This morning when I came into the office, one of the partners, Joe, called me into the office of another attorney, Maris. Most of us are good friends in our office. There is an air of camaraderie amongst us. We socialize as well as work together.  

Joe lifted his hand in the air to slap me high five and said, "I just have to say, you've done an amazing job losing weight".  

It was at this point that Maris looked at me, nodded her head in agreement and with a slightly evil giggle she said "Yeah, but um, seriously?  Those clothes have got to go!"  She was referring to this pair of grey work pants I got at the gap a few years ago, and a few sizes ago. She added "Hey! You know I'm a real friend! I'll tell you what I think."  

Admittedly, Maris is the friend who'll always tell you if those pants actually do make your ass look fat (although frankly, I think most often it's usually the fat ass that makes your ass look fat in those pants).

I'm thinking Maris is right, and it's time to get some cheap temporary replacement pants, at the very least.  Marshall's here I come. 

Children are the same way as good friends when it comes to saying what they think.  They don't know to sensor what they say.  The other day my son was eating popcorn and offered me some.  I thanked him, and said no.  He replied, "because you used to be fat, Mom?" 

I laughed.  "Yes, because I used to be fat. And I'd like not to be fat again".  

My son is really great for telling the truth.  I should market him as a consultant.  He could also help you select bras (see previous post). I'm pretty sure anyone wanting to know if they looked bad in any particular clothes could ask him and get an honest answer.  

The other night, while hugging me goodnight he held my head close to his nose and said "Mom, your hair smells so good".

I asked, "Really? What's it smell like?"  

"Onions" he replied sleepily in a whisper. 

Well then.  Time for a shampoo, I guess.  

Yep.  Honesty.  I can handle it.  With a little honesty, some new pants and some shampoo, I might be half presentable. 

For the last few years I've been buying my panties in Lane Bryant.  As you all know, I've kicked that annoying b*tch to the curb (fyi- she still sends me whiny emails begging me to come shop there) so I need a new place to pick up my unmentionables (unmentionables that I seem to mention often.... Hmm. Oh well.  I suppose anyone who reads these blog posts are the unintended beneficiaries of my lack of proper boundaries!).

 

I was in Target the other day with my son buying him his reward for 5 straight days at school of not going to the principal's office, and they were having a panty sale.  Yes, I made my 6 year old son stand in the women's undies aisle of Target.  Is that wrong?  I don't think he was traumatized. He played happily with the toy he had selected as his reward, while I perused the panties.  He even grabbed a very nice black molded bra by the cups (you know, the ones that look like there's a boob in them when they're on the hanger) and said "How 'bout this ma?"  

I recommend you all bring your 6 year old boys underwear shopping, and if you don't have six  year old boys, I recommend that you borrow one for this explicit purpose. 

 So I picked up 3 medium pairs and 2 large pairs, thinking the mediums might need another few pounds.  There's nothing more unattractive than a muffin top over your bikinis. Only having bought 3 mediums and 2 larges,  I figured I can wear the saggy grandma panties till I figure out what size I really am. 

Anyway I tried the mediums on last night expecting them to be a little tight. Well....butter my butt and call me a biscuit! They fit! With no muffin top! Ok, so there's a tiny muffin top.  But still.  They're on!  

So, I'm just going to ignore the weird stretchy wrinkly elephant skin tummy that is sorta poking out a tad above them.  I have my son to thank for that, and someday I will exact my revenge for it, I'm sure. Perhaps I already have, in the form of the woman's underwear aisle in Target. 

Tiny muffin top of wrinkly skin or not, I'm just thrilled to bits.  My ass is in a medium size panty!  

And to all those extra large Lane Bryant granny panties sitting in my drawer, don't get too comfortable in there.  If I weren't lazy by nature, and if Dan weren't snoozing away happily right above you (my drawers are in the bed) you'd already be history.  But I promise you, as soon as I get around to it, it's gonna be au revoir for you.  

Granny panties, your days are numbered. 

The broccoli slaw is a double whammy, since I make it with practically half a bottle of garlic and onion powder, salt and pepper (Disclaimer: I make multiple servings, but I'm sure I go over on condiments on broccoli slaw days).  

So there's the vampire and boyfriend retardant properties of the garlic working for my breath on broccoli slaw night, and then there's the fact that broccoli anything, including slaw, probably ensures that I won't be producing any lovely aromas from my other end tonight either.  

The Broccoli slaw is delicious, by the way, but it's a foregone conclusion that I couldn't even pay anyone to sleep in the bed next to me, so I guess it's a good thing that Dan isn't over tonight. In fact, it's probably a good thing I won't see Dan for a few days, because I probably need a little broccoli slaw detox time! Oh, won't I just be the biggest hit at the office tomorrow?!

I'm starting to wonder if the dog will even sleep in the room with me tonight.  Do dogs like the smell of garlic and methane?  Judging by the dog's distance from my present location, I'd say.....nope.   

It's gonna be a long and lonely night.  Perhaps I should just say NO to broccoli slaw. 

Dan, you need read no further.  Just move along.  Nothing to see here.  

But after 3 and a half months or so on this plan, old Tweedledum and Tweedledee have been shrinking along with the rest of me.  This is cause for much rejoicing (by me. Probably not by Dan....). Of course, the right boob is still a renegade, and it still pretty much does whatever it wants. But it's getting smaller despite itself.

I have a whole bunch of pretty bras that I couldn't bring myself to part with as my mammaries grew when I was packing on the pounds.  Just like those size 12 and 10 jeans that I saved for "some day",  I saved my bras hoping that one day my boobs might return to their former size.

This morning while I was tearing through my unmentionables to find something to hoist the old girls up, I came upon an a pretty black bra that's just been sitting there in there in the darkest corner of my drawer for years. It's been waiting, quietly, biding its time, hoping for the day when I would finally take it off the bench and put it back in the game.  I looked at it, and figured, eh. What the hell, right?  So I tried it on.  

So, I'm not sure what the boob equivalent of a muffin top is, but I definitely had one.  But still.  Both lefty and righty were pushed and squeezed, adjusted and manipulated until they were squarely sitting inside my old 34C bra!  Old googley eyed righty didn't even slip out all day! 

And don't you know it? I wore that sucker to work today! 

I'm still up at least half a pound (truth be told, I got back on the scale this morning and I was somehow up a pound and a half! ARGH! Talk about a lesson in why daily weighing is a bad idea!) but I don't care. I'm on plan, and I'm basking in the glory that is 34C.  

And for the very first time since I started this plan I actually gained a half a pound!  Yes indeed.  After shoveling two million tons of snow with my bare hands (ok, so I had on gloves, but I'm prone to hyperbole), I somehow managed to gain half a pound this week.  I should have taken that as the karmic hint that I was just not meant to ever get out of bed this morning.  But, oh no. Not me.  I can't take a hint when I see one. 

So I showered and began to hunt and gather in my closet for some clothes.  Not much is fitting well these days.  I found an old pair of size 12 P black Daisy Fuentes slacks that haven't seen my thighs in years, and tried them on. They fit, so I put them on with a blouse, and off I went after first throwing some meal packets in my purse to prepare at the office later. I was driving to the office, all happy happy,  when I had an epiphany......Why am I driving to the office??? 

I'm supposed to be in Court!! Dear god.   I'm supposed to be in court!  

So I turn the car around, and drive to court.  Now I'm freaking because I'm a little late (but not much), and I'm not wearing a suit (although I am wearing something somewhat professional).

At this point in the morning, I've had no chance to get in a meal.  I figure, no problem! I'll be outta here in a jiffy! This isn't my file.  I'm just covering it for the trial attorney on the file!  The judge will let me go, right? 

The best laid plans of mice and men, my friends, the best laid plans....  

I get to the courthouse, running twice as far as I'd normally have to because I forgot my repelling gear at home and I've got to navigate around the 2 story mountains of snow all over the parking lot.  I finally make it to the building, go through the metal detectors and hustle my size 12P ass (or size 10P ass, depending on the cut) up to the court room.  

I ask a lawyer if the calendar has been called.  He gives me the once over and says "are you a lawyer?". 

I give him the "No-I-just-like-to-walk-around-courthouses-looking-for- random-calendar-calls-to-listen-to" look and I reply "I'm not dressed like one, but yes, indeed, I am actually a lawyer".  He winces and looks away.  

I jump down to the front of the courtroom where the clerk is waiting, just in time to be told, "Oh, your trial is assigned to Judge X in room 400". Joy.  Judge X is one floor up, on the complete other side of the building which you cannot get to unless you go back down to the first floor, and walk (or run, in my case) to the other side, then take the elevators back up. Oh efficiency, your name is not the Bergen County Courthouse! 

Back up to the fourth floor.  Whew.  Sign in.  Whew. And therein begins the waiting game. 

At this point, I'm starting to get hungry, but all my meals are in the car. At about 10:00  I'm called in to "conference" the case.  I do so, and then explain to the judge that I'm covering for the trial lawyer, and that I've got to leave the courthouse within enough time to get back home for my son at 3.  The judge says something not so promising, like "we'll see".  I sat. I waited.  I shmoozed other lawyers.  I checked facebook on my phone.  I stared at my feet. If I could have seen my bellybutton I would have contemplated it.  I sucked in my stomach. I puffed out my stomach. Tick tock. Tick tock. Watching a game of televised golf would have been more mentally stimulating.   

At 1:00 PM, with a raging headache and nothing in my system but coffee and splenda with a splash of half and half, I give up and run back out to the car to get my shake.  I drink it in the parking lot.  I also grab a Cappuccino packet, and throw it in my bag, and then race back up the the court.

I zip over to the cafeteria one floor down from where I'm supposed to be, and I get a cup of hot water and a packet of tylenol.  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I mix my cappuccino into the hot water (not advised, but you make do with what you have under the circumstances) and "drink".  Make that more like chew.  I sit there telling myself that I will eat the lumps, because I'm at that point where I'm about to go all renegade chimp and gnaw off the face of the person next to me. My head is now booming. I gulp down the Cappuccino,  and then hop back up one more floor to see the judge yet again. 

At 2 PM the judge finally "releases" me.  They couldn't start the trial; my adversary was already engaged in another trial.  This we knew at 9:30, but American justice is a little slow on the uptake. 

I then race to the parking lot, again running around the maze of a courthouse, and going twice as far to get around the snow mountains to reach my car.  At 2:30 I make it back to the office, grab some papers, call another lawyer, yell at him, give my secretary instructions, and race back out of the office to get home in time for my son.

Now, with all that said, I'd like to address that extra half pound that was tipping the scales this morning, and not in my favor.  Yeah, you, I'm talking to you. After all that running around and stressing out today, there is no way you should still be here.  If you aren't gone by tomorrow, I'm going to be seriously irritated.  I might even have to do the unthinkable, like, exercise. Don't make me open up a can of whoop ass on you.  You haven't seen me angry.  You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. So, for the love of all that is holy, just leave quietly.  Thank you. 

Could someone please tell this crazy Lane Bryant that I have no need for her anymore?  Our friendship is through.  You'd think my recent absence would be a clue. But she just doesn't get it. Practically every day, I pop open my email at some point in the day to find a nagging email about why my fat ass should come buy some more clothes.  

Exhibit B: 

Exhibit C: 

As you can see, Pickles is in complete agreement with the first sentence of this post. You can tell by the expression on her black fuzzy face. That right there is a dog frown. 

I am so completely DONE with all this snow.  I've been out to shovel now twice today, and 3 times yesterday.  My body is in shock. All these years of being a lard ass I've totally perfected the art of not exercising. I've become a master of the lazy couch potato technique of life.  Even during my time on Medifast, I've been very careful to not accidentally exercise, except for my occasional bouts of dance fever with the Wii Just Dance game (unless you're counting "romantic encounters", because then I've exercised more than Michael Phelps during the olympics. I'm just sayin').  

I don't avoid exercise because it's bad. I am aware that it is, in fact, good. At least that's what "they" say.  But "they" say a lot of things, and I never listened before. Why should I start now?  When the couch is sitting there, in its come hither way, looking so inviting?  Come here you sexy couch....You didn't think I was going to actually stand up and do something today did you? 

I don't exercise because my idea of an almost perfect day is filled with countless idle hours of facebookery, blog readin' and writin',  reading ebooks, and marathons of Hoarders and Battlestar Gallactica.  Throw Dan in there on the couch next to me and it's actually a Perfect Day.  And this Perfect Day has absolutely no room for anything domestic.  Not cooking.  Not cleaning.  And most certainly not snow removing! 

The snow had other plans for me today though.  Perfect Day is not in Snow's vocabulary.  But I did it.  I had to forgo my dreams of a Perfect Day, and caved to the pressure of the Snow. This isn't snow. It's Snow. Anyway, I shoveled, and henceforth I exercised, albeit under duress and protest. 

Those mounds of snow you see up in Exhibit A were formed by yours truly.   I dug and I dug and I dug until I had a space just wide enough to squeeze my car through (not that I have anywhere to go, who the hell goes out in this?).  I have to confess, that had this snow storm come in November, I'd be totally screwed.  I'm down 36 pounds now, and believe me, 36 pounds makes a difference when you have to move around. There was no huffing and no puffing at all with all this forced exercise. For that I have this program to thank. 

I can't even imagine how many calories I've burned between yesterday and today.  The muscles in my arms are now bulging masses of iron.  My legs muscles are taut and firm.  My buns are not just like steel; they are steel.  And of course this is no surprise. After all, I've shoveled the equivalent of five thousand tons of snow with my own two hands. I'm friggin' amazing!

So how do I feel? 

I feel like ass.  And I promise you, if I see another snowflake ever again, I'm going to go postal.  Either that or you'll find me in a dark corner of my home sucking my thumb. 

Oh. The humanity.   

Ah, the love and devotion we derive from our children.  We bring them home from the hospital, all cute and pink and bundled in sweet smelling blankets, with fluffy dreams of rainbows, puppy dogs, hearts and flowers. 

And then they turn on us like rabid animals. 

This has been a really stressful few days already and it's only Tuesday!

It started on Saturday morning when I looked in my fridge and realized I had no lean and green stuff for dinner.  So I lured my little monkey out of the house by taking him to see the Tooth Fairy (not the greatest achievement in American Cinema, but it had to do), and then I pulled the old "After the movie we just have to stop at the grocery store" move. Slick right?  He didn't even see it coming!  He brought his Nintendo DS to play while we shopped.  He had been waiting all week to see his friends (our neighbors) and he couldn't wait to get home from the grocery store.  The Nintendo DS, which had one game cartridge in it, kept him distracted from his ultimate goal: a day playing with his friends.   

We finished shopping and arrived home just in time to see the neighbors pulling out of their driveway.  The Monkey was displeased. This pivotal moment was when I got to hear those delightful words that every mother should hear once or three thousand times in a lifetime "YOU RUINED MY LIFE!" Ah, the unadulterated joy. 

I ruined his life by taking him to the grocery store.  Who knew it was so easy? Every parent ought to ensure that their kid needs a lifetime of therapy, right? My work, then, is done here. 

Fast forward to Monday.  I had his video games in my purse when we were at the movies. He had put all of them in this plastic case, and then he slid them into my purse.  He had just one game in his game machine. He (wrongly) assumed that the grown up in the family was responsible enough to take care of them.  Yesterday afternoon I realized I'd somehow lost every Nintendo DS game my poor six year old has.  Well, look at that. Talk about ruining his life!  Nice work!  I'm pretty efficient at this parenting-disappointing-your-kid thing! Too bad there's no market for that skill set. 

There were lots of tears and drama.  Fun times! 

Work yesterday was just as entertaining (read: exasperating).  Pesky attorney client privilege prevents me from really giving you the ugly details.  But suffice it to say that there are a lot of really crazy people in the world.  

I topped my evening off last night with a "refreshing" and "exhilarating" (read: terribly unpleasant) "discussion" (read: argument) with the father of my son.  Oh, to live my glamorous life! 

But no matter how many lives I ruin, or how many crazy people insert themselves insidiously into my life, I will not pig out.  No matter how screwed up and nuts my day has been, I'm staying strong!  I will not waver.  I will listen to 100 crazies yelling and screaming, no...wait....I will listen to a thousand crazies yelling and screaming, but I will not cheat on this diet.  I will have a gajillion responsibilities and demands placed on me, and I will take them all on (some more successfully than others), but not a Dorito will pass these lips.  I will disappoint my offspring by ensuring there is food to eat, but no friends to play with, and by poorly managing his digital entertainment, but I will not eat one slice of bread.

Oh, yeeeeeeeah.  Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of Crazy,  I will fear no carb.  

I'm a pretty unconventional lawyer, and that's not just because I goof around in court, which I confess I do quite frequently.   My office itself is very laid back.  The lawyers only wear suits when we have clients or court. This has been a good thing in the last few months, because suits are expensive, and I can't be buying suits every time I lose a pound or two.  

In the past few weeks my suits have been getting looser, of course.  I have only one true suit that's big, but still wearable.  I wore it on Wednesday, because I had a court appearance. I'd checked the calendar on Wednesday, and confirmed that I had no other appearances for the week.  Whew. It's a one suit week.  Lucky me. 

Anyway, on Thursday afternoon I came home, packed my bag for Dan's house and tried on a pair of dress slacks that I hoped would still work before I left to drive to Dan's. 

Hope might spring eternal in the human breast, but apparently hope doesn't make your pants stay up.   These slacks were literally falling off. Talk about pants on the floor.  I stood there, looking at myself in the mirror and wondered if I could go to court in my underpants.  Just my underpants.  After thinking that all the way through, complete with visions of contempt orders and jail bars (or glorious success, depending on the demeanor of the judge), I decided that court in my underpants was probably unwise. So I did the unthinkable and grabbed the suit I had already worn on Wednesday and headed out the door to drive the hour down south to Dan's house. 

Just as I was nearing Dan's place, I was passing a strip mall (shocking, I know. A strip mall in New Jersey! Who knew!?).  I noticed a Dressbarn in there, and so off I went.  

I hate shopping. I think I might have mentioned this, yes? Not wanting to be there a moment longer than necessary both because of my hatred for shopping and my fervent desire to get to Dan's, I raced through the store. In just a few minutes I found some great Jones New York Petite Separates, all coordinated.  Like a whirling dervish, I tried stuff on. I wasn't even sure what size I was going to be.  Ultimately, I went with the 12P because the 10P seemed snug. 

At the time I was smack in the middle of my monthly uterus rebellion, but thought nothing of it.  The pants fit fine, perfect length, and I picked out a nice pale pink jacket and some sexy shells to go under it.  

Fifteen minutes later I'm back in my car, and 20 minutes after that I'm at Dan's apartment, who is waiting patiently with a lovely Indian style lean and green meal sitting warm on the table.  Tell me that man's not awesome!

Fast forward to Friday morning.  I wake up....and I can't see.  I run to the bathroom and wash my face, and notice that my right eye is completely red. Not entirely shocking since my son is just getting over pink eye.  

Fantastic. 

At least I bought a nice pink jacket to match my great big old gooey pink eye.  I put on my suit, put on a little make up hoping the judge won't notice my bright pink eyeball if I'm a little made up.  I suck down some Medifast oatmeal, tuck some Medifast bars in my purse, kiss Dan goodbye and rush out the door and to my car. Noticing that my phone is now not working, I drive an hour north to Verizon,  stopping first at my place to put drops in my eyes, then after that I'm off to the office for an hour, then after that I drive another hour back south to Court.  I spent an hour there giggling with the judge about some of the absurdities of the case (all while carefully keeping my head turned so that my left normal eye is more visible than my big pink gooey right eye), and then I rush back to my car so I can drive back up north to go get my son, and then to pick up the dog. Can you say exhausting? 

But as I'm walking out of court I notice something odd.  My pants seem longer. And...they seem looser. They're no longer sitting up on my waist like they were the day before. They are down on my hip bones, which means they're too long. And I'm stepping on the hems in the back.  The pants are bigger on Friday afternoon than they were on Thursday. Is that even possible?  

You all know the answer to that.   It's totally possible.  Not to mention that one day further into the course of my uterus rebellion could mean that I was less bloated on Friday than I was on Thursday.  Or, maybe it was all that running around.  Perhaps it was that the pants stretched. Maybe it was just that all the fluid in my body had rushed out to my big gross gooey pink eye. 

I prefer to think it's because my ass and hips became just a little smaller. So Sue me! My size 12Ps are loose! And to experience that joy? I'd totally relive this insane day all over again.