Cake vs. the fat girl

I've been eating really healthy for the last couple of months.  I mean, like seriously.  People have tried to pull me down with their sugar, carbs and glorious concoctions of sinful deliciousness, but I have prevailed.  I have been strong.  Until this past weekend.  I don't know what happened, but it all fell apart.  I mean, I do know what happened, kind of.  Due to my impending toe surgery, I can't have any medication of any sort, so as not to thin my blood and bleed out through my toe...and die.  I mean, I already told you about how they won't resuscitate me if things go south, so I can't take any chances.  But, as in many things in life, timing is everything.  It turns out the very week I need to be medication free, it's PMS week.  I don't want to get graphic, but a girl needs her meds.  Without them, I am a raging, eating, cramping nightmare.  I know that was a way overshare, but you know what, kiss my ass, this is my blog and I will say what I want! <=  see what I mean?

Anyway, the weekend resulted in a few indiscretions.  I felt bad.  I felt like a failure, but in the end, it was what it was and it was over.  It is now Monday, time to buck up and get back on the wagon no matter how much my body was fighting it.  However, as I arrived at my desk, there was that stupid chocolate cake that my "friend" had left on Friday.  I had ignored it on Friday because Friday I was a weight loss rock star.  Friday I was in charge.  Friday I was in the zone.  Monday, I was a tired, pissy, hormone-infested mess.  I made it until 10:30am, otherwise known as "cake-thirty."  I cut a small piece.  I wouldn't over-indulge.  I just needed some chocolaty goodness.  I just needed a fix.  I just needed...something.  It was delightful. My body protested a little and then I told it to shut the **** up and eat the damn cake and I didn't want to hear another word about it.

The morning progressed, then it was lunch-time.  Stupid grilled-chicken salad and over-ripe apple.  Who wants that?  Not this girl.  This girl wants cake.  I cut another piece, another small piece.  And that is when weight-loss karma Kicked. My. Ass. I should start by saying that it had a really rich, very creamy, thick frosting, almost with a syrupy texture and a moist two layer chocolate cake, with more rich chocolaty goodness between layers.  As I said, it was a smallish piece.  I went to take a bite and it proceeded to fall apart and land front and center on my chest.  In my effort to catch the cake, I smooshed it against my chest and smeared it down the front of my shirt.  I tried to wipe it off and it smeared even further.  Two napkins and two Shout Wipes later, the entire front of my shirt is soaked.  It was a silky shirt I wore today.  I doubt it will recover.  I am pretty sure the oil from the frosting has stained it forever. 

To add insult to injury, my shirt also reeks of chocolate frosting.  With every breath I take, I inhale chocolate.  I smell like I bathed in it.  And now all I want to do is eat cake or vomit.  The remainder of the cake is sitting over on the other side of my area.  I want to teach that cake a lesson. I want to show it that it isn't going to screw with me.  I want to show it what the inside of my guts looks like.  Take that chocolaty goodness.  You bastard.  The other side of me knows I should take the high road.  My friend "Smarty Pants" tried to talk inspiration to me today and told me that you learn the most about yourself when you are at the lowest points in your life. You learn who you really are and what you are made of.  What I have learned in my darkest hour is that, I want cake and that I am primarily comprised of cellulite.  And, that I have a bad attitude.  I think that pretty much takes care of my dose of inspiration today.

Ok, it's time to go home now because I have to get this shirt off.  I'm like the biggest scratch and sniff sticker EVER.  I could be brutally raped if I went to a Weight Watchers meeting tonight.  It's that bad.

Now, what am I going to put that cake in to transport it home....?

Do not resuscitate

I had to be at work at 7AM this morning due to some high maintenance people were going to be there and they needed breakfast and they needed lunch and they needed projectors, flip charts....blah, blah, blah.  I won't go into all the details, because, who cares?  Anyway, it was a stressful morning, especially since I had to be to a doctor's appointment by 11:30AM.  Because I am a rock star and because my good pal Valerie is super helpful, I was on schedule.

I arrive at the doctor's office and take a seat.  My appointment is at 11:45, but I had to be there at 11:30 for paperwork or whatever, you know, because time is of the essence.  If I don't get there on time, I would get a reprimand, a charge for missing my appointment and I'd have to reschedule, so like I said, I was on time.  The same cannot be said of the doctor.  I sat there for 45 freaking minutes.  I watched as the waiting room filled and cleared, filled and cleared and still, I was there.  I was mad.  I was drumming my fingers, tapping my feet, I was doing the elaborate heavy sigh.  There was no question I was unhappy.  I saw the receptionist look at me and then scurry down the hall.  She came back and slunk down low in her seat so I couldn't see her face over the computer.  It's safe to say, she was aware I was pissed. 

Finally, with two minutes left before I walked up the the counter and got in their face, the door opened and some girl says, "CASSANDARA?"  I stared at her and said loudly, "CASSONDRA."  She took me in the room and asked me the usual questions and I answered with non-friendly, curt answers.  "Is all your medication the same since we saw you two weeks ago?"  I said yes.  Then she asked how tall I was.  I looked at her incredulously and said, "I don't know, I guess 5'6", what does it say from two weeks ago?"  She wasn't sure.  I said, "Why do you ask me how tall I am.  I'm forty friggin' years old, it isn't like I'm going to go through a growth spurt!?"  She gave me some lame excuse about how it's all charted on a timeline.  I said, "Well, I doubt I will sprout up anytime soon." 

I should pause and explain why I was there today.  And, don't worry, it doesn't involve my uterus, my "hoo-hoo," my butt or my boobs.  It's pretty G rated this time.  I have a cyst thing on the inside of my big toe, it needs to be removed.  It's so big, they have to take a skin graph from another part of my foot.  Glamorous, right?  Well, this is my "pre-op" appointment to go over the details.  On a side note, I forgot to ask him why they wouldn't take my skin graph from someplace where there is plenty of extra skin, like my ass.  Maybe on the day of surgery I can ask.

So, anyway, the medical assistant gives me the run down of what the hospital is and is not liable for during my procedure on the first form.  The second form is where it gets a little dicier.  They inform me that if anything should go wrong, they are not going to attempt any heroic measures to save me, they won't resuscitate me.  Well, first, thanks for nothing Asshole.  Secondly, it's a cyst on my toe, not a four-way heart by-pass.  Good Lord, how deep are they going to go on that toe?  What exactly are they going to do, put me so far under I can only recall that I'm a blond Caucasian woman when it's over?  I mean, I'm sure I probably won't necessarily die, but if I do, I have to agree not to hold them liable.  Hey, Space Cowboy, if I'm dead, I'm pretty sure my signature is irrelevant.

The doctor finally comes in and looks at the form in my hand and the look on my face.  He says, "oh no, you've read the form.  What is worrying you?"  How do I answer that question?  I said, "Well, first of all, let's talk about me dying from toe surgery."  He went on to explain while it is highly unlikely, complications could arise at any time.  Why, my toe could get infected, my skin graph area could get infected.  I could have to lose my leg if this sort of thing gets out of hand, and well, let's be honest, I could die. We finished talking about the procedure, how drugged up I would be and how I would have to be severely bandaged because, as the doctor said, "you never know where you just put your foot, it could be somewhere a dog defecated on the ground."  Well, that could be anywhere in my home surroundings.  I'm screwed.  I didn't tell him about the horses, I don't think he could have handled that imagery.

I finally finished and stopped at the bathroom before I left.  I looked in the mirror and my whole face and neck were beat red.  Yes, that wait in the lobby did itself proud.  I can only imagine what my blood pressure was.  Pity they didn't check.

I returned to work and informed everyone of my dire situation.  If things go south during my surgery, I have signed and agreed that I'm OK with them not resuscitating me.  Valerie asked which of my desk toys I was leaving to her.  I don't think anyone is taking this serious.  It is my toe for crying out loud!!! 

You will all be sorry if I do actually succumb to the white light.

A lot about nothing

I took the day off yesterday. When I woke up, I thought, I can't do this today.  Monday came too soon and I am ill prepared to handle the drama of the day.   If I go to work, something will happen that will send me over the edge. And so, the 'ol "Anal Glaucoma" (can't see my ass going to work) card was played.

It was a glorious waste of a vacation day, but I am okay with that.  It was windy and rainy and so I was stuck in the house.  But it was a good stuck.  I'd like to recap my day.  I watched five episodes of America's Next Top Model that were waiting on my DVR. I can't express how much I love skinny girls in turmoil.  I watched four episodes of House Hunters and three episodes of Love it or List it.  It was an amazing day of nothingness.  I did do some laundry and  I did cook dinner for my man. After all, it was the anniversary of our first date and it was Spanky's birthday.  It was a special day.  I made meatloaf and  cauliflower "mashed potatoes."  For those of you thinking, "What the heck is that?"  Well, let me tell you, it isn't much.  We are trying to eat healthy and we can't have potatoes and someone told me about steaming cauliflower and adding a few minor ingredients and presto! mashed potatoes.  There was no "presto!"  What happened was I had to add cheese to it to make it edible.  I should have added bacon bits, sour cream and butter, LOTS of butter...and then I should have had some ice cream.  Wait, ice cream? Where did that come from?  I'll tell you where, it came from the girl that had turkey bacon earlier in the day.  Bacon comes from pigs.  The End.  I don't know what the hell people are thinking making it out of turkey.  It's not okay.  Anyway, this healthy lifestyle is making me crazy.  For the love of God and all that is holy, someone give me a friggin' french fry...and some bread...and pizza....and chocolate cake.  Wait, don't, it's just the cauliflower talking.  Please, go about your day.

Anyway, I enjoyed my day of nothing.  It felt magical, like a unicorn ride.  And then today came.  The problem with today is yesterday.  All I could think about was lying on the coach, under a comforter, with my good dog Spanky.  Instead, I had to get back into the grind.  I walked into our office and it was as if I had walked into the circus.  Not the normal mental circus, but literally, a circus.  You see, we are doing a contest in our center that revolves around the Hunger Games theme.  Maybe you've heard of the Hunger Games? Kids killing kids, it's a great book and movie, so I hear.  Anyway, each team picked a "district" or theme for their team and decorated their area.  I wish I could post pictures, but I probably shouldn't. 

My favorite team decorations had to be the group that was representing "animal husbandry."  I don't exactly know what their definition is of animal husbandry, but the following is what this admin witnessed.  A black curtain surrounding their area.  Inside the area were various stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling.  They had a horse and a unicorn hanging from the ceiling, I might add, and that is not okay. And then, there was blood.  Blood everywhere and then stuffed animal carnage.  They had cut up and de-limbed these poor stuffed animals and added fake blood all over them.  It was as if the Texas Chainsaw Massacre had met Toys R Us.  Splatter marks everywhere.  It was sick, it was twisted, it was genius. I went and grabbed my camera to take some pics. Sadly, upon my return, much of the carnage was cleared away.  As it turns out, HR is not too fond of stuffed animal sacrifice.  I wish I could have helped tear those little animals apart, it would have been good therapy.  I mean, I like stuffed animals and if anyone touches mine, their toast, but stuffed animals that I don't care about? No problem.

So, that was the highlight of my day.   I got to take badge pictures for our newest new hire class.  It never ceases to amaze me how I take someone's picture, I show it to them and they are all irritated that they don't look like Miss America.  Are you kidding me?  My camera is not a magical device, it doesn't morph people into superstars.  Or people won't like their expression.  Well, genius, you're the one with the stupid look on your face, exactly what am I supposed to do about that?  These people wear on me.  You know who else wears on me?  People that  talk on their cell phones in the bathroom and go on and on about their drama.  Look, I just want to pee, I don't want to listen to you go on and on about your personal life.  It almost made me want to pretend I was on the verge of explosive diarrhea  and start groaning and then start going on and on about how I couldn't get my underwear off and that I think I crapped myself.  Someday, I'm gonna lose my mind and I'm going to do it.  I'm going to do what I dream about doing.  Someday.  But today wasn't that day.

It's kind of sad that when I finally live my dream, it will be me pretending to crap myself.  Such is my life.

IOU on being positive? R U Kidding me?

Today went off almost without a hitch.  No drama, pretty low-key, people were leaving me alone.  Just as I was getting ready to go home, boss number one walks up.  He seemed a little down.  We engaged in some banter and then he noticed the award I was given last week for basically being a rock star during the first quarter of the year. He was supposed to sign it along with boss #2, but he was out of the office.  I had added one of those red arrow stickers that says "sign here" next to the line where his name was supposed to be.  He signed it for me and then read it.  It said something to the affect of "...thank you for your hard work and positive attitude..."  He stops and says, "do I get an IOU on that positive attitude part?"  I said, "hey! are you saying I don't have a positive attitude?"  He said, "well, what you lack in being positive, you make up with sarcasm."  I sat there feigning insult and laughed about it for a minute.  And then, I started to think.  I think I am insulted.  What do you mean I'm not positive?  I like to think in light of all the chaos and crap they put me through I do pretty well.  If sharing my discontent with the amount of crap I have to put up with is construed as negative, well then....bite me.

I started worrying about it.  I started thinking maybe I need to be a "Stepford Wife" assistant.  Maybe everything should be roses and sunshine.  Maybe I should smile and act perky.  No, no, no.  That plan will never work.  I don't have it in me.  Seriously, the amount of energy it takes to be positive must be exhausting.  And those positive people drive me crazy.  All happy and making the best of everything.  Yick.  Look, here's the deal, God made a lot of those perky, positive people.  You know how I know?  Because I can spot them and they seem to seek me out and annoy the piss out of me.  I'm not saying you can't have a positive outlook, I'm not saying you can't be happy, just don't blow sunshine up my butt ALL THE TIME.  It grosses me out.  Like, there are some people, you could push them into a pile of horse crap and mud and they would say, "Oh, thank you!  I was getting so hot and sweaty and this mud is so refreshing and it's so good for my skin!  And I was going to throw these clothes away anyway, but now I won't feel pressure to wash them and give them away to the homeless, now I can just throw them out.  Oh and that mud and poo works as such a great detoxifier for my hair.  And do you see how white my teeth are now that I am covered in poo?  My teeth whitening system is working wonderfully. Oh thank you for pushing me in the mud!  You are a gift from heaven."  Those people.  Ew.  You know who you are.  And, again, I'm not saying you can't be you, but can you be you....way over there?

God made me a realist.  He made me the girl that says it like it is.  He made me the girl that gives you the honest truth.  He made me the  girl that tells her boss that she is NOT going to go buy 75 Slurpees or Shamrock shakes. It's just ridiculous.  He made me the girl with boundaries.  He made me the girl that has a little hope inside surrounded by a lot of fat on the outside.  See, this way, it takes longer for the hope to get out and it doesn't overwhelm people.

And, I'm positive.  I'm positive that place has sucked the life out of me for 14 years.  I'm positive it has given me call center ass (aka CCA).  I'm positive it has allowed me to learn to distinguish between bullshit and reality.  I'm positive I'm probably going to die there.  And you know what, people don't want me to change.  People like me as is.  It's like this is a Jack Handy Deep Thoughts moment....I'm onery and dagnabbit, people like me.  I was considering doing hypnosis for weight loss and my friends all said, "oh man, you're not going to change are you?  Your not going to be perky are you?" 

What the heck would I call my blog? Perky Pony? I think not.  Who wants to read about how the Perky Pony had a great day and her Wonder bread was just the right amount of soft and the right amount of firm and that her peanut butter didn't get in her jelly and her jelly didn't get in her peanut butter an that her ass looked amazing in her new jeans and that everyone thought so and that she had perfect hair and that it must be nice to be so happy with life.  Who wants to read that crap.    My job isn't to tell everyone they are doing a great job and that everything is perfect.  My job is to hold people accountable and hold them up to higher standards.  My job is to call out the idiots so that they are not idiots for the rest of their lives.  People like me are crucial to the successful evolution of society.  Perky Pony can't say that.  Perky Pony just takes a dump that smells like roses and a warm summers breeze. Neigh, I am the realist.  And if that means I owe the boss an IOU on being positive, then SO BE IT.  My sarcasm is a gift not to be taken lightly.  Don't make me take it away, because I will.  Ok, so that last part is a lie.  I can't really stop being sarcastic.  Lucky for all of you.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm exhausted from thinking about being positive.

Hot Fat Girl Yoga, I'm not sold on it

Yesterday I had my check up with my doctor that is trying to help me change my wicked ways and live the healthy life.  I'm making progress, she says.  Never at the speed I want to, but progress none the less.  I guess part of the reason I don't achieve things at the speed I want is because I am am always there to get in the way.  I had a rough weekend, and I had to come clean.  I feel safe with my doctor and know she understands, so I told her how it all went down.

I'd like to begin by saying, it wasn't my fault.  I was a victim of my hormones. Will and I had been out and about shopping and it was a rainy, miserable day and I was hungry.  Not to over-share (do I still have to make that disclaimer?  Aren't we all aware that I over-share?), but I was PMS'ing.  I didn't feel good and I wanted comfort food.  To hell with healthy living!  I wanted to go to one of my favorite Italian places called Contos.  They have the yummiest pasta's in cheese sauce that is all melty and a little crusty on the edge of the bowl. It's heaven in your mouth.  Their salads and garlic bread are yummy, too.  I wanted comfort and I wanted it now.  And when I am done being comforted by cheesy deliciousness, I then wanted to feel the love from the Flirt yogurt place across the way.  I decided, I was cheating and as Will says, "go big or go home."  You see, I am supposed to be eating all natural and essentially cutting out processed food, carbs and starchy, sugary stuff.  You know, the stuff that tastes good.  To derail myself in such a lavish cheat is definitely against the rules.

As I relayed the story back to my doctor I told her that I was proud of myself for choosing the salad at the last minute with grilled chicken, but that I enjoyed every bite of the bread with unleashed abandon.  I almost made love to that bread.  It was a special moment.  My doctor nodded and said, "okay..." like she could handle that.  And then I talked to her about the frozen soft serve yogurt afterwards.  Again, she nodded and rocked in her chair a bit, now seeming a little more agitated, but just slightly so.  She said, "okay..."  And then I told her when we got home we watched three straight hours of the Kitchen Impossible on the food network.  I think at that moment she may have snapped.  She asked me what in the hell I was thinking and why did my husband allow that to happen.  While she was on her tirade I quietly added into the conversation that I had also eaten some popcorn as a result of the TV created cravings.  It took her a second to hear and process that.  She lost her mind.  I sat there on the couch as if I was a puppy that had been beaten.  We were all kind of laughing about it, but still, I got a stern talking to about getting back on track.

Apparently getting back on track also includes exercise.  Now, in the room with the doctor and I is the medical assistant that got my vitals before the doctor came in.  She is this teeny tiny cute blonde thing that my pinky finger could probably take in a fight in the buffet line over the last piece of cake.  I'm not saying it would come to that, just saying.  Anyway, she informs me that I need to do "girl push-ups."  After all, that will build up my boobs that are melting away.  That's right, everything else is hanging tough, but not my already wimpy boobs.  I told Diet Barbie that what would probably happen after doing girl push-ups is I would get Popeye the Sailor arms and still have no boobs.  She promises me it will work.  I told her that her life depends on it.  Then the doctor chimes in and informs me I need to do yoga.  I tell her fat girls don't do yoga.  She informs me yes they do.  Hot Fat Girl Yoga.  There are classes for this she tells me.  Well, first of all, there is nothing hot about fat girls doing yoga. What if I get into Downward Dog and can't get up?  What if Sunrise Salutation exposes my belly, my shirt gets stuck up on my gut and then I have to go right into Touch  Your Piggies and then my shirt is over my head and then I lose my balance and fall down.   Then, I'm all hot and sweaty and I'm rolling around knocking other fat girls down and then I can't get my shirt back down and one of my marble sized boobs pops out of my sports bra that is riding up because I did Touch The Sky too ferociously?  It could happen.  What if I am on the floor and they are trying to get a leg over my head and I get stuck.  Meanwhile, I've got sweat running down my face and I can't see.  Next thing you know, class is over, I don't know it, my leg is around my head, I can't get out of my own half-nelson and then it's time for Thong Bunny Yoga and they have a hot guy instructor and then they all come and kick me around like a weeble wobble and laugh at me.  And don't even tell me it couldn't happen.  There is no proof that Hot Fat Girl Yoga is safe.  I'm going to have to check my insurance policy.

I started doing some research about Hot Fat Girl Yoga and apparently it is real.  But what if Fat Girl Yoga is just a bunch of women that think they are fat, but really aren't that fat, like, they are like 20 pounds over and that's it.  I guess I need to search for Really Fat Hot Girl Yoga.  It still sounds dangerous.  I think I need to start slow, like, by trying Downward Couch and Rising Footrest.  Baby steps people, baby steps.