I'm starting to resent the fact that I cannot drink. Sometimes shit happens and one drink just doesn't cut it.
When my plane is canceled, I want the option to sit down at the trashy airport bar and get drunk.
When I'm irrationally afraid of getting fired, and ending up on Welfare for Women With Dependent Children, probably with a bum hip and a limp, I want three dirty martinis, extra olives please.
When I look in the mirror and see that a large woman has overtaken my svelte athletic body, maybe, just maybe, I want to get drunk. Maybe I want to fill my coffers with liquor instead of resentment. It seems like a much healthier option.
6.23.2009
Been busy gettin' fat
As a purely humanitarian gesture, I'd like to see about giving away my boobs. Really. Now I know why they call them boobs. They are stupid.
I have always had a fairly contentious relationship with my bosoms. On a normal day, they are a healthy cup size A, which is more than enough for me. During times of high water retention when they get a bit enlarged, I've even been known to "flick" them in angst. You know the move: index finger on thumb, release, ricochet... flick. No one ever seems to approve of this move except for me. Yet I stand my ground.
Now I don't even see the point of the flick. Now I'd have to take a baseball bat to them in order to get my point across: you are too freakin' big.
So many women seem to fancy these amorphous blobs of flesh protruding from their chests... enough to pay the price of seven trips to Vegas to see them get bigger. Why can't I offer up some kind of trade with these insane creatures? No need for silicone implants - you can just have my pregnancy boobs, the real deal, out of the goodness of my heart.
The damn baby can suck on a bottle for all I care. Just get these things off of me.
I have always had a fairly contentious relationship with my bosoms. On a normal day, they are a healthy cup size A, which is more than enough for me. During times of high water retention when they get a bit enlarged, I've even been known to "flick" them in angst. You know the move: index finger on thumb, release, ricochet... flick. No one ever seems to approve of this move except for me. Yet I stand my ground.
Now I don't even see the point of the flick. Now I'd have to take a baseball bat to them in order to get my point across: you are too freakin' big.
So many women seem to fancy these amorphous blobs of flesh protruding from their chests... enough to pay the price of seven trips to Vegas to see them get bigger. Why can't I offer up some kind of trade with these insane creatures? No need for silicone implants - you can just have my pregnancy boobs, the real deal, out of the goodness of my heart.
The damn baby can suck on a bottle for all I care. Just get these things off of me.
5.10.2009
incarceration
I am not getting fat because I am pregnant. I am fat because I am poor.
Here on my tropical vacation, I have discovered that if I lived a life of leisure, I would not be fat. Even though I would eat ice cream everyday, get my money’s worth at large buffet breakfasts, and drink heavily sugared cocktails, I would not get fat because I would not be shackled to a desk.
I have re-realized what I learned long ago – being in front of a computer all day is like legalized incarceration. You're in for the crime that you commit against your body every time you glue your ass to a seat in front of cancer-inducing device instead of taking a walk (cue birds), growing your own vegetables (cue new age music), or taking a dance class (cue salsa). It’s a crime of the poor – those who work instead of luxuriate. Working used to be good for your body. Hard manual labor. Now we poor people sit in front of radioactive devices while rich people tend their own gardens and go to the gym.
I am fat now. Fully and totally fat. But its not because I’m pregnant or old or old and pregnant. It’s because I bought into a lifestyle that I thought I needed in order to provide for my child. If we all keep making all these sacrifices for our kids, and then our kids make all these sacrifices for their kids, then isn’t no one ever happy?
Here on my tropical vacation, I have discovered that if I lived a life of leisure, I would not be fat. Even though I would eat ice cream everyday, get my money’s worth at large buffet breakfasts, and drink heavily sugared cocktails, I would not get fat because I would not be shackled to a desk.
I have re-realized what I learned long ago – being in front of a computer all day is like legalized incarceration. You're in for the crime that you commit against your body every time you glue your ass to a seat in front of cancer-inducing device instead of taking a walk (cue birds), growing your own vegetables (cue new age music), or taking a dance class (cue salsa). It’s a crime of the poor – those who work instead of luxuriate. Working used to be good for your body. Hard manual labor. Now we poor people sit in front of radioactive devices while rich people tend their own gardens and go to the gym.
I am fat now. Fully and totally fat. But its not because I’m pregnant or old or old and pregnant. It’s because I bought into a lifestyle that I thought I needed in order to provide for my child. If we all keep making all these sacrifices for our kids, and then our kids make all these sacrifices for their kids, then isn’t no one ever happy?
4.27.2009
Fat vs. Ugly
Not since Alien vs. Predator has the world seen two such monstrous (who knew that word didn’t have an ‘e’ in it?) opponents.
In The Big City, Old & Ugly are notorious deal breakers, even if you do happen to all the tricks: (view full size)
But here’s the thing that I discovered this weekend: although ugly can be hidden by a dark bar and a decent martini, my size is unmistakable. Dim those lights and that pear-shaped silhouette is all the more noticeable. Stay at the bar long enough for some drunken hands to come wandering your way and what’s the first thing they feel? My burgeoning baby belly.
After months of fierce competition, Ugly surrendered to Fat and they decided to join forces in the form of the perfect weapon: the stretch mark. At 41, that shit ain’t never snapping back into place again. I lose.
In The Big City, Old & Ugly are notorious deal breakers, even if you do happen to all the tricks: (view full size)
But here’s the thing that I discovered this weekend: although ugly can be hidden by a dark bar and a decent martini, my size is unmistakable. Dim those lights and that pear-shaped silhouette is all the more noticeable. Stay at the bar long enough for some drunken hands to come wandering your way and what’s the first thing they feel? My burgeoning baby belly.
After months of fierce competition, Ugly surrendered to Fat and they decided to join forces in the form of the perfect weapon: the stretch mark. At 41, that shit ain’t never snapping back into place again. I lose.
4.18.2009
Not Everything On the Internet Is True.
The contentious matter of when to tell my date about my pregnancy is a non-issue. There will be no second date.
I'm not sure if y'all knew this, but it turns out that everything on the internet is not necessarily as represented. For example, my date was none of the following things that were professed/implied:
I'm not sure if y'all knew this, but it turns out that everything on the internet is not necessarily as represented. For example, my date was none of the following things that were professed/implied:
- smart
- funny
- confident
- affluent
4.12.2009
Hypocritical Liar
I have a date on Tuesday night. To tell or not to tell? That is the question.
Turns out that when you take a poll, people have very strong feelings about whether it is necessary to confess that you are, essentially, bringing a third human along for the ride. Some think you should tell before the first date. Others at the end. Still others believe it is not necessary to tell until "the sex date." What do you think?
Really, I haven't even told some of my best friends that I am pregnant. Why should I tell this veritable stranger?
The bigger ethical question is: How should I update my online dating profile to reflect the nuances of this situation? If I characterize myself as "honest," and I don't tell about the baby, then I am a liar. If I write that I am liar, and then I do tell about the baby, I am a hypocrite.
Turns out that when you take a poll, people have very strong feelings about whether it is necessary to confess that you are, essentially, bringing a third human along for the ride. Some think you should tell before the first date. Others at the end. Still others believe it is not necessary to tell until "the sex date." What do you think?
Really, I haven't even told some of my best friends that I am pregnant. Why should I tell this veritable stranger?
The bigger ethical question is: How should I update my online dating profile to reflect the nuances of this situation? If I characterize myself as "honest," and I don't tell about the baby, then I am a liar. If I write that I am liar, and then I do tell about the baby, I am a hypocrite.
4.05.2009
This whole thing.
This whole pregnancy thing isn’t shaping up to be quite the bag of tricks it was cracked up to be. In addition to 9 months of uninterrupted PMS, I am now unable to enjoy even the slightest reward from this misery.
Going in for your kid’s ultrasounds is supposed to be the hallelujah moment of all of this. Instead, my kid’s picture looks like one of those images you see on Dateline of the pro-lifer’s parading around with pictures of unborn fetuses on their sticks. I can’t even look at it without wanting to chant “Hey, hey -- Mister, mister, Get your hands -- off my Sister!”
And that whole hearing the heart beat thing was downright spooky. Though I’m sure if my kid’s father is actually Darth Vader, he’ll be very proud.
Going in for your kid’s ultrasounds is supposed to be the hallelujah moment of all of this. Instead, my kid’s picture looks like one of those images you see on Dateline of the pro-lifer’s parading around with pictures of unborn fetuses on their sticks. I can’t even look at it without wanting to chant “Hey, hey -- Mister, mister, Get your hands -- off my Sister!”
And that whole hearing the heart beat thing was downright spooky. Though I’m sure if my kid’s father is actually Darth Vader, he’ll be very proud.
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