Meanderings and Musings from the Other Twenty-Eight

The ride to work this morning was exciting. The woman in the car in front of me was looking in the rearview mirror and applying her mascara. The woman in the car in front of her was texting as she drove. We were all moving at 45 MPH. It's at times like these that I feel closest to the Lord. "Dear God," I prayed, "if I'm killed this morning because of these two women, please let me live long enough to beat the holy crap out of both of them. Amen. Oh yeah. Please help me be a nicer person. Amen."

This was one of the few mornings that I didn't do things "my way." My way would have been to pass both of them, give them the happy one-finger salute, call them a few names that I shouldn't think much less say, and then leave them with a wide grin on my face. Instead, I did a "half-way" and made snarky faces at them in my rearview mirror as I blew past them. I let 'em off easy. Wonder what's wrong with me!

Let's see.....that was the Starland Vocal Band who did the song "Rear View Mirror" (written by Bill Danoff and Jon Carroll). "There's got to be a Heaven somewhere...I hope I know it when I get there...I can see my life in a rear view mirror (but I don't see Heaven)...and I don't see Heaven getting any nearer". Or something like that. I couldn't find the lyrics online. Anyhoo, this group was truly a vocal band. They played their voices like instruments and their sound was amazing. Not many groups have that kind of harmony and fabulous vocal arrangements. The group "Ollabelle" comes close. For pete's sake, you haven't heard of Ollabelle? Get your tush down to Barnes & Noble and give them a listen. (Have I mentioned that I started off as a music major in college? Well, now you know. I'm a geek!)

Sometimes I just want to moon somebody! Whew, I feel better now! Confession really is good for the soul. Who knew? I wasn't planning on getting into that tonight. The whole mooning thing is my little secret. I find myself wanting to drop my drawers and flash the cheeks in the oddest situations and places. A couple of weeks ago, someone at work whom I don't care for (no one that I work directly with, in case someone I do work directly with is reading this) made the snidest remark to me in the elevator. I had the strongest urge to lose my pants, bend over, and give her the universal sign for "kiss my ass butt, you piece of shit fecal matter, yes, you." Of course, I didn’t do that because I’m a grownup (sigh) and a professional (I'm grateful to have a job). Of course again, being a grownup and a professional doesn't keep me from declaring a "bitch alert" every time I see her.

My brother Steve wants to know how DVDs know what screen size your TV is.  ("This film is formatted to fit your screen.")

I see Dr. Dracula again next Monday. This time, I'm thinking that I'll just keep all my blood for myself. That'll fix him. :-)

And somebody please explain this "Jersey Shore" to me. A judge called this Snooki person a "Lindsay Lohan wannabe" or something like that. When I see her, the word "skank" comes to me and that goes for "The Situation", too. I would love to be in charge of the world for just one day. I'd be tossing lightning bolts at people like them all day long. Paris Hilton, too. Some people are just a waste of space on the planet and I'm getting tired of them breathing my air. I'd fry up those two idiot ministers in Florida and Kansas and use them for pig slop. Then I'd send just about the entire Congress to live on another planet and start our government over with people who have some sense and sanity. And I'd do all of that just in the first hour.

So I'm thinking about writing my own funeral. That's not as weird as it sounds. Think about it. You're lying there dead and people are talking about you and telling other people how you were and who you were. Uh-uh, not at my funeral. There will be things that I'd rather tell and say myself. And I want to choreograph it. No, not dancing. The order of things and what's done. There are certain songs that I want to be played at particular times and certain people whom I want to read my words. Yep, I'm thinking that I need to put it all together myself, so that it's really me and it's done how I want it. I know who I am and I know what I am, and I should be the one to tell the story. So when I die, you may not want to miss my funeral. It should be very interesting.

It's late here now. Blogger will say that this was posted at 10:01 PM, but it's actually just after midnight. I have to get up early to go to work and I have to do the morning exercise walk before that. And between now and then, I've got to get in a few hours with this danged sleep mask that I don't like so much, but I love how much better it makes me feel. I hope this post tonight has satisfied everyone who's been after me to update the blog. If it hasn't, I have some pants I can drop..... :-)

Almost forgot....I guess you're wondering who the "Other Twenty-Eight" are. Well, one night I looked at Ginger and teasingly said in my best please-don't-hate-me-because-I'm-beautiful-voice, "Give us a little kiss." To which she replied, "Just how many of you are in there?" My answer, of course, was "29!" And now you know the other 28.

Welcome to Stupidity 101. I’m your teacher, Ms. My-Butt-Wouldn’t-Be-So-Big-If-I’d-Just-Shut-My-Mouth.

I have gained two pounds. It started this past Thursday when I went to Frisch’s for lunch. I ate a Big Boy for which I had requested extra tartar sauce. Then I added even more after the server gave it to me. I also dipped each and every french fry—yes, I said FRENCH FRY—in miniature tubs of tartar sauce. I had enough of Frisch’s famous yummy tartar sauce to fill my entire right leg AND the "big one" flopped on my belly just above it.

It gets worse.

Saturday morning I headed back to Frisch’s for their lovely breakfast buffet , and boy-howdy did I belly up to the trough. I filled my plate with a pancake, strawberry jam, a sausage patty, and approximately 15 to 18 slices of bacon. No, unfortunately, I am not exaggerating.

It gets even worse.

I bellied up to the bar one more time. Another pancake, more jam, more sausage, and approximately 20 slices of bacon. Again, I am not exaggerating. Halfway through this demonstration of gluttony, I started feeling sick. I was pretty sure that I was about to gag up the second plate’s food eaten so far. Did I have the sense to stop? Does a bear go potty in the woods? No, I sat there and stuffed every bite left down my throat and looked for more. I was nauseous the rest of the day. My hiatal hernia threatened to sue me for domestic abuse and my colon wouldn’t even look at me, much less speak to me.

Why do I do idiot things like this to myself?

I took a shower earlier this afternoon. As I stood in the bathroom naked as the day as I was born (no, don’t try to picture that, you’ll go blind!), I looked down towards my feet. I don’t say "at my feet" because I couldn’t see my feet. I could barely see the ends of my stubby, little Barney Rubble toes. When I look down, I see my boobs. I see the "shelf." I see the triplets that I’m evidently carrying. That’s it. No hoo-ha, no knees, no ankles, no feet. My legs could fall off and I wouldn’t know it if the only way I could tell was by looking down and seeing them.

Something has to be done. I’m thinking liposuction (eat less!), gastric bypass surgery (exercise more!), wiring my jaw shut (EAT LESS!), and paying Julia Roberts to pretend she’s me (EXERCISE MORE!). These are all good solutions, but I would have to ask my boss for a humongous raise to pay for them, and I just don’t see that happening.
 
I’ve got it! I’ll eat less and exercise more!
 
Well, guess what. I've already started doing that. This big binge episode I just went through was me falling off the wagon. Two weeks ago, I started walking through our neighborhood with Ginger every morning before I go to work. I've also stopped visiting the McDonald's drive-thru each morning on my way to work for a bag of hash browns or a cinnamon melt. I'm eating more vegetables and fruit. I’m also getting much more fiber in my diet. My irritable bowels haven’t been this calm and mellow in a long time.
 
After the breakfast debacle yesterday morning, I spent the day with my dad. When I returned home last night, I was so disgusted and pissed off with myself that I couldn’t stand it. I finally told Ginger what I had done. She gave me a pep talk and told me not to beat up on myself about it. Of course, after she went to bed, I flailed away at myself to the point that I decided that I couldn’t succeed in anything. Not with losing weight, not with wearing the sleep mask, not with writing a book, nothing. I wasn’t going to take my medications anymore. I’m tired of them anyway. I was just going to sit on my fat ass, eat whatever I want, and die whenever Death wanted to fetch me. We all have to die of something, right?
 
And then I started thinking, slowly but surely, how dumb that would be. Going on a binge was stupid, but sabotaging myself and my health and the work I had done so far would be beyond stupid. It would be fatal to my dignity and my self-esteem, not just my life.
 
So here I am tonight blogging about every ignorant thing I’ve done this week with food and everything that goes with it. Good for me. I’m not proud of the binge, but I’m happy with myself for all of the things I did correctly before it happened. As I told Ginger, I fell off the bike, but I’m back up on it and starting the ride again.