Weekly Recap!


I’m going to try doing a weekly recap on the blog and see how I like it – so welcome to the first one!

Angry Pussycat

If you follow me on Facebook, you know that HMH and I started our week by taking Sarah the kitty to the vet. Miss Sarah is a 17 year old tabby-in-charge. This little eight pound wonder rules our household with an very firm hand, err…paw. I’ve never seen a tiny little kitty boss around a 120 pound Saint Bernard and a 130 pound half-wit – but she does it with gusto. Naturally, it was a shocker for us to wake up Sunday morning to find her left eyelid closed and oozing…with a big lump underneath it.

The diagnosis: an abscessed tooth. After surgery (there went my designer handbag budget), meds, and lots of rest and extra TLC, I’m proud to report that “Sare Bear” is much better. Check out her amazing progress (and you probably shouldn’t eat anything while you’re looking at these – sorry. I should have mentioned that before the first reference to “oozing”.)

Day 1: After surgery. Cranky & hungry.
Day 1: After surgery. Cranky & hungry.
Kirby, the household nursemaid, keeps watch over Sarah as she rests
Kirby, the household nursemaid, keeps watch over Sarah as she rests in my new office. Yes, the disco pillow makes her feel better.
Day 3: Much less icky. Also less crabby and pretty much wants to eat everything in the house.
Day 3: Much less icky. Also less crabby and pretty much wants to eat everything in the house.
Day 6: Pretty much back to normal. She now believes my new office is her new hangout. #Entitled
Day 6: Pretty much back to normal. She now believes my new office is her new hangout. #Entitled


The Red Badge of Courage

Y’all know how much I lament the monthly visit from the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse. They rolled out of town this past week – and good riddance, at least for another 28 days. Dillholes. One of the things that makes all the cramping, bleeding, and whining bearable is finding little gems on the internet like this:

Click here for menstrual awesomeness

In other tampon-tastic news, one of my girlfriends sent me a text yesterday complaining that the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse showed up at her door. Since she’s a fellow Star Wars geek and I’d just moved my 100% awesome, interactive R2-D2 to my new home office, I decided to text her this picture to cheer her up.

The Force is strong with these tampons
The Force is strong with these tampons

Getting Serious

Had a pretty major epiphany this past week after talking to HMH about weight loss surgery and then finding a true source of motivation to exercise in the memory of a ten year old me.

The result is showing on the scale: I’m down 6 more pounds. Go me!

I was doing 30 minutes on the elliptical before the root canal from hell set me back. Right now, I’m at 12 minutes and trying to get back to that 30 minute mark. I have faith.

Near Death Experience

While trying to enter the building where I work, I was nearly killed by a cicada that was obviously trying to get me to piss my pants and scream like a little girl in front of my co-workers. Insects are such assholes.

My Summertime Guilty Pleasure

Big Brother: I cast all my votes to nominate Amanda as the third nominee up on the block this week. I’m not happy about Howard. “Demanda” has to pay!

We also established that HMP fan Ann is my official stalker/reminder that Big Brother is on. Without her posts on my Facebook fan page, I would never remember to leave the laptop and go watch. ♥

Free Dooney!

Dooney & Bourke is having an August giveaway on Facebook. Click here to enter. It’s not my kind of bag, but I hope you win!

(No, I haven’t been compensated by Dooney & Bourke in any way…I’m just that eff’in nice.)

Good Info

Many thanks to HMP fan Rhiannon for forwarding me this blog post about willpower and cognitive processing. I know, I know, I know…I just made that sound incredibly boring – but it’s not. It’s quite an interesting article. I don’t know about you, but it’s much easier for me to “behave” Monday thru Friday during work hours…and then when I get home, all hell threatens to break loose. This article presents an interesting theory as to why that is. Check out “Your App is Making Me Fat”.

My New Office

My new office is coming along. After weeks of dodging my pleas for help, I finally railroaded Hot Mess Hubby into painting the trim for me. I can do the baseboards, but our ladder has a warning sticker that says “Weight Limit: OH MY GAWD!” and I can’t get on it. Okay, that’s not really what it says – but you get my point. So just today, the painting is finally finished. Next step: hanging shit on the walls to break up all this blue.

It's coming along!
Not really a desk – this is the dining table I bought for my first apartment. I’m sentimentally attached to this baby. It represents such an exciting time of independence for me. I couldn’t part with it, so HMH refinished it for me and it’s now my desk. ♥
Moving in: just a few things that mean the world to me.
Moving in: just a few things that mean the world to me.

In the background, a picture of my parents and me at the Orange County Fair when I was still a wee one. My parents are young and happy…and I’m Daddy’s little girl. I love this picture.

The gold looking penis thing is actually a brass-plated bolt from the Golden Gate Bridge. I used to be absolutely petrified of bridges and then I visited San Francisco and decided to face my fear. I walked the entire bridge and bought this bolt in the gift shop. It’s a reminder that I am perfectly capable of doing things that scare the bejesus out of me.

The Viewmaster I got for my fourth birthday. Yep…still have it. One of my favorite toys ever.

Also pictured: a very snarky Happy Bunny sticker that I just love…and a couple of coasters from the tv show “Friends”.

This Thursday’s Blog Topic

Finally, no offense to Mama Kat’s Thursday blog meme, but  the choices for this Thursday are all pretty boring – so I’ve decided to let y’all suggest the topic. If you’re on Facebook, you can make your suggestion or “like” the suggestion of your choice here. If you’re not, feel free to post a comment here on the blog. Come back on Thursday to see which topic I choose!

That’s my week in a not-so-nutshell, peeps. Now it’s on to another week of food logg’in, gym go’in badassedry.

Let’s do this!

Star Wars: Darth Tater

For Her

It’s Thursday – and normally I would be writing about whatever my Facebook fans voted for…but there was a tie between “The First Time You Heard Your Parent Cuss” and “My Morning Drive”. Since either topic would amount to a total snooze-fest, I’m sparing you the agony of reading them. You’re welcome.

When I look back at the relative ease with which I wrestled my food demons last year, I realize it was a total cake walk. Perhaps that’s not the best choice of words, but it did involve giving up cake. The whole time I was cake-walking through my new menu choices, I kept thinking to myself that it was too easy. I kept telling myself I’d add the exercise part when I was ready, preferring to focus on the food issues at first. When the desire to exercise didn’t come around on its own, I decided to make 2013 all about embracing exercise. And here it is…August…and I still haven’t succeeded at making exercise a habit.

I’ve written a buttload of words about my lack of motivation to exercise. I hate exercise, honestly. I haven’t always felt that way, obviously. I used to be a dancer – and I really loved it. When you’re this overweight, though, you’re not just dealing with the discomfort of sweating in gross places – you’re dealing with actual physical pain just walking to the copy machine at work or getting out of your car. All of these things are huge de-motivators for me…and after eight months of trying, I still haven’t found something that motivates me to workout. I can make myself do it, but that only lasts for a little while. Everyone needs something to look forward to and I couldn’t find my something.

Until last night – but we’ll get to that later.

Let’s talk about what doesn’t motivate me for a minute:

Making a list of all the things I’ll be able to do when I hit my goal weight. Ride a rollercoaster with Hot Mess Hubby. Go to a Texas Rangers baseball game without the sides of the seat digging into my legs. Fly in an airplane without a seat belt extender. All of these things are wonderful. Thinking of them only reminds me that I can’t do these things…how long it will be until I can do these things…and how bad I suck because I’m too fat to do these things.

Motivational quotes on Pinterest pasted on photoshopped pictures of skinny fitness models. HELL no. I don’t care what the words say…the pictures are a complete and total de-motivator. While I continue to hold onto the faith that I’ll hit my goal weight, I am not ignorant enough to believe that I will ever look like these women. Ever. Seeing this crap on Pinterest just makes me laugh.

Eyerolls, looks of disgust, and general disdain from strangers at restaurants…in grocery stores…anywhere. Do they really think that’s motivating? What point are they trying to make exactly? Perhaps it’s arrogant of me to think they’re trying to motivate a person they don’t even know…but then it’s arrogant of them to think I give a flying fart in space what a total stranger thinks of me. Have some manners. I give myself enough shit about this…I don’t need your help. I hope you come back as a fat person in your next life, sweet pea.

Dangling carrots. I’ve tried rewarding myself with money, gifts (including gorgeous handbags…my favorite!) and I’m still not motivated by it. And I know this is super hypocritical, but I have to be honest: if someone offered me a million dollars to lose this weight, it would motivate me. I guess there’s a slight difference between a beautiful Dooney & Bourke handbag and a life-changing fortune…but I still feel hypocritical that the money will motivate me but the handbag won’t.

So those are the things that don’t motivate me. I’ve learned that in the last eight months. Last night, I finally had the epiphany that I’ve been trying to squeeze out of my head the whole damn year. At least that’s what I think happened. I almost feel reluctant to talk about it for fear that it might go away, but I can’t help it. I have to talk about it.

In Tuesday night’s blog, when I said that I couldn’t have weight loss surgery because I needed to show my ten year old self that I could do this on my own, that hit home with me big time. I went to sleep thinking about it. I woke up thinking about it. I got myself ready to start my day, then plopped down in front of the laptop and looked at this picture again.


Look at that face. No, I’m not trying to be an idiot – I know she’s me. Look at her face. She’s a cutie. Although she’s kind of whored up in this picture by her mother’s blue eyeshadow, this is a cute little girl. This is a girl who just wants to dance. She wants to spend time with her girlfriends, go to the school book fair, tease boys, and have fun in art class. And go to slumber parties. Always with the slumber parties.

At this stage of her life, her career ambitions were to be a dancing-astronaut-writer. This girl had hopes and dreams. She was going places. And then a complete dillhole took it all away with ten years of beating her down. She never learned to fight back.

And so when I think of the monumental task of getting myself to my goal weight and I look at the face of this little girl…I see my motivation in those big brown eyes. A motherly/sisterly/auntie vibe comes over me and I instantly want to protect her, nurture her, and show her the ropes. She deserves a good life.

So while I may not want to do it for any of the aforementioned hoo-hah, I would do it for her. Look at that face. What a sweet girl. I would do anything for her.


This little reminder is going with me everywhere from now on. I’m putting it with my gym card so that I have a visual reminder of my motivation with me always.

For her. I’ll do it for her.

It’s the most uplifting thing to finally feel motivation in my gut. I want to go to the gym today! Not for 300+ pound me…for ten year old me. I can’t stop smiling about it.

So if you haven’t found your motivation yet, my message today is…keep looking. You never know where you’ll find it. I think I’ve found mine.

What motivates you?

The Talk About Surgery

Hot Mess Hubby and I had the talk a few weeks ago. We were talking about my struggles with food…and working out…and my weight. And he said the words that a lot of spouses are probably afraid to say.

“Babe, I’m not being mean…but at some point, don’t you have to think about surgery?”

Yowch. I’m not going to say it didn’t hurt to hear that – but after ten years of marriage, HMH knows how to take the sting out of his words. Pretty much.

He was speaking out of love, not malice. He’s watched me struggle with this for a long time now. Any normal person would be thinking “When is it going to be enough for you to just do it?” There is no pressure attached to his message, no impatience or intolerance. He loves me. He’s worried about me.

We’ve had this talk before. A few times. In the beginning, it was just my crazed ranting against surgery because I was watching a friend (or two or three) go through it without using it as a tool for healthy living. I know many people who’ve had weight loss surgery and gained it all back because they didn’t change what was really important: their thinking.

I’ve seriously considered surgery twice in my life. About five years ago I made an appointment with a local surgeon and then cancelled it the day before. Two years ago, I made an appointment with a different surgeon and kept it. I went through the entire screening process, passed the psych exam (shut up, I totally aced it), and was awaiting insurance approval when I stopped the process and decided not to go through with it. Why? Because I lost weight on my own.

worth it

Ever since the first of many of my friends had weight loss surgery, the option of doing it for myself has hung over me like a dark cloud. At one point in my life, all my closest girlfriends had done it. I lived in a world where they were so excited about their amazing weight loss that they couldn’t stop talking about it…and then they started giving me their clothes that were too big for them. As happy as I was for them, it was absolutely crushing.

There have been times when I’ve felt surgery was inevitable. There are moments when I think…what am I waiting for? How long am I going to struggle in vain before I realize that I’m just not strong enough or tough enough or smart enough to change myself?

And that’s when the answer comes. No. I’m not having surgery.

I admit it: there was a time in my life when I looked down at people who decided to have weight loss surgery. I haven’t felt that way about it for a long, long time. I understand it for what it is: a tool. I have nothing but love and support in my heart for those who choose surgery – because I’ll tell you what: unless you’ve been morbidly obese, you have no idea what this is like.

Surgery has a bad rep because there are many weight loss surgeons out there who are smarmy as hell. They get excited when they see a fat person just like a personal injury attorney gets excited when they see an accident victim. These surgeons don’t care how you gained it or why you want to lose it. They don’t care if you’re emotionally ready for it. They care about whether you have insurance or can qualify for easy financing. Weight loss surgery has become Ritalin for fat people – and that’s why it has a bad rep. I know women who have been told to gain 20 pounds in order to qualify. And I know someone who’s done exactly that.

I also know people who have had weight loss surgery and say it’s the best decision they’ve ever made in their lives. They’ve kept their weight off and they live healthy, active lives now. It’s a combination of being ready and finding a decent doctor that results in a positive, lasting experience. It’s just not for me.


I’ve pretty much fixed the inside of me. And I’m pretty damn confident that I’d be successful if I elected to have weight loss surgery. I still can’t do it. Not because I’m afraid, but because I have something to prove.

I think back to that ten year old little girl I was when I first learned what fat was. I think about the way I grew up: believing that I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t lovable enough, smart enough, pretty enough, skinny enough. (Yes, I do realize I sound like that idiot from Saturday Night Live.)

I’m just not going to tell myself that I’m not tough enough to do this the way I feel I need to do it. I’m not going to think about that ten year old kid in that mirror and know that my rotten bastard of a dance teacher was right: that my best is not good enough.

I’m not going to say that to myself. I’m just not. I would rather hurt on the elliptical than hurt in a recovery room. So it’s for her that I’m doing this…that ten year old little girl who just needed someone to stand up for her. I can’t just fix her with surgery. I have to show her that she really was enough.

The path you take to living a healthy life is a very personal one. Whatever road you choose, I wish you a safe journey…and fierce success.

Courage: Overcoming Fear and Igniting Self-Confidence

Redefining “Me”

I’ve been defined by my weight since I was ten years old. My dance teacher stood me in front of the mirror in our dance studio and used a pointer to show me the places where my body needed improvements. My thighs stuck out too far. My legs were thick. I had a bit of a “belly”.

Until that moment, my biggest concern was where the other lime green peep-toed pump was for my Barbie doll and whether my dog ate it. I was ten years old. When I laid on my bed and daydreamed about marrying David Cassidy, I never though about knocking out a few sets of ab crunches so I’d look super hot at the wedding. My world was Barbies and school and friends and, already, writing. That moment in front of the mirror changed me forever.

From that moment on, when I walked into a room of other kids I’d look at all the thighs and bellies and see which ones were bigger or smaller than mine. If there were bigger kids, I felt relieved. I looked at the skinny girls with such envy. I was sure everyone loved them. No one could resist a skinny girl because skinny was beautiful. I wasn’t skinny, so that meant I wasn’t beautiful – which meant I was ugly. Kid logic.

Big fat ugly me…or that’s how I felt back then. Now I just see a cute kid with amazing taste in boots.

Whenever someone told me I was pretty, I smiled and said thank you just like Mom taught me – but there was always that inside voice that disagreed with them. No, I’m not pretty…because I’m fat. It is incredibly difficult to change that voice in your head – especially when it’s planted there so early.

I’ve been finding it a challenge to remain positive over the past couple of days because I keep falling back to the old habit of defining myself by a number. I’ve realized it’s not enough to reach for a healthier lifestyle…I need to redefine how I define myself as well.

I’ve been derailed a lot over the past ten days. The mother of all toothaches was first to knock me down. I had an infected tooth that needed a root canal, but I needed to take anti-biotics for 5 days before I could get it fixed – so I lived in pain for nearly a week (as did those of you who follow me on Facebook…because I pretty much whined about it non-stop). I had no idea how much it could hurt to breathe with your mouth open when you have an infected tooth. Holy crap on a cracker! The gym wasn’t an option last week unless I took a pain pill – and the last thing I should be doing is using gym equipment while on pain pills. Those suckers were badass.

treadmill ooops

Then I got the root canal. Yay! I’m petrified of dentists, so this was an accomplishment on its own. No more freaky discomfort of a dental dam, no more huge needles in my face – or the nervous farting that I hope went unnoticed…I’m done! Well, at least for two weeks or so. I probably should have taken Kirby or Dyson with me as a “therapy dog” and then I would have had someone to blame the gas on. You know what they say about hindsight…

Just when I was ready to get back into the swing of things this weekend, the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse showed up. If this is your first time reading my blog, I apologize for the overshare. The rest of you know what to expect and you still love me…and I’m grateful. I love you too. And since you know what to expect, you know I’ve spent the last two days curled up in the fetal position, cursing Mother Nature and my angry uterus. In a few more days, I’ll be back to normal. (My new normal, not my former Dr. Pepper swilling, pizza guzzling, snack cake motorboating normal.)

I hate being derailed, especially when I’m motivated to go to the gym. When I joined this gym a couple of months ago, I started at 10 minutes on the elliptical – which was surprising as hell because I expected far less. Right before the tooth-from-hell hit me, I did 30 minutes. I was a freaking NINJA. A chubby, determined, spastic ninja…kicking my fat cells right in the ass.

Bad Ass Couch copy

I’m logging my food every day, but I’m not getting on the scale because I’m not working out. Also because I’m in the middle of my “ladies days”, peeps, and what woman is crazy enough to get on the scale then? I want my new normal back. Hurry up, uterus, and get it out of your system. Momma’s got shit to do!

During times like this, it’s hard to remember not to define my success by a number on the scale…or even the minutes on the elliptical. It takes conscious effort to remember that I need to pay attention to the non-scale victories as well. And I need to focus on the positive instead of giving myself grief for not being able to workout right now. I’ll be back in the gym by Wednesday. That has to be good enough for me right now.

There are many non-scale victories to celebrate – and some of these are going to seem ridiculous to you if you’ve never had a problem with food, but I assure you these are accomplishments. I didn’t use the toothache as an excuse to eat my weight in pudding every day because it hurt to chew. The 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse are visiting right now and I haven’t once baked a brownie or driven to Walgreens and emptied the ice cream case in a sweaty fury. And probably the biggest accomplishment of all: I’m not inwardly celebrating that I can’t go to the gym right now. I’m not sobbing over it either, but I’m pretty effing proud of that 30 minutes I did right before my tooth decided to be an asshole. That pride feels good.

I’m not a number on a scale. I’m not the size tag on my pants. I’m just a Hot Mess Princess…running towards positive change as fast as my cankles can carry me.

What non-scale victories have you celebrated this week? I’m all ears…share with me!

Fitbit One Wireless Activity Plus Sleep Tracker, Black

I Love Not Camping

Okay, it’s Thursday and that means it’s time for Mama Kat’s blog meme! Last week, you voted on Facebook…and you voted for the topic “That one time I went camping…” – and you’re in luck because I’ve been camping exactly one time.

Here’s the thing: I’m the product of a City Girl Momma and a Country Boy Daddy…and the City Girl won. I grew up in Orange County, California – which actually had orange groves and strawberry patches in it when I was a kid. It was not the concrete & stucco encrusted, smog filled monstrosity that it is today. There was a dairy behind our house…with cows and everything. My big brothers used to stand me up on our picnic table in the backyard so I could feed the baby cows carrots. It hasn’t been like that for a very long time, but when I was a kid there were still wide open spaces and plenty of opportunities for kid-sized adventure.

When I was ten years old, my Girl Scout troop was working on our “Outdoor Fun” badge…and one of the activities we had to complete was camping. I remember being so excited that I was actually going camping. My Mom took me out to Kmart and bought me my official “mess kit”. I thought I was totally badass…until she found a sleeping bag on the clearance aisle.

I wanted the super cool red plaid sleeping bag that looked like something out of a western flick – but my parents were raising 6 kids on a single income, so if there weren’t any hand-me-downs I was pretty much stuck with whatever was on the clearance aisle. Imagine my ten year old eyes rolling in disbelief when my Mom bought me a red-orange fabric sleeping bag off the clearance aisle. The worst part?  It smelled like rotten cheddar cheese. Seriously. Perhaps the red-orange color wasn’t intentional. Perhaps the sleeping bag absorbed it in the back of an ancient Cheetos factory and that’s where the rotten cheddar smell came from. Actually, it was more like a combination of rotten cheddar and stinky feet. Mom must have washed that damn thing 20 times, but it was no use: I was about to go camping with a stanky cheddar cheese feet bag.

Camping day came and I hugged my Mom goodbye at the drop off with the enthusiasm of a true adventurer. I had no idea how long it would be before I would see her again, but I was certain we would trek many miles through mountain and prairie before coming to the most perfect camping spot I’d ever seen. Yes, I was sure of it. I climbed into our Scout Leader’s van with my squealing friends and we were off. Oh, what a grand adventure it would be! Imagine my chagrin when we drove ten minutes through the city before pulling into the parking lot of a Kiwanis campground that was probably all of 3 acres in size…next to a mobile home park and a strip mall. What?

The sun was setting as we set up the tents and I did my best to immerse myself in the illusion that we were camping in the deep woods. Unfortunately, the damn neon Schlitz Beer sign at the liquor store across the street kept reminding me we’d all been ripped off. Our camp site was next to a tiny lake about the size of three swimming pools – complete with a genuine artificial waterfall that fell over a pile of fake boulders. It was pretty cruddy, actually, but it was ours.

We took turns striking a flint and lighting a fire as our Scout Leader diligently checked each of us off on her clipboard. We grilled burgers and a big pan of potatoes. Then we made hot cocoa by the fire and I learned about one of the greatest things in life. Ever. S’mores.

Then it was time for ghost stories…and then bed. Unfortunately, this was always where my away-from-home adventures went sour for me. I wasn’t good at spending the night in strange places – something that would benefit me greatly in my twenties. The only ho DNA this Princess possesses is Handbag Ho DNA, peeps.

Whenever I tried to spend the night away from comfort of my own home, I developed the worst tummy troubles. I worried non-stop. I was afraid of everything. And I wanted my Mommy. I had never successfully spent the night away from home at this point in my life.

I crawled into my rotten cheddar, stinky feet sleeping bag and tried to be brave. True to her word, my Mom had packed a sleeve of Saltines crackers in my bag so that I could munch on them if I got a “sick tummy”. I peeled open the wrapper and blinked back my tears. I was going to do this.

It wasn’t easy. My tent mate fell asleep in three seconds. I laid there, stinking of rotten cheddar and wishing I had more s’mores to wash away the fear. And then there was the waterfall…

The majestic, mystical waterfall on the fake boulders was somehow powered by whatever you call the thing that flushes toilets. Not even making this shit up. It was on a timer, too, so the water would slowly trickle to a stop and then WHOOSH the toilet would flush and water would pour out over the top of the boulders again. Oooh, magical waterfall! And then WHOOSH…What if the wooshing sound was drowning out the sounds of something really dangerous approaching our camp. Like vicious bears and angry witches. And also the farts coming from my nervous tummy. Between the farting and the rotten cheese toe smell, I wasn’t sure if my tent mate was sleeping or simply passed out from the vapors.

Some time during the night, the soft glow of the Schlitz Beer sign and the rhythmic flushing of the waterfall actually managed to lull me to sleep. Before long, it was morning and our Scout Leader was getting out mini boxes of cereal for all of us to eat. We sat in our jammies and coats in the cool morning sun, talking about our big adventures. The squirrels we saw, the birds we saw. We were sure we could start a fire faster than any of the stupid boys at school. We were survivalists.

After breakfast, we explored the park until our parents came to get us. Mom picked me up and I hugged her hard. I hugged her for that sleeve of Saltine crackers that got me through the night…and I hugged her because I was proud I finally made it through a whole night away from home. I packed up my mess kit and my cheesy feet sleeping bag and we trudged off to the car as I regaled her with the ghost stories I’d learned that night…and told her of the terrible toilet fountain. We laughed that no one seemed to notice the cheese funk was coming from my sleeping bag.

And that, my friends, was the one and only time I went camping.

I’m much more of a hotel girl. A hotel room with a big jacuzzi tub and lots of fun things to do. Sign me up. You can keep your camping…this Princess needs a bed.

So how about you? Camp or Hotel? Lemme hear it!

camping lol