food addiction

I’m pregnant

by Shauna on October 8, 2008

…not with a baby! Jeez, you tell someone you’re pregnant and they immediately assume you mean you have a human growing in your uterus.

No worries here. I’m not going to give birth to another mini me anytime soon—or ever again. I shudder at the very thought of that. I mean, I don’t want the kids I’ve ALREADY birthed sometimes. What makes you think I would want another one? They’re not that cute!

So anyway, as I was saying, I’m pregnant…with overflowing emotions right now. I’m tired—scratch that—I’m exhausted. I’ve had the same headache for 3 weeks now. I’m fatigued, I’m weepy, and most days I haven’t the energy to do even the most menial of tasks. Hold the phone, it DOES sound like I’m pregnant with a baby. And I might even think it’s a possibility if A. Tommy hadn’t had a vasectomy THE DAY AFTER ETHAN WAS BORN!; or B. I wasn’t on my period right now (too much information?).

No, not pregnant. Maybe I have mono? Maybe I’m dying of some weird disease that makes you think you’re pregnant? Maybe the universe is about to exact its inevitable revenge against me?

Or maybe, I’m just tired. I do have four kids after all. And those four kids are involved in endless activities. During the day I might have time to sew that baby blanket or work a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, but come 2:30 I’m a slave to the people I once considered to be absolutely adorable. I mean I used to think these little creatures were little petit fours of ooey goodness that I hardly deserved. Now it’s clear, I’m getting exactly what I had coming to me. Call it the boomerang effect, or Karma. Whatever it is, it’s fucking annoying. And now I’m up to my earlobes in shit—which translates to soccer, field hockey, art class, gymnastics, and ballet.

I actually went to the doctor 2 days ago and had them do blood work to see if what afflicts me is real or just a figment of my overworked and underpaid imagination. I haven’t gotten the results of the blood tests yet, but I imagine they’ll tell me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, followed with a hearty have a nice day, to which I will follow up with “suck it”—after I hang up the phone, of course.

I’m afraid my pregnancy is only the result of having too many things to do, places to be, people to please. Think I’m complaining? Well, hell yeah I’m complaining. Are you new? This is what I do. Deal with it. You’re just pissed that I’m not REALLY pregnant and you can’t point your fingers and laugh at me. Please, I’m not that big a schmuck.

I calculated the number of hours per week I’m in the car driving the crumb snatchers around. You want to know what that number is? 42 (42!) That’s 2,184 hours a year!

So really, it’s no wonder I’m tired.

Yesterday afternoon around 3 I was starving. So I called Mama’s pizza up the street and ordered 2 medium pizzas (1 sausage, 1 half pepperoni, half cheese), 2 dinner salads, and extra ranch dressing (we Texans eat our pizza with ranch dressing—you gotta try it). Then I stopped at the convenience store and picked up a 6-pack of beer. I went home, piled 3 slices on a paper plate, popped open a cold beer, sat on my bed and inhaled every bit of it. I had exactly 30 minutes before I had to be somewhere, so there was no time to waste. Just then I heard the back door open and it was Tommy. He saw the pizza buffet laid out on the counter and looked at me, puzzled.

“Are you having a late lunch? Or an early dinner?”

I tossed the empty beer bottle in the recycle bin and put the rest in the fridge for later. “I was starving, so I got a little afternoon snack.”

“Wow. Does this happen a lot? Maybe I should start coming home early more often.”

Please God, let him be joking.

“No, not all the time. Sometimes it’s cookies and milk. Sometimes it’s nachos. Sometimes it’s a happy meal from mickey d’s.”

His eyes widened. “You eat like this all the time?”

I guffawed and said, “Have you just met me? Of course I eat like this all the time. Why do you think I work out like a fiend?”

He lowered his head and then got a weird, worried look on his face. “Are you pregnant?”

I picked up my keys off the counter and walked towards the back door. He was watching me, waiting for my answer. I opened the door and yelled over my shoulder, “yes, but not with a baby.”

{ 9 comments }

open letter to the fat girl who lives inside me

by Shauna on August 5, 2008

dear porkzilla,

something has got to give. your overindulgence is becoming a problem for me and my jeans. i feel it’s necessary to address your chips and queso addiction head-on.

first, just because there’s a perfectly good and gooey cinnamon roll left on the plate doesn’t mean you have to inhale it in one bite–or at all. you could just as easily throw it in the garbage can or walk outside and hurl it out onto the yard. birds need food too.

a bag of m&m’s left carelessly in the backseat of the car doesn’t require you to shove a fistful in your mouth and then audibly moan at its chocolaty goodness. no. plus all that red dye isn’t good for our complexion. i think. or something like that. anyway, m&m’s are NOT the answer.

and contrary to what you may have heard, donuts are NOT the new black. although if you don’t stop eating donuts we’ll only be able to wear black so we can try and mask the obvious many rolls that have collected in our belly region. black is not a miracle worker, it is merely a color.

pizza looks tasty, i know. and one piece of cheese or veggie pizza is probably not a bad food decision. however, eating 1/2 a large pepperoni pizza IN THE CLOSET SO NO ONE WILL FIND US–AND POSSIBLY WANT SOME–AND BY GOD WE ARE NOT SHARING!–sends a message that says, “i think i have a problem.” that’s just a guess. i could be wrong, but i doubt it.

now, this next part is going to be a little tricky because i don’t want to offend you, but the drinking has gotten out of hand. oy vey, you and your pinot grigio. exactly how many calories do you think is in one glass? and while we’re discussing ‘glass’ size, an iced tea glass filled to the top does not count as 1 glass of wine. it’s like 3. and if you’re able to fit an entire bottle of wine in a ‘glass,’ that does not count as 1 either. you might want to go back to school and re-learn math. just a thought. i know it’s easy to want to gloss over liquid calories, but they’re there and they count. life’s a bitch–get over it.

and here’s a thought–eat a salad. you are not going to die without cheeseburgers and fries with cheese and bacon and jalapenos. i know this sounds preposterous, but lettuce and tomato will sustain you. crazier things have happened.

look, you may not care that when we pass by a mirror it takes our ass 5 minutes to catch up, but i do. i don’t like that it looks as if we’re holding someone hostage in the back of our pants. and people are starting to get suspicious because it appears to be moving independently of us. i don’t want to have to explain to the police that no, we did not kidnap an overweight kid and shove him in our jeans, that’s just our ass and he likes to dance a jig.

do whatever you need to stop the madness. eat lean cuisines, do 50 jumping jacks after every bite of food, hell, buy ADD medication off the internet. what could it hurt? i know m&m’s are not the answer, but maybe taking speed is.

just please stop eating everything you see. despite recent events, you are NOT a garbage disposal. and i refuse to buy bigger clothes.

sincerely,
the bitch who runs this ship who will kick your ass if you don’t get control of yourself.

just say no! (to mexican food)

{ 10 comments }