Category Archives: Too Funny Not to Share

Mr Scale’s Journal: Day 1

General Hoo-Hah, Too Funny Not to Share

Day 1 of my captivity. 

The Hot Mess Princess has relegated me to a tight space inside the confines of her closet.  At first, I thought I was alone in the dark but it appears my worst fears have been confirmed:  I’m caught between a shoe bag and a cat bed.  The cat spends most of her day curled up in a cozy ball, napping.  It’s as if she’s taunting me with her luxurious lifestyle while I sit here squashed up against the shoe bag, begging for an end to this misery. 

I miss the bright lights of the bathroom.  I long to feel the cold ceramic tile on my little rubber feet.  The smell of shoes and cat butt is everywhere.  This space is so tight, dark, and a little sad.  So many clothes I never see the Hot Mess Princess wear.  As I look around, I realize that she is obsessed with handbags.  I think it’s a strange obsession, but I must admit she has pretty damn good taste.  There’s a pair of shoes nearby with extremely pointy toes.  They look like weapons.  I am afraid.

The cat is a gray tabby, I’m sure.  She seems quite full of herself.  I’ve seen her bully one of the giant dogs before.  She is not to be messed with.  Just when I think my existence can’t get any worse, she rouses from her nap and stretches.  The closet air suddenly smells like butt, mixed with tuna, and I realize I’m inhaling a cat fart.  Why, God, why? 

The black cat was in here earlier, ever curious.  She sniffed at me and recoiled as if she was disgusted in some way.  Bitch.  At least the orange cat doesn’t seem interested.  He’s the laziest animal I’ve ever seen.  He literally sleeps on the bed 23 hours a day.  The large bowl of kibble in the corner seems to have some kind of drugging effect on him. 

There are tons of clothes hanging all around me.  Many of them are very large.  The Hot Mess Princess got dressed in here this morning, performing a strange ritual:  she would wrestle with a piece of clothing while she tried it on, then swore expletives under her breath and put it back before grabbing something else.  This went on for about 10 minutes before she finally found something that took the scowl off her face.  I wanted to ask her why she has those ugly pointy shoes, but I have no mouth…so I just sat here and prayed the farty cat would not return.

The Man scares me.  I don’t see him much, but his favorite outfit seems to be just socks.  He staggers in here in the morning and pulls his clothes off the hangers as if he’s sleep walking.  The hangers are wire.  What kind of barbaric caveman uses wire hangers?  His clothes are hung haphazardly over my head – this is because he shoves through them with no patience, looking for shirts without BBQ stains or pen marks.  He has no idea the Hot Mess Princess keeps a secret stash of stain free clothing for when she has to take him outside to meet people. 

I hear barking.  Someone must be approaching the house.  Or across the street.  Or down the street.  The younger dog seems to be very territorial and protective.  And brainless.  He chewed up the tv remote yesterday and then left the evidence all over his dog bed.  Then he spent a half an hour staring at one of the kitchen cabinets like it was a Monet.  What an idiot.  If I had the ability to act out in any way, I would be too smart to get caught.  Sadly, the only thing I can do is occasionally show the Hot Mess Princess a number she doesn’t like…but I risk getting kicked against the bathtub if I do.  I try not to provoke her – especially since she shoved me up against the Man’s table saw.

As my day draws to a close, I listen intently to the Hot Mess Princess and the Man talking nearby.  They are happy about something called baseball.  I hear the Man say something about 3 balls, but I’m sure I’ve only seen 2 when he’s walking around here in the mornings.  Curious.

I wish I could find a way to escape this hell.  If she keeps her word, the Hot Mess Princess will take me back home to my sunny bathroom on Sunday.  It seems like an eternity.  Aside from spending the night on the table saw, I can’t imagine a crueler existence than leaning here in the closet where no one sees me or uses me.  No one, of course, but the gray tabby…who has just yacked up a hairball right in front of me. 

I pray for the sweet release of death, but I know that will never come.  My lithium battery may give me life, but it also guarantees many more years of hell for me.  I know this is not my last “vacation” in the closet.

Until tomorrow…

 

The Bag Boy from Hell

General Hoo-Hah, Too Funny Not to Share

Having been an obese person for quite a long time, I’m no stranger to embarrassing situations – in face, I have extensive experience.  My fat girl resume is a veritable list of humiliating interludes.  A few of them have been quite heartbreaking, but most of them were just damn funny.  I’m the kind of person who would much rather laugh than cry.  Okay, maybe I wasn’t laughing at the time…but in retrospect, this is the kind of crap that could only happen to me…and if I have a choice, I’m gonna laugh about it.

I went grocery shopping a few nights back and was shocked as hell to discover that the bag boy at the center of this story is still working there.  I haven’t seen him for ages and assumed he’d moved on to his dream job (which is clearly punking fat people).  No such luck, though.  I stood there horrified, trapped between a rather threatening display of Little Debbie Easter cakes and the Bag Boy from Hell.

(Yes, the Little Debbies were on clearance…she is such a nuclear bitch!)

Of course, I was so alarmed that I went straight home and updated my Facebook Fan Page to let all of you know that the Bag Boy from Hell was back.  I promised to tell the story here…so here it goes:

One chilly Texas winter night not too long ago, I was standing in the check-out line where this very same bag boy was working.  In addition to a ton of food, I also had two large packs of firewood that were a little hard for me to lift into the cart (just got my nails did!)  So, when I paid for my groceries and the bag boy asked me if I needed help out, I said yes.

Big mistake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we walked to the car, we exchanged the normal pleasantries that are customary during the bag boy/customer walk through the parking lot.

“Isn’t it a chilly night…”

“Yes, I do have all my Christmas shopping done…”

“Oh, you want to be a rapper someday?  How nice.”

Um…what?

Run, Dianne.  RUN.

As I’m unlocking my car, he starts rapp’in.  Badly.

At first I thought he was being funny, but then I realized he was dead serious.

The only line I can remember besides the chorus was “So I needed me some coin, got a job atta Kroger”.  After that, I was acutely aware that everyone in the parking lot was looking in our direction.  People going in and out of the store slowed down just to watch.  A family loading groceries in their car completely stopped what they were doing.  The owner of the effing Chinese food place next to the store came out and stood in the doorway.

I stood there, helpless, as P. Diddy Junior rapped at the top of his lungs while throwing my firewood ON TOP of the bottles of diet soda in my back seat.  Just when I’m thinking it can’t possibly get any worse, he gets to the chorus:

“So I load’in up ya car and you take’in it all home
You gonna EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP…YEAH!
You gonna EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP…YEAH!”

Well, I’ll tell ya peeps…there’s nothing a big fat girl loves more than to have some Tupac wanna-be loading her car full of food and yelling “You gonna EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP, EAT IT UP…YEAH!” over and over.  It felt like an hour before he loaded my damn groceries in the car, and then I peeled out for home.

Thanks, Diddy.  Thanks a bunch.

Not too long after that, I noticed he wasn’t around anymore and I thought he either found another job or was fired.  Perhaps he started rapping “Smack a bitch and steal her Snickers” to the store manager’s chubby wife and she took offense.  Can’t imagine why.

Now he’s back…and I have to choose my check-out lane with extreme caution again.  Of course, I can always try and beat him at his own game.  I could just get jiggy myself and take the words right out of his mouth…check it, yo:

I gave up sugar and soda, I’m a fat girl’s Yoda
I’m gett’in lean and mean and I’m eat’in some mo green
Yo, I got smarts in my nogg’in and I love to do da blogg’in
I got my marbles, found my niche – Mr Scale is my bitch
Made a purse outta my pants, come on, y’all, let’s dance

BOO-yeah!

Shit just got real.  Word.  Peace out.

Is That a Size 32 Tote Bag?

Battle of the Butt, Too Funny Not to Share, , , , , , , ,

Hey y’all!

When I rejoiced in my last post that I could finally fit back into my size 30 jeans for the first time in 2 years, I also promised to tell you what happened to the last pair of size 32 jeans I owned…so here it goes:

Way back in 2009, I lost some weight (that I ended up gaining back) and dropped from a size 32 to a size 30 – which I’ve just now done again. (For the LAST time…hollah!) I realized that I had dropped a size when I was walking up the stairs in our home and my size 32 jeans fell down around my ankles, nearly sending me rolling in a pantless heap to the bottom of the stairs.

Sometimes fashion can be so dangerous.

I vowed to get rid of all my size 32 clothes, effectively burning all bridges – but I felt that respect and reverence should be paid to the jeans that lovingly covered all four of my asses for so long.

But what to do with them, I wondered…

I wanted to do something that was both fun and motivating. Something that would be useful, perhaps…yet would help me to remember that I never EVER want to wear these jeans again. And that’s when it hit me…

If you’re one of my regular readers, you already know that I am a self-proclaimed “handbag ho”. I love handbags. I am an addict. In fact, if someone from Dooney & Burke came over and dangled a purse over my treadmill I would probably run myself to death trying to grab it.

Here lies Dianne…ran herself to death over a rather divine looking satchel.

Anyway…

Do you remember when blue jean handbags were all the rage? How cute is this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I always wanted one and never got one. And then I heard a little voice in my head say “Hey! I’ve got a pair of jeans I’m not going to use again!!!”

Yes.  Yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking.  I took that pair of size 32 jeans and I made myself a BIG ASS TOTE BAG!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look at how ROOMY this fabulous tote is!  Y’all just know I’m the envy of all my friends with this fabulously spacious tote, right?

AND to make sure I stay focused on my goal and remember my 381 pound beginning, I placed a cupcake patch on the tote’s ass. Reminder: eat too many of THESE and you’ll be back in these jeans again…so JUST SAY NO!!!!

(No, I’m not drunk in this picture…just giddy with excitement over my amazing new tote bag!)

For those of you who are wondering, YES…I really use this tote bag. Those ghetto .99 cent reusable bags just tremble in fear when I go shopping…they can’t hold a fraction of the shit I can cram in this bad boy.

I can’t sew for shit, that much is clear. I used pink bandanas for the shoulder strap and I sewed off the legs in an uneven line, but oh well!  Trust me, when someone sees me lugging $300 in groceries out of the grocery store in the ass of my old jeans they’re not going to point and yell “Hey, the bottom seam is uneven, lady!”

For me, this was a perfect and FUN project for me to do that would give me a good giggle and yet help me remember one simple fact: put the wrong kind of groceries in here and you’ll be buying size 32’s again!

 

Fashion can be so motivating. 🙂

Just a little something I like to call…

 

We’ll wrap up 7 Days of Sanity tomorrow. Happy Easter everyone!!

** I got the image of that adorable blue jean handbag from Worn Again, in case you want to check them out. I have no affiliation to the seller, I just like to give credit where credit is due!

Why the Treadmill?

Battle of the Butt, Too Funny Not to Share, , , , , , , , , , ,

When it comes to exercise, even those of us who struggle at making it a habit have our favorites.  Some of us enjoy running or walking outside, others go mountain biking.  Some play tennis or take aerobics classes.  For me, it’s walking…and it’s the treadmill.

It wasn’t always this way.  During a stretch in 2009 when I was unemployed, I was struggling with my beloved treadmill.  It was in the guest room collecting dust, facing a blank white wall.  Boring.  Friends and family had all kinds of suggestions for me to try:

• Move a television in the room and watch tv while I walk
• Take a good book and read
• Move the treadmill to the living room so I didn’t feel so isolated
• Vary my exercise routine with some bike riding mixed in

Isn’t it funny how everyone you know is suddenly brimming with advice when you embark on a healthy eating or fitness goal?  It’s amazing how many experts just spring up out of the ground like the critters in that “Whack a Mole” game.  I recently read a quote by my other husband, Robert Downey Jr, that nicely sums up what to do in the face of unsolicited advice:

rdj

Well, I didn’t listen to dear Robert and I tried everyone’s suggestions.  Sort of.  We didn’t have the money for a second television for the guest room.  I tried reading, but I would get so absorbed in the story that I would actually forget to breathe.  When it comes to reading, I discovered that I don’t like to multi-task.

After much agonizing, I had the Hot Mess Hubby drag the treadmill into the living room.  This went against every fiber of my being.  For years, I have dangled a very financially unrealistic goal over my head:  to have a home so tastefully and fabulously decorated that it looks like it came right from the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog.  Obviously, a treadmill is completely out of place in this scenario – unless Pottery Barn comes out with the Rustic Treadclimber 2000 with a realistic tree bark frame, canvas slip covered belt, and whimsical votive candle holders to match.

Nevertheless, I had the hubs drag the treadmill out into the living room and put it in a corner so I could watch tv while I walked.  Hated it in 3 minutes.   That’s when I realized:  I don’t want to have to pay attention to anything else when I’m walking.  I want to zone out while I’m walking.  After only a few days, I knew it had to be moved again.

I was unemployed at the time and my schedule was pretty clear every day – so I decided to try something new.  I would get up at the crack of dawn and go walking on the trail that runs right through my neighborhood.  It’s a good 22 miles or so of paved path that goes right through the woods, linking neighborhoods together and creating quite a beautiful place to run, walk, or bike.  I loved walking outside, in spite of the fact that the Texas summer was fast approaching.  It was so peaceful to be out there with the trees and the birds…and the squirrels.  Beautiful.  There was only one problem…

I am a city girl from southern California.  I was not raised in rural Texas like the Hot Mess Hubby.  Add in my intense fear of anything creepy crawly and we’ve got ourselves a bit of a problem.

As I was walking down the path one day, I approached a foot bridge over a creek when I saw it on the path ahead:  a bug.  Not a mere ladybug or grasshopper, the latter of which would have been enough to send me into a screaming frenzy.  No, nothing like that.  This was a cicada – and it was bigger than my first car.  (Bugs 101:  it’s pronounced si-KAY-duh.  Like Al Qaeda, but for bugs.  Probably not a coincidence either.  I like them both about the same.)

I stood on the path and watched as it crawled down into a hole in the cement, which it probably chewed itself.  It was certainly big enough to chew cement.  I shudder just thinking about it, even now.  I scurried around it very quickly.  Just as I was congratulating myself for being so brave (brave = not peeing my pants), I ran into his older sibling about 300 feet up the path.  It sat in the middle of the trail, fluttering its wings at me as if to say “Bring it, bitch!”  As it took flight, so did I…back up the path towards home.  Screw this!  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him fly off in the direction of the dog park…probably on his way to grab a terrier or two for lunch.

I decided to try the path in the other direction.  I walked very quietly by the cicada hole in the cement, lest I wake him from his creepy nap and send him buzzing at me.  Once clear of “danger”, I set off in the other direction and tried to shake off the creepy crawly feeling.

I focused on the big, bright blue, beautiful Texas sky and the gorgeous green grass & woods.  I was instantly glad I’d decided to be “brave”  (retreat and go the other way).  I was determined to make this a good walk.  Two bunnies were eating grass in a clearing in the woods.  Adorable.  A squirrel scampered up a nearby tree.  It was almost as if I was a Disney princess, dancing my way through the woods to a merry tune without a care in the world.

As I approached a bend in the trail, I saw something on the edge of the path ahead.  Another bunny?  A raccoon, perhaps?  What else could possibly be on this trail on this absolutely perfect day?

I could see its head sticking out from a hole under the path ahead.  What was it, though?  I stopped in my tracks.  As if on que, a big, black 3 ½ foot long freaky deaky snake shot out and slithered into the woods.  That sucker was fast.  Not as fast as me.

Even though he didn’t slither in my direction, I screamed bloody murder and RAN back up the path.  I screamed and I ran, I ran and I screamed…until I got back to the trail entrance.  I stood on the sidewalk in my neighborhood, doing that wiggly ninja dance we all do when we walk through a spider web or see something incredibly creepy.  To add insult to mental injury, a cute guy on a bike whizzed by just as I was checking to see if I actually did piss my pants.  (I didn’t.)

I did the walk of shame back to my house.  Actually, it was more like the waddle of shame.  Never run with an extra 200 pounds of weight hanging off your body.  My back, my butt, my knees…everything was suddenly hurting.

I look forward to walking the trail in the fall and winter, when the snakes and the 30 pound cicadas have gone back to hell – or wherever it is they come from.  The trail is beautiful no matter what time of year it is, although it’s unbearable for this California girl in the hot Texas summer.

The trail has taught me to appreciate my treadmill for the non-threatening, bug and snake-free zone that it is.  And my treadmill will help me get down to a weight where I can go bike riding and rollerblading on the trail, which seems like much more fun to me than running away from bugs.  At least I’ll have wheels and I can just zoom by the creepy crawlies when I see them, flipping them the bird as I whizz by their startled asses.

After a lot of eye rolling on his part, Hot Mess Hubby finally agreed to move the treadmill into our bedroom – where it sits happily next to Hemi’s cat tree.  She keeps an eye on my form while I’m sweating like a pig.  Occasionally she reaches up a tiny black paw and swats at me as if to say “Faster, Momma!  You still got four butts chase’in you!”   I don’t have the heart to tell her that her belly looks like she swallowed a large grapefruit.  Chubby.

Most importantly, I can see the treadmill every day.  It’s a huge, honking reminder that I need to get on it.  It’s impossible to ignore and it’s no longer standing in the way of the Pottery Barn fantasy living room that I will never be able to afford.

In other news, it’s 4 days to my showdown with Mr. Scale.  My goal is to hit 349 by the end of the month…which is Saturday.  Hitting 349 has an extra little victory attached to it:  I will officially be closer to 300 pounds than 400 pounds.  Then I’ll be working my way down to the next set of tens:  339 pounds.

I think Mr. Scale is worried.  As I stumbled in the bathroom to brush my teeth this morning, I swear I saw him shudder a little.  He knows.  I’m coming for him and he knows.

In the meantime, here’s hoping we all stay clear of exercise fail!

My Last Gym Experience

General Hoo-Hah, Too Funny Not to Share, , , , , , ,

A while ago, I discovered that I really hated the gym…and I wrote about it.  This was my last experience in a gym before I called and cancelled my membership.  It’s not only important to know what you like and don’t like in this process, it’s also important to be able to laugh…and my memory of this experience still cracks me up.  Whether it’s a fart in a yoga class or… something like this…there is always something that makes you grateful for your own lot in life. This made me grateful…and still does.  I hope you enjoy this oldie but goodie:

Last night I braved my way into the gym…walking past all the beautiful, fit people…and a few chubby ones…and grabbed hold of an empty elliptical trainer before I could talk myself out of staying. I plunked down my keys, placed my water bottle in the holder, and climbed aboard the fat burn’in train.

As I started pedaling, I noticed…a smell. It was not a good smell. It wasn’t just sweat. It wasn’t just moldy gym clothes being worn by someone for the 7th time in a row. It was nasty.

My first thought was “Oh my God, is that ME???” I was horrified. I tried to sniff myself discreetly, but there’s just no way to do that in a gym full of your fat burning brethren. After a few more whiffs, I decided that the source of The Smell could not possibly be me. Everyone knows their own scent. Or they should. I have not EVER smelled this nasty. And I’ve got one of those noses that would know. I can smell a bunny fart from a mile away. Or is it bacon cooking from 5 miles away? That sounds more like me.

With skill known only to one of those underwear-model-looking CSI Investigators, I deduced that the source of The Smell had to be one of the two ladies on either side of me…because The Smell was constant. It had to be close.

I carefully glanced out of the corner of my eye at the ever so slightly chubby lady on my right. She’d done nine minutes on the elliptical so far. Not really enough time to work up such a nuclear quality fog around her, unless the aforementioned unwashed gym clothes were a factor. I couldn’t tell.

I glanced to my left and what do I see? The stereotypical blonde, totally fit, beautifully shaped, perfectly coiffed gym princess. Head held high, she pranced on the elliptical machine like it was a delightfully fluffy cloud. Every bead of sweat, which would make me look like a drowned rat, made her look sexy. She looked like an actress who had just been misted with a water bottle so that she could glow for her big scene. Cute little outfit, perfect posture…it was impossible to pick her apart. Certainly, The Smell wasn’t coming from her. I kept clunking along on the elliptical trainer like a moose stuck in quicksand. The Smell taunted me with every pump of my legs. I checked myself a half dozen more times, just to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Nope. It wasn’t coming from me – but whoever it was coming from needed a lesson in how to wash their naughty parts. Holy crap!

Of course, one of the musclebound hunks pumping iron in front of the mirrors had to stop and have a chat with the Princess of Fitness next to me. Of course he did. Hot blonde girl at the gym = constant parade of muscle bound admirers. I understand. I am certain that I saw him notice The Smell. As he was pretending to listen intently to the Princess of Fitness, I saw him looking for it. We made eye contact, in fact. And you know at that moment, he was thinking “Holy crap, Fat Lady…take a shower!” You KNOW he was thinking The Smell came from me. He was! LOL.

He looked at me with that look that so many people have. “Eeew! Lose some pounds, chick!” I just rolled my eyes at him and turned back to “Bridezillas” on the tv. But The Smell remained and I kept wondering…where the hell is it coming from and why did I have to find a place right next to it??

I focused my energy and trudged on. Trudge trudge trudge. Burn burn burn. Just as I began to feel my nose hairs melting from the incredible funk around me, it LIFTED. It was gone! I could smell the NORMAL gym smells again: the rubber padding on the floors, the occassional sweaty passerby, and of course that fabulous chlorine in the pool. I looked back over at the ever so slightly chubby girl and she was still there, pumping away like a crazed little motivated monkey. Nope, not her! I glanced to my left and…oh my God!!! The Princess of Fitness was gone! She was GONE!!! And with her, The Smell!!!

It was at that point that I realized I’d witnessed a true miracle: even perfectly shaped, beautiful blonde girls who look adorable 24/7 have problems…and apparently this one’s problem is 100% nasty crack syndrome! My GOD! This petite, adorable little woman smelled like she had a serious case of swamp crotch. GRRRRROSS!!!!

So as I kept on with my relatively unoffensive sweating, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I may have four asses right now. I may have a lot of work to do. But, damn it, I do NOT smell like little Miss Rosie Rotcrotch!!!

With this much weight to lose, I have to be thankful for every little thing. And, trust me, for this I am VERY thankful.