you know how so many times i get on here and scream that i need an intervention?

well, this time i’m not kidding.

i need a intervention and i need it NOW.

i’ve known for some time that my scale is a f*%#!ing liar, but now my jeans are turning against me. where the blasted scale is concerned i’ve always thought, “hmm, the sticker on the bottom of it says it’s made in germany and well, the germans secretly hate all americans (because we shave and practice good hygiene), so they’ve probably rigged it so it reads heavier–just to fuck with us.”

but people, jeans. do not. lie.

i slipped on my favorite pair yesterday (and when i say “slipped them on” i mean i wriggled about and wrangled them over my enormous ass and had to suck in to zip them up. and then i had trouble breathing…and walking.) side note: anybody missing a small calf? i found one attached to my backside. he’s cute as a button, but he cannot stay. with him there, there’s absolutely no room for the pig and i refuse to become a barn for farm animals. one animal attached to your ass is a novelty, 2 or more–chaos. and i’m pretty sure animal control would get involved. i’m no expert, but i think you need a permit for these kinds of activities.

i bent up and down and up and down, trying to stretch them out. i blamed their tightness on the fact that they’d just been washed. but then i noticed a giant queso stain on the upper thigh and was quickly able to debunk that theory. blasted holidays.

maybe the problem is the sweets that are currently atop my kitchen counters. correction, the sweets that USED to be there. i’ve single handedly taken care of them. there are none left. somehow they’ve morphed into rolls of fat on my hips and thighs.

i blame the media. no, i blame the liberal media. all this talk of hope and change has really screwed with my good sensibility. i’m the first one to say that cupcakes and all you can eat buffets are not the answer. yet, i seem to have thrown all my smartness out the window! something has to change. if not, i’m going to be featured on one of those tawdry talk shows. you know the ones. they’ll feature the fat girl (me, in this scenario) in my home where i’m a prisoner in my bed because i can’t get up. they’ll raise money for a crane to knock out a wall so that the smokin hot firemen can hoist me on a flat bed trailer and ship me off the fat camp. the audience will cheer. i’ll be so happy to feel the sunlight on my face at the same time wondering if the food is any good where i’m going.

please send help. but whatever you do, don’t send food! well, unless it’s chocolate chip cookies. i can’t resist those.

Open Letter to the Husband (and I say The husband instead of My husband because really, this could be for any one of them)

Dear Kind Sir, (I find it’s best to be respectful before publicly bashing a loved one)

I don’t remember you telling me you were raised by a pack of wild dogs. No, I’ve been to the house in which you grew up and in fact, I know your parents quite well. They appear to be civilized people and cannot (in my humble opinion) be the reason you drive me crazy to the point of distraction—or, in other words, make me want to kill you and then myself—or maybe just you. I mean really, if you’re dead, there’s no reason for ME to die too, right?

I also don’t remember you doing some of the things you do now that send me running to the closet where I bury my head in a stack of sweaters in order to muffle my blood curdling screams. It also explains why I keep a bottle of wine and a box of Twinkies hidden in the closet—for just such an occasion. There’s no reason for my suffering on an empty stomach or completely sober—now that would be desperate and a sign of weakness on my part, not to mention lazy and unproductive. Could it be that you feel you no longer need to impress me? Because if that’s the case, we can revert back to the days before I was a “sure thing.” And we can start today.

It’s not like I keep track or have an alphabetized list of the things you do that annoy me—ok, scratch that. I totally have the complete collection of your annoying habits running through my mind, like a DVD set on ‘repeat.’

My intentions are not to point out these “quirks” or “nuances” that make me question my faith in humanity, but rather…ok, that’s not true either. My intention for writing this letter is do exactly that—point out all your obvious flaws.

On a somewhat regular basis, you bring home speeding tickets, parking tickets, and news of what you call a “misplaced” credit card—which is really just a prettier word for “lost.” I don’t mind paying the tickets and cancelling the credit cards. I don’t mind when you come to me complaining that you can’t find your belt, or your wallet, or your Ipod. No, I take pride in the fact that I can offer my investigative services. But, just so you know, all of these things can be easily found if one looks for longer than 10 seconds—or on top of the dresser.

You stand at the window and watch as I lug the trash cans to the street for the next morning’s pick up. You would think that a college educated man with several degrees would be able to remember after eight years of this same routine that the trash men come every week on the same day. Ever thought of lending a hand? No? Well, just so YOU know, during the walk from the garage to the street I fantasize about my new husband, George Clooney, and how he wouldn’t dream of letting me do such a menial task that was created solely to give the husband something to do. In fact, George Clooney would insist that I relax in the bubble bath he just prepared for me. I’m not saying I would leave you for George Clooney, it’s just that…shit. I can’t lie to you. I would totally leave you for George Clooney.

On days I come home from the grocery store you tend to stand in the middle of the kitchen, typing away on your blasted PDA, never stopping to ask, “can I help you with the fourteen bags of groceries you just purchased to sustain my very life?” No. That never seems to cross your mind. In fact, you almost act annoyed when I ask, “do you have to do that right here?” You usually leave the room, defeated and pouting, but never taking your eyes off your 2” screen. This is probably why you’ve never seen me flip you the bird.

Gravity seems to have taken its toll on you too. It’s almost like you’re being held down. I especially notice this when you walk. I don’t think you’ve lifted your feet higher than 1” off the ground in years and it would explain why you SHUFFLE YOUR FEET! I always know when you’re coming because I hear SSHH, SSHH, SSHH on the hardwood floors. It’s the worst in the morning when I haven’t had my first cup of joe. When I hear you shuffling along my eye begins to twitch and my hands start shaking so badly that I’m afraid I might drop the carafe, sending it and its contents, aka hot coffee, crashing to the tile floor. I often excuse myself, walk into our closet and scream under my breath. And once I may have even opened the wine I have hidden in there and taken a swig—right out of the bottle. I’m saying I may have. I can’t remember because I was drunk…at 7 o’clock in the morning…on a Tuesday.

Probably your most annoying habit is the farting. I know, everyone farts. It’s a natural occurrence in humans. I get that. But what I don’t understand is why you wait until I get in the bed with you to cut loose—like a Goddamn symphony. I’ll tell you this—your farts are the worst smelling farts in the history of farting. And I’m sick of being exposed to them! It’s not how I want to end my day! Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t have it listed anywhere on my TO DO list! After soccer practice and before read with Harley is not listed enjoy the sounds and smells of hubby’s farts. The worst part is it doesn’t seem to bother you—farting in front of me. You seem to take great joy in expelling noxious fumes in the presence of your beloved. I, on the other hand, work really hard not to pass gas in front of you. I actually care about your comfort. If I feel the urge to…you know…toot…I get up and leave the room. You could take a lesson or two from me.

I could go on, but frankly, I’m exhausted. And writing it all down has only stirred up more hostility toward you—and the truth is, I really like you—when you’re not annoying. When is that exactly?

You know what I think? I think you should buy me something. Like flowers. Ooh, or even better, a Cartier watch. Yes, I think you would be less annoying if you were to do that. In fact, I’m quite sure that’s true. We could leave right now and drive to the jewelry store. Oh wait. Shit. That won’t work. You lost your credit card the other day and the new one hasn’t arrived yet. And to think, we almost solved the problem.
Wait. What’s that smell? DID YOU JUST FART?!