Yesterday, the situation in my house got to levels that were completely unbearable, and I was forced to do something about it. I realized that my favorite pair of trousers was almost completely worn through at the seams (which is completely reasonable, considering they're almost five years old and I wear them once or twice a week), and the unthinkable occurred:

My favorite jeans broke in the gluteal region.

It was a sad day. I went to my local store to look at a new pair, but they were closed, so I had to stop when I went to my voice lesson in Albuquerque. I went to the Target, figuring I wouldn't find anything at all, since I only had thirty minutes or so in which to look.

I was wrong. There were six acceptable pairs of pants in my size and for a reasonable price. Six. That's like losing your keys and finding out that you have a whole bunch of spares and each is on a magical key ring.

Except for the trying-them-on part. That part is not magical.

So I go into the dressing room, and I'm filled with dread because the last time I bought jeans was just under two years ago, and it was a traumatic experience. I tried on jeans at five different stores, not finding any with an adult-appropriate rise (I do like them to cover my entire butt-crack, thank you very much), and ended up crying in a dressing room at Kmart and buying four pairs of the dreaded Mom Jeans because, first of all, they're comfortable as all get-out, and second of all, they were $15 apiece, and who can turn down comfy $15 jeans? Not me, man.

They look atrocious, though, so I have just been wearing my old jeans and hoping that the Mom ones will just mysteriously look better someday when I pull them on. They never do. I die a little inside each time I try them out. Sometimes I tuck in a t-shirt and laugh a little, but then I realize that I'm standing around in a pair of Mom Jeans that go up to my tatas, laughing at myself, and that this behavior might be a little crazy.

I still usually giggle a little more, anyway. It's pretty freaking funny.

Without my favorite trousers and jeans, though, I am in big trouble. Thus the need for a try-on.

So I go into the dressing room, after getting my tag which says, "6," which I knew must be a sign because that's exactly how many I had and that's the maximum, and I prepare myself.

First, I look at my old pants. I had worn the Mom Jeans (albeit under a big old shirt that covered most of the momliness), so I had a comparison for the new jeans. I looked at the front, which was terrifying enough, but then I looked at the back. Those of you who've worn Mom Jeans can testify to the horrendous things they do to your butt. It's not right. No one should ever have to confront the sights I saw yesterday afternoon. <Shudder>

I then took off the Momtasticness and bemoaned the state of my thighs for a minute, then lifted up my shirt a bit and squeezed the fat on my stomach and felt properly disgusted with myself for eating cake/meat/cheese/cookies, etc. Then I sighed a little bit and decided I needed to do some more stomach-reducing exercises.

Then it was time for the pants try-on. I started with the pair I liked the least. Now, mind you, these pants were all the same brand, and ostensibly the same size, but asking for standardized sizes at Target is like asking my Mom to stop making those delicious hamburger patties encrusted with cracker crumbs and pan-fried to delicious crispy goodness and then served with a truckload of ketchup. It's just not going to happen.

Mmmmm. Food. 

Anyway, the first pair fit, but it was a disaster. They didn't cover my underpants, and they were so low as to be almost offensive. I like a little more coverage for my bits. Therefore, I left them on a little while, so I could feel properly digested with my sad, sad lack of butt and ample quantities of, well, everything else.

Time for pair two.

Pair two fit, along with the rest of the pants. What? Now, they were all way lower than I've gotten used to, and I may need to trade in my ginormous underpants for ones that don't go all the way up to my belly button (don't judge…coverage is your friend), but at least they all went on and zipped up. It was just the rise issue again.

Am I crazy, or did they used to have pants that covered your butt crack and not your belly button? I seem to remember that being the case. I feel like the two years of Mom Jeans has ruined me for all other jeans. Except for my favorite jeans, which are at least six years old and purchased on clearance for a mere $8 and I've never found another pair. Sad, sad, sad.

I can patch the butt, but then they'll be all scratchy and I just can't deal.

So I ended up with a pair of dark wash jeans that fits okay but feels a lot lower than I'm used to, a pair of jeans that has fading and whiskering on it, which I never would've bought except for the fact that it does miraculous things to my butt (still lower than I'm used to), and a pair of black trousers which is, amazingly, not too short and not too low.

Now I'm all set for a couple of years, at least.

Unless I'm too scared to wear them and they stay in the drawer, mating with my Mom Jeans and creating a hybrid jean that makes my butt look great AND covers all of my belly junk with a thick, thick layer of sweet, sweet fabric.

Let me have my dream.

It seems to me that a few of the people who complain the most about the world being an unkind, uncaring place are the people who do the least to be kind to others in their daily lives.

This could just be a terrible generalization caused by a few lazy hippies, but I don't think so. I think that some people get so wrapped up in what they perceive as unkind behavior toward themselves that they become incapable of taking care of their day-to-day lives and then force someone else to pick up the slack.

And I think that's unkind.

It's a lot friendlier and more thoughtful to take care of yourself and not force your loved ones to do so than it is to spout a lot of platitudes about how mean everyone is to you, and how you're all about feeding starving orphans in Africa. This is not to say that I'm not concerned about the poor. I am. I think it's terrible that there are many people who go hungry while many of us have so much that just goes to waste, but I don't think it does them any good for me to get mentally wrapped up in their situation and stop taking care of the work that I need to do just to keep my household and workplace running.


In my opinion, that's a load of crap.

I realize that I have a lot of opinions on how to save the world, but this might just be my favorite one: Get off your ass, take care of your business, and THEN worry about the orphans, or kittens, or kids on drugs, or whatever it is that tugs at your heart (it's definitely puppies, for me).

If you are fortunate enough to be in a situation where you have another person to assist you in the day-to-day business of staying clothed, fed, and sheltered (as far as I'm concerned, at least), you have no right to complain about how mean the world is to you. Especially when you're out gallivanting about and your person is working his or her butt off to keep your livelihood intact.

I'm calling B.S. on that, right now.

It seem ridiculous, but it happens more often than you'd think. Did you ever stop and think about the fact that the universe is doing you a solid by giving you a person on whom you can depend? Did you ever think about how rough it can be, just being the dependable one? Did you ever notice that the steady paycheck that comes in is what makes all the difference in the world to your family, and also keeps your family from having to ask for help from the government, which, in turn, frees up some resources for another family that might not be fortunate enough to have an opportunity to earn an steady paycheck? And that maybe, just maybe, you should chip in and assist your person and be thankful for him or her and maybe, I don't know, give him or her a freaking break once in a while and stop being such a Harpy?

Huh? Did you? Huh?

Yes, I am an expert. I earned my SKE degree (that's a She Knows Everything Degree, btw) from Life University. I minored in accounting. Suck it.

Okay, this isn't that hilarious. I realize hilarity was promised in the title of my blog, but I just felt really annoyed this morning. Deal. For those of you who don't know, head on over to Wikipedia to find out what a Harpy is.

from wikipedia.com

I often wonder what it would be like to be the kind of person who makes decisions easily. It's very difficult when one is the kind of person who over-analyzes every situation, and one is married to a person who does that, as well.

Decisions take a really long time around here.

Then, after we've decided on a course of action, we tend to think about it some more and keep thinking about it until we've talked ourselves out of it.

What kind of decisions? Well, it could be anything, from where to go on vacation to whether or not we should get a puppy, or anything in-between. Sometimes, it's as small as deciding where to go for dinner.

Honestly, sometimes we end up going to the same place over and over again because we're too afraid of things like raw meat and/or food poisoning to change (but that's kind of the curse of being someone-or being married to someone-with an intestinal problem).

We work on being more spontaneous, but I honestly don't know if working towards spontaneity is a very effective course of action. Shouldn't it just be something one does without having to plan to be that way? Doesn't planning ahead to do something at the last minute sort of negate the last-minuteness of the activity?

I don't know if we'll ever be good at decisions or be able to stop questioning everything. I just want to try to not be so aware of every issue that could arise. I want to eat a meal without calculating the possible percentages of microbes on my food. I want to go shopping without trying not to buy anything that we don't really, really need, and calculating the cost per usage of every article of clothing I buy and trying to keep it below a dollar (yeah, I do that--it's actually really useful to know how much you're spending per wearing).

Or maybe I just don't want to feel like such a weirdo for doing all of those things. Maybe it would be nice if other people tried to see those things as one of my positives instead of being a negative.

Or, maybe it's none of their business, anyway, and I should stop trying to make other people happy.

That's probably it. I still don't like it. I guess Mick Jagger was right: You can't always get what you want. 

Oh, yeah, and I also want Cheetos. Lots and lots of Cheetos. Cheetos without consequence. Cheetos and Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream from Baskin-Robbins. 

I think that's something we can all agree on. I just need to work on the "without consequence" part. If science can invent cures for diseases and alternative energy sources, can't they invent delicious deliciousness that won't make my butt wider?

Come on, guys. Get a move on.

I have a confession to make, and I've decided to do it on here, to just get it over with, once and for all: We've switched to instant coffee.

Yes, yes, I know. Get it out of your system.

Why? Because Trader Joe's discontinued the brewed coffee that I like, I can't find another one that I like, and when we were in Ireland, we had no coffee maker, so we bought a jar of coffee crystals and discovered that they taste frisking awesome.

(Spell-check keeps changing fricking to frisking, and I decided to keep it. I like the way it looks, and maybe I'll start a new trend. Frisking awesome.)

Anyway, maybe if I drank my coffee black, it would be an issue; however, I don't, because it tastes gross that way. I use cream and sugar and all of that nonsense, and instant coffee (with all of that stuff) tastes pretty darn good.

Plus, I was getting kind of sick of cleaning out the French press every morning, and I couldn't find a coffee maker that I liked that wasn't a Keurig (I like the idea of the Keurig, but it's just too expensive and the coffee is just okay, not great).

I'm a little picky. I know.

Anyway, the instant costs less, too, so I feel pretty happy about that. There's also the fact that I could take coffee to work and drink it there since we have a hot water dispenser in the office (even though I never drink coffee at work because I'm too self-conscious about coffee breath).

I like to have options, alright?

So now it's all out in the open. I feel like I did the right thing. Just in case you're curious, this is the kind of instant we use:

Image from target.com

You know you want to try it. No cleanup, fast, and it tastes like coffee. Well, it tastes like instant coffee. Which is just fine by me, especially at 5 a.m.

Plus, it's cheap and easy. Kind of like me.

Ha ha ha. I am frisking awesome.

I'm glad to see you all survived last week. It was touch and go for a minute, there, but I made it too. I was injured, so I actually have an excuse for not regaling the world with my stories of hooligans and shenaninganery (it's a word because I say it is).

So I woke up last Sunday, after having a lovely evening out with friends, completely unable to lift my head. The pain was so intense I thought I was going to die. I have a bad neck, so I thought it was just a neck episode and it would better the next day.

Oh, no. It was not. It was actually worse after a day of rest. So I went to the doctor and got some Mega-Advil and muscle relaxers. So, that was pretty much my week last week. Neck pain and feeling like a space cadet. I was zoning out so bad I started to notice it and then zone out about zoning out. Yeah. 

So, anyhow, yesterday was my first day sans muscle relaxers and with only regular Advil, and it was okay. Not too bad. However, I went to get on the Wii (which, incidentally, was the culprit…yes, I injured myself with over-vigorous Wii boxing), and I found that, after a week with careful eating but no exercise, I had, in fact, gained 5 pounds.

FIVE POUNDS.

If I knew that was going to happen, I would've just decided to throw in the towel and eaten what I wanted to eat while I was feeling like poo.

Therefore, I have come to the decision that I need to go back to counting calories until every last one of these pounds is gone. Yesterday was day one and it wasn't bad at all. I actually felt like I ate pretty much what I normally eat.

This does not bode well for future weigh-ins.

At this rate, I'm going to hit 300 pounds by my birthday.

Ugh.

There you go. The story of my week. Try to stay calm.

Okay, I weighed myself. I was going to write about it the next day, but I didn't because I hadn't decided yet how I felt about it. I have, however, decided that I feel okay about it: I lost seven-tenths of a pound.

Yeah, that's it. It had been three weeks. Three weeks of sweaty exercise class and vegetables and very little booze and/or cake.

Seven-tenths of a pound.

My husband encouraged me to be happy about it, since down is better than up, but seriously? Not even a whole pound?

Therefore, I am okay with it. Not happy, but okay. I still keep thinking I'm going to wake up one day and go into the bathroom and see a much thinner person in the mirror. It hasn't happened yet, and I'm not holding my breath for it.

I think I have just switched my earliest childhood dream for a newer one.

When I was little (meaning maybe four years old), I wanted to have long, red hair. I wanted it really bad. There must've been some kid in pre-school that had that, and I longed for it. Not sure why, since I had a major aversion to freckles, and the two normally go together, but, whatever. Every night before I went to bed I would pray and ask God to let me wake up with long, red hair.

It never happened, in case you're wondering.

This dream was replaced by wanting to wake up thin when I was about ten years old. Still having that dream, although I don't really think it'll ever happen.

Seven-tenths of a pound.

Seriously.

So, now, maybe I should just buy me a long, red wig and a good girdle and go drink beers after work. I feel like that's the closest I'll ever get to achieving my dreams.

Except that I no longer want red hair (I don't have the skin for it), and if I do wear a girdle, the beer drinking will be uncomfortable and not fun. I need a new plan, right away.

Still, though. Seven-tenths of a pound in three weeks. Yeah, I don't think I'm okay with it. I need more Billy Blanks in my life. That might fix it.

from zillow.com

Ermahgersh. He kills me. Between Billy and Zumba, though, something's got to happen. For reals. Or else I will never stop whining, via this blog, about my weight-loss failures. And you will all be forced to read it.

And the world will explode, I tell you.

Aaaaand that's all I've got. Happy weekend (almost)!

I am going to weigh myself this morning, which is, of course, why I'm writing this post. I get something done that feels productive, and I put off the inevitable doom.

I can't escape. It must be done.

I tell myself at night that I'm not weighing the next morning, because when I was weighing myself every day, I started to not be able to sleep the night before because I was so worried about it. Yes, I figured out that the best way to handle my nerves was to lie to myself. 

So far, my strategy has been fine.

This year, I've been actively not dieting, and eating healthy and exercising almost every day for long periods of time. So let's see how much weight I've gained. I felt like I was getting smaller, but then on Sunday I measured my waist and it was slightly larger than the last time I measured. That one's tricky, though, because sometimes I suck in and pull the tape really hard, just so I can feel a little bit better. This time I didn't. But did I last time? I can't remember.

So I'll see how the weight goes. I'm not feeling very positive about it, because at this point, I think the only way I'm ever going to lose a significant amount of weight is by chopping off a body part. And I just can't decide which one would give me the most weight loss and also not be too inconvenient.

This morning, I'm trying to prepare myself for the moment when my Wii character suddenly expands to Jabba-the-Hutt-like size and then explodes. After that, the Wii will give me the finger and tell me to get off of the balance board before it breaks.

It's going to happen one of these days, I know it.

Okay, I guess I'm sufficiently prepared for the worst. I'm still going to be sad, though. I know it.