A whole bunch of random crap all at once. You’re welcome.

• I posted a review of this Wired Sea Cuff on my review blog – cleverly named: lotus reviews. I know, I know – my creativity astounds you.  The post is a giveaway post, so go find out what I think of the Wired Sea Cuff and then enter to win $50 to spend at Studio Jewel. (Ends TODAY 9pm CST)

(Coming up, I’ll be running review/giveaway posts about 2 different camera bags, as well. Keep your eye on the review blog if that kind of thing interests you. Subscribe here.)

• Because I know so many of you dig photography, I also wanted to tell you about a fun meme that a couple of my friends are doing.  It’s called “The Flip Side” and it gives you an opportunity to share a self portrait – reflection, shadow, or classic type portrait – every week.  This is a great incentive to practice the art of the self portrait if you want to increase your photography skill.  I am going to be playing along.

• The September issue of Room 704 is up. The theme is “Educate.”  I write/edit on that website, and I’ve got 3 posts there this issue, including one that basically outlines what a moron I was in grad school.  It’s fun to self deprecate.  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

• I’m still running like a mofo. I’m currently using the Bridge to 10K app (picks up where C25K left off and trains you from 5K to 10K level).  Running makes me feel powerful and strong.  Yes. It is hard.  But POWERFUL! and STRONG!  Also, my legs look insanely better than I think they ever have before.  EVER.  So there’s that.

If you want to stay apprised of all the fitness nonsense I get up to, join me on Dailymile.

• I’m going to be running the Austin, TX Komen Race for the Cure on November 7th.  I’ll be talking about that here again more between now and then, but for now, I’d like to ask you to go ahead and think about sponsoring me.  I’d really like to raise a good chunk of money.

• Oh, and my kid is apparently in training to be a shoplifter.  Go figure.

Happy Thursday!

On running. And, um, muscle strength.

Did you know that RUNNING! is awesome?  It is.  RUNNING! is fun and exhilarating and it tones your body and makes you feel alive.  RUNNING! makes you float on a layer of endorphins called Awesomeness Coated in Hell Yes every time you do it.  You do a lot of RUNNING! when you’re training for a 5K.

So, what happens when you’ve started training for a 5K and then it gets ass-shattering cold outside, so you start going to the gym with an indoor track to continue your training?

Well, apparently, if you’re using my body, you get a sweet-ass case of shin splints in your left leg, but you keep running on it because you’re a bonafide dumbass. Then, when it starts hurting like the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville, you do some research and find out that shin splints are not uncommon in new runners, especially when using an indoor track that has stupid, shitty, short turns (yes, like the one you started using when it got cold because you’re a whiny pansy-ass).  SO, YAY – CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE SHIN SPLINTS!

You employ R.I.C.E therapy like a good, little idiot person who should have done that right away instead of running on the injury, but has now seen the light.  You rest, ice, compress, elevate.  In fact, to also ‘medicate’ the severe disappointment caused by having to stop RUNNING! you take it to a whole notha level, and you throw down some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy.  (All together now, A is for “apple” and “airplane” and “ALCOHOL”)

After a couple of weeks, EUREKA! your leg is healed.  To make sure you don’t get too damn happy for too long, you run on it for a week, but then do some stupid exercises one day at home without shoes on after you’ve already run that day, and don’t stretch/cool down when you’re done because your child wakes up from a nap and he’s screaming like a banshee with a porcupine that’s been set on fire shoved up its anus, so you just bolt up the stairs like your life depends on it mid-stupid exercises.  (Let’s be totally clear here, it was obviously the kid’s fault. Jerk.)

Later, you realize that you were mistaken before.  The shin splint was definitely not the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville.  It was clearly only a slighty painy pain that lived somewhere outside of Painstoria.  THIS CALF STRAIN IN YOUR RIGHT LEG IS THE REAL HURTIEST HURTY THING IN HURTVILLE.

And it’s on vacation ALL UP IN YO BIZNASS.

So you limp around like you’ve been Kerriganed for over a week. (Again employing a massive dose of R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy, because this is what professionals like you do.  You?  Are a master at physical therapy. And stuff that requires you to drink alcohol.)

Finally, oh finally, you are healed.

And so excited to start RUNNING! again.

So then you go RUNNING! again because RUNNING! was making you feel so good and so happy and heralding all kinds of gold glitter and rainbows from your rectumular area oh so many weeks ago when you were doing it regularly.

And you know what? RUNNING! is still awesome.

But you are not.  Because YOU LOST YO GROOVE while you were all up in some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A Therapy at the Bar in Hurtville/Painstoria for weeks on end.

I’ve got some news for you.  Now you have to work back up to the same level of endurance you had before, and oh hell yes, you will.  Don’t you doubt that, because you’ve been there before, and you plan on kicking super ass and getting there again in short time.  In fact, the bursting feeling in your chest can just GO HOME TO ITS MOMMA, because you are completing every damn interval of every damn train, pushing through the sucktastical feeling of weakness,  and you will NOT give up.

You? WILL BE TRIUMPHANT ONCE MORE. Hell, you’re already well on your way as we speak!

However, during your return to triumph, while you’re doing your warmup mile one day, you do think that it would be awesome to do two sets of 50 jumping jacks at 1/4m and 3/4m, and you know what?

You could have been using all that time you spent sitting on your ass with your compressed, iced legs elevated while you sucked down booze and healed doing something you could have really benefited from.

SOME DAMN KEGELS.

Stupid jumping jacks.

Running from my problems. Literally.

Some of you may remember the post waaaaay earlier this year where I admitted to you something that really was no surprise, considering I have mentioned how gross and lazy I have been on a regular basis.  Yeah, I’m talking about the one where I basically said, “I smell like forty ripe asses rotting in the sun.  Oh, and I have fat rolls that have fat rolls and their fat rolls are bigger than their fat rolls’ fat rolls.”  I’m not sure if that even makes any sense, but I wrote it out anyway, because I like the way it sounds.  You do too, you just don’t know it.

The point is that I had gained quite a bit of weight (enough to aggravate my joints and make my fat pants tight on me) and I wasn’t caring enough about myself to bathe regularly.  Unless you’d say once every week or two is regularly.  I guess it is, since I regularly waited that long to scrape the accumulated layers of sediment off of my body. (I swear I found a tiny, fossilized animal in one of the layers once. It was from the Cretaceous Time Period. I’d be rich if I hadn’t dropped it down the drain.)

By May, I was carrying a good amount of weight…

By the end of May, I was sick of myself.  I made a lot of changes (that really needed to be made) and turned my life onto a healthier track again.  Instead of drinking the local liquor store and grocery beer aisles dry practically every other day, I stopped drinking entirely for a whole month.

I hated every fucking one of you bitches that talked about drinking on Twitter during that time.  I wanted to stab you in the face.

Hahaha, just kidding!

No, really.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, in all honesty.  And during that month, I dropped junk food and excessive carbs, as well as late night eating.  You know what else?  I started moving.  And I had some support: people who motivated me by talking to me about what they were doing, listening to what I was doing, and just being there.  They lifted me up when I was dragging, and they celebrated my successes with me when I was floating.  That kind of support from friends is instrumental for me.  Thank you so much Leslie, Haley, & Karen.   I got my ass in gear and I started doing The Shred – downloaded it right to my computer and did it almost every day.  I added in some Yoga, too.

And the real killer for me?  I went to bed at a decent hour more often than not.  It was like a sign of the Apocalypse.  Or flying pigs.  Or that monkeys streaming out of your butt thing.

But mostly, it was a whole heap of positive change in my life that both cleared my head and dropped pounds of fat off of my body.

I lost 15 lbs in just a couple of months.

Then I started traveling.  Oy!  Chicago first, then NC, and before I knew it I was drinking and eating excessively again, and not exercising.  And sleeping? Hah, what was that?  I was up into the wee hours again.  For some reason, I love the wee hours.

I was still making half-assed efforts to exercise once I got back home, but it wasn’t adding up because I was being really inconsistent, and the other bad habits were still hanging on, blossoming even.

By mid-September, I was saying, “hello again!” to the last 8lbs I had dropped.  (And by “hello again” I mean, “awwww, shit, you again? Damn.”)

But I was in a funk.  The sloth in me was in charge.

By mid-October I had reached a point again where I realized this crappy way of whipping myself back and forth has got to stop.

I called on the cavalry again:  I’ve got Haley, Leslie, and now Mishi motivating me in a Skype chat regularly (thank you, ladies! I love you.).  And I’m trying this novel concept: moderation!

I cut way back on drinking, but I still have one drink most nights.  Junk food is out again, and healthy food is in.  But “cheats?”  Oh yeah, they’re around about once a week.

I’m *trying* to go to bed at a decent hour (most nights, and sometimes I’m actually successful) and I’m moving again.  I’ve been doing different things to keep it fresh -  Shred, Yoga, Dance, Walking.  I’ve lost that ugly 8 I gained back, and then some.  I’m feeling better again… lighter, smoother, and quicker.

Just this week, I started pushing myself to jog and run.

And then a little birdie named Leslie got on my proverbial shoulder and whispered in my Skype Chat ear: “Fiiiiive Kaaaaaay?”

And I said, “What, me? Surely not.”

But later in the day I said, “Why not? I can do that.  I am *going* to do that.”

And that’s where I am right now.  In total, I’m down 21lbs (and counting!) from my May 09 top weight, and I’ve built some muscle.  It’s time to tone, train, and build endurance.  I have a plan, some tools, and at least one friend to do this with.  I’m about to bust crazy and go for something I’ve never attempted before.

And I’m not talking about going one whole day without saying, “fuckbuckles!” (What, you don’t say that every day?)

It’s time to train for a 5K, my friends.

I plan on leaving a little piece of my funk behind me with every step.

Short but heartfelt letters.

Dear Hashimoto’s,
Thanks for making every day harder. You’re a dick.

Dear PMS,
I do not like you. You do not actually make me more powerful, you just make me want to break people in half all day long. You do not help me deal with my emotions more effectively, you just make me cry at things that should not be cried at (the fight scene in Ice Age? Really? No. Really?) You do not make my son’s toddler habits easier to deal with, you make me want to run screaming from his presence. You are like a disorder all unto yourself. I am tired of you, officially.

Dear Braden,
Yes, it’s true. Your “farts are stinky like poopoo,” indeed. The amount of joy you bring into my life with simply silly things like that cannot be measured. Oh, but please don’t kick me in the eye again. That was the opposite of joy.

Dear Birthday,
I see you lurking there. I know, I know. I’m almost officially a whole year older. It’s really not even exciting anymore. It just validates the white hairs and the callouses. If you were really as awesome as you claim to be, you’d give me my old bewbies back. Now THAT’S a happy birthday.

Dear John,
I know you miss being at home. To make sure you feel welcome upon your return weeks from now, I am saving you all sorts of chores to complete! Nothing says loving like that, right?

Dear Debt Collectors,
Thank you for the recent letter demanding the thousands due in medical bills, immediately. The way the entire sheet of paper was pink truly made me feel the threat inherent in your message.

Dear Property Management,
I’m guessing the magic number for phone calls before you come and fix the light in the kitchen is something higher than 3. Even if you have promised “someone will be out tomorrow,” they won’t. You don’t really mean it. It was a joke – you were just kidding! I get it now. I hope you get explosive, burning diarrhea on your birthday.

Dear Jillian Michaels:
When I do the “butt kicks,” instead of holding my hands in fists in front of me, I hold out both my middle fingers. It totally helps me make it through. I’m not flipping you off, though. You are the toughest bitch I’ve ever not known but loved. In a completely platonic, non-I think of you naked when I’m in the shower kind of way. (Really.)

Dear Mexican (our dog),
Please just stop being gross. Seriously.
PS: I know. Watch your back.

Dear Body,
I know that you are tired. I know that you hurt. I know that it’s not your fault. I know that you feel bad because I always hate you. I am sorry. I’m still pushing and I’m trying really hard to get you healthy again. Please hang in there and work with me on this, damnit.

Dear Hair,
Did you hear what I said to Body? You are leaving me, and it’s making me frantic. I know you are just really tired of the antibodies in my bloodstream and the Hashimoto’s that is the result. I feel embarrassed that you are so important to me, in a way, but it’s true. You are important to me and I have cried several times already now, noticing how you are taking leave of me steadily. I do not like to see my scalp. Please reconsider. Please stay.

Dear Health Care Industry,
Please just fix it. Please stop telling me there is nothing you can do to help me. I am broken and you are supposed to be able to fix me.
You are supposed to.
So when I come in this next time, please do not turn me away again, telling me to keep waiting. I am done waiting. Ok?

Dear Reality Television,
You are still really, really stupid. Stop tricking people who I know are otherwise really smart.

Dear Halloween,
I hate the temptation of your endless bags of delicious candy. I love your ghouls and goblins, witches, werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. I delight in feeling your spirit as I watch horrible movies about undead monsters. As you approach, I tilt my head back in the dark and utter a high pitched cackle. When you are gone, please make any leftover candy disappear. My ass does not want to be dressed up as an elephant for the rest of the year.

Dear People Who Drive,
YOUR BRAIN. USE IT.

Dear You Guys,
Thanks for still coming here.

Do you feel the burn?

When sloth and apathy has set in for months, it’s hard to get your ass moving again.  And even once you’ve passed the hurdle of actually making yourself START moving with effort once more, you face that initial battle of trying to stop screaming out in pain and agony at every little leg lift find your strength again.

Exercise takes strength.  And strength is built via exercise.  Chicken. Egg.  Circle, circle, circle.

So when you’re trying to get back on track with a healthy lifestyle, you have to force yourself through that beginning time, when the shit is HARD.  And you have to keep going until you can hack it.

And sometimes it’s hard, in the middle of a workout, to feel confident that you can do that.  Especially when all you want to do is power jumps on the instructor’s face.  What?  I am NOT full of anger and bitterness, and if you even hint that I am, I will eat your face. (I’m sure it’s full of lean protein.)

What I really love is when a workout instructor is saying some shit to me like, “You should be feeling some heat in your thighs now… almost a little burn!“  right around the time when I’m looking down in bewilderment because my left thigh literally just exploded and peppered the wall next to me with clots of flesh and my right thigh currently has a 4 foot flame shooting from it.  And my ass just sent me a memo that said, “Really?  You’re serious?  Just checking.  Because… really???”

Yeah.  Almost a little burn.

Whore.

Look, lady… did you forget what it was like when you were fat?  Before you became this little waif of a thing that is now cheerfully telling me to, “see if you can push it just a little bit deeper each time!”

Oh, I am, cutie-pie, I am.  I’m pushing the imaginary knife blade just a little bit deeper into your upper torso (can you feel the BURN!?) every time I stab you with it inside my head.

Maybe she was never fat.  Maybe she has always been so skinny that her nipples existed on her chest completely independent of the titty base they are generally known to reside on in females. (And no, I have nothing against boobies of any size, but just let me rant here, ok?)

I’m sorry, I just can’t not see them.  In that tight-ass yoga top they are like little rocket missiles under a tight stretched tarp and I’m hearing the countdown in my head at full volume.  They are moments from firing and I don’t want to get hit, okay?  Someone needs to deactivate the launch sequence.  Who readies missiles that are still in storage anyway?

Where the hell is Jack Bauer when you really need him?

Clearly, she is excited about the burn.

I’m excited about making it through this without dying.  Which I’m not entirely sure yet is going to be happening, but I like to delude myself like that.

Wait.  What did she just say to me?  “Really challenge yourself.”  Were you not here just now when I said I was going to try to make it through this alive, woman? Clearly you do not understand that is a challenge in and of itself.

Shit, it is a challenge for me not to come over and take a bite out of your ass cheek.  I haven’t had a burger in weeks.

And if she says, “for an extra challenge…” one more time, I think I might just choke on all the cuss words that want to fly out of my mouth because YEAH.  Really, trust me, I don’t need anything extra at this point.

Unless it’s pickles.  On the ass burger I’m about to take from you.

And still, I’m doing this.  And I want to do this (hahaha) and I am going to do it again.  Because I know that over time it will get easier and I will hate her less and less.

Wait, she just said, “I don’t know about you but I’m really starting to feel my legs!”

*insert mental image of me SHITTING MYSELF I’M LAUGHING SO HARD*

If I could FEEL them anymore, I’d actually be able to “control it” like you keep telling me to do and then I wouldn’t be shaking, and tripping over my own two feet every five seconds, woman.  But thanks for letting me know that YOU can feel YOUR legs.  I am so proud of you.  You are doing great!  Soon you’ll be even MORE sexy and attractive than you already are!  And then there can be an even greater, more stark contrast between the two of us.

Really, the hilt of the knife couldn’t go any deeper.  I need to invest in an imaginary pitch fork or something.  Axe?  Hm.

And if you’re disturbed by this?  Me having immature, malicious thoughts towards my workout instructors is really nothing new.  See here.  While this makes things no less disturbing, at least you can see that I am consistently whacked out.

Oh, but now she’s saying something that makes me love her.  A lot.  (And it wasn’t, “Would you like ab fries with that ass burger?”)

“Last one.”

Okay, Miss Itty Bitty Everything.  I think I can forgive you.

But right now I need to go see what I can do about my right eyebrow.  That four foot flame really took me by surprise.

Cramming nuts and wieners in my mouth. Oh yeah. I said it.

So, I recently made you read about how my mouth stinks and my pits are a sweaty mess of BO pretty regularly lately, but that it’s just a mild distraction from the nest of greasy hair in knots all around my face and the bags of fat hanging off my waist and ass.

Er, or maybe I just said I’ve stopped having good hygiene and I’ve gained weight. Hm. Words words words.

Well, I’m trying to smell less like ass and stop being a jiggly mass of cellulite speckled, moving J-E-L-L-O (Pit Sweat Flavor), and I figured that since I let you in on that, I’d go ahead and offer an update on “How this stupid shit is going so far.”

Did I just call my Unfattening and Destanking “stupid shit?” Why, I did, didn’t I? I must be bitter about the whole thing.

You already know that I wandered into the kitchen at 3am one night and crammed my mouth full of sticky smashed peanuts. Mmmm, peanut porn.

Well, every damn night I’ve been telling myself once I look up and see it’s about 9:30 or so, “Okay, Lotus. NOT GOING TO EAT ANYTHING ELSE TONIGHT.”

And then around 10:30 I look at myself and I’m all, “So, what are we gonna eat!? Pretzels? Beer? Oh, hell yah.”

And, ok. So, I’d call that mild failure so far.

But what’s NOT mild failure? Well, that would be GIANT FAILURE.

Did you think the peanut butter at 3am was bad? (No? WTF is wrong with you? That is ridiculous. You should NOT be eating a spoonful of nut (hehehehehehehehe) at 3am.)

I can top it.

Wiener.

That’s right.

That’s what I woke up cramming into my mouth the other night.

*pause*

And I’m not talking about a fun-time wiener, I’m talking about a cylinder of smashed pork lips and penises.

Oh baby, now THAT’S sexy.

That’s how I want you all to think of me.

Yes. I’m the chick standing in her kitchen at around 3am wearing underwear and a wife beater with peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and a hot dog dangling from her lips.

And I am probably scratching my ass.

Or farting.

Ok, both.

It takes effort to be THIS SEXY.

Oh, but I’ve lost 5 lbs so far.

And if you even try to patent the peanut butter and wieners diet before I can get to the patent office, I swear I will hurt you with knives.

Mmmmm.  Peanut Butter Wieners.

Next time, I’ll aim for the pickles and tuna.

I am seriously in need of a super large mug of coffee right now.

This morning I woke up on the couch (I am completely unable to sleep in my bed when John is gone) and my brain was talking to me. In blogpostese.

It was composing a blog post.

Which, you know, my brain really hasn’t done of its own volition in a long, long time. I mean, it used to do that all.the.time. So I don’t know if this is a sign that my muse is actually back this time and I’ll be posting a lot more often again, or if it’s just a sign that I really shouldn’t have gotten up at 3am and eaten that spoon full of creamy peanut butter with my eyes half open.

Does anyone else do that shit when they’re trying to lose weight?! I think something is wrong with me. Waking in the night to sabotage your own weight-loss efforts in order to damage that bitch’s self-esteem is probably not a sign of excellent mental health. Just sayin.

So, anyway, last night I totally dreamt of this guy from back when I was in school. Remember school?

And by school, I don’t mean all those losery years you spent actually working your ass off in college/grad school.

And don’t even tell me that you spent all those years partying, getting drunk and drugged off your ass and being a total whore with anyone who would hang around while you dropped trou. Because I KNOW that those years are for serious academic pursuit and the preparation for your successful adult life. Besides. I did all that other stuff in high school already.

What I mean is the grade school years. Dig in and pull up all your “Stand By Me” memories, folks. This is what I’m referring to presently.

His name is Kenneth, and I always found him to be sort of quirky and really nice. And we shared the exact same birthday, which I thought was the coolest thing since crotchless underwear. (None of your business, it was a weird 4th grade year.)*

Kenneth is literally the only person I have ever met that has the same birthday as I. And really, I always thought that was some special kind of groovy. I kind of always figured him for my super secret long-lost twin.

In addition to that being totally crazy and interesting, it means that my real dad, out there somewhere, is African American. Which really kind of makes this super pale skin and my complete lack of dancing groove a total embarrassment to the other side of my family. And for that reason, I can understand why they have kind of pretended I don’t exist this whole time. And I can forgive.

But I digress.

In my dream, Kenneth was in this convention area thingy or something (back off, it was a dream) and he was standing behind a podium when I walked by and noticed him there. Of course, I totally stopped walking to where I was currently going, and went over to talk to him (super secret twin importantness, duh).

He was set with a large audience of people who were filing in, and was about to sing the entire last chapter of some religious book in another language. No, I don’t remember what book or what language, or even why in the damn hell he would have been doing that (dream, remember?) but I do remember one thing. I was HELLA impressed. And also really bummed, because I totally had to go to this other thing, so I couldn’t attend.

I told him I had to go to a jazz concert instead.

WTFH? Who goes to a jazz concert instead of watching their super secret twin friend from grade school sing the entire last chapter of some crazy religious book in another language? That’s the kind of shit you get a super footlong hotdog and a big gulp for and you watch that with bursting excitement and pride.

But, no. Jazz concert.

And then, you know what I did? I didn’t even go to a jazz concert. I went to some random classroom where, apparently, I was the guest of honor, because they made me sit up front next to the teacher and everyone clapped. And then she made me say something about myself.

I did. It was incredibly intelligent and intensely hilarious. Everyone clapped and laughed and there was much carrying on.

But I don’t remember what I said.

Which is really pissing me off, since I’m absolutely positive it contained the key to happiness for my entire life, and if I just knew what it was, all my problems would cease to exist. Of course, my own brain is still in on the whole “sabotaging my happiness” thing, and it refuses to retrieve this information for me.

Douche.

So then, after that class thing was over, I exited the building and noticed that all sorts of hell was breaking loose over by the convention area thingy. Every manner of emergency vehicle was all over the place and the atmosphere in general was grey and ominous.

I ran over to find out what the hell was going on, and some official person told me that Kenneth had been murdered while he was singing his religious thing.

Apparently some crazy ass terrorist type person ran up and shot him, and then jumped on him until he went through the floor and into a large vat below the podium, which was full of some type of liquid that dissolved Kenneth.

Uh. Don’t even ask me. I have no idea.

So, Kenneth was dead, and he never even got to finish singing his religious-in-a-different-language-thing and I was supposed to be there for my super secret twin friend from grade school, but I wasn’t.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I woke up in the middle of the night last night (different time than the peanut butter sabotage event), and an ominous voice inside my head said, “The end of the world is not far off. You have had your time with your son. You will not see your husband again.” And then I fell asleep again.

Which is all pretty much making me lean towards the whole “don’t freaking eat a big spoonful of peanut butter in the middle of the night” thing.

I hope you are alright, Kenneth.

*No. I did not actually have any experiences with crotchless underwear as a child. I was actually not into that kind of thing at all. Studded leather was more my style.

Is disgusting the new black? No? Oh. Darn.

I’ve totally lost any desire to put forth the effort to have good hygiene.

I have become a stinky, flaky skinned, hairy, brutally disgusting version of my former self.

I’ve gotten used to going for long periods of time without taking a shower, brushing my teeth, or shaving.

I took a shower the other day… but I couldn’t remember when the one before it had happened.

At some point, this is going to become so ridiculous that something is going to have  to change.

I mean, there’s only so long I can blame it on Braden or claim I’m saving water to protect the environment.

Eventually, I’ll be POLLUTING the environment.

Like, early next Thursday.

Or whenever that dirt-encrusted thing growing off the side of my body starts talking. (It already has a face.  I’m thinking of naming it Grubbo.)

To add to my new-found charm, I’ve gained quite a bit of weight.

Yes. Kevin & Leroy are back, and Pattie has become ginormous.  Once again, parts of my body are rolling over onto other parts of it, saying, “Oh, Hai!  I’m TOUCHING you and I’m SO NOT supposed to be touching you! Neener.”

I have a largish pile of clothes I can’t wear, but I’m rockin’ the maternity clothes.  And no, I’m not pregnant.

Unless we’re counting Grubbo.

It’s time for Operation Unfattenning and Destanking.

Hold on people, I’m about to step away from the fridge, onto the treadmill, and then into the shower.

This could get ugly.

I think Grubbo just hissed at me.