazi. Why am I not (insert emotion here)? I had a meeting with the fatty clinic today. And I commented that I have to lose 19 lbs to start IVF again. And the doctor said "Oh you'll do that in 3 weeks on this program." **blank stare** Fatty say what? THREE WEEKS?? What are they going to do? Cut off a leg? Not that I'd object. The left one's been nothing but a pain lately anyway. And if you cut off one bad limb, it'll be a good message for the others: fly straight or you could be next. So take the leg. Of course, that would put a damper on dancing in the grocery store. And I can't give up an arm....what would I use when talk? I need both hands. Ok, I'll part with 2 toes, 1 finger, and an ear. Me and Van Gough. Only I'm cuter. And have long hair (you know, to cover the missing ear. But I do think the hair helps in the cuteness factor.). And none of that tortured artist angst. I will, however, have both legs and 19 fewer pounds.

So I'm beyond excited. No, mom and all my weight watcher lovers, I don't actually expect to lose 19 pounds in three weeks. But just the idea that they (oh.."they"...there's that nameless mob....weird how I trust them now, but not when it comes to honey vs. vinegar for fly catching) say it could happen gives me hope I haven't had in a long time. I think, for the first time in 2 years, weight loss is actually more important to me than having a baby! Who am I? Did mirror girl finally take over? Doubt it. Though, she's been making more of an appearance lately. I'm rockin a new 'do. And I do have to say, I'm adorable. If I were single, I'd take me home. Even if I was sober when I met me.

And now from the "are you KIDDING me?!" files. I found this snippet in an article in a major national magazine. Another sad addiction of mine. Magazines. I have subscriptions to at least 10. And I probably buy another 3 or 4 a week. As long as the price of magazines doesn't multiply as quickly as the Duggars like gas prices have, I'll be fine. Ok, but the article. Was about the new Sex and the City movie. Question "Can an infertile woman over 40 get pregnant?" Answer: "It isn't that far-fetched that...would get pregnant after adopting....it helps when a woman doesn't stress about conceiving." Sigh. I have no words. When will this myth be dispelled? Here. I'll make it simple. The odds of an infertile woman, who has not conceived on her own before, getting knocked up after adopting are roughly the same as Jen and Brad getting back together. (A girl can hope. But shouldn't hold her breath.) Also, relaxing, not stressing, deep, cleansing breaths, whatever... is not, I repeat NOT, going to magically make my missing fallopian tube reappear. Spread the word.

Also from the files: bacon ice cream? Do I really need to explain? Richard, Richard, Richard. What are you thinking? (Top Chef watchers UNITE!) Plus, stop whining. Stephanie has great hair. And you have a fauxhawk. You can't win with bad hair. It's TV! Big pink puffy love to my girl (and Top Chef winner!) Stephanie.

Speaking of Top Chef. I am kind of sad that I won't be able to cook anymore after the 23rd. At least not for a while. I love to cook. It's like therapy. Only not as therapeutic. And yummier. And if I can't cook, how can I flaunt my newly discovered skill? Cleaning and cooking a goose. (http://www.straightdope.com/mailbag/mgoose.html) This is a priceless skill. And also a fair representation of the types of articles the HG sends me. Does this say more about me or him? And what, exactly does it say? But props to The Straight Dope for hooking me up with goose cooking instructions. I have got to find a Tiny Tim so I can cook Christmas Goose. Or squirrel (if you read the article, you'd be laughing right now....).

And if you're going to laugh, you might was well laugh at this:
Those are yellow crocks. On a man. And I think he may have shaved his legs. On the list of things a man should not wear, yellow crocks is at the top. Or at least it should be. Followed by skinny jeans. Even if you're one of the Jonas Brothers (gag. If you don't know who they are, consider yourself lucky. They're like New Kids on the Block. Only not as cute, well dressed, or talented. Yeah.)

My niece is so going to disown me for that Jonas Brother's crack.

You wash my hair, I'll wash yours

Or something like that.
Here's the thing, sometimes you need favors from people. And as my grandmother always used to say "You'll catch more flies with honey than will vinegar" (ok. Grandma never really said that. But doesn't it punctuate the story nicely? Much better than saying "They say..." For several reasons. Not the least of which is that I don't trust random nameless mobs.) Ok, so taking Oma's advice under advisement, I called the management office at our apartment complex and left the following message: "Hi, this is Kate from apartment XX. It appears there is something wrong with our air conditioner. It has been running for days and the temperature has only dropped from 95 to 90. Would it be possible to have someone come check it out and make sure it's working correctly?" When I came home from work, I found the following note: "Temp @ vents is 73. Temp outside is 96.2. System seems to be working." Rough translation? "Hi, bitch, it's hot out. Of course it's hot in your apartment." Huh. Now here I was under the impression that running the AC for 4 days straight should actually cool the apartment. I'm so silly. N-Star is going to love us this month. Bye bye sparkly new necklace. Also, he failed to note that the temperature in the apartment (according to the thermostat) is 85. That's down 10 degrees in 4 days. Hmmmm....could something be wrong? Anyway. My next message will be something like this: "Hi, this is Kate. I'm calling from Hades. It's bloody hot in my apartment. Have you ever seen a fat girl melt? It's not pretty. And you will never get the stains out. Try renting that place to someone with a big smear of me in the carpet. Please come fix my AC. Don't do it for me. Do it for you." I bet that'll get a response. Because really, who wants honey or flies anyway? I'm all vinegar baby. Pour me on fries and call me delicious.

Know who is actually pure honey? My friend Jess. I love Jess. (See Lill? I TOTALLY have other friends. I'm well rounded. In a good way. Not in a you can roll me down the stairs kind of way. Even though you can.) I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a mean bone in her body. However, she's as crazy as I am. I know, not exactly a resounding endorsement. But she's crazy good. I'm crazy...crazy. But that's not my point. She called to tell me about a girl she met tonight who is apparently actually crazy. Like bat-shit crazy. She has dividers in her drawers to separate her socks. Now, I'm anal. I like things orderly. Sometimes, we go to happy hour after work and my co-workers move my napkin around just to watch me neatly line it up again. But I don't even know where one would go to find dividers for your sock drawer. I bet Ikea has them (note to self: schedule trip to Ikea). Ikea has everything.

Ok, Ok. Jess actually called to tell me about a mind body program to reduce stress she's participating in. She thought it might be good for me. Is she saying I need stress reduction? What would give her the idea I need stress reduction? DO I APPEAR STRESSED TO YOU???? Does the fact that I can't sleep without taking a xanax mean I'm stressed? Perhaps it's the fact that I nearly dislocated my middle finger on the way home today. I whipped that puppy up so quickly, I nearly took out an eye and lost permanent use of my left hand. In my defense, Boston traffic is not known for it's calming features. (point of reference: http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2007/05/15/miami_tops_rude_drivers_list_again/?p1=MEWell_Pos5) So perhaps some yoga would help. If twisting myself into a pretzel would help. I wonder how many people it would take to untangle me. And is that part of their de-stressing program or will they charge me extra? Yoga mat: $30; Yoga class: $15; Watching 15 people peel my heals from behind my ears: Priceless.

But you know what does calm me some? Bad reality TV. MTV, Bravo, TLC...all synonymous with Valium as far as I'm concerned. "If I can't grow in this competition, like where do I go from here? This is, like, it for me." I love reality TV. This week's obsession? The Search for Elle Woods on MTV. And that little gem of a quote came from a 19 year old. I want to crawl through the TV and smack her. And then say, "Oh sweetie. You'll have so much to offer someone someday. You don't need to be Elle Woods. Someday you'll give it up on a casting couch and get on another reality show. This doesn't HAVE to be it for you. Heck, there's always the Bachelor if this doesn't work out." Ok, but seriously. I love this show. Where else can you find 10 girls who think the world revolves around them and is hanging on their every word? All on TV! Fan.tast.tic. Better than a drunken sorority party. (Why am I addicted to this stuff?)

And so, my love for bad TV has brought me to this confession: I love me some Snoop D-O-Double G. The HG just now found this out. How'd that never come up before? I swear. I'm like a closet 16 year old. From the 'hood. In pearls. Is this why I don't have children? So I don't scar them (or scare them) with my choice of stress relieving activities? Probably. But then again, my mother weaned me on the John Davidson Show (**swoon** my first love), Donahue (Phil rocks) and The Young and the Restless (remember "Blue Suede Shoes". Danny from Y&R. Oh yeah.). And she had 4 kids. I think I get a pass.

You know what the funniest thing about all of this is? When I was little, I thought life was a soap opera. I mean, what little girl didn't? I pictured my wedding (Though in my memories, I was a lot thinner and had better hair). Cinderella had nothing on me. Except no prince charming. I wasn't about to share the crown. But why doesn't "happily ever after" ever include kids? You watch the movies and the prince and princess walk away hand and hand as the little heart closes over them. "THE END". Why can't fairytales be more like Shrek? With a follow up movie, complete with baby trolls. I got the troll. I gave up the dream of a crown. Where's my sequel? Did the animators of my life go on strike? And if so, can I lure them back with promises of royalties and residuals? I'll even do my own voiceovers.

So now I watch too much TV and watch other people having their dreams come true. How is that normal? Not that I've ever been one for normal. Maybe I'm just twisted enough that I enjoy reality TV so much because it involves a heavy component of disappointment for the "contestants" (I'd call them what they are: attention grabbing wannabe actors. But hi. I'm blogging my life for all the world to see. Those in glass houses....shouldn't walk around naked. Or throw stones. You especially shouldn't throw stones in glass houses if you're naked. Make a note.) But I don't want to be "that" girl. I want to be happy for other people. And you know, it's not that I'm not, in general, happy for other people. But I think there is a twisted little part of me that feels better when other people have failures. Like I'm not alone in my sadness. On the other hand, I'd love to fix the world and make everyone happy. And have all their dreams come true. Then on the other hand....ok, I have no hands left. I'd like to buy the world a coke...

I wonder how many flies I could catch with coke.

And in closing. It has come to my attention that I was off my game last night. I apologize. If it happens again, please tell me. I am perfection in my own mind and won't otherwise know I've lulled you all to sleep. Plus, if you do it nicely enough, I'll probably even change for you. I'm a giver like that.

PS: [Note to First Response: There is NOT such as thing as being "a little bit pregnant". For realisies. Either you are or you aren't. Period. No pun intended. (Yes, Mrs. Kerr, I know. That wasn't technically a pun. You're no more fun now then you were in 11th grade English)]

Head Games

I'm thinking of weighing myself in kilograms. I weigh less than 200 kilos. I can't say the same for pounds. Besides, saying "I only have 20 kilos to go" sounds like I'm talking about moving some coke...maybe I'll get some of the money I spent on weight watchers back. Not that I'm going to sell coke. Or any other drug for that matter (I'm not a criminal. Besides, I was told the mug shots were destroyed...) But it would be nice to believe I could get some of my money back. I think I've sent 3 weight watcher children to college in the 4 years I've been paying for weight watchers.

Ok, let's do some math. $13 a week for 208 weeks=$2,708. Not so bad. Well, I feel better. I did, however, send one weight watcher child to one semester of community college. I hope she got something out of it.

When I went to community college, I have to say, I learned virtually nothing of value (oh, wait. I did learn to roll a joint in Soc 101. But it wasn't valuable to me. I never rolled a joint. And I didn't inhale. Nobody would share their pot with me. Apparently it's a waste if you don't inhale. Whatevs.). I don't know that it was because it was community college or because I only half-assed it. Probably a combination of both. Don't get me wrong, I think community colleges absolutely have their place in this world (reminds me of a Michael W. Smith song: Place in This World. Google it.) I'm not anti-community college. But I didn't find it very....purposeful. Very few of the students there knew why they were there--what their final goal in life was. Certainly none of us had to make an effort to get in, so we didn't have to make an effort to stay in. I just wish I had spent my time there more wisely. Like, you know, learning something. The hardest part of my entire career there was trying to get my diploma. Yes, I graduated. Yes, I completed all course requirements. But get the actual diploma? Not so much. Why? Because I refused to pay them the $25 graduation fee. Again. I paid it when I registered to graduate. You had to pay or you didn't get to participate in graduation ceremonies. Since my mother has pictures of me walking across the stage, I'm quite certain I was there. But when I went to pick up my diploma? Not so much. After weeks of arguing, I let it go. Who cared? I was on to bigger and better things. Funny thing, though. I don't have the diploma from my BS, either. Sense a trend? In my older years, I've learned that some things really are just that important. Why couldn't I pay another $25 for the diploma? I don't know. My mother says I'm stubborn. (She's wrong. I'm not stubborn and if you give me 20 minutes, I'll prove it to you.) I do want that diploma, though. Well, not that one so much as the one for my BS. (also graduated. With honors, thank you very much. Ah, nothing says "honor graduate" like "insurance underwriter"....) That one I'd like. I mean, who doesn't want their diploma hanging on the wall of their office? (Let's not nitpick. Cube, office. Potato, tomato.)

Ok, but my point is that sometimes it's not worth arguing with someone who can't spell diploma, much less know if you've earned one, over $25. (Is that judgey? How many karma points do I lose? Does it matter if I know someone who works at the same community college and will vouch for me that most of the staff members can't read?) For example, today I was at the drive thru of Wendy's getting the HG a coke float (diet starts the 23rd, remember?) and the stellar employee of the Wendy's handed me the cup, which overfloweth with coke. And float. I got all snippy with him. Why would you hand someone something that's quite literally spilling? It has to go in my car. So what did I do to "punish" the employee? Dumped 1/2 of it on the pavement. Yeah. That'll show him. Now, I ask you, who is the "genius" in this equation. (hint: it's not the guy in the snappy uniform.)

Ok, so we've established that you shouldn't argue with the diploma withholders (bastards) or with Wendy's employees (this will only result in spit laden burger or dumping 1/2 you purchase on the ground in protest). But is it Ok to argue with the friend who feels like the universe revolves around her? Actually, she doesn't feel the universe revolves around her. What a horrible thing for me to say. She is absolutely certain the universe was created for her pleasure only. And as such, everything about her life is that much better than yours. Bought a new car? She was going to buy that one, but instead bought her new car. Which is so much better than yours. Here, let her explain why. For the next 20 minutes. Got a promotion at work? Give her a moment, she'll share all the sordid details about how the president of her company can't possibly take a shit without running it by her and making sure it's a good business decision. Did you happen to see a movie this weekend? Be sure to pencil in some time to hear about how she knows someone who knows someone who once went to summer camp with someone who stood next to the star of the movie in line at Starbucks (said star apparently prefers a venti skinny latte with an extra shot. half caf. Extra hot.) Which clearly makes her cool by extension. And heaven forbid you think you are entitled to an opinion. You're not. No, it doesn't matter how well read you are on the subject. Or if you're a subject matter expert (Ok, for the record, the only thing I'm a subject matter expert on is shoes, shopping, ice cream, fertility treatments, and fake diamonds--I can spot them a mile away. But she's better at all of them. Here, let her show you why....). Nope, Athena has either read an article (did I say read? I meant to say "wrote") or participated in a study (did I say participate? I meant to say "designed") that specifically and irrefutably proves you're a complete idiot. She doesn't go to parties. She is invited to events. She doesn't have friends over for drinks. She entertains. She doesn't have friends or relatives who graduate from college. She has friends or family who graduate from Princeton or Duke or Yale. She doesn't go on a boat ride. She's entertained on a yacht. And breakfast out? Brunch, thank you very much. You know, if I'm such an idiot with bad taste who makes poor decisions and can't reason her way out of a paper bag, why oh why does she hang out with me? I must be her charity project. (and I know, why do I hang out with her? Yeah. She's my charity project....so, is that + karma points for doing charity work or - karma points for being snarky about her? A wash? If you knew her, I'd totally get karma points for doing charity work.) When she gets pregnant, her child will be perfection. And I'm fairly certain that she'll be more infertile than I am. Unless, of course, I have a child by then. Then she'll get pregnant faster and easier than I did. (But that's not fair. Most people do. Of course, they usually have enough class not to point that out.)

One thing I have going for me that Athena does not? The HG. Who else thinks my insanity is cute?

(Oh, and PS, I think I have more than 20 kilos to lose. How many pounds in a kilo, anyway?)

I have a dream.

Well, technically I HAD a dream. About Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton. And all I'm saying is they are terribly difficult to work for...

I woke up in hot sweat.

Then realized the AC in my apartment doesn't work. Let's discuss this. Most of the people in the world don't have air conditioning. And there are many, many places that are hotter than New England in the summer. And they probably don't complain. On the flip side, I pay for the privilege of having AC (and by pay, I mean, I paid 3 guys several hundred dollars to move my 200 boxes up three flights of stairs. Took them 7 hours. They'd be PISSED if they knew the AC didn't work after all of that.....) so is it so wrong to want it to work on the hottest day of the year? Can I get a verdict here? Thank GOD I'm not pregnant.

See? I'm not always bitter. I can totally find the silver lining in things.

Let's play a game. I'll call it the silver lining game.

Bad thing: Cold Stone was closed when HG and I decided we couldn't possibly live another moment without Birthday Cake Remix (him) and Cookie Doughn't You Want Some (me).

Silver Lining: There are 2. One, the staff at cold stone was spared my crankiness. This is a silver lining because it earns me karma points and doesn't disillusion the 12 year olds behind the counter with their first jobs. I mean, why clue them in to the cold hard reality that for the most part people suck. They have plenty of time to learn that lesson. And two, I was forced to drive to the grocery store for my ice cream fix where I settled on a package of Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches. (highly recommended. And a fat girl commendation is the highest award a food product can get. Especially when said fat girl is a full on food snob.)

Bad thing: These shorts.

What year is it???? 1985? Girls just wanna have fun! All I need are some torn fishnets, lace gloves, ankle boots, and an off the shoulder t-shirt. Oh wait. It could totally be this year. Scary. But for real, I think we can all agree that this particular style of shorts should.not. come in double digit sizes. Let's spare the world. Please.

Silver lining: We all got a good laugh. And they were still hanging on the rack in the store which means nobody was running around scaring small children. Or me for that matter.

See? Just call me Pollyanna. http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00005RRGB/dvdmg best movie ever)

While we're talking shorts, I'd like to offer some fashion advice to the ladies out there. If you have to button your pants UNDER your belly, they don't fit. Just size up. Plus sizes aren't scary. Nobody likes the idea of having to shop in **those stores** but, trust me. It's better than the alternative. Also, if your cellulite dimples (yes, we all have them. Even my size zero sister)are visible through your jeans, your jeans are too small. I hope HG runs for President someday. My mission as first lady will be "A Cosmo and mirror for all the women in America!" Because while it's not necessary to be a fashion plate, you should at least wear clothes that fit. And if you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for me. I lose karma points every time you walk by.

As snarky as I am and even though I joke about karma points, I really do try to be a good person. HG and I tithe 10% of our income every month. I often go out of my way to help people in little ways. I honestly cry for homeless people and will usually buy food and/or give them money. I love animals, babies, and the elderly. I mean, no, I'm not Mother Theresa. And I could certainly give more freely of my time, but really, I try to be a good person. I try to be responsible, hard working, loving and mature (Ok, I made that last one up). Just to clarify. In case you were wondering.

Why the clarification? The HG came in, read my blog and said "Hey, bitter much?" Um. Yeah. "Bitter is the New Black". It goes with just about everything.

(PS: Camel Toe is not a fashion statement you should make.)

9 Pregnancy Myths and other reasons to drink

Ok, so NOTHING thrills me more than my weekly dose of the Nest newsletters for pregnant women and new moms arriving in my inbox. Like nothing. I run home from work **fingers crossed** that it's there. I signed up for this newsletter last July when I WAS pregnant. For like 3 minutes. I timed it. Anyway. Apparently, according to this week's newsletter there are NINE pregnancy myths. Myth 1: if you have unprotected sex, you'll get pregnant. Ok, I made that one up. Really it's Myth 2 that amuses me: Decaf Only. That's as in coffee. The myth, apparently, is that when preggers, you can only drink decaf coffee. However! Good news! Apparently you can have "one small cup of coffee a day". Wait a sec. Isn't that the same as saying "no coffee"? I'm pretty sure coffee only comes in a 3 cup thermos or a 24 oz "small" from Dunkin Donuts. (coconut, cream, 4 splenda thanks). So this whole "one up a day" crap? Yeah. Don't tease a girl.

Anyway.

I'm not feeling particularly witty this evening. In fact, I'm down right exhausted. I love my mother, I really do. And as I've mentioned, she has a birthday approaching (Hi mom!). So around 8:30 this morning I got a call on my cell phone. I was at work, so naturally I was going to ignore her call. In all fairness, I would normally ignore her call anyway, but being at work gave me a good excuse. Well thank goodness I picked up the phone (hey, question, can you see my eyes roll through the screen?). Guess who's coming to visit?!? (For real, if you can't guess, there is nothing I can do to help you.) Guess when?!? Um, in 3 hours. Remember last night when I said that I didn't do the dishes before I went to bed last night. Yeah. Don't even tell me karma's not real. So, let's recap. The ONE night in, oh, I don't know, 4 months, that I haven't done the dishes, my mother shows up. Great. Thanks ma. I swear she has a video camera in my apartment (quick mom, what color underwear am I wearing??). Now you'd think this wouldn't result in a big dramatic day. You would. I mean, mom is coming. We go out to dinner. End of story. Have you learned NOTHING from me? Nothing is ever that simple. But in the interests of expediency (yeah, not generally my style. I'm tired. Remember?), I'll cut to the chase. 4 hours of phone calls between 5 different people, 100's of emails, 4 fights, and 3 reservation changes later, 8 of us managed to meet for dinner. I have pictures to prove it:

Um. Ok. So that picture proves that six of us were at dinner. I swear there were eight. Two left to go watch the Celtics game. I swear. Ok, and even if they didn't and they weren't there to begin with, does it really change the story? But they were there. Anyway. My point is, I'm exhausted. Imagine if we were trying to arrange something important.

Oh, so here's a pregnancy myth that's probably true. No alcohol during pregnancy. Good news is that since I'm NOT pregnant, I got a life jacket of Sam Summer. Lemon, please. Yummmm. Everything is better with beer. Especially family drama. Too bad I can't drink at work. (Is it technically drinking at work if it's just some Bailey's in my coffee?)

You know what sucks? All day I thought about stuff I wanted to write about tonight. Two beers and 4 scallops later, I can't remember. Who says alcohol doesn't kill brain cells?

(Oh, and PS: the HG? BIG BONUS point for doing dinner tonight. We stopped on the way home and bought a PSP.)

Pink

Pink is one of my favorite colors. Pink and green were my wedding colors. (For the record, I thought was super clever that year. Yeah. Me and 4 mazillionty other brides. If you got married in 2006, I put even money on your colors having been pink and green. More unsolicited advice for unmarried/engaged/single friends: Choose your colors after you read no fewer than 15 bridal magazines to avoid what every.one.else is doing. Having said that, my wedding was beautiful.)

Funny story. I can pinpoint the moment my obsession with pink began. My good friend Courtney and I were going to hang out at a local bar. Which shall remain nameless because I'm afraid to be associated with it. Plus, it has a very distinctive "odor" (code for "smells like a rat died smoking a carton of cigarettes 4 weeks ago and has been baking in the sun and marinating in stale beer ever since") and I'm afraid that like Beetlejuice, if I say the name three times in a row, the smell will magically appear. And unlike Lucky Charms, it is NOT magically delicious. So, Court and I were headed to the place which shall not be named and I was obsessing about the girl in the mirror again. After trying on outfit number 14, I came out adorned in a black v-neck sweater, bright pink ribbed turtleneck, and jeans (I promise, it was cute). My dear friend exclaimed "OMG you look FABULOUS in pink." And an obsession was born. In hindsight, it's entirely possible she was just desperate for a beer. But whatever. I'm pretty sure I still look fabulous in pink. After that, pretty much everything I purchased was pink. At one point, before we were married, HG said "Do you really need another pink sweater?" To which I replied, with appropriate irritation at his naivete, "This isn't pink. It's salmon." (um, duh). Since then, it has occurred to me that my wardrobe needs a lot of different colors....and I'm proud to say that I honestly only have one pink shirt. Maybe 2. Unless you count t-shirts. But I'm not.

So, as much as I love pink, there is on place I don't like to see it. In one, sad, lonely, stripe on the pee test. It's so lonely. It really needs a friend. I'm all about two lines. Perhaps tomorrow. Because this is that time of the month where I start peeing on random sticks. Dogs in the neighborhood see me coming and run to get to the good sticks before I do. It's a problem. In the world of women trying to conceive (TTC), it's known as POAS (pee on a stick). And I am a chronic pee-er. (Generally I do prefer sticks wrapped in their hermetically sealed little packages. But I don't know that I'd rule out peeing on just any old stick.) So today marked day one of the peeing. The peeing will continue until there is a clear reason not to. And, no, only seeing one line is not a reason to stop. What a silly idea. The package actually says that if you get a negative test, you should wait a week and try again. HAHAHA I have a hard time typing that without laughing. A week? For real? A man must have come up with that silly plan. A week. **insert hysterical laughter**

For the record, the odds of my being **whisper** pregnant ("pregnant" is like ((cancer)) or ((dead)), you cannot say the word out loud to an infertile woman), are virtually zero. But this doesn't stop me from hoping, praying, and peeing. Why? Because they're not actually zero. And I will cling to my "virtually" like Britney clinging to her dignity. Or Kevin's boxers. Whatever.

Speaking of dignity. In my quest to lose weight for IVF, I'm going to start a gung-ho diet program on the 23rd. Complete meal replacement. And I checked, and they will not be replacing my meals with McFlurries and fries. That's too bad. That's really a plan I could get behind. It's not one of the Nutri plans and I'm not calling Jenny. I'm calling Dr. Mitchell. I call it "NutriHospital". Should be fun. I use the term "fun" loosely. Very loosely. Paris Hilton loosely. (Wow, I'm fully of celebrity similes and metaphors tonight. This is what happens when I surf OMG! on Yahoo before posting. -1 karma point for not doing the dishes in favor of reading about the latest celebrity drivel.) In preparation for said torture, I have to have a bunch of blood work run and an EKG. The whole EKG process starts off innocently enough. You strip down from the waist up and slop on a cute paper 1/2 shirt (with the slit in the back). Then the nurse comes back in and asks you lay on the table where she wallpapers you with electrodes. So far so good. Oh, wait. Apparently you can't wear stockings. So, roll off the table, reach up your skirt in front of the nurse, and peel off your stockings. Then lay back down and let the nurse rip the fancy new shirt she gave you (Hi, I paid for that. Well, sort of. But you know they're going to bill blue cross like $75 for that) in half. (Um, can I ask why you didn't have me put the slit in the front?) Then, with one boob surrounded by electrodes (and it's COLD. You do the math.), she leans over you and starts attaching wires. At this point, her mouth is so close to your boob, in some countries it could be considered a commitment ceremony. On the bright side, the whole processes is over in like 30 seconds. And you know, after all of that, I could have still walked out of there with some dignity left. However, there is absolutely no way to maintain your dignity while standing in what amounts to 2 pink (Pink!!) paper sleeves while helping Olive Oil find the fax number at the "Center for Bariatric Surgery and Obesity Treatment". "Dear Dignity, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

So, having not eaten all day, I stopped at McDonald's for a Southwest Chicken Salad. When I got back to my desk and opened it up, this is what I saw:

Am I the only one not feeling the love? I was, however, really feeling the YUM. I highly recommend. Even comes with a lime wedge! Hi, what's not to love?

Look what came home to see me. Cute boy rocking a new hair cut. (Honey, I love you so. But can we PLEASE wax the brows? It can be a group project. Mine need a weed wacker.)

Ok, but seriously. He's only the sweetest man ever. (Even if he refuses to read my blog. No soup for him.)

And as a final thought, if someone thinks they look good in, say Orange, should you tell them spare them the fact that nobody looks good in orange? OR just let them have their moment? For the record, I didn't tell but I'm not sure if that's a net karmic win or loss.

Perception is not reality.

Or so says the Donster. (Donster=mom. Mom=Donna, follow?) Ok, so that begs the question, at what point can you trust your perceptions? For example, I perceive that my mother is crazy. She, however, will completely disagree with this. (And yes, she is reading this. Hi mom!) Now, if I get several of my sisters to back me up on this, does that mean it's reality? Here's the thing. Mom wants me to write up my little sister's wedding invitations. I maintain I already did mine and glowing bride should do her own. And if she doesn't want to, then I guess she doesn't want a wedding badly enough. I'm right, right? The Donster is crazy, yes?

In all fairness, I love my mom. She's only as crazy as the rest of us and how do you not love that? She just wants baby sister to have a nice wedding. I'm all about that. (10 karma points for me). Unless having a nice wedding means I have to write up some long winded essay about the virtues of Utica so the out of town guests can find something fun to do. Utica has one main virtue: the exit out of the city. Oh, and I got married there. So two virtues. Oh, and sometimes it's sunny. And houses cost about as much as pocket lint. So what's that, 3 1/2 virtues? My point is that I can't help the guests of this shindig (shindig will commence on August 9th...I'll be resplendent in a white wrap dress and the cutest sandals you've ever seen) find something fun to do in Utica during their time there because there is nothing to share with them. I did the whole "tour of Utica" thing for my wedding. Know how many people took advantage of it? A big fat zero. No wait, I take that back. I think one, but let's not split hairs. I think I get a pass on having to do it again. (Poll: do I lose karma points for that?)

While we're talking about my mom. I was watching "My SUPER Sweet 16" on MTV. (I'm a reality TV junkie. HG knows this and loves me anyway. **Swoon** for the husband guy.) The mother of the little diva having her "day" (gag) actually said, as diva tried on a 70!!! carat diamond necklace for her "big day", "Oh, you deserve that! It's your birthday!". I instantly had two thoughts: 1) huh, so THAT'S what's wrong with America and 2) um. Hi. All little diva has done in her 15ish short years is spend your money. How, exactly, has she earned a 70 carat necklace. No, for real. Where is mommy's necklace? I think that all birthdays, until you've solidly reached adulthood, should celebrate the mother. Possibly the father. I'll think about that. But fo' sho the mother. Mom is the one who does all the work. My older sister is a single mom. TELL me that girl does not deserve a 70 carat diamond necklace 20 times more than MTV Diva. Anyway. Here's to all the moms I know! Eff mother's day! Take back the birthdays!
(Oh, I also had a third thought: ohhhhh...sparkly....)

Speaking of perception (yes, we were, please refer to the title of today's ramble), today I got a gander of myself in the mirror. When I left the house this morning, the shining face in the mirror was adorable in her dark brown baby doll blouse, khaki capris, brown and teal necklace, and bronze flats. I'd take her home. And that new make-up? FAB.U.LOUS. But the image staring back at me when I went to lunch? Not so much. I'd like to figure out a way to take the hottie from the mirror to work and not have her take a premature lunch break. (I imagine she was in the bathroom staring at herself.) So I considered my options: 1) lose weight 2) ignore ugly mirror girl (she's a bitch anyway) or 3) become a vampire (no mirror image...). Option 2 seems difficult. Besides, I like bitches. Most of my best friends are bitches. And I worry what option three would do for my social life...nobody really wants to hang out with the blood sucking girl with fangs. Plus that whole "wooden stake the the heart thing" is so 2 years ago. So it seems like we're back at the weight loss thing. Is it ok to confess that I really don't want to? I'd rather just wake up skinny. So.much.easier.

However, my doctor told me I'm too fat to have a baby right now. (See, ma, perception is totally reality.)You'd think that would motivate me. And it does. It really truly does. For about 10 minutes before I go to bed at night. Then I wake up and think, hmmmm....hash browns would totally taste good. And I deserve it (Hey, after all, it could be my birthday! It's not like I'm asking for a 70 carat necklace. Just some fried bits of potato-y goodness.....) Only, I don't think I do deserve it. What I deserve is to lose this weight and start jabbing myself with needles (Hi Murpy! That was for you.) for IVF. Oh, and to look KILLER in my white dress at bridezilla's shindig. (Besides, she doesn't want to look at pictures of a marshmallow every time she sees her wedding pics. + karma points for me!)

I wonder how much liposuction costs.....

(PS, the donster has a birthday coming up. No, she's not getting a 70 carat sparkler. Unless it's the kind of sparkler that comes in a box of 20 on the 4th of July. I'm thinking "fruit of the month"....)