So I was standing in my closet, getting dressed for the day.

I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and noticed they were tight. Like too tight to button. And naturally I convinced myself that I couldn’t button them because they had just been washed. You know, cuz jeans totally shrink when you dry them. I mean, it couldn’t have *anything* to do with the amount of calories I took in last week versus how many I put out.

That would be ridiculous.

And involves some form of math and we all know I’m terrible at math. But I’m pretty sure the results would be astoundingly depressing.

Anyway, I finally managed to get them fastened, then proceeded to do the whole bend and stretch routine to loosen them up a bit.

And that’s when I blew out the whole crotch. In rock star fashion.

Behold. The jeans that used to not be ripped in the crotch.

Just then Ethan walked in right as I was bent over, observing the damage.

He shook his head and said, “You’re going to need a really big band-aid.”

Agitated with myself, I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked them off, and threw them across the closet. They landed in the corner with a sad little thud.

Ethan watched in awe as I threw a mini tantrum.

He looked at the jeans and then back at me. “What’s the matter, Mama?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I’m too fat for my clothes right now. I ate too much last week.”

He looked at my half naked body and said, “You’re not fat, Mommy.”

I managed a smile. I mean he *is* the most adorable little man on the planet. “Thanks for saying that, E. You really don’t think I’m fat?”

“Well, maybe just a little bit.”

And then he ran out of the closet.

For sale: One adorable little boy who *may* or *may not* fully grasp the art of lying flattery.

PS. I would never eat a sandwich that my dog made me because I know for sure that he eats his own shit. What, you really think I’d eat something a *dog* made? I bet you think I’d eat out of the trash can too, huh. Oh, wait.

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.

the first week of school, ethan refused to wear anything other than his “uniform” which consists of a long sleeve under armour shirt and black polyester warmup pants…in hundred degree heat. he calls this outfit his tennis clothes and we all play along. so basically i’m an enabler. whatever. the very first day of preschool the teacher looked at ethan’s ensemble and commented, “wow, aren’t you going to be hot in those clothes?” ethan looked down at himself and then at miss laura and said, “this my tennis cwos. i not take it off.” i smiled at the teacher and thought to myself he’s your problem til 1:30. i waved goodbye and wished her good luck before running out the door.

that week ethan would take the outfit off only so that i could bathe him, but then would hurriedly put his shirt and pants back on before someone could snatch them up and potentially try and wash or burn them (i vote burn). god forbid his clothes not smell like sour juice and 3 day old yogurt, or have suspicious looking marks on the sleeves (my guess, snot), and dirt on his pants from the playground. but most days i’m like, whatever dude.

most of you are probably cringing, mouths agape, judging me no less, but here’s the deal. he’s my 4th kid. when you have more than 3 kids you no longer sweat the small stuff. you can’t afford to–you would kill yourself. i mean seriously, everyone knows the first kid is mostly fucked. that’s your practice kid. no way that kid is going to be “normal” in the traditional sense of the word. since no manual on how to raise kids comes shooting out your va-jay-jay post placenta removal, what’s a mother to do? so the first kid becomes your experiment, aka guinea pig, and you cross your fingers and hope for the best. hey, i was a first born child and i totally turned out ok, right?

when the second kid arrives, you feel like maybe you know what you’re doing this time. you don’t make as many mistakes and you start to take the pressure off yourself. if you’re smart, you’ll stop there. 2 kids and you retain your sanity…mostly. BUT if you have to keep going, you better be ready to compromise your once very stringent rules and beliefs about parenting. cuz you’re about to get really super lazy.

by number 4, not only have you completely lost your mind, but now most things seem reasonable like, “you want to eat your cereal out of the dog’s bowl? ok, that sounds great.” and “son, be careful running into the street with those scissors!” and “you want to wear the SAME clothes 8 days in a row without washing them? i love that idea.”

see? it works.

then week 2, something happened. the long sleeve under armour shirt disappeared. no one is claiming responsibility, but i have a suspicion that it was harley. she’s brilliant. i haven’t questioned her, but a day after the shirt suddenly went missing (by the way, ethan cried for 4 hours straight when he couldn’t find the blasted shirt so i gave him a family size bag of m&ms. his poop was teal for the next 2 days) she suddenly appeared out of nowhere with his soccer shirt. yes, it’s true, the soccer shirt is back.

oy vey.

so now three weeks into school, his wardrobe has broadened much to the delight of his family and his teacher. he will wear a pair of camo pants, a pair of gray pants, a pair of sweat pants, and he rotates between the soccer shirt, his “nemo” shirt (which doesn’t have nemo on it–i’m just as stymied as you) and a shirt from the movie, cars. granted, he looks like he dresses himself and that’s because he does. and that’s all right with me.

the kicker? HE WEARS EVERYTHING BACKWARDS! his underwear, backwards, so it looks like he’s wearing a thong; his shirt, backwards; and his pants, backwards.

yeah, people stare, but whatever. strangers have actually stopped me in target and said, “did you know your son has his clothes on backwards?” i want to scream, “do i LOOK fucking retarded to you? of course i know his clothes are on backwards!” but i don’t. i just smile and say, “yes, thank you.” ugh. people drive me insane. but the ironic thing is that someone out there is probably blogging about the mother she saw in target who lets her kid wear his clothes backwards. she probably even feels sorry for me. well, just so you know, i feel sorry for me too.

we are making progress for sure. at least he’s wearing different clothes. granted, it’s the same rotation every couple of days, but we’re able to wash them free of snot stains and dried up food. one of these days maybe he will wear different clothes every day and god willing, not backwards.

ok, here’s the deal. this week has sucked.

i really don’t know where to go from there.

oh, except to say that next week’s contest is this…

email me your story about the time your kid(s) embarrassed you the most. you probably have more than one story–pick the best one. the winner gets to keep my kids for a week while i go on holiday. or a $100 gift card to target. your choice. i would totally choose the first thing if i were you.

here’s one of my many stories.

i was in the grocery store with my two oldest daughters who were 4 and 3 at the time. there was a rather large person waddling, i mean walking, toward us when my four year old pointed and yelled, “you’re so fat i bet you can’t fit through the front door!” before i could smack her upside the head the three year old followed with, “i think you’re so fat you can’t fit in your GARAGE!”

really? do i need to go on? the important thing is we got out of there alive. turns out we could run a hell of a lot faster than that fatter than a garage person. seriously though? i wouldn’t have been able to describe it any better had i tried. not that i would. i’m totally down with fat people.

ps. not sure the gender of said fatter than a garage person.

send entries to shauna@shaunaglenn.com

xo

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)