Category Archives: Gimme a Break!

There’s Too Much Hair Down There

If you actually opened this blog post to read it, please stop what you’re doing right now and give yourself a huge effing hug from me. Holy shit you’re a loyal reader!!! I’d have been way too scared to open a post that might be about some crazy chick’s lady garden but hey, that’s just me.

hmp funny

As a reward for your bad-ass loyalty, let me go ahead and assure you right now that this post is not about my lady garden. Read on in peace, my friends.

I was in the shower a few weeks ago, lathering up my luxurious mane (I thought romance novel verbiage would work here…maybe not) when I looked down at the drain and thought to myself “Oh holy shit…there’s too much hair down there.” Seriously, it looked like a few hamsters had somehow sneaked into the shower and got squished into the drain by my giant Flintstone feet. Yabba Dabba Death.

As I was rinsing conditioner from my silky tresses (still not working? Shit…) I pulled on my hair just a little bit and dozens upon dozens of strands came loose. Uh oh. That can’t be good.

They warned me about this. Hair loss is a fairly common side effect of weight loss surgery. I remember my best friend calling me on the phone one day about 12 years ago…in tears because she was pulling clumps of her hair out after gastric bypass surgery. This was particularly painful because her hair was thin to begin with…and gastric bypass is a “malabsorptive” surgery, meaning that it prohibits you from getting all the nutrients from the food you’re eating. It was the only weight loss surgery available back then.

This has been going on for a few weeks now and I haven’t panicked. The only reason I haven’t blogged about it before now is that I seem to have teetered off my regular blogging schedule (does that mean I’m bloggy constipated?) and I haven’t gotten around to it. I didn’t share it on my Facebook fan page because they always find out everything first…I had to save something to actually post on the blog, right? So you’re all finding out at the same time, Facebook fans and email subscribers alike.

By the way, I took this picture for y’all about a week ago. You’re welcome.

What I typically pulled out in the shower...and then there was an equal amount caught in my hair brush
What I typically pulled out in the shower…and then there was an equal amount caught in my hair brush

I didn’t panic for two reasons: first because this is no more hair than I was pulling out of my head two years ago for reasons I’ve never been able to explain…and second because I knew it was only temporary. Plus I have super thick hair. Like…I’m sure my family tree and Chewbacca’s meet somewhere up the line.

Hair loss after weight loss surgery can start up anywhere from 3 months to a year later and it can last a few months. It’s a temporary side effect and hair will eventually grow back. I’m pretty lucky. I’ve gotten into the habit of pulling on my hair in the shower now to see what happens and last night there wasn’t much that came out.

Hopefully I’ve experienced all the hair loss I’m going to have, but if not I’m feeling resilient. Honestly, though, if I have to deal with hair loss why can’t I wake up and be all “Oh awesome! I don’t have to shave my legs anymore!” or “Yo, I wiped my hoo-hah after I peed and now I’ve got a Brazilian!”

Cripes. Why can’t we women catch a break?

Natrol Biotin 10,000 mcg Maximum Strength Tablets, 100-Count

Conair Velvet Touch Paddle Hair Brush

Hey, buddy…slim THIS!

This is going to be a rant. A snarly, pissy rant about a topic near & dear to me…and it may leave you shaking your head and telling me to get off the crack pipe, but still…I must rant. If you’re an emotional eater like me, however, it might be worth it to read.

This morning I rolled out of bed, did my personal bizniss, and went straight to my laptop to check email. Stuck in the middle of a half dozen advertisements was an email from a wellness publication entitled “Slimming Comfort Food Recipes”. Shit like this really sticks in my craw.

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I’m really tired of corporations making money off of fat people in the name of helping us “get healthy”. It’s bullshit. People start businesses to make money. If they “cure” all the fatties, they can’t make any more money. However, if they keep feeding us pills and special diets and miracle cures and bullshit…they keep making money.

I know, I know, I know…this is only an article. They’re not selling us anything here. Sort of. But they chip away at our resolve a teensy bit at a time with shit like this. They keep our brains in a “Hey, I can have it all…I’m just not smart enough to figure it out for myself so I need this article” mindset. The verbiage “Slimming Comfort Foods” implies you can have your cake and eat it too. You can comfort yourself with food and still get slim. And that’s what gets me – because that’s how people like me got to be so overweight in the first place: comforting ourselves with food.

They’re not interested in telling us the truth, they’re interested in telling us what we want to hear. They’re interested in what’s going to sell another subscription. What’s going to get more clicks. What’s going to make someone read the article and see the ad for the magic weight loss supplements on the sidebar and…order now. We make them a lot more money staying fat than we ever will living a fit, healthy life.

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What is the truth? The truth is that if you have a problem using food as an emotional band aid, you’ve got an uphill climb ahead of you. Because that pan of organic, lowfat lasagna that you just made in order to live a healthier life isn’t going to help you if you still eat the whole pan. And now you’re not only sick to your stomach because you crammed a whole pan of lasagna down your throat, you’re also completely grossed out that you ate something that tasted like new-age crap on a cracker. Because some recipes should never be fucked with…and sometimes you just have to let yourself eat the real thing. Because it’s worth it. As long as you can keep yourself from eating the whole pan after a shitty day at work.

The big truth I’m trying to convey here is that you have to make peace with food. I did. At times, I have to reinforce the peace when a craving comes along. And they come along. I know I’ll always have them. But I also know that I never have to act on them immediately. And I’ve learned what I can substitute and still enjoy…and what I must never mess with.

For example, I used to love a big bag of Wavy Lays and a vat of onion dip. Now? I make some seriously kick-ass potato chips from scratch…in the microwave…with no oil. They’re not fried, yet they’re crispy and crunchy and salty and awesome. They satisfy my cravings for chips 100%. And I came up with a totally yummy substitution for dip as well. Buffalo wings, on the other hand…not so much. After trying a million variations on a million recipes, I’ve come to realize that I really do prefer the real thing…and that the real thing is worth the sacrifice of extra time at the gym or having a light snack instead of a meal in order to make up for the calories. And I don’t eat them once or twice a week like I used to.

The article that caused my rant is, to me, useful and full of decent looking recipes. It’s the bullshit title I have a problem with. This is probably where you’re going to walk away from this post and say “That bitch cray!” That’s okay…part of this is just me being overly critical. The rest of it is dead-on balls true. I don’t even know if that’s a real expression, but it is now.

I don’t want to comfort myself with food. I don’t want anyone telling me it’s ok. I don’t want anyone telling other people like me that it’s ok. If I ever want to hit my goal and live healthy, I can’t do shit like that. The truth is…it’s hard to quit doing. But it is do-able. Especially for a bunch of badasses like us.

I’m going to talk more about making your peace with food in the next few days, but I just want to put this out there right now because it really grates on me to see article titles like this one. They’re everywhere. And the truth is that you have to always be mindful and true to yourself above all else. Don’t fall for this bullshit. Question everything.

“Slimming Comfort Food Recipes”, my ass. How about “Ways to Tell a Publisher to Piss Off”…how about that! I don’t want to comfort myself with cardboard fake lasagna. I’m all grown up ‘n shit. I can handle the truth. Sacrifices must be made.

The messaging gets in there even if you don’t click through and read the article. Your eyes skimmed it. Your brain read it. Comfort. Food. Slimming. I’m so busy half the time I just skim right past it. This morning I did a double-take and said “Whaaaat?”

I know this is hard and I hope it’ll be worth it. I know I won’t look like a fitness model when I’m done, but if I can at least look in the mirror without hating myself, I think I’ll be okay. What I’m not okay with is some jackhole who’s probably never been overweight a day in his or her miserable life trying to lure me into thinking of food as comfort….because I’ve been down that road many times and it’s full of fat pants and Little Debbie cakes.

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I’m actually not talking about the actual author of this article, by the way. I’m talking about the marketing/SEO geniuses behind the creation of the catchy title. Give me as many light and “tasty” recipes as you want. Give me useful and helpful information…and thank you for it! But don’t try to get me to click through your email with brainwashing bullshit.


I guess I’m done ranting. For emotional eaters, making peace with food is hard. Shit like this makes it harder…and it adds insult to injury when it’s coming from a leader in wellness. That’s all I’m trying to say.

Next time we’ll talk about baby steps in putting an end to emotional eating. And I’ll try and curb the surly language. In the meantime, if there’s something that just drives you nuts feel free to share it here so I don’t feel like a total dork.

I need a margarita. Holy shit.

You Can’t Drink All Day If You Don’t Start in the Morning

Hand Painted Shooter Glass, Princess

Don’t Let the Assholes Get You Down, Peeps!

I’m up to 21 minutes on the elliptical trainer now, which will seem barely average to some folks, but it’s effing stellar for a 300+ pound Hot Mess Princess wearing sweatpants that have been sewn back together so many times I call them my “Frankenpants”. Soon I’ll be at 22 minutes…and then 23 minutes…and then 24. This, my friends, is how a badass is built.

When I was done with my cardio today, I walked out of my gym with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. Another day closer to my goal. I’m a bit healthier today than I was yesterday. Tomorrow, I’ll be even healthier. Ready or not, world, here I come.

As I stepped off the curb, a beat up Honda went speeding by and the guy behind the wheel glared at me and yelled “Lose some weight, stupid fat ass!”


Do I feel stupid. This guy really showed me, didn’t he? I mean…here I’ve been wondering why I have to buy such huge pants and all I needed was for some douchy teenager in his Mom’s beat up old Honda to swing by and tell me to lose weight. I had no idea until he said it. Mind. Blown.

Shit. I feel like a class-A dumbass. Thank God he crossed my path and got through to me.

Most people have to pay a doctor, nutritionist, or personal trainer for such learned advice – but I got it for free. I am the luckiest stupid fat ass in the world. He sped off so fast that I didn’t have a minute to thank him for reaching out. The least I could have done was buy him a new carton of cigarettes. I’m not sure which brand it was that he was smoking, but it sure made him look all grown-up ‘n shit when he was speeding through the parking lot.

Don't let the haters get you down, peeps

The world is full of haters, peeps, but don’t let it get you down. As much as I’m still shocked by this kind of behavior, I’m not going to let it bother me. I did say a silent prayer that he’s either rendered completely sterile or at least fails to produce offspring until he evolves into a decent human being – but I don’t think that was out of line.

There aren’t many people clueless enough to yell “Lose some weight” to a person who is exiting a gym. What the hell did he think I was doing in there…looking for food?

I sure hope he forgives me for stepping off that curb while he was driving 50 miles an hour in the parking lot. While I’m asking for forgiveness, maybe I should apologize for yelling back “Suck it, pinky dick!”

Or not. I’m good either way.

Skinny Folk & Judgy Bitches


Things have been exciting lately. I bought a new Dooney. I’m moving forward with the exercise thang (like a moose in molasses, but still moving forward). And Hot Mess Hubby has finally gotten his way after over ten years of poking and prodding at me: I’m writing fiction again. More on that later.

This past week, I’ve also suffered through a few stinging reminders that I am, indeed, a fatty…and I don’t know jack about living in a skinny girl’s world. That will always be the case with me even after I hit my goal weight. I was not blessed with Keira Knightley’s waifish frame. The best I’ve ever been is a medium girl in a small sized world – but that’s okay, because I’ve finally learned that it’s okay to just be me.

I have the very good fortune to be friends with dozens of awesome, kick-ass chicks…and one such kick-ass chick is someone I work with every day. She has the same biting, sarcastic sense of humor as I do. She gets me through the most boring of work days. She also weighs about 70 pounds soaking wet. She is all things dinky and adorable.

Last week she was telling me that she and her husband had dinner at Red Lobster and she was going on and on to the server about how much she loves their cheddar biscuits (who doesn’t). And then she tells me that as they were getting ready to leave, the server brought her a takeout box loaded with extra biscuits.


I stared at her incredulously, which she first took to mean that I was just as thrilled as she was at the generosity of their server, but that’s not why I was amazed. I realized, of course, that my adorable friend had no idea what happens to the fatties when we go out…so I enlightened her. Here’s the conversation I acted out for her:

HMP: OMG, I just looooove these cheddar biscuits!!!

Server: I can see that.


The End.

We both laughed, of course, but it’s true. The world wants to feed my skinny adorable friend – and they want to give me dirty looks when I eat a carrot. Understand, I’m not bitching about the fact that no server has ever joyfully offered me a box full of carbs…I’m just bitching about the judgy part.

And then there’s the executive I ran into at work…

Before I tell you this story, I just have to pat myself on the back for not getting fired. It was really hard not to open my mouth and let out some horribly awesome retort, but my entire paycheck flashed before my eyes (didn’t take very long, either) and common sense prevailed.

Let me just preface this by saying that I get a lot of my food angst out of my system by baking naughty things for my co-workers and bringing them in to share. So I kind of have a rep for that. A couple days ago, a teensy tiny little executive chick walked by my desk while my co-workers and I were enjoying the basil mint ice cream I’d made them. Mmmm!

Being the generous and thoughtful peeps we are, we invited the passing executive to enjoy some with us. She declined, of course. I suspect it’s because she only eats small children and baby kittens by the light of the full moon and ice cream just isn’t her thing. As she was flitting by my desk, she wagged her perfectly coiffed head at me and said “You’re so good. My girl is this big (holding her hands about 4 inches apart) and she never makes us anything!”

What. The. Fuck?

Let’s break it down.

My girl?

Perhaps I’ve just been lucky enough to work mostly for non-douchy people for most of my professional life, but I’m pretty sure executives stopped referring to their assistants as “my girl” after the days of Don Draper and Mad Men. That shit really pisses me off.

And then there’s the “this big” remark. Seriously. Hey, Judgy Judgersons, back away from my desk before I peg you in your tiny skull with my stapler. Honestly.

I don’t know why I’m surprised that there are imbeciles out there who still believe skinny people never eat and fat people eat truckloads of food, but it really grates on me when I run into one. Yes, I do understand that me eating mass quantities of food brought about my four asses – but that’s not the case now. You just can’t tell by looking at someone what or how much they eat…unless they have wing sauce all over the front of their shirt and then you can come to three possible conclusions:

1. They just ate buffalo wings.

2. They’re Hot Mess Hubby.

3. Both.

We have to stop judging each other. This is just getting ridiculous.

Before I go, I promised to finish explaining about the whole writing fiction thing. Hot Mess Hubby has been trying to get me to write fiction again almost as long as I’ve known him. Well, he finally wore me down and helped me tunnel a way through the walls I’d put up about it. I’ve decided that it’s time to start being brave about more than just food and the gym. It’s time to start living loud. Or, in my case, louder.

If you’re a reader and lover of fiction, I invite you to check out my official author website. I’ve started building my writer’s platform while I work on releasing my first piece. I will not be blogging as often on my author website as I do here. HMP is a way of life for me. Nothing will change here.

I plan to share tidbits about my creative process on my author website, release sample chapters, and of course announce my published works. I’ve also started a Facebook fan page for my fiction work – so stop by and like the page…I’d love to see you there. As a rule, I’ll be keeping HMP and my author website pretty separate – so if you aren’t interested in this part of my existence, you won’t have to hear about it here. HMP is about who I am, the author website is about what I create to escape.

One last thing: if you’d like to vote for next Thursday’s blog topic here on HMP, head on over to my Facebook fan page and vote on the poll. You decide what I write on Thursdays.

Here’s hoping we all have a non-judgy week ahead. Hug it out!

Foot Flashback

So this is new…















Yep. That’s my left foot. Except no, it’s not new. Not really…because this has happened before. Because my feet hate me. Or I have sucky DNA. Probably both.

I was 13 years old the first time I heard the word “podiatrist”. Dr. Russell. He was kind of cute for an “old” guy (he was probably 35). I had been walking around Sea World all day with my family, wearing a pair of super cute sandals with daisies on them, and by the time we were ready to leave for the day my two older sisters had to carry me to the car. It wasn’t the first time I was hurt by fashion, but it was the first time I was hurt bad.

I was diagnosed with tendonitis – which is really interesting because you don’t have any tendons in your arches, but whatever. I would later learn that I had plantar fasciitis, which is very common but still altogether painful and extremely unpleasant.

Hunky Dr. Russell explained that my tootsie woes were due to the fact that I was a growing teenager and a dancer. He would slap some stretchy athletic tape up on my arch and send me on my way, so that’s what I learned to do. My dance bag was never without a roll of that tape. Every time I had foot pain, I slapped that tape up on my arch and kept on going. I had arch supports in all my shoes. Later, I had special inserts made that were molded to my foot. Still no relief…and I only weighed 125 pounds back then.

By the time I was in my late twenties, I was getting steroid injections in my heels. Yes, it’s as painful as it sounds. First, because cortisone stings like a mother…and second, because there’s an effing needle in your foot – but at that point, I had run the gamut from tape to inserts to physical therapy…and none of it was working anymore. So I would wait until the pain got so bad I couldn’t take it anymore and then I’d go in for injections. Thank God I had a good doctor with a sense of humor who never openly made fun of the fact that I started crying as soon as he walked in the room.

When you have plantar fasciitis, the mornings are the worst. It was nothing for me to roll out of bed and crawl to the bathroom to pee in the morning. It hurts like hell to flatten out your feet or put any weight on your heels. After you stretch out the ligament, normalcy returns except for the occasional jab. If you’re using your head and listening to your doctor, you should wear shoes that are comfortable and supportive, which is fashion code for “1970’s spinster librarian clod-hoppers.”

I was not a good listener. Besides, black leather lace-up grandma shoes with crepe soles just don’t go with a Dooney & Bourke handbag.

After a while, I’d had enough. One afternoon as my podiatrist was stabbing me in the heels with more cortisone and I was biting my wallet to stifle the screaming, I looked longingly into his eyes and said “Give me the surgery, doc. Give me the damn surgery.” And he did. And it was goooooood. Except for one really, really embarrassing moment – but that’s a blog post unto itself, so it’ll have to keep for now.

After surgery, I was joyously pain free…until I got my first stress fracture. I was training with a group at work because we were going to walk one of those breast cancer 3 day walks. I ignored the pain at first, but eventually I was limping all the time. Everything hurt.

Imagine my chagrin when I went to my regular doctor and he told me there was nothing wrong with my foot. What?

See, I didn’t think I needed a podiatrist anymore because I’d had the surgery to relieve my plantar fasciitis. Bwahahahahaha!  Wrong!

I went to see my podiatrist. He walks in, squeezes my foot in just the right place and sends me through the roof in pain, then he smiles and says “Yeah, well…stress fractures don’t show up on xrays until they start healing. That’s why you’re supposed to come to me.”


Since then, I’ve had quite a few…and always in my left foot. In fact, I expect my left foot to just fall off by the time I’m 80. It’s always had a sucky attitude. It just can’t hang with the rest of my body.

So here I sit with my foot in this damn soft cast. Stress fracture #6. For the next four weeks, I’ll be lurching around Texas like a giant fat Frankenstein. Awesome.

The Buffalo Boogie 5K is in two weeks. I did ask my podiatrist if that was even feasible. Of course, he said no. From my own experience, I know he’s probably right – because you have to stay off your feet for these to heal. I would have argued…or at least asked more questions…but this particular podiatrist is a creep. I only went to see him today because he was the last one I saw and he had an available appointment this afternoon – but every time I go and see him I end up feeling like I need a long hot shower. You know, the kind in Silkwood or The Crying Game.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the 5K yet. This has all just happened and I need time to think logically. Right now, I’m too busy cursing my DNA/weak feet genes to make any real decisions.

Ironically, this brings to light the discussion I’ve been having with Hot Mess Hubby over the past several weeks about joining a gym again. I’ve been having foot pain (now we know why) and trying to figure out a way to get access to an elliptical trainer. We just can’t afford to buy one and I’ve been considering a venture back into gym membership for a few weeks. Elliptical is much lower impact than a treadmill.

Sometimes you have to dance with the devil even when you don’t want to. Maybe it’s time for me to join a gym. It’s either that or take water aerobics. I’d rather face the muscle-bound fitness dicks than let anyone see my in a bathing suit. Ever.

Do you belong to a gym? Which one…and what do you like/dislike about it? Help me work this out, peeps.

And don’t worry: I may be temporarily knocked down, but I’m most definitely not out.