October 27, 2018

Greetings, gentle readers. It’s a gorgeous day here in The Good Life and it’s been a day well spent.

In a surprise to no one who reads this, I’m going to prattle on about my usual things I prattle on about.

I’ve been avoiding buying some clothes that fit me, namely jeans and a bra or two, as both are current items that are too big for me, much to my delight and dismay. Delighted because well, clothes that are too big means I must be doing something right in regards to this weight loss thing. Dismay because goddamn it. I’m still sore my boobs are shrinking, a fact thrown in my face every day when I try to put a bra on and my tiny breasts now wade around inside the cups. Why must boobs shrink? Why? It shouldn’t be a big deal because I’m the only person who sees them now, but still. It’s irritating and disheartening to have once fairly substantial knockers be deflated, especially since my tummy is still rotund. Thanks a lot, body, you fuck.

I did decide to go out and shop a little bit this afternoon, a task I rarely enjoy performing. I don’t much care for shopping. I’m all for it when I know exactly what I want and where to find it. I don’t like it when I have to try multiple stores to find something. That can go eff itself. But I have been putting this off for a few weeks and am getting tired of wearing baggy pants and my tits flopping around inside my bras, so off I went.

Bras were up first. I had zero clue what size I am now, but I can tell you it ain’t 42DD anymore. A nice lady measured me and lo and behold, I’m now a 38C. That’s two danged cups smaller. The band size is cool, like way to lose four inches around your rib cage, you sexy beast! But the cups size…fucking ridiculous, I swear. I’m going to get a boob job after all this is over. I swear it. I know it’s a silly thing to be so concerned with, but I’m also silly, so it’s okay. I can be silly and also have glorious fake cans later and all will be well again.

Shocking enough, the bra thing went well, aside from the size drop, but I guess you’ll have that. I’ll get over it. I’ll bitch about it but I’ll get over it eventually. I found two that I like and didn’t cost me a stupid amount as bras often tend to do, so bye-bye, floppy tits! You’re safe and sound once again.

Next up was the dreaded jeans. Dun dun dunnnnnn.

Again, no idea what size I am now. The jeans I have on in the picture below are 18 and it pisses me off they’re too big because I never wore them because why? Because they were too tight in the tummy and thighs, that’s why. Because if I’m honest with myself, I wasn’t wearing the proper size of clothes to begin with as I was in denial about gaining as much weight as I had. Most of my clothes were snug, which is why I’d opt for leggings and t-shirts as compared to “normal” clothes like jeans or more fitted tops in a vain attempt to mask the girth. Needless to say, I have many, many pairs of leggings now. Good times. However, I ended up buying a pair in a size I haven’t been able to squeeze my buns in since 2003, so that bolstered the ol’ confidence a bit, even though I was doing the jump/hop/wiggle buns maneuver to try to get another pair on.

Sadly not Apple Bottom jeans with the furrrrr.

I need to interrupt my writing for a moment to say that I don’t want to write about this anymore. I was imputing my food for the day in MyFitnessPal and saw an old friend of mine whom I follow and their update of their pounds lost. They’re doing so goddamn great but not bragging–unlike me, who can’t shut the fuck up about it–and I had that “…oh. She’s not flaunting her success. She should! But she isn’t. Why the shit am I bragging about mine any chance I get and writing about it now? Delete the post and go about the day and don’t ever post anything about this ever again.”

But oopsies, here I am regardless because I shouldn’t diminish this. I know, you know, they know what it takes to get going and stay going with an undertaking such as this. Just because they aren’t vocal about their story doesn’t mean I can’t be with mine because lord knows I love to writes about this shit. And what if it’s helpful to someone who is struggling with weight, too? Knowing another person is out there being candid and open with their struggles with the scale is sometimes all it takes for them to keep going. I urge you to keep going. If I have to, so do you.

I digress.

I’m really having a hard time with accepting I’m smaller than I was three months ago. I don’t see it in myself even though I have physical evidence I am. I look down at my tummy and see my giant belly and truly feel it’s the same size as it was. I touch my thighs and butt and they still feel the same to me, despite knowing I’ve lost six inches around my waist and hips. I just…feel the same and that’s cheesing me off something awful. What the hell, brain?

That in conjunction with just kind of having a bad brain week has made the last several days tedious. And from here I’ll segue into my second favorite writing topic! Partner In Crime! You know it had to be coming! Here it is! Yay!

Last Sunday, I and some members of the atheist group I belong to did our semiannual trash pick-up. PIC has been a staple for these for the last six years but was obviously absent from this one. I didn’t really want to go because of that, but I also wanted to go to keep the tradition alive and try to feel the connection with him again. I’m glad I went but goddamn it if I didn’t wish he was there. It wasn’t the same and most likely never will be. Knowing that really brought me down and made me think about everything that’s changed since he’s been gone. He’s missed deeply, and if you were to ask me what specifically I miss, I will just say nothing in particular but also a thousand different little things.

Well then. Sorry this one isn’t very good tonight…but are they ever really? I would like to wish this little blog a happy 11th birthday, which is friggin’ wild. Eleven long years. The evolution of the writing and topics is kind of a trip to read, so that’s good for a chuckle. I started out trying to be funny, went to short fiction, then had a mental breakdown somewhere between the years of 2009 to about 2012, then slowly crept back into fiction but found I couldn’t hack it anymore, so went to doing journal writing and here we are today. Thank you for coming along on this weird and wild trip. We’ll stop for snacks and a potty break soon, I promise.

As always, thank you for reading.


September 21, 2018

“It’s Friday night, and I feel alright, there’s a party here on the west side! So I reach for my 40 and I turn it up!”

Just kidding. While it is indeed Friday night, I feel okay, and I live on the southeast side, there’s no party, nor do I have a 40 nor will I be turnt. Being 37 is wild, y’all. Ten years ago, yes, I would have been turning it up, but I’m old and tired now and have slid into a hermit stage. Such is life, I guess. Instead, I’m sitting in the darkened living room with only the glow of my laptop screen offering any light and listening to my music at a somewhat respectable level. I wonder if Gail thinks I’m dying; I haven’t had a noise complaint from her in months. It also helps that I’m usually in bed or on my way to bed at this time.

Ah…were to begin tonight! There’s just so much to write about!

My classes are over with for the quarter and good god almighty, I am glad for that. I did not do well this quarter, much like last quarter and I’m kicking myself in the ass for that, as I’m often wont to do. The spring quarter was a shitshow towards the end when Partner In Crime moved. I stopped caring. I quit going to class. I didn’t take my final and shock of shocks, I failed anatomy and will have to take it over again. Please know that I do not blame PIC at all for this, and I accept full responsibility for my actions.

This quarter was marginally better, save the whole “wait to the last possible minute to do my online homework” thing, which was a gas. I did well with homework assignments despite that, but it was the goddamn fucking tests that did me in. I am a horrible test taker and my grade reflects that. I hate being tested on shit. If I could offer an explanation for how things work instead of be faced with multiple choice questions that are all very similarly worded and then cause me to second-guess myself, ultimately changing my mind from the correct answer to the wrong one, I’d be golden but that’s not how this crap works. I don’t know what to do now. Of course I’m doubting I can even keep trying to become a nurse and just give up on it because blowing two quarters and roughly $2000 (motherFUCKER) is not good. It’s not good at all. It’s the opposite of good.

I have also been highly distracted by this weight loss thing, which sounds dumb as fuck, but it’s true. For example, I work full-time and have been deemed the “late stay bitch,” which means I close the joint down at night. I get home at either 6:30 or 7:30pm, depending on the day, and I’m focused on getting dinner made, which now that I actually take time to make myself food instead of grabbing fast food on the way home, it’s a bit time consuming. I am also usually too tired when I get home to exercise, so I have taken to going to the gym or riding my bike in the early buttcrack hours of the morning before work. When I get home, that means I’ve been up for a good 14 hours already and doing homework is the absolute last thing I want to do, so I don’t do it, which means I wait until the day it’s due and good times ensue. I know it’s a piss-poor excuse, but goddamn it.

I’ve decided to not register for classes this coming quarter, which fuck me, but I can’t keep wasting money like that–which incidentally has also been anxiety-inducing as of late (more on that in a bit). I’m going to skip this quarter, try to regroup my thoughts, do some soul-searching (have I looked under the couch?), and hopefully emerge with a firmer grasp of what the fuck I want to do. Wish me luck.

Money, money, money, money, MON-AY! I hate it. Always have, always will. For those unaware, when PD died, he left some farmland to my brother and myself. Not being overly keen on being landowners, we sold that bitch off and thanks to tremendous forethought from my dying father, he left the land in a trust which spared us huge taxes on it. It was a good chunk of dough and that goofy sonuvabitch knew how much it was going to help me dig myself out of a financial hole that I had been digging, and boy howdy, was it ever welcomed. I still don’t think I’m worthy of having that inheritance, and those feelings are crashing back.

There’s an old sketch comedy program called “Mr. Show” and it was on HBO back in the late ’90s/early ’00s and starred David Cross and Bob Odenkirk. It was hilarious. They did a skit about a child actor who ended up blowing his fortune on stupid shit and then this kid tried to sue Hollywood for not telling him that by giving him this money that it would eventually be gone. It’s way funnier than I am describing it, trust me. Anyway, I kind of feel this way. I mean, I haven’t bought anything outlandish or totally frivolous. It’s just…running out. It’s causing me panic attacks lately because of that. I was hellbent on paying for school out-of-pocket and not having to rely on student loans, but if I keep going to school, I may need to bite that bullet and take out some loans, which just pisses me the fuck off because I’m still goddamn paying off the loans from 12 years ago, goddamn motherfucking cocksucking dammit. I chose not to pay them off in full because thanks to years of horrible financial mistakes on my end, my credit was like, -4. By paying monthly, I’ve been able to raise my credit, so is that a definition of silver lining? Sure?

If I keep paying for school, my living situation needs to change. I pay way too goddamn much in rent. I tried to buy a house earlier this year but between the market also being a cocksucker and PIC leaving town, I didn’t and still don’t want to be tied to something like that. I need to look for a cheaper place to rent, but I have been avoiding doing so because I absolutely fucking hate looking for places to live. Who does, right? No one, that’s who.

I could get a roommate but that idea makes my asshole pucker. I may not like living alone, but I am real goddamn used to being alone now and the thought of having to share my space with someone who will surely annoy me to tears is not cool. But if I don’t figure something out soon, I’m scared to death I’ll end up like I was before and having to rely on the otherworldly kindness of my friends and live in someones basement again and that terrifies me for a lot of reasons: it’ll confirm my failure. I’ll feel like I’ve let literally everyone in my life down. I can’t be in that place again. I can’t. It won’t end well for me. So that’s been a load of stressful fun! Yay!

And what do I do with stress? I ignore it, that’s what! Good plan, Erin! I don’t know what to do, and thinking about options fuckin’ cranks my anxiety to 11, so I stop thinking about it until I’m forced to think about it again and what a vicious goddamn cycle of suck. I hate it. Hate. It. I thought this week to get another job maybe but I can see that failing me because I’ll be too busy working to have time for school and I’ll really never finish this goddamn degree. If anyone has any brilliant solutions, I’m all ears.

One more thing about the money issue and I’ll shut up. I don’t know how to say this without seeming like I’m being a braggart, but I’ve been plenty generous with the cash and helping people out. Again, that makes me feel so gross to even bring up, but it’s also factoring into why I’m running low on dough. My mentality about giving is this: I had been helped out to ridiculous levels in the past and by returning that favor to people or causes, I feel like I’m atoning for my past money transgressions. Plus, it’s so freaking great to lend a hand. If I ever win the lottery and have millions of dollars, I want to spend my time helping other people out. It’s a cool feeling, yo. I dig it. But I’m doing too much, I think. Fuck. I hate that, too. Insert heavy, resigned sigh here.

Now, on to this weight loss thing. I enjoy that I’m more active again. I truly like sweating and pushing myself to physical limits to see if I can outdo myself, which I can report that I have been able to do. Now, if I can only get my brain to fucking cooperate with me while doing this, that would be fan-fucking-tastic. What do I mean? To date, I’m down 30-ish pounds. Good for me! Way to go! But I still feel like I look the exact same physically and that leads to “why the hell are you even bothering doing this?” Like, I know that by losing weight, I’m not going to suddenly be gorgeous or that my entire body structure and frame will change, but I also still expect that? Does that make sense? Thirty pounds, sixty pounds, eighty pounds…I’m still going to be 5’11” and be built like a tank. I have broad shoulders and hips, a long torso and legs, and a big German head. I’ll still also have stretch marks and loose skin, but I somehow magically think my skeleton will also shrink? Like…? Erin? You okay, hon? That’s not how that works, sweetie. Body dysmorphia is a real fuckface.

I’m still crying about my boobs, too. Although I tried to buy smaller sports bras tonight and thought I could shove myself into size large bras and I guess I’m happy to report that I haven’t lost that much tit and spent a hilarious few minutes wrestling myself in and out of these things. I’ve lost enough mammary though, that I now think I’m a slug of a woman. I’ve always been kind of obsessed with boobs and it’s even more so now. I see ads for bras and all these lovely women with lovelier boobs and I get mad that I don’t have smooth skin around mine or that they’re full or even in the same spot as they once were and goddamn it, boobs. You were the one (well, two) thing(s) that I actually was proud of on my body–I don’t look like much in the face department, I am overweight, I have the aforementioned stretch marks, but goddamn it, I had big tits and everyone likes a nice big set of tits. Not anymore! So that means no one likes me. Isn’t my brain just the freaking best?! Sakes alive! I’m suddenly less worthy of a person because my breasts have shrunk a cup size. For the love of fuck, woman.

On to another topic: that goddamn guy who moved. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop missing that goofy sumbitch. Some days it’s okay, some days are not. It’s wild to me he’s been gone for four months already, and I secretly wish he’s going to pull an Erin and in two months be all, “yeah so, this didn’t work out like I wanted and I’m moving back to Nebraska.” I know that isn’t going to happen, but still. And like things would go back to what they used to be is also a fool’s wish. There were a series of concerts these past few weeks that he and I were to attend and obviously only one of us could and that got to me hard. I wish with all my might he could have been here, but it just didn’t work out that way.

But hey, I got to see Live perform, so that was neat. Take THAT, silver lining! You take it! I just listen to my music and hope he’s okay…not that he would ever tell me he wasn’t because we’re awfully goddamn similar that way, which is both great and also slightly maddening, but all the best things in life are, I wager.

That’s going to be it for today. I, for whatever stupid reason, have gotten up at 3am for the last two days and I’m real tired!

As I always say, thanks for reading. I appreciate you all–all three of you. 😛



On Boobs, Booze, and Miscellany

Good morning, Gentle Readers.

The usual apologies for this post being all over the shop with topics applies. Curse this non-linear brain of mine!

I would like to start off this Saturday morning with a brief moment of silence for my breasts. The once mighty 42DDs are slowly shrinking. This annoys and pleases me at the same time. Annoys because if you’re a person who wears bras, you know how goddamned expensive these holders of tits are, and if you’re like me, you wear your bras until they reach the point of the underwire slipping out the side and stabbing you in the chest wall, and even then you mutter to yourself as you try to jam the wire back in, “not today, goddamn it! You’ve got some life left in you yet!”

Bras I have that admittedly aren’t the right size to begin with, as my boobs often spilled out over the cups, no longer do so. One of my favorites now gaps in the cups. The usual hooks in the band had to be taken in to the next set, and the straps adjusted to accommodate my shrinking mammaries. I can feel more of my rib cage and sternum when I touch my chest instead of the layer of adipose that was once there.

Being no stranger to weight loss, as this most recent endeavor marks the fourth time in my adult life I’ve decided that enough is enough and began losing weight, which also means this is the fourth time my cans have shrunk, this time, I’m not as upset about it as I had been in the past, despite the title of this post. Well, I guess I should say that I’m torked off by it as usual, but I’m more at peace with it this time. Necessary evil, friends. I’m trying to adopt the mindset that less cans equals I’m doing this weight loss thing right, and in the grand scheme of things, having smaller ta-tas is trivial compared to striving to become healthier and leaner in the process. Win some, lose some tits.

Regardless, let’s take a brief moment of reflection for my knockers. Thanks for all the good times, melons.

Next, let’s chat about drinking, or rather, the lack of drinking I’ve been doing the last seven weeks. Since July 9th, I’ve drank two times. Considering I used to drink daily and always to the point of being slightly intoxicated, that’s a pretty impressive feat, if you ask me.

Historically speaking, alcohol and I have had a very turbulent relationship. I was a “good kid” in high school, and never drank save the two wine coolers my parents would allow me to sip on the 4th of July when we’d get together with family. Oh, Bartels and James Fuzzy Peach Cooler. You made me feel like such a bad-ass at age 15. Lolz.

When I turned 21, I didn’t have the typical right of passage bar crawl. In fact, I remember I went to dinner with my family and I think I ordered a single drink and then went to a liquor store and got a 4-pack of wine coolers, which I drank two of. Wild and crazy times there! Wooo!

I actually drank little from age 21 to 25. I was newly married then, and my then-husband and I would drink occasionally, going downtown with friends and living it up for a night, but we didn’t ever really keep booze in the house. A six-pack of beer every now and then, but nothing more than that really.

Our marriage took its first hit when we were 25, though. Our living situation at the time was with a cousin of mine and her boyfriend, and we were both pretty miserable. He wasn’t a fan of it and would often disappear to a friend’s house leaving me alone until a friend of mine convinced me to join him for karaoke. Welcoming a chance to leave the house and be with friends, I obliged and that’s when I started drinking more regularly and heavily. Liquid courage for the karaoke thing, dontcha know.

We finally moved out and into our own apartment a few months later, but the drinking monkey had already attached itself firmly to my back and got progressively worse over the next five years when our marriage took the final death blow.

Drinking became the cure for what ailed me. I went from drinking a few days a week to drinking every day. Bad decisions were made, a DUI/reckless driving charge was had, a night in detox was had…good times. Good memories. Due to a series of extremely unfortunate events, I ended up having to participate in an outpatient alcohol addiction program, which I flunked out of due to even more unfortunate events and well, drinking while in the program. Not the proudest point in my life, but you’ll have that.

My drinking did wane for a bit, going back to a few nights a week instead of daily. This went on for a few years. I fooled myself into thinking I didn’t ever really have a dependency on the stuff because I could go a few days or a week or so without a drink. See? I can be sober for a week and not be bothered by it! I don’t have a drinking problem! 

Oh, Erin. So young and naive. Bless your heart.

But every time I drank, I couldn’t have just a drink or two. Oh, no. I had to drink to get drunk, every time. Why bother drinking if you don’t get shitfaced? It’s un-American! Our Forefathers didn’t dump goddamn tea into the goddamn river for us to spend our lives sober! No sir! They fought for our right to party! Hell yeah, brothers!

I also drank to lessen my inhibitions. When I drink, I get talkative and chatty and more open with my thoughts as compared to my normal state of hating to talk/being tight-lipped. If I knew I was going to be around people to whom I have a hard time talking with, I’d pound a few drinks to “calm my nerves” and to be a Chatty Cathy. It’s a win-win for all involved! Never mind the fact that I’d get drunk and often forget about the conversation and then have a healthy dose of self-loathing the next day when I tried desperately to recall conversations from the night before and came up with fragments. Cool, Erin. Cool. Nope, no problem with drinking. You clearly have, as the kids say, got this.

No, I didn’t “got this.” Not even close to getting this at all.

The last few months proved this yet again. Due to Partner In Crime moving, I began drowning my sorrows in the bottle again, drinking nightly. I discovered that Mike’s Hard Lemonade makes 16oz cans of Mike’s Harder Lemonade which pack an impressive 8% ABV per can, so in the right conditions, drinking three of these sonsabitches gave me a pretty good drunk. I started doing this every day: get off work, stop at the gas station up the road from home, buy four cans of this crap and drink them all. Wash, rinse, repeat. Obviously, I’d wake up feeling like warmed-over shit in the morning, to which I’d falsely tell myself that I wasn’t going to drink that night, but golly gee, what did I end up doing anyway? Yep. The bottom shelf of my fridge was full of beer and MHLs. I kept a giant bottle of whiskey in my freezer, too, because of course I did.

Shamefully, I also took to having beers while driving to see my mom, as well. My rationale behind that was that since she lives in Kansas, and Kansas beer is weaker than Nebraska beer because Kansas sucks balls, I’d crack open a few cold ones while driving to go see her. I never, ever claimed to be smart because clearly this behavior illustrates that very well. Even more stupid about that is had I ever been pulled over for a traffic violation of some sort, I’d most likely had gotten slapped with another DUI. What a goddamn moron.

Luckily, all this changed when I decided to enroll in this weight loss program. Knowing full well that not only is drinking daily a general poor idea, it’s also just empty calories and I have no idea how many calories were in those goddamn cans of MHLs, but I bet you I would unknowingly drink a solid 800 calories or more a day without giving it a second thought. And I wonder why I had gained weight. Dumbass.

Like I said, save two occasions since July 9, I haven’t had a stitch to drink. I don’t have any alcohol in my house, save 1/4 bottle of Irish cream liquor that’s sitting on the top of my fridge. No beer, no whiskey, no sugar bombs of Mike’s. I honestly and truly do not miss drinking. I thought I would, but I don’t. On those two occasions I did drink, I was so overly concerned about the caloric intake that I didn’t enjoy it as I once would have. I was silently freaking out about how those beers were robbing me of my precious calories I could be using for food, and since I’m on a reduced intake to begin with, knowing that you just drank 200 calories of booze when that could have gone to food really pisses you off. God-fucking-dammit! I could have eaten that!! FML!! 

Plus, it’s nice to not wake up feeling like shit for once. Or feeling stupid. Or verbally berating myself for being so foolish for drinking. It’s really nice, actually. And truth be told, drinking makes me feel gross during, too. I had noticed over the years that my tolerance for some beers had waned and I’d develop a headache after drinking a single beer.

Have I gone completely sober? Well, I mean technically no since I have had drinks since I started this program, but that’s still hard to say at this point. We have such an odd relationship with alcohol in this country and I haven’t worked up the mindset that I don’t need booze at all yet. I’m not mentally prepared for the onslaught of “why don’t you drink anymore?!?!” questions I’ll get if people realize I’m not imbibing like I normally would. I’m silly like that.

Now, back to this weight loss adventure thingy.

I think I have body dysmorphia. Why do I say that? Because even though I’m down over 21 pounds so far, and lost inches because clothes are getting looser, I still see myself as weighing what I did. It’s so bizarre. I can look at an article of clothing, visualize that it is either too big or too small yet, but still not compute it properly in my mind. Or I’ll look at myself in my birthday suit and see a difference, but yet I still feel like I take up as much space or more so than I do. Right? It’s mad fucked up. There’s also a healthy dose of impostor syndrome–or maybe that’s not the right term, but I can’t think of anything better to describe it–going on, too. Like…who the fuck am I to be this suddenly healthy eater and exerciser? I keep thinking to myself that I’ve done this shit three times before, as in I’ve lost a decent amount of weight in the past and what have I done? Gained it all back. Yes, this last time was due to having a few unexpected knee surgeries that took a bit longer to recover from than I had anticipated, and due to that the activity level took a header into the toilet, but still. I often find myself wondering why in the good-goddamn I’m even doing this because I just know I’ll regain this shit back in a year or two because that’s my pattern. Be fat, get tired of being fat, start eating better and exercising, lose 40 to 60 pounds, keep it off for a hot minute, something happens, weight comes back. Obviously I’d like to say this is the final straw and I’m going to do my very best to keep this weight off, but will I? Will I really? Time will tell, I guess.

My brain, I swear. I’d ask for a refund, but I don’t think anyone wants this shit back. Assholes.

It wouldn’t be a post from me without mentioning The One That Moved Away, and I can’t disappoint the three of you who read this, so here we go!

Still miss him, which is laughable because it’s cute of me to think I ever stopped. Oh, he moved away? Huh. Weird! I hardly noticed! Obviously some days I handle it better than others, but it’s always a niggling thing in the back of my mind. It’s goddamn near impossible to be here at home and look around and not find something to remind me of the man. The bookshelves he assembled, the speakers and sound system–one component is actually his that he graciously let me use…it’s rough. I act like the guy died or something, but as far as I know and based on a “like” I got on Facebook earlier today, he’s still kickin’ it, just not within a 10 mile radius anymore. A fun game I like to play with myself is daydreaming that one day soon, there’ll be a knock on my door and his goofy ass will come sauntering in through the kitchen like he used to. That’s a good daydream. Unrealistic, I know, but there’s no law that says daydreams have to be 100% factual. That’s why they’re called “daydreams,” dummies.

I know I’m being dramatic about it all. I know I am. I’m fully aware of this. He moved. People move. But as I know I’ve mentioned before, I’m supposed to be the wishy-washy flakey one and up and vanish. He’s the constant in the equation, I’m the loose cannon. He disrupted the nature of things! What a jerk!

Like I keep saying, I just miss the guy. I guess I should be grateful we had something that does make me miss him as much as I do. Silver lining? Sure. He was/is one of the few people I could claim as a person to whom I hardly ever grew tired of, or annoyed with. It’s true. Oh, there are little, trivial things that would make me roll my eyes, but that’s completely normal. No one is perfect in that regard. I think what I miss most about him, and something I don’t think I ever told him, is that whenever he was around, my mind quieted down. To him, I’m sure he thought I was either bored to tears or totally disinterested, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He calmed me. My brain didn’t race a million miles like it normally does. It was such a welcomed reprieve from all the constant worry and overthinking I always do, but around him, this old lump of grey matter between my ears was almost like, “you can relax now,” and I did. Again, what a fucking jerk. I hope I get to see him again some day.

Well. On that happy note, let’s wrap this up, shall we?

To recap: my cans are shrinking. I don’t think I am, even though I am. I don’t drink hardly ever anymore and I’m almost completely fine with that. The One Who Moved Away is missed and is also a jerk (kidding, I kid).

And that’s about the long and short of it! Yay!

It’s time for bed now. I kicked my own ass at the gym yesterday and my pal RD and I went on a bike ride this morning and I am pooped now. I’m old and tired. I’m okay with that.

As always, thank you for reading.


August 13, 2018


Today has not been a good body image day for this old girl. I woke up feeling fat. I felt like during the night, I regained all the 16.5 pounds I’ve lost so far. My hips feel more squishy than normal, as in I somehow grew six inches of fat on my hips. My inner arms touched them and it felt like my arms were bent at the elbows ready to do the Chicken Dance, or I could rest two toddlers on my hips without holding them, like some sort of kiddie shelf. I think my ass has that square-ish, dimpled skin look, like an overstuffed beanbag. My underarms are jiggly-er than they had been yesterday, I swear.

I had my weekly fat class meeting tonight and I lost a whopping half a pound. I feel like a failure. I suck so badly at everything, I can’t even lose weight. I hopped on the scale, convinced I had lost weight. All week, I’ve been amping myself up for tonight. For some reason, I told myself that if I lost the three pounds I wanted to, that this would finally seem real, like I’m really doing it. Why three pounds? Because three pounds would mean that I would have weighed 239 pounds and I haven’t seen that number in over three years. Weighing 239 pounds would also mark twenty pounds lost. But instead, in an act of ultimate betrayal by my body, I lost half a pound.

I’m sure my face and reaction was rather comical when I stepped on the scale after having taken off my shoes and made brief small talk with the health coach.

“Hi, Erin! How’s it going?”

“Oh, fine, thanks! How are you?”

“How was your week?”

“It was good. Nothing special!”

The scale is one of those industrial, platform jobs, built for the sadistic pleasure of weighing people. Stepping on it makes me feel like I’m an elephant getting weighed at the zoo by my kindly handlers. WEIGHING it ways in big, bold letters as you stand there impatiently awaiting your fate, thinking over and over in your head, “please let me lose weight, please let me lose weight, please let me–” and then I saw the number and almost let loose an “aw, FUCK,” but I caught myself in time. My health coach is a lovely gal in her late twenties with a pleasant, round face and a lovely smile. I’ve gleaned over the last five weeks that she is not one who would have appreciated me swearing in the sanctity of her small office, as in she’d probably have to take to the walls with a Brillo pad and bleach in a vain effort to scrub my verbal filth off the light grey paint. Instead, I said, “aw, dang it!”

“Down half a pound!” she piped up a little too cheerfully for me. Yeah, eight whole ounces. I don’t think I did a very good job of hiding the disappointment in my face. I’ve never been able to pull off a good poker face. I crack. I somewhat admire people who can tell lies, or maintain their composure when situations arise that would break a lesser man. I am that lesser (wo)man. For example, five years ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a car with my partner-in-crime when someone walked by the open window and in doing so, let loose three of the most ass cheek vibrating farts I’ve ever heard. Slightly stunned for a moment, perhaps stunned that we got crop-dusted so effortlessly, I remember us both turning to look at each other, our eyes open wide in the “holy shit, did that really just happen?” and I lost it and continued to lose it for the next thirty minutes. I could not stop laughing. It was the combination of the absurdity of the situation, the sound the flatulence made while slipping through pursed buttcheeks, the look on Partner’s face–stone-cold but eyes still huge. Just when I thought I was done laughing, I’d think about it and laugh myself into tears streaming down my face all over again. I can honestly say that moment was in the top ten times of my life where I have ever laughed that hard. Thanks, farts! Never not funny.

As much as I enjoy talking about farting, back to my story. My point is: I show my emotions on my face, which I guess is a good thing since I can’t ever seem to talk about them (hi-oh!). Bless my coach’s heart, she could see that “goddamn it” look on my face and tried to make me feel better. And honestly, typical me, I am overreacting to this just a skosh…maybe.

I need to remember that on average, I’ve lost 3.5 pounds a week since I’ve started. That’s fantastic. Instead, I look back to the first week where I dropped 6.5 pounds in 6 days and that automatically set me up for failure as I expect myself to lose that much every single week, even though I absolutely, 100% know that is unrealistic and also dangerously rapid weight loss. That kind of loss suggests malnourishment of some sort. Erin. You’re doing fine. Ease up a bit, champ.

Another think to remember is to view your weight loss as a tangible object. Sixteen and a half pounds may not seem that much, but what if I was holding up three 5 pound bags of potatoes and a thing of sugar? Well, that’s 16.5 pounds. Even better is if you picture these things attached to your body. Perspective, y’all. Ain’t it neat? Erin. You’re doing fine.

Lastly, I was very active this weekend. I rode my bike twenty miles Saturday with a friend of mine. Sunday, I sweat my ass off on the elliptical and lifted weights for over an hour. The bike ride was a breeze, and I caught myself thinking, “man, we should go 20 more miles!” I haven’t felt that way in a long time about an activity, as usually I struggle. I could be blowing smoke up my ass, but I think those activities attribute to the small loss. Aside from the “you’re a corpulent cow!” awesome brain talk I’m having today, I need to shut the eff up and realize a few things. I’m gaining muscle. Muscle weighs more than fat. My stamina and endurance are improving. My clothes are looser. I had to cinch the band on my watch 2 spots tighter because my watch is all loosey-goosey on my wrist now. Erin. You’re doing fine.

I hate these kinds of days. I hate the anxiety amping up and the asshole in me scoffs at all I’ve done the last five weeks and spits, “see? told you that you’d fail. Typical. Just give up for good because you’re obviously not going to lick this.” Again, asshole brain.

SPEAKING OF ANXIETY BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW IF I’VE EVER MENTIONED THAT I HAVE ANXIETY, that’s also been rearing its ugly head at me the last two weeks, and let me tell y’all why! Or be a tease and not really but kind of hint at it! Weee!

I’ve been missing Partner In Crime a lot lately, even more than usual. No real apparent reason for it, or rather, not any reason I’ve allowed myself to be aware of. Regardless, it’s been bad. A normal person when thinking of someone they miss, would reach out to them in some way. A text or if you’re a real psychopath, a phone call, just to say hey, how’s it hangin’? Doing okay? Miss you. I, on the other hand, think about sending such a text and freeze whenever I reach for my phone. Don’t do it, silly. Don’t bother them. Your sentiment won’t be received well and you’ll look a fool. I’ve been burned by this before and after a while, you learn to fear the flame, which incidentally would be an utterly kick-ass name for a band: Fear The Flame. Cock rock, obviously, probably getting second billing to Shinedown or Volbeat or some shit like that. Bros drunk on Budweiser throwing the devil horns and all, their other hand gripping their bitchy girlfriends’ asses or something. I have very specific imaginary scenarios for my pretend band with the admittedly cool name, but I digress.

I miss the silly bastard. I think part of it is all the bicycling I’ve been doing, as that’s also something he loves to do. Perhaps it’s the wishing we could ride together, or helping me attach the sensor to my bike frame so I can use the trip/cadence/speed computer I got recently, or giving me a lesson in basic bike maintenance. Or just laughing at stupid crap together, or my favorite–listening to music and each of us singing along.

I’m trying to keep myself busy so I don’t dwell on the fact they’re gone, but that only works so much before I find myself thinking, “gosh, I wish they were here.”

Why don’t I pick up that damn phone? Why? I don’t know. So I don’t and the cycle continues. Oy fucking vey.

I love anxiety. Of all the gifts god above has #blesst me with, anxiety is my favorite. I wish I could bottle this shit up and sell it, it’s that good. I’d be a bagillionaire in days. Move over, Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos; there’s a new kid in town.

What have I learned today? That I need to chill the fuck out with this weight loss thing. My mom asked me to report in with her after class to see how I did this week, and I honest-to-god replied with “down a whole 0.5 pounds this week. Woo! That’s okay–I can tell in other places and ways than what a number says” followed by a smiley face emoji. And the shit of it is, I can, too. My XL work t-shirts and scrub pants are getting too big. If I can fake enthusiasm for 0.5 pounds for my mom, I can sure convince myself more that it’s completely fine, too. Discouraging, but I won’t quit what I’m doing just because I very much want to throw in the towel with a fuck it attitude. Don’t sweat it, gal.

I also learned that I am 99% anxiety. Look at all this anxiety! It’s getting everywhere! I’ll never get my security deposit back after this!

The end.

Of course and as always, thank you for reading.



August 2, 2018


This post is medical, so if you’re not keen on hearing about all the shit that’s potentially wrong with me (physically, that is; mentally…well, that’s always up for debate), perhaps find another activity for the evening. Take a walk. Clear some trash from the junk drawer. Write the Great American Novel. Get on a plane and go on a much needed vacation. Whatever floats ya boat.

In a word, I am a mess. Not quite a hot mess, but the train is swiftly approaching that station. For now, I’m a lukewarm mess. A low-calorie mess, if you will. Mess Light: less filling, tastes great!

If you recall from back in 2014, I had a hysterectomy. Most parts were removed except my ovaries, which the reasoning behind that from my gynecologist was, “I ain’t puttin’ you in no surgical menopause, goddamn it!” My words, not hers. I both understand and scrutinize her decision to leave the little guys in. Hormone replacement therapy tends to cause cancer, so…point for doc. My ovaries are assholes, so…point for me. It’s a wash, really.

Ever since then, what I attribute to the most awesome medical word in the history of medical words–mittelschmerz (for those not German, it means “painful ovulation”)–to the frequent pain I feel in my lower abdomen on the right side. This has been going on for years, and varies in severity from “hmm” to “Jesus, what the Christ is going on in there?” The pain would subside after a while and all would be well. And since it tends to come in spurts, I just assumed it was my ovaries trying to sputter out an egg, realizing I have no Fallopian tubes or baby bag to catch it and act accordingly to the absence of said organs.

Several weeks ago, however, I was woken up in the middle of night by some wicked pain. Again, lower right side, but I knew it wasn’t my appendix. Why? I don’t know, I just did. Mainly because the pain was cyclic, was in it would seize up for about thirty seconds then relent for the same amount of time. This went on for about fifteen minutes before I finally got up out of bed to see if going from horizontal to vertical would help. Not really. Then, I decided to poop. Ta da! Issue resolved. Weird. While definitely a worrisome event, I didn’t think too much of it, as I had had steak for dinner that night and sometimes steak doesn’t always agree with the ol’ tum-tum. That also seemed an isolated incident as I haven’t had anything like that happen again, just the pain that I’m used to (insert the Depeche Mode song here).

Also recently, I was a good adult and had a physical done, including a pelvic exam because it had been a shamefully long time since I had done so. For someone who works in the medical profession, I am actually a terrible patient. I just look up shit online and never really do anything about it. I erroneously think my searches are sufficient because I use legitimate medical websites, not WebMD. I am a silly woman.

There I was, chatting away with my physicians assistant, and I mentioned this incident. She was all, “what did your dad pass away from again?” “Colon cancer,” I reply. “How have your bowel habits been?” she asked, eyeballing me. “Oh, they’ve changed a bit…” And they have, too. Observe your poop, y’all. Then we got sidetracked to talking about genetic testing as since my pa died from colon cancer, and I found out that his side of the family is riddled with the same stuff, it’s the natural next step.

My PA did some good things for me. She set up a consultation for gastroenterology and she also suggested I revisit the gynecologist who did my hysterectomy, as I hadn’t really seen the need to see her again because what was she going to say to me? “Still don’t have a uterus? Cool.” Again, I was an Adult and made an appointment to see her, as well.

She did a pelvic ultrasound, which is always a treat. And the bastard ovaries were behaved for once, if you can believe it. I had follicles present, which just means the ovaries were doing their ovary thing, but no cysts that could have possibly accounted for the pain. She was the one who performed the genetic testing, however, so more on that in a few.

Next stop was the GI Man, a lovely younger fellow by the name of Dr. Thomas and he was a bit too eager to do a colonoscopy on me after filling him in on the normal ovary thing and still unaccounted for pain. I think I didn’t expect him to be all “let’s look up your butthole!” but by golly, he was jazzed for it. So on Monday of this week, I had my first colonoscopy.

Friends. Let me rehash my experience there because it’s worth it. I know people recoil in terror at the thought of a several feet long tube being inserted into your rectums, or the thought of doing the pipe cleaning beforehand is also something wholly unpleasant, but honestly and truly…it was horrible. The prep, at least. Apparently there’s several different kinds of preparations, as everyone who has had a colonoscopy tells me of different methods used. I was given Suprep for mine. You were to mix 6oz of this laxative with 10oz water the night before around 5pm and I swear to you, this foul liquid was the most disgusting shit I’ve ever had the displeasure of choking down my gullet. It tasted like cherry cough syrup but it was also sickeningly sweet at the same time and it was a real effort to get down, but I did it. Within fifteen minutes, I was on the porcelain throne, my feet firmly planted on my Squatty Potty and liquid crap was projectile evacuating my behind. It’s an osmotic laxative, meaning it’s full of salt and potassium and draws water out of your body and liquifies your poop. Due to this, you’re also supposed to pretty much chug water or you’re going to shrivel up and die. Good times.

The first round took about 4 hours to complete and several times, the thought of “sweet god, I have to be done by now. There is no way there is that much poop inside me.” But after about 10 episodes of watery crapping, it still managed to come out. As the always hilarious Dave Berry wrote many years ago in an article about his experience with having a colonoscopy, “You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.” I’m very glad I didn’t read this article while on the Suprep because I no doubt would have shit my pants from laughing.

But wait! There’s more! Four hours before you’re scheduled for the butt hose, you have to drink another 6oz of this junk with 10 more oz of water and summon future poops and you will poop. Again. You will sit on the toilet in awe of this.

Then, you go to the endoscopy center, pay a ridiculous amount of money (I had to fork over $1400 smackers because my insurance didn’t cover it all, but got told “oh, that will go towards your deductible! yay!”), change into a gown sans pants, lay down on a hospital bed, get an IV, get wheeled back to the procedure room, and a nice nurse will plunge four different syringes of magic sleepy medicine into you and the next thing you know, you’re in the recovery room asking if the doctor found your missing car keys while he was in there. Gastro guys love that kind of humor, trust me. I thought it was hilarious, at least.

Surprisingly, the guy found something while elbow deep into my colon. On the lower right side. It’s an area called the terminal ileum and it’s the junction where your small intestine forms your colon. I had ulcers there and biopsies were taken. What does this mean? Is it cancer? No, it isn’t, but it could be a few things, one being not so hot, the others being totally manageable and fine. For one, it could just be ulcers from taking too much ibuprofen and being on meloxicam, both NSAID medications. Happens all the time. Those pesky NSAIDs are notorious for wrecking your guts. I take meloxicam, or rather, I took it religiously for a week when I asked my orthopedic guy for a refill as my knee has been a jackass lately, but I am also extremely forgetful and haven’t taken it at all in over a month, so that theory is in the “mmm, maybe?” pile. Another possibility is terminal ileitis, or just chronic inflammation in that area as part of the irritable bowel family of diseases. The more serious explanation is Crohn’s disease. Crohn’s can be a nasty little asshole of an illness and also hereditary and guess who else had Crohn’s? If you guessed my dad, you are correct. Crohn’s can lead to colon cancer. Here’s hoping whatever is going on in my ol’ guts isn’t Crohn’s, but looking back over the last year or two when the pain in that area started getting my attention, it would make sense, I guess. I won’t find out officially until next week sometime. What are the treatment options? Depends purely on the severity of it. Some cases are mild and diet modifications and maybe some medication added and more frequent colonoscopies does the trick. Other people aren’t so fortunate and end up having to have infusions of Remicade for their treatment, which really would not be a good time. But again, guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Which brings me to the genetic testing. I was specifically looking to see if I had Lynch Syndrome, a genetic mutation that skyrockets your chance of developing colon cancer to somewhere in the 80% range. It’s not so much a question of “if” but “when.” Luckily, I do not have Lynch Syndrome, but there was something called VUS noted, or “variances of unknown significance,” meaning something isn’t normal but we’ll be goddamned if we know exactly what, but whatever it is still means you are at a much more elevated risk to get colon cancer and oddly enough, breast cancer, so get your shit checked out more often, okay? Okay.” And that’s where we’re at with this. The breast cancer thing surprised me a little. Dad’s mother had breast cancer, and a few other female relatives on his side, but nothing maternally, so I guess Hoffmeyer genes are just majorly fucked, to which I say, “gee. Thanks.” And who has been having problems with her boobs for the last 18 months that requires mammograms every six months? Ooh! Me! I do! Terrific!

As you can see, I am a lukewarm mess with the potential of turning in to flaming inferno real quick smart. I’m glad I got this stuff checked out, though. Look at me being responsible! Hooray!

Shifting gears a little now. Obviously, despite my efforts to be responsible, all this has gotten me a little down and the anxiety kicked up a notch, as one would expect under such circumstances. A few months ago, I had gotten tickets to a concert that I was very much looking forward to. One of my absolute favorite bands, Band of Horses, was going to be playing three short hours away in Kansas City on Wednesday night and hot dang, let’s go! Well, my partner in crime is unavailable having moved away, the jerk, but I was bound and determined to go regardless. There was a bit of a mixup with me requesting two days off work to do so, as in my boss didn’t get my request and by the time I brought it to her attention, other people had asked for the same days off and I got denied the days. Annoying, but not the end of the world. We’ve driven to KC for a quick concert trip and then driven immediately back before and survived (mostly). I was going to do the same and just grin and bear it at work today.

I was all about going Tuesday. I printed off my tickets, was pumped and primed to go, but then I remembered this pesky thing called “homework.” GodDAMN it. Normally, I’d have said, “fuck it! I’m still going! Homework be goddamned to hell!” but I had that same attitude last quarter at school and ended up fucking a class up royally and I can’t afford to do that again as I’m going to have to retake that course later, so extremely begrudgingly, I again put on my adult hat and opted to stay home and not attend the concert. Well, that and I was really missing the one I was supposed to go with, so yeah. It’s okay, really. Instead of driving 6 hours round trip and feeling like dog shit today, I got to do my homework on time and spend some quality time with one of my best pals and her mom, so again, it was all right. I have been listening to the band ad nauseam today, so it’s like I was there!

A quick word about this weight loss thing: I ate a salad today with chicken in it and I felt like I had actually eaten a 4,000 calorie meal instead because animal protein is off limits to me at this time and I really hate what my brain does to me when I try to lose weight. Chicken, for chrissakes. Chicken. It’s not like it was deep fat fried in lard and butter and smothered in cheese sauce and more lard. It was grilled chicken. I still felt like I was being naughty and breaking some sort of unspoken rule and that the diet police were going to come crashing through the ceiling at work and arrest me for eating goddamn chicken. I need to work on not being so neurotic about this. That’ll be fun.

That’s all I have for now, which is quite enough, if you ask me. I don’t like that I dumped all this junk here, but it’s one of those things where I feel it’s important but not really, ya dig? I’m funny that way, I guess. Oh well. I mean, if something major came up, please know I’d not cop out and write about it first before telling anyone personally. I’d tell whomever I felt should know…and then write about it. Heh heh heh.

As always and as usual, thank you so much for reading these crazy words. You’re the real heroes in this tale. I appreciate you all who muddle through this.

Good night and good luck.



July 23, 2018

It’s writin’ time! Hooray!

I always start off by apologizing for how random and flow-of-consciousness these posts are, and this is no exception. Sorry.

I don’t remember if I’ve shared yet that I started a weight loss program recently. Tonight marked the end of week 2/start of week 3, and I have feelings about it, which I am obviously going to share in some detail.

It’s a “medically supervised” program lasting six months with the purpose of dropping a good load of weight. Ideally, I want to lose 80 pounds. I know, right? Realistically, I’d be happy with 60 pounds. Shit, I’m happy-ish with the 10 pounds I’ve lost in these two weeks.

Or am I? Well, yes and no. The first week was great and I lost over 6 pounds. This week…I lost 3 pounds. I had a major “cheat day” on Saturday while at a baseball game with my mom and I drank beer and ate popcorn and had a bratwurst with all the goddamn trimmings and I was in a goddamn panic the entire day about it because I also have a problem with food, as made evident by how much I weigh.

I tried to tell myself one day is one day and as someone pretty smart once said, “buy the Corvette” and I applied that to my diet. I don’t want to be one of those people who frets over every piece of food I put in my gaping maw. I don’t want to be shackled to salads and tiny portions of bland food for the rest of my life. I wanted a freakin’ brat, so I ate a freakin’ brat. And I had beer, which I surprisingly happily gave up drinking when I started this adventure (more on that later), and perhaps I had three beers too many because oopsies, I didn’t lose as much weight as I was hoping for this week. I’m trying to not let that bother me, but friends, I’m working myself into a terrific little episode of self-loathing at the moment.

If I think about it, I maybe have a bit of an eating disorder. I get obsessed with weighing myself whenever I decide I’m fed up with being fat and decide to take action about it. I will weigh myself daily and focus on the number on the scale and how that isn’t good enough and I’m not good enough and in the same breath, I also know that is horseshit of me to do and why, oh why do I do this to myself? I’m beating myself up over my little binge of food on Saturday and I hate that so much. I know I’m no fitness expert (except fitness cock in my mouth. Hey-o!) and I’m no dietitian, but I’m also not as dumb as I look and I actually do know how to eat properly and exercise. I just haven’t been doing it. I work dumb hours and I haven’t mastered making food for one person yet and most likely never will, but I also don’t like leftovers that much? So I’ll have all this food I made the night before for dinner and not want to eat it again, so instead, I’ll get fast food or order pizza and wings and oh, the beer. So much beer. Stressed out? Why, have a Colorado Kool-Aid! It’s a Tuesday night? Good golly, crack open a cold one with the imaginary boys! It’s National Whatever Day? Prosit! Have a brewsky! It wouldn’t be unusual for me to have three or four beers a night, and not just any beer: Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy cans, to boot. It’s the blue ribbon beer!

I also might have had a drinking problem if I am totally honest with myself. Yeah.

But since July 9th, I hadn’t had any alcohol at all, save for this past Saturday and honestly and truly, not drinking every night was and has been a goddamn relief, not only to my poor liver and kidneys, but I forgot how nice it is to wake up every morning and feel decent. It’s so weird. I also didn’t wake up hating that I drank a little too much the night before and again–berate myself for my foolishness. So, no booze. I can have alcohol on this diet plan, but it tickles me how the materials are all, “yeah, you can drink but THINK ABOUT ALL THE EXTRA CALORIES.” And they’re right. It’s ridiculous. And I even drank gross-ass Michelob Ultra which is only 95 calories a serving, but when you have five freaking beers…Erin. That was 500 calories of nothing but asshole flavored fizzy water. And people make fun of those who drink La Croix. Jesus fucking wept.

Does this mean I’ve given up drinking forever? Eh, probably not. Andy Dufresne in the movie Shawshank Redemption said it best when he conned the guards to give his pals beer while tarring the roof of the prison: “I think a man workin’ outdoors feels more like a man if he can have a bottle of suds.” It’s true. Sometimes an ice cold bottle of whatever ails you is one of life’s simplest joys. Responsibly, of course, and in moderation. Not nightly, Erin Elizabeth, you ignorant slut.

While I haven’t lost the pounds I think I should have, I have started to notice clothes fitting better, which is always a good and bad thing. Good, because yay! I’m losing weight and inches! Bad because that means eventually, I’ll have to buy new clothes. I hate buying clothes, or rather, I hate buying clothes that aren’t shorts and t-shirts with funny sayings or pictures on them or isn’t Nebraska Husker gear. Adult women clothes are scary and it’s always a soul-sucking experience. Oh well.

For instance, I bought a pair of red leggings. As we know, leggings material isn’t very forgiving, but fuck it. They’re red, they’re cute, and I like them. I put them on to go walking earlier this evening. The first thought I had when I looked at myself in the mirror was, “oh sweet lord, woman.” Not very forgiving, indeed. But then, I thought, “you’re going for a shitting walk, not entering in a fashion show. You’re exercising, for chrissakes. Wear the goddamn leggings.” And I did. And I ended up putting my phone down the back waistband to hold my phone so I could listen to tunes as I lumbered down Pine Lake Road and my phone somehow ended up halfway down my leg, which was a hoot. Note to self: find the arm band for your phone so you don’t end up with your phone by your knees. I’m precious.

So, I have a long way to go yet in this whole thing. Don’t obsess, which is fucking hard as fuck for me not to do. Don’t be such an asshole to myself. I’m doing the best I can. Do keep walking and riding the bike. That’s good and I need to keep that up. Don’t put your phone down your pants. Do wear the leggings because they are red. Don’t be an asshole to yourself needs to be repeated many, many times. Don’t worry about the scale. Do be proud of greatly reducing drinking and legitimately not caring about drinking. Don’t beat yourself up over the fact that you didn’t lose as much as you thought you should; three pounds is better than no pounds. Don’t obsess over food; that’s a slippery slope to far more serious issues in the long run. Do not be an asshole to yourself. Fuck.

Next on the docket is cancer and how my fun little brain is convinced I have it because I think I’ve proven that my brain is not always on my side.

A few weeks ago, I was an adult and got my annual physical done. I mentioned some issues I’ve been having and also that I’d like to get genetic testing done as I was made aware of how prevalent colon cancer is on my dad’s side of the family. Long story short, I got the testing done and am anxiously waiting for the results to get back, which is kind of fucked up, if you think about it. I know the testing doesn’t tell you that you’ll get cancer, it just says “yeaaaaahhhh, you might wanna be a little more proactive in getting routine screenings so issues don’t evolve into cancer.” Regardless, it’s a mindfuck to know that this test will check for mutations on genes that will most likely cause cancer and it’s sort of like finding out how you’ll die, in a way. I know that’s fucked, but for real. It reminds me of the movie Big Fish when Edward Bloom meets the witch in the swamp and she can tell how you’re going to die. “Huh. So that’s how I go.” I also get to have a colonoscopy in a week, which I’m just thrilled with. I mean that both sarcastically and truthfully. I hope my experience is hilarious because you know I’m going to write about it afterwards. I’ll never, ever forget when I had to accompany my dad to one of his colonoscopies and when he was in the recovery room after the procedure, the nurse handed him a juice box and was telling him they had to put gas inside his abdomen for the scope and he’ll be passing gas as a way for that extra air to escape. The words barely left her mouth when my beloved father farted for approximately 20 seconds straight, all while dopily sipping from the tiny straw in the juice box. After he was done, he said, “…was that me?” I’m so glad I was there to witness that because that is honestly one of the best stories I have of my father. Hilarious. Apologies to my mother now as she foolishly accepted my request for her to be my responsible adult for getting me home when I’m finished. Please let me fart for 20 seconds, please let me fart for 20 seconds…

I haven’t spoken of the person who moved away in a while and don’t think that’s because I’m suddenly at peace with it because brothers and sisters, I am not. That’s all I’m going to say about that because it’s kind of hard to follow this up after having just shared the story about my dad farting, but I will say they are missed and thought about daily.

And we’re all caught up now. I lead a pretty boring life these days. Work, homework for the two classes I have this quarter at school, and trying to fit in riding my bike in between. No complaints here, actually. I’m just kind of doing my own thing to keep myself busy, as one does.

As always, thank you for reading. I appreciate the time taken to do so.


The F Word

No, not that one, although “fuck” is one of the most versatile words in the English language and one of my personal favorites, next to “cunt.” Words are neat, y’all.

While I could prattle on about the word fuck for hours, I wish to write tonight about the other f word: fat. I should also preface this by saying I will be a contradictory, hypocritical cunt about it, as well. Oh well.

Another favorite thing of mine is the quirky sketch comedy show from the late ’80s/early ’90s called Kids In The Hall. It’s five men from Canada with an affinity for dressing as women…and chicken ladies…and honestly, it’s gold, and a huge factor in why I have such a warped sense of humor. I used to record episodes off Comedy Central onto VHS tapes, along with episodes of Saturday Night Live, and laugh and laugh, much to the chagrin of my mother who hated the show.

Because I’m a firm believer in the idea that there is a KITH sketch that can be related to any topic, what I’m writing about tonight will be of no exception to this. There’s a particular sketch about words that had one meaning back in the day and now have completely different ones. For example, “faggot used to be a lovely bundle of sticks on a cold winter’s night. ‘Oh, time to throw another faggot on the fire.'” Watch the glory below:

Hilarious! My mother clearly doesn’t appreciate fine comedy. Shame.

“But Erin! What the fuck are you even talking about? Get to the point, goddamn it!” Well alright then.

Much like how faggots used to keep us warm when winter’s chill seeped into our bones, the word “fat” has also been taken from us.

I called myself fat the other day at work, and the backlash I received for saying so was immediate. You aren’t fat! was the cries of two nurse practitioners I work with. Don’t call yourself fat! You’re…fluffy! all being said in that tone of voice that really says, “…yeah, you’re fat, but I’m trying to be polite and not hurt your fat feelings, fatty.”

Bitches, please. I am fat. As of right now, I clock in at 261 pounds. I am 41.8% body fat. My waist circumference is 49 INCHES, and to further drive this fact home, 49 inches is four fucking feet. My waist is the size of a goddamn first grader.

I. Am. Fat. Numbers don’t lie. People, on the other hand, will and do. I understand why people do that because feelings and whatever, but it’s always bothered me when people tell me I’m not fat when I am clearly fat.

So why the discomfort with the word? Babies and cats can be fat and we love them for it, so why when I call myself fat, I get told not to say that? Like?? I’m being factual? I’m fucking fat, for chrissakes! I own that shit! Fat, fat, fat!

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a few days now because as I promised a few paragraphs ago, I am going to be a hypocrite, and as fate would have it, I was poking around Facebook earlier and a friend of mine shared this photo and I was gobsmacked by the coincidence of it. I was just thinking this earlier and then a picture showed up that expressed my feelings! Hot dog!


Right?! That was the reaction of the two women I work with: to immediately jump to exclaim I’m not fat.

Fat isn’t a bad word. The meaning people have given it is. Like I said, wee babes and kitties can be pudgy little bundles of rolls and we coo over them about how precious and adorable they are. A 37-year-old woman is fat and oh, Jesus Lord Almighty. Hide thee away in darkness, you corpulent wench! Don’t look at me with your fat eyes! Don’t touch me with your fat hands lest you get your fat germs all over me and I too become fat!

I won’t bother to get into the reason why fat adults are shunned because we all know why. Social media and just society in general favors the fit and trim among us. Men ogle slim women with big breasts and a small waistline, and women fawn over muscular men with hardly any body fat. Those of us who don’t look anything like the models or actors gracing our magazines or the silver screen then start lamenting this fact. “Oh, if only I looked like that, I’d be so much happier with my life!”

That’s a load of horseshit. You ain’t shit now, and you won’t be shit 50 pounds lighter, either. (Vague attempt at humor. Sorry.)

And now for the hypocrisy! Yay! Wanna know how I know all these numbers I spouted off? Because I, a fat person, have enrolled in a program to help me not be so fat.

Why, if I seem so okay with being fat? Why own the word but then turn around and try to be the opposite of it?

Well, if you must know, it’s because of my health. I’m not unhealthy by any means, but I’m not exactly the bastion of health, either. As part of the program, I had to have an assessment done (hence the numbers), and have blood drawn to check cholesterol and all that fun jazz. Overall, it’s not terrible, but it could be worse. It could also be much better. I teeter along the line between having hypertension and not, as well. But my main focus for wanting to lose weight is my knee. I’ve had this bionic joint for just shy of nine months now and it’s a general rule that for each pound overweight you are, that is four pounds of extra weight you put on your joints. I need to lose about 60-65 pounds. By the magic of math, that’s 240 pounds of weight on my titanium and plastic knee. That’s almost like carrying another me on top of my shoulders. Y’all. And believe you me, sometimes it feels like I’m carrying another person up there by the way I groan and grunt when I get up from sitting.

It’s health reason, not a body image issue for me. Actually, that’s a lie. It’s also a body image thing, but this also isn’t my first rodeo in regards to significant weight loss, and I know that I will never look like a Victoria’s Secret model.

I’m not trying to diminish or demean anyone else who is fat. If you are happy in your own skin, then I salute and admire you and your confidence. Own that shit.

I, on the other hand, do not own it well. I own fat, but I’m embarrassed by it, which again is an issue with me personally. I grew up watching my mom try every diet available, of hearing her say terrible things about her own body, and I learned to do the same. I learned to think that women of my size just aren’t desirable in any way and anyone who tries to tell me otherwise is a goddamn fool and just trying to be nice. I was bullied for my weight when I was at my most awkward teenage self, and that certainly didn’t help matters much, either. Being called a fat cow really doesn’t do much for the ol’ self esteem, ya feel me? My mom shared with me this past weekend that my grandma once offered me a dollar for every pound I lost. Luckily, I don’t remember her making such an offer because what the good-god fuck, lady? She also straight-up called me fat, but not in the positive way, in the “you’re disgusting” way. I tried to chalk that up to dementia and a stroke she suffered, but she obviously did not care for fat people. It was a generational thing, I’d wager. Depression Era folks obviously didn’t have much and I’m sure being plump was seen as a point of contention back then. Or whatever. Or she legitimately hated fat people.

I also remember a time when married and both my spouse and I had gained a good amount of weight after we got hitched and we were trying to get intimate. He was trying to pull me upright from lying down and my belly got in the way of the waistband of my jeans and it was pinching me and I started bawling about how revolting I was. I refused to have sex for a few months after that until I had lost weight, which I did via Weight Watchers. I ended up losing 60 pounds that go-round, and so did he, but unfortunately, our loss also ushered in the loss of our marriage a few months later, so we couldn’t really enjoy our new trimmer selves much. Oh well, I guess. And I put back every blessed pound, too.

I’m tired of being tired all the time. I’m tired of clothes fit me poorly. I’m tired of having my knee hurt all the time, even after the replacement. I’m tired of not being able to ride my bike as far as I want to with this weight. It’s like I was telling the nice gal who did my assessment earlier: it’s a vicious cycle. I couldn’t exercise as much as I wanted to because it would make my knee hurt, so I gained weight which would make my knee hurt more. Over and over and over again.

I’m hoping this program helps me. I’m hoping I won’t be a stubborn jerk and stick to it. I hope I don’t fail at it, which is what I’m worrying about the most. I have a pesky habit of starting something, being all gung-ho about it for a period of time, then I lose interest in it and abandon it. Classic Erin. I can’t let that happen this time. It’s too fucking expensive to blow off like that, but more importantly, I’m also important and need to finally take care of myself for a change.

I am slightly nervous I’ll also fail because I went and wrote about it and that will somehow jinx me…? As in the act of spelling out my intentions somehow will make me immune to weight loss this time and I’ll be stuck like this forever as punishment for showing enthusiasm and drive to make a change. I’m precious.

I start on Monday and I’ve been eating like a jackass all week. I had nachos for lunch and as I was driving home from the assessment this evening, I was freaking over the body fat percentage number and that of my 260 pounds, 107 of those are fat pounds and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. As I’m suffering heartburn and burping the ghost of taco meat because of said nachos, I said to myself, “golly gee, it’s a real head-scratcher as to why I’m so heavy! I just can’t put a finger on it!”

Trust me, it was funny. I really nailed the delivery of it. You’d have laughed if you were there, I promise.

And there you have it. Fat isn’t a bad word. I’m fat. But I’m also going to try to be not fat anymore, but that doesn’t mean I now think fat is a naughty word. If you want to be fat and call yourself fat, by golly, go for it. If you’re fat and know that you’re harming yourself because of your fat and want to lose weight to help you not feel so crappy anymore, by golly, also go for it.

I’ll update this saga during the 6 month program period, which should be kind of entertaining because I have decided I do not know my weight at all during the process. I know myself and know that I will become obsessive about what the number on the scale is and end up weighing myself multiple times a day. This is why I don’t own a scale here at home because historically speaking, I have done just that in the past. Again: precious.

I’ll wrap it up now. I’m cautiously optimistic for this, even though I just remembered I have half a thing of chocolate chip ice cream in my freezer and I better eat that shit up before Monday as to avoid temptation like Jesus in the desert that one time, just replace the devil with ice cream and Jesus for me. Otherwise, totally the same. Totally.

As always, thank you for reading. Okay bye!