Posts from — July 2009

I was naive to think that certain duties were implied in my marriage vows and I’m pretty sure it’s too late to revise them. My husband should not only be required to love me for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health – he should also be required to massage my back when I fucking ask him to. Take last night, for instance. We crawled into bed and I lovingly requested that he give my shoulders a little rub. I wasn’t asking him to pull out a massage table and an Enya CD, but that’s what you’d have thought given the quickness with which he denied my request.

Too bad I wasn’t letting the bastard off that easy. I was desperate so I tried to guilt him. I told him that my new office set up is not very ergonomic, and it’s liable to cause severe scoliosis if he doesn’t help to counter the negative effects. But he’s an unsympathetic husband. His solution: exercise. He informed me that I need to tone up – not because I’m “flabby,” but because I’m “soft.” Um, SAME FUCKING THING. He should know better to say such things to me by now. A smart man should obey his wife, and I’m sure the court will agree when I state that as my grounds for divorce.

From the outside my neighborhood looks as swell as any other suburban paradise. We have palm trees, a community pool and even tennis courts. It seemed so blissful when Extra Large Man and I moved in three years ago. If only we knew what fuckers our neighbors are. All of them are pitted against each other in a dog poop war.

It started when we received our first notice from the HOA asking that we please refrain from allowing our dogs to eliminate on the grassy knolls within the complex. For the most part, everyone is pretty good about it. But over the last couple of years, I’ve come home to a pile of dog shit that could have only come from the giant Doberman that lives a few houses down or maybe from the golden retriever that lives across the street. My point is that EVERYONE’S dog poops on EVERYONE’s lawn and they only pick it up 76 percent of the time, which isn’t the biggest deal in the world. Unfortunately, we have some animal haters and I’ve been yelled at on occasion as my innocent little Lily squatted where she wasn’t supposed to.

Well, a couple of months ago I come home to four pieces of dung laid out horizontally in my front walkway. The pieces were strategically placed so there was little chance I wouldn’t step in it. I honestly refused to believe that a suburban neighbor would leave shit on my doorstep, so I figured someone’s idiot dog preferred my walkway to the grass. This happened two more times, but I still couldn’t fathom the reality of the situation. But last night, I exploded when I was once again greeted by a trail of dog poop leading up to my front door.

I suspect that our new next-door neighbors have stepped in dog shit on our shared lawn and just assumed it was our dogs. To teach us a lesson, they moved the shit to our doorstep. If I ever catch one of these fuckers in action, I will actually strangle them. In the meantime, I’m writing a letter to the Homeowner’s Association demanding that this dog poop war be brought up at the next community meeting. Does anyone want to draft the letter for me?

I’ve been corresponding with an old friend I haven’t seen in at least four years and whose appearance I’m curious about. The following is the email response I received after my request for a photo:

“The fact of the matter is these past couple of weeks I have been deathly ill. I was just discharged from the hospital not too long ago today after a several night stay-over and let me say how much I love the Kaiser faculty and facilities. What a great bunch of inept, self-righteous pole-smokin “Doctors.” Rather than send photos of myself I think it would be easier for the both of us if you were to Google “Dachau camp survivor” images. That’ll give you some idea of where I’m at. In actuality, and perhaps unfortunately, I haven’t changed much at all since our time together in San Francisco. Although I feel as though I look like a mal-fuckin-nourished Ugandan, minus all the darkness and horse flies on their faces that go seemingly unnoticed. I mean seriously, can they not tell they have bugs the size of quarters living on their eyeballs? Poor fuckers.”

I feel my jealorexia creeping up again.

Skinny Lady was correct when she revealed that I started counting calories to keep my fat in check. It was my way of trying to eat like a normal person while maintaining some level of control. After only a week of calculating the nutritional information of every last flax seed in my salad, I realized that I’m not cut out for this bullshit. Eating healthy foods in moderation is not my style so I need to completely refigure my diet if I want to see any results.

New Plan of Action:

Breafast: 20 grapes
Snack: 15 almonds
Lunch: 2 green tea pills with 8 oz. water
Snack: 8 oz. water
Dinner: 1 cup of any raw vegetable of my choice
Dessert: 50 oz of any alcoholic beverage of my choice (prefereably red wine)

I’ve been at my new job for three weeks now, and every Friday for three weeks I’ve been asked to lunch. This absolutely has got to stop, so I’m thinking about posting this sign on my office door:  

It’s not my intention to alienate my coworkers though, so maybe I should add a post script. Something along the lines of: P.S. -  Please don’t take it personally. It’s just that I have eating disorder and an extreme intolerance for other people small talk. XOXO

My 12 year old niece informed me that she’s not eating because her mom said said she’s “fat and needs to lose weight.” I almost drove myself over to my ex-sister-in-law that  fat slutface’s  house to inform her that she’s just a jealous piece of ignorant shit. Then my husband reminded me that she’d kick my skinny ass, and he’s absolutely right. That’s why I’m writing this blog instead.

There’s apparently an iPhone application for everything, even counting calories. Not that I’m not one of those trendy fuckers who owns an iPhone, but Emaciated Lady works with someone who does. Now she’s using this person’s iPhone application and an Excel spreadsheet to help keep her calorie consumption in check. While this might make Steve Jobs and Bill Gates proud, I have to be honest – I’m disappointed. Any anorexic worth her salt can perform even the most complicated calorie calculations in her head. In fact, I’m pretty sure that high mathematical aptitude is a prerequisite for anorexia.

So, Emaciated Lady, maybe you should go back to school. Then you won’t need a spreadsheet to tell you that you’re 148 calories over your daily allotment.

“Dance Your Ass Off continues to be the biggest exploitation of overweight people since stretch pants.”

My hero, Joel McHale