That's Right, It Is Snack Time

I was feeling a little on the pale side yesterday, actually I could see the blood running through my legs….oh look, there’s my anterior blah blah. So I decided to bust out the “air brush” spray tan jazz that works magic on the bod. Sometimes I get a little overboard like I’m some sort of spa worker who does this on the regs. But I’m not. Anyways, I finished with the spraying and buffing and decided to check it out in the mirror. Come to find out, when I turned around to look at my back, a new mole had appeared. Wait, dear lord, could that be a tick? I do love to lay on the floor with the dogs. And I did run into a bush earlier at the Y when I parked too close to the blankin’ curb. Hum, I shall operate. Tweezers out, awkward post on the sink (by the way, spray tan absolutely began running off me as I bust into a cold sweat trying to reach the unreachable on my back). And let me preface this: Well, this is probably a sick problem that needs medication, but I am a total self operator. I perform surgery like it’s my job. Fake Doctor Office: “Paging Dr. Jackson” Doctor Me: Oh I’m right here. Is that lead in your hand ma’am? Patient Me: Why yes it is, 10 year old lead as a matter of fact. Doctor Me: Great! Let’s give you your annual operation. Oh wait… what’s that? That’s right, Dr. Jackson, epic fail. The lead never comes out. It didn’t come out this operation, nor did it come out the last 85 times you’ve tried. Stop self operating. But anyways, I tried to pull this tick mole off my back. Finally, when I investigated the tweezers, all I found was a hair. I’m going to go with mole.

There was an incident this morning that had me totally flustered the entire way to the gym.  This morning, as I crept around the house at 5am to make it to the gym on time, I was a little delirious and irritated.  Literally, my blackberry alarm is the most obnoxious sound in the world.  It takes everything in me not to throw it as hard as possible on the floor and then glare at my husband.  I don’t know why the “glare at my husband” part came into that scenario, but I can only imagine he would happen to pop out of a cabinet, because he’s always right there when I don’t want him to be, shaking his head at me like he’s the next freaking Dalai Lama.  My bad, Mr. Calm and Collected.  That’s right, I just busted up that dumb phone that you are totally obsessed with looking at all day.  So let’s move on….  I then proceeded to head out to the car, and as I was locking the door behind me, here she comes.  This devil bird literally comes hauling bootata towards my head ready for the strike.  I luckily dodged the dumb thing and got out from under the covered porch as fast as possible.  Thank the lord no one saw me.  The look on my face was probably disgusting.  I’m sure I had that head cocked back, eyes wide open, double chin/no neck look going on, trying not to eat it as I do a “break your ankle” move off the sidewalk.  So when I got my balance and kept moving towards the car, she made one last territorial come at me and then I heard a little drop.  I frantically checked myself to make sure she didn’t take a poo on my shirt.  It turns out she didn’t, instead there was a bug in my hair.  Thanks a lot Thursday morning.  You’re supposed to be a good day, not like Mondays, or even Tuesdays.  But Thursday, you just blew it.

Last night at dinner I had monster size, steroid asparagus.  They were literally as big around as a marker, plus 2 inches in length.  All my friend and I could do is stare and say, “yeah, I bet those are organic.”  My little baby, that I might have one day, will be wearing a bra in the womb.

The upstairs air conditioner is currently on the fritz.  There is a leaky pipe that apparently gets frozen from the coolant and acts like a baby head and turns off.  This is typical for about 3 in the morning when you feel like you’re going to kill someone because your hair is stuck to your face like a mask.  I can just picture myself sitting up abruptly with a hair mask on my face, going all exorcist on my husband because of the heat.  He probably hates me in those moments.  I’m sure because I burn him with the fire coming out of my mouth, “MY FACE IS SWOLLEN, MY RINGS ARE SWOLLEN, YOU COULD MAKE BEEF JERKY WITH MY BLOOD, make the blankin’ air conditioner turn on!”  So, this is just a preface for this morning.  Of course, I take a shower and dry my hair, and what happens?  The air conditioner turns off.  It probably blows heat on me just in spite of my hatred for the thing.  Well, as I was trying to ignore the heat as I ran up and down the stairs trying to find an outfit (my dresses are downstairs), I finally made it back to the mirror.  Bam, I was Charlize Theron in the movie Monster.  The humidity had turned me into a totally different, unrecognizable person.  Then I realized I had stood there and talked to my husband in the few moments before the mirror shock.  He probably was considering running for the car and not coming back. 

Yesterday was a tough day, a toast day.  When I got home from work, I had to get a haircut and go to the gym, while still being in bed early and having plenty of TV time.  In order for me to still eat dinner before 8 o’clock, I had to eat as soon as I got home, due to all of the activities that had to be accomplished. I really wasn’t disappointed about this situation at all.  I was actually loving that I had to eat dinner at 5:30.  Normally at 5:30, I’m having my pre dinner feast.  It involves standing in front of the fridge, eating cheese, pinching off pieces of bread so that I don’t feel like I ate a whole piece, and maybe having a Hershey kiss.  So, after I ate my geriatric dinner, I thought I needed a little sweat treat, without too many calories.  What do I go for?  Trusty cinnamon toast, with splenda and fake butter of course.  I absolutely love toast.  I am mildly addicted to it.  Yesterday morning, I started the day standing in the kitchen trying to decide what to have for breakfast and thought I would have toast.  When I got to work, I remembered having decided not to make the toast, but it’s such a habit, that I had to drive all the way home and check the oven.  I had sworn that in a breakfast toast coma, I had turned the oven on and began with the toast making process.  Well anyway, before going to bed, I was having a starving attack and I immediately made more toast, 2 pieces actually.  So besides my dinner, I basically had two sandwiches.  I’m trying not to go back to yesterday, because I vaguely remember pulling out an extra piece of bread, toasting, and spreading peanut butter.  This can’t be anything but my mind playing tricks on me.  This morning I went to go see the man, hopefully my bff if I get skinny, that is whipping me into shape.  I started chatting it up about my day and what was going on with work and blah blah, and before I knew it, I was talking about how many pieces of toast I ate yesterday.  Then I realized it was a problem.  He suggested that maybe I was allergic to something in it and my body was craving it.  I’m now wondering if there is a shot or something to become allergic to vegetables (say like snoop dog, “veg-te-bowls”).  The reason I’m so depressed about the toastamatic day is because I had just said the night before that I was going to cut down on my carbs.  Total failure.

Two major incidents took place last night.  The kind that make you want to freak out.  In this case, I didn’t cry or say awful things, and afterwards I kind of wondered why.  It was that bad.  So bad…I couldn’t even cuss.  To begin with, as soon as I walked in the door last night, I was dying for dinner.  I had talked myself into an insane food frenzy on the ride home and couldn’t get fried eggs off my mind.  I decided I would make an egg, bacon, and yes, mustard sandwich.  I love mustard so much.  So I was frantically in the kitchen, knocking stuff all around trying to make the fastest bacon and egg sandwich in history.  If I didn’t make it immediately, I would have started eating shredded cheese and cereal.  So needless to say, I made the sandwich and loaded it down with mustard.  My husband and I always eat in the living room, regardless of how disturbed my mom is about us not eating at a table.  Each night when we head into the living room for dinner, I threaten my husband with his life about spilling something on the couch or the rug.  Well, here I go, the most hungry person in the world, running into the living room….my entire sandwich goes flying onto the couch.  I didn’t even know what to do.  I stood there, then started eating the mustard off the couch.  Wow, was that seriously my first reaction…eat the mustard, eat the mustard, go go go.  I finally get that cleaned up/flipped the cushion over, and the husband gets home.  We make him a little bacon and eggs dinner as well, and he sits down to eat.  All of a sudden sparks are flying from his plate…banging, clinking, knocking.  I look over, and all he’s doing is cutting his eggs with a fork.  “It’s not like you’re cutting a steak over there Husband.”  He just glared at me.  Seriously, since when are eggs like cutting steaks.  I had no other words.

At this point, everyone knows my obsession with weight, diets, exercise, calories, the scale, mirrors, the refrigerator, carbs, and all things health related. Anyways, the above list rules my life. The other day someone mentioned that they knew someone who had a pedometer and tracked how far they walked and lost some weight using the dumb thing. So oh ok… pedometer, just track my walking, lose inches immediately, be the skinny hot B that I see in my head…done. I went straight to Target (say with an Alabama/French accent) and bought a little $20 pedometer. All I want to do now that I have this thing is march around the house, march while I work, march in the shower, march when I’m talking. Well, after reading some ridiculously long instructions, I stick the thing in the side of my pants and started walking. Of course when I went to work, I totally forgot about it, and when I went to the bathroom it went flying across the floor. Obviously I don’t want anyone to see this little piece of gold, so I grabbed it up as fast as possible. I should have just gotten one of those that clip on the side of your pants and made everyone think it was one of those insulin meter things, or maybe they would think it was a pager. Pagers are old school, but let’s all remember who still uses those things…that’s right, doctors. I could have played that role as well. Anyways, I “heard,” probably from the WebMD/fake website that I believe everything it says, that you should walk 12,000 steps per day to lose some weight. At the end of the day, I took a look at the number and I didn’t even hit 2,000. I was mortified. I had just spent $20 on a little contraption that didn’t even work. Today’s three o’clock snack….I am going to march at my desk.

This just happened and I’m so mad.  This morning I had absolutely nothing to wear, either it was dirty or too tight.  So I found these pants that I haven’t worn in forever and I was able to put them on.  Well obviously I went with those due to a total fatness weight-loss milestone.  The pants are slightly bell bottom-ish, so I was a little hesitant to wear them to work, so I went with a simple black shirt and black cardigan.  Safe and conservative for the office.  I was feeling fresh, let me tell you.  When I got to the office, I headed to the bathroom to do a teeth check, after I’m sure I had been talking and smiling for 20 minutes already with berry seeds in my teeth (Dannon smoothies…the bomb).  Anyway, I got in to the bathroom and it’s like my black shirt was glowing skin tones.  Bow chicka wow wow!  You could see straight through my shirt.  So now, instead of feeling awesome, I have two buttons buttoned on my cardigan and I look ridiculous.