They say that you know you’re gaining weight when black guys start hitting on you.
I’m not sure if anyone says this.
But I know I am gaining weight because aside from black guys hitting on me and the self-abusive conversation I have with myself each morning about the progression of my third trimester (I’m not pregnant), I recently got a speeding ticket. I know that is not a measurable factor here, but I have never been ticketed in the past. This is typically what happens when I get pulled over:
I lean out the window and ask, frantic and alarmed:
“IS EVERYTHING OKAY?!?!?!”
As if I am being pulled over to counsel him on marital troubles or American Idol voting techniques. He replies something about a child chasing a ball, and no crossing guard around, and federal imprisonment. I sigh, relieved, and hand him my license, unable to find my insurance or car registration.
After about 12 minutes of probing questions, among other things 😉 I am asked to avoid schools zones and any properties containing live, white children, and detour through the ghetto anytime I want to drive recklessly.
But unfortunately that only works when your body is not protruding past the restraint of your seat belt and your eyes aren’t being forced back into their sockets by pounds of cheek and eyebrow fat. Therefore I maintain that the only explanation for my receiving a ticket is the blubber effect. Definitely not the driving 53 in a 25. No. That can’t be it.
I’m blaming my weight gain on a number of factors, most of which I will not have the time or patience to tell you about. Here are three I can stomach. Hehehe. I’m so clever.
1. My ever increasing American guilt. Perhaps it is my preference to radical liberal politics over false patriotic conservative politics that results in the inordinate amount of time I spend each day mourning Middle Eastern people I will never meet. Not just because they’re dead. But mostly because they’re dead. This leaves me depressed and anxious and forced to resort to binging on food no Middle Eastern person would ever eat. Not just because they’re dead. But, really, mostly because they’re dead.
2. Sushi. When eaten by Japanese people or bulimic teenagers, sushi can be very healthy. But when eaten by an American woman at a Chinese buffet 10 minutes away from her house, once a weekend, sometimes twice, depending on how much she hates herself that day, it is not good. It is embarrassing. Not quite a “legitimate rape” comment, but definitely a “binders full of women.”
3. Co-workers birthdays and other work-related food-oriented events. Every day in my office someone is either turning 50, hitting menopause, or inviting a politician to tour the school, all of which are equally disgraceful and handled with mass quantities of food. Even when I am trying to eat healthy I am bombarded with oatmeal cookies, or cheddar cheese slices, or Halloween candy hoarded away in my desk drawer. There is no escape!
I realize this doesn’t sound like a Thanksgiving Day post yet, but allow me to explain. My obsession with my weight sounds a little insecure. But I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m grateful that I am insecure and in a constant state of emotional anguish. Why? It keeps me from being a dick.
If you know anything about me, you know that the leading cause in my life is asshole prevention. If I lost weight and became confident and hot, I’d become even more self-involved and arrogant than I already am, and before you know it I’d be someone really evil like Kourtney Kardashian.
So to sum this whole thing up, this Thanksgiving I am grateful for many things.I am grateful for insecurities that keep me grounded. I am grateful for police officers that don’t tase me. I am grateful for the black guys who hit on me. I am grateful for my sister who is a registered dietician who will help me lose weight again. I am grateful for my boyfriend who I never talk about but exists quite fully in my life. I am grateful for the new wiper blades on my car. But lastly I am grateful for this, taken from the Facebook page of a person I actually know:
Doesn’t get much better than that.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I hope you are all grateful for something (me).
The girl who last year was thankful for assholes, but this year is thankful for mouths. Ew.
Sometimes I worry about how much I have in common with Octomom.
Both attention seekers, rippled with stretch marks, pretending that the Internet’s validation of our existence isn’t the glue holding our very feeble lives together. The resemblance is uncanny.
But having my most recent blog post Freshly Pressed was a deeply disarming occurrence in my life. Don’t get me wrong. It may just be the best thing that has ever happened to me – which I would hope either makes you feel really happy for me, really depressed, or slightly aroused. The latter for the sake of my ego. Both foreign and domestic Internet pervs complete me.
Nevertheless, being Freshly Pressed did result in some fine things happening to me and my blog. Like this:
But mostly this:
I realize the everyday pretentious blogger may scoff at 167 subscribers, but the everyday pretentious blogger also doesn’t require his/her subscribers to admit to “wanting to be a sucker” before subscribing. Plus this is 104 more subscribers than I had last week.
So I was thinking since I have 104 new people to become acquainted with before they inevitably decide they can’t tolerate me, I will take this opportunity to further introduce myself and my blog and hopefully alienate only a handful of you. Here we go “little suckers” – or something more affectionate and less creepy.
http://www.thegirlwiththeblog.com – A Guided Tour
You are good honest people and I’m not going to lie to you. I write a lot of crap. This isn’t me being cute and self-deprecating. This is me keeping it real like Dr. Phil. I’d like to tell you that everything written prior to the day you subscribed is a gold mine of wit and exuberant talent, but in May I wrote an entire blog entry about the song “She Blinded Me With Science.” So really, I’m mostly a hack.
To help you filter through my literary feces I’m going to point you in the direction of some of my blog entries that I wish had been Freshly Pressed, or acknowledged by anyone other than disapproving family members.
…I’m over this. I have roughly 90 posts. Read them. Or don’t. Whatever.
So in addition to the above links, as a new subscriber to TGWTB there are some things you should know
1. I am the asshole boyfriend of the WordPress blogosphere. I don’t write regularly, in fact sometimes I don’t write at all. For weeks. Months even. You send emails, I shrug you off. You start to forget about me. You think to yourself “this f***wad doesn’t deserve my body or my time.” Then BAM. I am blogging every day the month of May, confusing you, annoying you, seducing you with my melodrama before once again vanishing for weeks at a time for the length of the summer. I’m like Rip Van Winkle, without the good excuse.
2. I’m only 5’4 so I stand on a lot of soap boxes. I hope you dig it.
3. Receiving email notifications about blog comments, likes, and new subscribers brings me greater pleasure than any man or instant pudding mix ever could.
The Girl – The Abridged Version
Pretty much everything there is to know about me can be found in the “About the Girl” section of this blog. But to avoid this post coming off as one mother of a pimp fest for my blog (although, I mean…yeah…) I provide you with the following insights into my psyche:
1. At least 3 times a week I eat something with mold on it, only to lie awake in bed at night wondering if I’m going to die because I am allergic to penicillin and wasn’t penicillin discovered through mold on an orange? Or was that something else? Why did I have to listen to Dashboard Confessional and cry during high school Chemistry?
2. I hate people with really narrow feet. More than I should. More than anyone should hate anyone.
3. While sitting at my desk in a bra and shorts, I determined that the real reason clothes were invented is to distract fat people from how gross they look naked. I’m fat. I’m allowed to say this. And I’m not that fake fat blogger who only talks about being fat to appeal to lonely people in Idaho. I’m genuinely fat. So much to the point that I had to put on clothing so I could concentrate on something other than my fatness. Like writing this blog that ends with me talking about being fat. Awesome.
So please old readers, new readers, and Vietnamese pedophiles who somehow find my blog, please read me, write me, and call me, maybe. But most importantly, share 3 things about you that make you as effed up as me. Then we can freeze each other’s bras and practice french kissing.
Happy to have you 🙂
The girl who only feels entitled to call herself female for the one hour directly following leg shaving
I have a hard time believing I was ever fatter than this.
Right now if I poke any part of my body, my finger will be engulfed and quickly lost in at least 2 inches of superfluous fat, not to be discovered again until 2032 when I have it surgically removed, having mistaken it for a malignant tumor. It’s a bad scene, my body. A bad scene.
What’s all the more disturbing is that two years ago I was 45 pounds fatter than this.
I should have diabetes just for talking about it.
I lost the weight by eating really REALLY healthy and not exercising at all. It was like, the best plan ever. But it stopped working when I stopped eating healthy, and started spending my time swimming in a pool of shame and Burger King Carmel Frappes, poking my stomach with a ruler and crying inside. It’s like my very own sorority initiation up in here. Minus the Victoria’s Secret sweatpants.
My sister is both thin and a nutritionist, making me violently hate her. We have a mostly symbiotic relationship. I give her hair and makeup advice. She tells me how not to die. I’d say we’re even. We recently spent a week emailing back and forth about my problems with binge eating and general nutritional inadequacies. We developed a diet plan for me to follow and I was feeling rather hopeful that I would not keel over dead at 30. But of course I, being the Meryl Streep of self-sabotage, clumsily fumbled through a week and a half of mismanaged eating, losing nothing but the self confidence that I would ever be able to stop adding a slice of cheese to anything microwavable.
A week or so later my sister came home for my mother’s birthday. I woke up early so I could sneak into her room and play the old childhood standby “Funny Uncle,” but as always, the sound of my breathing from two rooms away already woke her up, so I was left with nothing to talk about but my diet. The conversation went something like this:
Sister: So how’s your diet going?
Me: I …I…um, what?
Sister: what, fat clogging your ears? I said diet, fat ass.
Me: Duh…I mean. I don’t know.
Sister: You’re disgusting.
A few hours later she tried again and the conversation went slightly better. But it’s been almost a week later and I have yet to discipline myself enough to stop eating like a rabid pig. I’m reaching a turning point though. I can feel it. Sometimes people need to hit an emotional rock bottom before deciding to better themselves and with Titanic previews encompassing much of my life and free time, I am one “But the ship can’t sink!” away from offing myself.
The girl who would rather be his whore than your wife
WARNING: On July 15, 2011, I stepped out of my comfort zone and wrote a blog post that was only mildly self-deprecating with an overall positive tone, entitled ““Losing a Baby Panda in Weight: The Lifetime Original Movie”.” It covered topics of my weight loss success and uncanny ability to invent clever compound words. This is not one of those blog posts.
I used to be fat. Correction: I’m still fat. But, I used to be really fat. Crazy fat. Jessica Simpson high-waist jeans fat. Crane lifting me out of my house fat. Six men rolling my flabby body onto a tarp and pulling me through the house to a stretcher outside, kind of fat. Ya’ll catch my drift. Then I had an epiphany accompanied by the realization that ima either die or never have sex again. So I started a diet.
For a year I maintained a 50 pound weight loss. Then I moved to Tennessee and lost an additional 13 pounds over the summer, bringing my total weight loss to 63 pounds and prompting the annoyingly motivated blog post linked above. I was feeling good. Happy. Still fat, but less lumpy. All the fatties reading know what I mean. I was at my lowest weight since freshmen year of college (that ole freshman 70 at it again!).
I still wanted and needed to lose more and had every intention to, but like any addict, I found myself constantly overwhelmed by my lust for Pad Thai delivery and frozen caffeinated beverages. I also lost all motivation to cook healthy meals, and by the time I was getting ready to move back to Pennsylvania, was eating a diet consisting solely of salsa, tortilla chips, and Nutella. I gained back five pounds, but I was comfortable with that. I knew it was a temporary setback and being that it was only five pounds more than I could bench press, I wasn’t concerned.
Then, I moved in with my mom. Now, my mom is a very healthy eater. Everything in her house has words like “soy” or “lentil” or “gross” on its packaging. I was confident that this environment would promote healthy eating habits and a successful weight loss. However, here we are, 2 ½ months later and I have gained a whopping, yes, whopping
I know. No, really. I know. When I weighed myself this morning, first discovering this, I wanted to jab a disposable razor in my eye. How could this happen? HOW could I maintain a 50 pound loss for a year, and then gain nearly half of it back in 2 ½ months? And no, I’m not pregnant, though at this point I’d rather anything than look at my disgusting self in the mirror; my reflection proof of my bloated figure and addictive-behavior.
My exact reaction anytime I get an All Recipes pop-up ad:
So today at a family gathering, as I double-dipped Ritz crackers into Spinach dip and ignored the sharp pains in my chest, I pondered about my weight gain. Though I’ve spent my life as a beacon of childhood obesity I have always known that my weight is entirely within my control. Though I was born a massive 9 pound blob, earning me the self-proclaimed title of “vagina destroyer” which I used, happily, until puberty when I realized that is a nickname best reserved for black men, I have been in control of what I eat and how much since about 15 years old. Needless to say, there is only so long I can continue to bitch about my own life choices.
The only factor I can equate this weight gain to is my holiday cookie operation. Throughout the month of December I made $650 selling cookie trays, and thus was forced to gain an incomprehensible amount of pure fat poundage. It doesn’t help that at the same time, I got hired at the local coffee/donut shop I referenced in one of my previous entries, where I am allowed to eat as much as I want for free. Kill me. Oh, wait, I’m already doing that. Anyway.
Tonight I’m at work, painfully resisting the consumption of anything made with flour or sugar. It hasn’t been easy, but fortunately I have a terrible cold/flu/never-ending mucus condition right now that makes it difficult to smell or taste anything. On top of that, I am sucking on Halls Vitamin C supplement drops like some disease-fighting hooker, if you could get behind such an oxymoron. While it is easily preventing me from eating, and helping me grow my tips with the raspy “Live Links” voice I’ve acquired from a week-long coughing fit, a cold is not the type of illness you get, but are sort of happy about, like a stomach flu, since as much as you may hate throwing up, the added bonus of weight loss makes it sorta awesome. So far all I’ve gotten with this cold, aside from an excuse to resist donut temptation, is several sleepless nights, followed by 4 a.m. Google Image searches of throat phlegm. You’d be surprised how many tumblr accounts are accompanied by phlegmy throat pics. Charming.
Nevertheless, my morning weigh-in coupled with workplace boredom has helped to motivate me. Tomorrow I will be restarting my diet and with 19 pounds of very good reason. After all, 19 pounds is nothing to sneeze at. That’s like a car tire, my sister’s cat, or a hefty set of conjoined twins. Scary stuff.
I’m sure I will blog about this again, since I have after all dedicated an entire category to talking about being fat, but for now I’ll lay it to rest. I have to close up shop and prepare myself for the first day of self-starvation and mood swings. At least I’ll be getting exercise.
The girl who feigns pregnancy for better parking spots. JK. Not really.
It is a scientific fact that every 3.2 seconds, some woman, somewhere, is lying about something.* I know this sounds like a line lifted from the personal journal of some whiny man child who dots his “i’s” with teardrops, but as a typical female with no identifying personality traits of my own, I can confirm its truth.
It’s not that we as a breed are intentionally dishonest. It’s that we justify our bad behavior by “tweaking” the truth to align with our personal agendas. But as dejected as the male population may feel after a metaphoric kick in the nuts by some gal, too entangled in her own mental incapacities to be honest, women are generally the victims of their own self-imposed tall tales.
So with that I bring you “The Top Five Most Common Lies Women Tell Themselves,” as told by me – a woman who has told herself each of these at least twice in the last week.
- I am fat
This is not always a lie. In my case it never is. However, it is not anatomically possible that I am fatter today than I was yesterday. It is also equally unlikely that the stranger sitting in traffic next to me is snickering to his grandfather, napping in the passenger’s seat, that I should not be taking a sip of my water because even that has too many calories for someone as fat as me. Most of the time, people really don’t care about how fat we are. We tell ourselves they do to justify all the bad things we think about ourselves. All women do this.
- I am thin
This is not always a lie. In my case it always is. As addressed in previous entries, I am in the process of losing weight. This means my weight is constantly fluctuating depending on the day, time, and whether or not I’ve taken a dump. Every so often during this process, I get on the scale and see a weight so much lower than what I am used to, that I, with the common sense of a heroin addict, justify eating an entire container of Ben and Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake Ice Cream as a reward for my weight loss. Is there any logic in this behavior? Do I even need to answer this rhetorical question?
I am not the only woman who does this. Recent Facebook status postings by acquaintances I haven’t spoken to since 1996, tell me that summer is indeed the time for “big girls” to flaunt their “curves,” and the general public is not having it. Said Facebook posting referred to a sighting of some hefty woman and her affinity to bikinis. During a recent, much avoided trip to Wal-Mart, I witnessed a similar sighting of a 300 pound lady wearing booty shorts and a pastel camisole so transluscent you could read the horoscope spelled out in her stretch marks.
I cannot be sure that this frequent occurrence of heavy women in small clothing is an issue of women thinking they are thin when they are not, but I do know that is the impression that it gives. There is nothing wrong with being confident, but dressing for your body type is important at any size. Let’s be real. Ass cleavage is obnoxious whether you are 120 pounds or 320 pounds. There is just more of it when you are the latter.
- He likes me/He doesn’t like me
I am saying this more in reference to women 30 or younger who still think it is cute to dirty talk in baby voice and ask their boyfriends if they are pretty mid penetration. Both of these lies are utilized most often by women who over analyze EVERY.SINGLE.THING.A.MAN.DOES.
-We normally talk on the phone every night for 30 minutes, but tonight he hung up after 10. Is he breaking up with me?
-He said he needed space, but I think he’s just insecure about my feelings for him. Maybe I should show up at his place with fresh-baked cookies and a hand-written poem.
These are just some of the crazy, delusional thoughts every woman has at some point in her life and unfortunately I am not immune. Since moving to Tennessee four weeks ago, I have made acquaintance with five different gentlemen with whom I have varying levels of romantic interest. One has become a good friend, one has an unhealthy power over my ability to think logically, one is someone I do not care if I ever see again, one makes me very happy, and one is so sweet I want to off myself. Experiences with these men have insighted so many irrational thoughts, I am half inclined to strip myself of the feminist label I have had since I was 6 and deem that “I was asking for it” every time a guy prematurely loses interest in me.
- It’s not too soon in a relationship to have sex
If you have to tell yourself this, you know it is a lie. But women use it to justify their libido and avoid feeling like a whore. Because in American society, women aren’t really allowed to be horny without planning a wedding and picking out baby names first. So this lie can unfortunately lead to the previous, as it can result in a woman convincing herself that a relationship is more serious than it is and therefore projecting her neurotic insecurities onto a person who just wanted to have sex with someone other than himself. I blame God, HBO, and Obama. Because blaming Bush is too obvious a pun.
- I can afford this
Let’s be honest, women are pretty amazing. We can indicate romantic interest with a well-executed hair flip, convey our loathing for you with mono-syllabic words like “fine”, and afford anything we want, regardless of our income. Want to know how? Women are masters of prioritization.
I spent the month of July unemployed. But that didn’t stop me from spending $24 on Panera Bread smoothies last week. Even as I wear my last pair of 2 week contacts for the 6th week in a row because of the excuse that I “can’t afford more,” I drink a $4 Java Mint Mocha. Why? Because I really don’t care about the health of my corneas as much as I want to indulge in a frozen beverage in a brand new pair of leopard print flats. It’s not endearing and it’s not cute, but as a 23 year old woman who can’t balance her checkbook, it is a reality.
Now it’s your turn. What lies do you tell yourself every day, to justify your own bad behavior? Comment, email, and share it. Or just say that you will.
The girl who prefers the word “fib”
*Please note, this is not an actual statistic but rather a fabricated number created to add authority and decimal related humor to an otherwise yawn worthy blog entry. Thank you for even reading this far.
So, about a year ago I started “dieting.” I put this in quotes because admitting to dieting is like admitting to pleasuring yourself to a Zac Efron movie. Not really. But it is embarrassing for some reason. Anyone who has ever been overweight and made the decision to knock off a few pounds, can likely relate to the slight humiliation you experience when you tell someone who is thin, that the reason you cannot eat a piece of the cake they made for the office party is because you are dieting. (Please note: 92% of the time, this cake is contrived from a 200 year old recipe carried on by their recently deceased Jewish grandmother, who nearly lost it in a German concentration camp, but managed to retain it and bring it to America. It is to be made only for very special occasions and at maximum once per every five years.)
Said thin person’s eyes quickly scan your physique from head to toe, lingering on the marsupial belly hanging from the front of your body. Smiling slightly, they release a noise that sounds something like:
Awkward and unsure of what to say, you nod and smile. They break into a “smile/laugh” or a smaugh. I know you’re familiar. It’s the kind of facial expression that starts as a smile and turns into a laugh, with lots of bleached teeth showing.
“Well isn’t that…wonderful,” they continue. “Good for you, getting control of things.”
While on the surface this may sound polite, even encouraging to the untrained ear, I can see this type of comment for what it truly is. Passive aggressive bitch talk, also known as PABT. It implies that at one time you were “out of control” and your current appearance is a result of that. You can also deduce by their faux politeness, or fauxliteness, that what they are actually thinking is “I can’t believe you are just starting this now. If you really wanted to lose weight you would have stopped adding ½ cup of mozzarella cheese to your Lean Cuisine meals at lunch.”
As always, I have digressed.
Anyway, at the end of last June I began a diet. Things were ridiculous, even dare I say, out of control. During my last relationship and the utterly shitty marriage that followed, I gained a whopping 63 pounds. Oh yeah. You read that right. Sixty-three mother f***ing pounds. The madness had to stop.
So I began this diet and by late September lost a total of 50 pounds. Yay. But during this time I was doing outside sales for a chocolate company. You can see where this is going. As time passed I found that this diet was getting in the way of my over indulging in free chocolate and eating teaspoons of melted butter and sugar. So I quit that oppressive regimen and went “off the diet.”
The holidays came and passed. The New Year started and I was determined to start dieting again. My body however rejected this concept and maintained a lovely state of immobility from January to May. I’m not sure how I passed the time, but I do know I spent a lot of it eating Chinese takeout and watching The O.C. on my laptop. Amazingly, I only regained 5 pounds all year.
In early June I contracted a terrible stomach virus that helped me to lose a few pounds, getting the ball rolling toward my nonexistent “beach bod.” I took this opportunity to restart my diet.
Two days ago I weighed myself to reveal a total weight loss of 61 pounds, or 2/3 of Kate Moss. I am quite the happy Panda, which is coincidentally the baby animal I lost in weight.
So kudos to mah-self I guess. Two more pounds and it will be like I never got married at all. Holla.
The girl who is momentarily ignoring the fact that 2 pounds from now she will still be fat.