Category — Relationships

I haven’t worn my wedding ring this week. Not because I can’t stand my husband (which has prompted ringless fingers several times in the past), but because it doesn’t fit. Yes everyone. I’ve turned into the girl with fat fingers. At this point, I’d rather be divorced as it is a legitimate reason to not wear jewelry. I have since ordered diet pills online and anxiously await their arrival on March 1.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a sad specimen of physical health and fitness.”

- Skinny Man, not more than an hour after enjoying a feast of quinoa stuffed bell peppers I made exclusively for him. Next time I’ll remember to add a little rat poison.

Skinny Lady:  I obviously don’t care if I get fat.

Skinny Man:  You mean you don’t care how fat you get.

…And then Skinny Lady whipped out the divorce papers and used them to beat her rat bastard husband into oblivion.

My coworker friend REFUSES to believe that I’m hiding fat under my clothes. We were having a heated discussion after I mentioned needing a girdle Spanx, and just as I was about to to strip down naked to prove my point, she compared me to my impossibly svelte Italian Greyhound. Now I could have been offended that she was comparing me to a dog, but I was actually rather flattered. At a barely there 8 lbs, with long stick-like legs and a waist any woman would die for, my dog is one of the few creatures I’m happy to be compared to. So thank you, coworker friend. I can now  forgive you for that egg nog latte.

I went to Starbucks with a coworker during my lunch break yesterday. I ordered my typical tall cafe au lait with soy, and she ordered a grande egg nog latte. Let me repeat that: A GRANDE EGG NOG LATTE. And on bagel day too. Yeah, so I don’t think I can be friends with her anymore.

Yesterday, 10:53 p.m.

Emaciated Lady: The BLT your mom made you today looked so delicious. I’m craving imitation bacon.

Extra Large Man: Why didn’t you have one?

Emaciated Lady: I’m trying to consume as few calories as possible before Thanksgiving so I won’t have to commit suicide. I don’t want my parents to mourn during the holidays.

20 minutes later…

Emaciated Lady: I almost punched your sister in the neck when she told me I needed to change my expectations about spaghetti squash. I wanted to say, “Bitch, spaghetti squash is nothing like real pasta and if I want to be disappointed about it, then I will be.”

Extra Large Man: You know you think about food a hell of a lot right before you go to bed. Food and violence.

Emaciated Lady: I’ll grind your fingers with a food processor if you ever try to divorce me.

Extra Large Man has ruined my life — again. I’m creeping towards a size four and it’s because he brings home food items I become obsessed with. My latest addiction (though I’m still drinking and smoking) is almond butter. It’s just like peanut butter except without the peanuts, oil or sugar. I admit it’s a healthier alternative — less saturated fat and no added ingrediants — but  indulging in anything every single day, with graham crackers no less, is NEVER a good thing. I officially fall under the category of obese.

I inhaled the following food items in rapid succession yesterday at my nephew’s birthday party:

• a handful (possibly two) of milkduds
• several handfuls of Lay’s BBQ potato chips
• an Oreo cookie
• two vanilla cupcakes

Shameful, I know, and made worse by the fact that my husband refused all food offered his way. Sometimes you just want someone to participate with you, someone to share the guilt so you don’t feel like such a fucking pigface whore. Probably I should have thought about this before I married a monk, but I didn’t and now my fate as a pigface whore is sealed.