Please note the correct way to protect yourselves from any and all undesirable Republican karma generated tonight during the State of the Union Address.
I, personally, will be watching Animal Cops.
looking at the world from the inside out
You may have noticed that my weight plays a major role in my life. I’m always thinking about how exactly I ended up gaining this much weight and how to lose it – kind of like the people in the ad who walk around with their scale chained to their leg – I’m always thinking about it. I exercise and lose, and then I eat and gain it all back. Yo-yo dieting has been my life. The so-called experts want to scare you into belieiving that if you yo-yo diet for many years – as I have – that you’ll eventually end up permanently fat and unable to lose weight. Which, of course, is bullshit – as any dedicated yo-yo dieter will tell you who has gained and lost the same 20 or 50 pounds over and over again. They also say that fat people have to figure out why they think they don’t deserve to be thin. Come on, who doesn’t think they deserve to be thinner? I would think that if anybody thought they deserved to be thinner, it would be us fat folks.
Here’s what I think. I have a better theory about why we just can’t keep the weight off: Dual Personalities.
You see, there are essentially two people living inside of a yo-do dieter’s brain: The skinny personality (SP), and the fat personality (FP). When we’re the fat person (FP), we remember our old skinnier selves wistfully. We tell ourselves “Oh, if only I could be that person again, everything would be so much better,” or “If I could just wear a skirt that didn’t make my ass look like a couple of cats fighting in a sack, my life would be Capital-G Great!” So we diet and exercise for weeks and months until we finally lose that 20 or 30 or 50 pounds and we’re our normal, thinner selves again. And that’s when the skinny personality (SP) takes over. See, while FP remembers everything about SP, SP seems to have no memory whatsoever of FP. SP thinks she can do whatever she wants to do. SP is just plain arrogant. SP makes a feeble stab at working out for awhile, but she eventually just stops. SP also thinks she can eat chips and ice cream again – like every single day. SP does not want to believe that FP is just waiting to come out and take over the personality again because SP doesn’t really remember FP. FP is just some vague memory which could possibly not be her at all, but some other person altogether. But eventualy FP does emerge again – stronger and sometimes even fatter, but always remorseful. Why oh why couldn’t have SP just hung in there and stuck with the program?
Why does she always screw things up?
I think the trick is to do what any good psychoanalyst with a dissociative patient would do – merge the personalities. If you could merge FP’s memories into SP’s body, then I believe our nation’s weight problem could be solved. Just think, you could be a normal weight person about to stuff a few cookies in your mouth and suddenly, there it is: The memory of your former FP’s chaffed thighs rubbing together. Horrified, you stuff the cookies back into the bag and quickly drop to the floor and squeeze out a few dozen sit-ups, just for good measure. That would be great, wouldn’t it? You know, with that kind of negative reinforcement, no one in their right mind would ever go back to being fat!
Now, I know most people can’t afford the months and years of therapy required to merge their personalities into one lean, mean, fat-burning machine so let me just say that my new book, Psychoanalysis for Dummies, will be published soon. I felt especially qualified to write such a book because 1) I know a lot of psycho-babble bullshit and 2) I write stuff all the time. And just because my own personalities haven’t been successfully merged into one, doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.
I’m working on it, folks.
(cue inspiring background music)
I’ve got my new (in)stability ball and a DVD on how to use it that truly makes a complete fool out of me on a regular basis (and there’s nothing like an overweight woman trying to stay in a plank position on top of a big rubber ball to bring a smile to my otherwise-sullen teenage son’s face – and that’s worth every penny, believe me). I’ve got my super duper diet. I’ve already lost a few pounds, and I HAVE A GOAL:
To be an SP again (please, I’m begging now) with a FP’s memories.
(inspiring music fades)
Will I make it? Will I be able to successfully merge my FP with my SP? Stay tuned. If I succeed, you will be the first to know. If I fail, we’ll pretend that we never had this conversation – agreed?
And no, I will not be offering refunds on the book.
Dudes, I’m not writing ‘cuz I’m too busy playing THE WORLD’S HOTTEST PUZZLE GAME!!! SUDOKU. Not only is it fun, but I’m hoping it will keep my brain from atrophying into an all-out Alzheimer’s mush-like substance.
Now for something completely different: Ken and I went to see Brokeback Mountain. Did you get that? I said KEN and I. Ken. As in hetero Ken. Also as in not-scared-of-them-homosexyuals Ken. We predicted the audience mix before we actually went into the theater and WE NAILED IT: Gay men and older hetero couples. My theory is that the older straight guys aren’t as insecure about themselves as younger hetero guys. Just one more great thing about getting older. It was a pretty good movie but I probably would have liked it better if I was a gay guy.
This weekend: Capote. Another gay guy.
After that I think we’ll have all the gay movies out of our system.
I got a reasonable facsimile of your comments back on board! Some may have typos, or I may possibly have embellished a few to give them that tone of adoration I find so pleasing, but for the most part they’re all there.
A quick update on the tooth problem: I get to see the special dentist on Monday and maybe he’ll be able to fix me up. Until then, I continue taking The Antibiotic From Hell that not only cramps up the ol’ fat tummy, but will probably result in giving me every woman’s favorite “problem”: The Vaginal Infection.
(sorry dad, didn’t mean to gross you out).
Sorry kids. Haloscan screwed me over again with their lame-ass comment manager. I had to play junior code writer and restore all the original blogger coding for comments, which disappeared the haloscan comments. I promise, promise, promise – on all my dead relatives – not to ever, ever change the comments section again.
So. It looks like you’re no longer granting people their wildest dreams anymore since I haven’t seen anybody get a wildest dream granted at all this season. Not even your lame-ass so-called best friend Gayle King. Which means my wildest dream of having stomach stapling surgery will never be granted, which I bet you’re REAL happy about. You probably think I’m all pathetic and shit anyway; but in case you haven’t noticed, it looks like you’re totally putting some of that weight back on. You’re gettin’ a little chunky, honey. And just to give you something to think about, I’ve decided to go on a diet myself. Yup, that’s right chickie-poo. In a few short months, I’m going to look soooo much better than you – thanks to my own personal, super-secret weight loss plan. And then you’re going to be BEGGING me to tell you my secret, but I won’t. So take that, be-atch. Yo. So consider this my diet throw-down, which you have no way in hell of winning cause my secret diet plan is sooo going to kick your diet plan’s ass. My super-duper diet plan would so totally beat your weak diet in a knife fight, it’s not even funny. Your diet won’t even be able to lift its sorry-ass head off the Pilates mat to beg my diet plan for mercy, that’s how kick-ass my diet is.
So try not to cry, Oprah. I’ve ALREADY lost 5 pounds on my killer diet. Boo-yah!
I have been suffering with a toothache this week; a horrible, awful toothache. It seems that a root canal I had when I was in my 20s has now come back to haunt me.
A year ago, my current dentist thrust my X-rays in front of my face and made a dire prediction: “You know, you’re eventually going to have problems with this tooth here,” he said, pointing to the cause of my current misery. “The dentist who did this root canal didn’t get your whole root. See here???” I pretended to look at what he was pointing to, but really I wasn’t listening as he explained about root tips and incomplete root canals, etc, etc, etc. Instead, I was recalling the dentist who gave me that root canal. The very handsome dentist. The dentist who I credit with completely curing me of dentist phobia.
When I was 28 years old I lost a filling in a tooth. Not having a regular dentist at the time, I picked one out of the Austin phone book and made an appointment, thinking I would just need to have the filling replaced. No big deal. The next day, I was sitting in the dentist’s chair when in walked one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. He flashed a dazzling smile at me and introduced himself. I fell instantly in love and made vow, right then and there, to schedule regular visits with this guy. Cleanings, whitening, straightening – whatever they offered. After reviewing my X-rays, Dr. Handsome informed me that I needed a root canal. My face must have registered instant fear, because he patted my hand and said “No need to worry. The horror stories you’ve heard are no longer true. Root canals are no big deal these days!”
True to his word, the handsome doctor performed a painless root canal on my tooth. It was so painless, I went out for a run afterwards. The only pain I ever felt was to my pocketbook, but after shelling out a few hundred bucks, I had a tooth that was as good as new. Plus a handsome new dentist. I scheduled those regular cleanings and continued to see (and lust after) Dr. Handsome for the next few years. Everything he did was painless and easy. I actually looked forward to going to the dentist twice a year.
Fast forward 20 years to my current (and not nearly as handsome) dentist predicting the failure of Dr. Handsome’s work. “Not possible.” I thought, dismissing his predictions, “Not Dr. Handsome!” But sadly it now appears he was right after all. My tooth began to hurt on Wednesday. By Thursday it was becoming unbearable and I went to the dentist. By Thursday afternoon it was confirmed: The tooth was infected, and now I needed a specialist to fix the incomplete root canal Dr. Handsome gave me. Of course, as luck would have it, it appears to be Vacation Time for Endodontists, and I’m not even going to be able to schedule an appointment until Monday.
In the meantime, I have a fairly large supply of pain medication and DVDs. I lurch from bed to couch in a synthetic opiate haze. I sleep a lot.
Pain is a horrible thing. It consumes your whole being. It makes you irrational and desperate. Pain even causes people to take their own lives.
Right now though, I’d settle on killing Dr. Handsome.