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.

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.

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?

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Conair Velvet Touch Paddle Hair Brush

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!”

Wow.

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.

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.

Peeps!

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.

What???

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.

Boom.

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!