A Holiday Miracle!

In an amazing turn of events that boggles the mind in the same way that Mary Mother of God could give BIRTH AND BE A VIRGIN AT THE SAME TIME, I have news just as astonishing and unbelievable.

My jeans fit. I can zip them. It's a holiday miracle.

These are the jeans that I blogged about in "Of Purpose, Picket Signs and Fat Girl Jeans," the ones that I could not quite close entirely and therefore had to rely on a knotted bandanna through the belt loops that made me most closely resemble an unwed PREGNANT GIRL whose belly button had popped. (If I put the knot to the side, I just looked like a expectant mother with some sort of side stomach tumor.)

BUT TODAY, they fit. I can sit in them, I can eat in them. They do not cut off the circulation between my upper and lower body, WHICH I THINK IS A GOOD THING.

Part of this is hard work, the other part is the fact that a horrifc cold has hijacked my taste buds and left me comatose for most hours in the day when I might be eating. But mostly hard work. With a pinch of fear of facing the Weight Watchers Lady with the petulant puss who I know is expecting ME TO FAIL, BUT I WILL NOT FAIL. I will be VICTORIOUS.

This week, she will give me more than just a surprised look on her face when I step on that scale. SHE WILL GIVE ME BRAVO STAR STICKERS. They will probably ask me to lead the meeting, be their national spokesperson and be on the cover of their magazine (bizarrely called "Diane") which I will rename "Former Fattie" and be featured in a ten page spread. Or maybe I'll just get my Bravo stickers.

I must sign off. My dog Cooper is violently humping a toy horse I gave him and if this goes on much longer, I might not be able to sleep in my bed tonight.

A Holiday Miracle!

To All The Awesome Readers of This Blog

There seems to be a lil' confusion about my last post, I wanted to clear some things up. When I post with the title: "How It All Began" I am going back two years ago to when my cousin died and that's when I feel all my depression began. (At some point, I'll put that on the front page, I can see how it would be confusing.)

As for the Prozac stuff, thank you for all your concern. The best book I ever read about anti-depressants was called "Prozac Backlash." It's from a Harvard doctor who in essence says anti-depressants are good, but only for short amounts of time and ONLY COMBINED with therapy, which I firmly believe. (Why just dull the pain but never get in out of your system?)

Which brings me to my next point, yeah, I broke up with my therapist but I still want to be in therapy. I'M A COMPLICATED GIRL, Y'ALL. I've been through some stuff. Why I broke up with her is I felt the lack of being challenged anymore and she would never PUSH ME to talk about my cousin's death even though week after week, I CAME IN THERE LOOKING LIKE A BIG SAD, FATTIE who obviously was deeply sad and troubled.

So I decided to challenge myself. What if I wrote about that time? What if I exorcised those demons on my own? What if I stopped keeping everything on the inside? What if I stopped pretending it didn't happen? What if I pushed myself to do new things out of my comfort zone? What if I SAID YES TO EVERYTHING instead of NO? What if I got out of BED?

It seems to be working, though when my insurance benefits kick back in, on January 1, I hope I will find someone new to help me with the journey.

Other things you might want to know, sometimes I feel bad if I blog about sad stuff so I will then blog about something ridiculous. Sometimes I am blogging without pants. Sometimes I blog from the library and there is a man on the next computer wearing no pants.

To All The Awesome Readers of This Blog

How It All Began Part 3 "How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs"

At this point, I know I am in the deepest depression I have ever experienced. When I was fourteen and my cousin Michael died in a skiing accident, I was not so much depressed right away as in an incredible amount of shock.

With David's death, there was shock and yet, I felt pulled into that deep dark place with it's vacuum like power, just taking me down. "I will not survive this." "I can't get on that plane." "I can't come back here... I can't go back to a job where we tell jokes and LAUGH all day. IT'S NOT FUNNY! NOTHING IS FUNNY ANYMORE. Nothing makes sense anymore."

I better get some drugs. If there ever was a time to get some prescribed drugs, NOW IS THE TIME.

I had already called the doctor and made the appointment. I KNEW ONE THING FOR CERTAIN. I wanted anti-depressants and I wanted sleeping pills. MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF SLEEPING PILLS. They need to be strong enough to overtake the crying, sobbing, howling, heaving, quiet screaming.

The anti-depressants, I had already done research on. Not for me, but for a guy I once dated. (That should HAVE TOLD ME SOOOOO MUCH. Hello red flag. Not because he was depressed but they have to want to get help on their own, ya know?) I knew what I wanted. PROZAC. They're pretty, white and blue and they don't make you gain weight.

EVEN IN MY GRIEF, vanity rules.

The other thing I knew is, if you are going to a reputable doctor, as I was, you cannot look like A HOT MESS, such as I did. They do not give you MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF DRUGS when you look and smell homeless. They have, like, standards, people. If I was going to get what I wanted, I needed to look and dress the part.

Only I couldn't. I couldn't even get out of bed. I forced myself, at the very least, just to get some Ambien so I could sleep. But I did not brush my hair nor my teeth. I did not even put on clothes, I just wore what I had climbed into bed in the day before. Sweats and some kind of top that made it (in my mind) easy to get away with not wearing a bra.

Okay, I thought as I drove over, you look half crazy. This is all going to be about ATTITUDE. DO NOT CRY. IF YOU CRY, YOU WILL NOT GET MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF DRUGS, which I am telling you, YOU NEED, or you will not be able to function. You will not be able to go to the funeral and you will not be able to come back from it.

NOW SMILE PRETTY FOR THE DOCTOR.

But this doctor was not buying it and this doctor was not having it. He immediately hit me with some Prozac but he was not about to let a DEPRESSED MESS like myself who's cousin was just murdered, near any kind of sleeping pills. "PUH-LEEEEEEEEEEEEESE," I begged. "No," he said. That kind of authorotative "NO" that let me know I was already skating on thin ice. And if I wanted my Prozac prescription, I better just shut up. So I did. He gave it to me and I ran.

Because I had another plan to get what I wanted.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

How It All Began Part 3
"How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs"

The Healing Power Of Cheese Bagels & How to Know When It's Been A While Since You Got "Some"

I am sick. I would say "sick as a dog" but I don't know what that means. My symptoms are sneezing as if I were allergic to everything, coughing as if I had a two pack a day habit, a lack of energy (which, strangely, isn't so different than any other day) and an overall "BLAH" feeling.

One symptom I don't seem to have is a lack of appetite. So since soup isn't really a breakfast food and I would certainly feel foolish eating a food for breakfast that WAS NOT a breakfast food and since I'm quite sure there is a saying, "FEED A COLD, STARVE THE NEIGHBOR WHO LET'S HIS DOG POOP ON YOUR LAWN AND DOESN'T PICK IT UP," the only remedy I could see for BIG COLD, BIGGER APPETITE WAS:

Eat a cheese bagel.

It was delicious. I'm already feeling better in fact. I've stopped sweating and my hair is shinier, so I'm thinking I should call the American Medical Journal and report on the healing powers of cheese bagels.

HOW TO KNOW IF IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU GOT "SOME"

We are all clear on what "SOME" means, right? If you don't know, PLEASE CALL A FRIEND, one that won't laugh at you. Anywhoo, I'm at a place where there is a sign demonstrating what to do if someone should need CPR (strangely, there was NOT a picture of someone running away, as I have done the last two times someone started choking in front of me.)

What catches my eye on the poster, is A MAN prying a WOMAN'S MOUTH open with his fingers in a manly and authoritative way, and I become BOTH JEALOUS AND AROUSED. (But mostly, jealous... and aroused.)

And that my friend, is how you know it's been a while since you got some.

The Healing Power Of Cheese Bagels & How to Know When It's Been A While Since You Got "Some"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Me !!!

Even though I woke up with a massive head cold and even though I woke up spooning with the bum of my 9 pound Chihuahua, I just know THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST YEAR EVER.

Thanks for sharing it with me! I'm going to blog later, for sure. Right now, I must partake in being worshiped by one of my BEST-IES while eating a BIRTHDAY CHOCOLATE CHIP PANCAKE. (The lady behind the Weight Watchers counter with the perpetual puss would SO be frowning on me right now :)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Me !!!

The Biggest Loser

If I could have any wish in the world (and that wish could not be for world peace, to end the genocide in Darfur, to end all wars, stop the world from melting, get a job, bring my cousin back, make my Mom sane again, clone and freeze the DNA of my dog), I would wish to weigh what a girl weighs and not a man weighs.

Right now, I most certainly WEIGH WHAT A MAN WEIGHS. (And Ladies, he's not a thin man, either.)

Today, I took a step to end that. Last week, me and my friends L & S went and joined Weight Watchers. I always imagined the kind of woman that joins Weight Watchers was gigantic, wears loud sweaters a la Cliff Huxtable and has 8 or more cats. What's weird is, it's the total opposite. It's a bunch of hip girls with their cool clothes, rockin' handbags who speak in a foreign language of "points," "flex or core" and "activity points."

Every time I've been on a diet it has involved shame, embarrassment and pre-eating before I go out to dinner as not to attack a bowl of Fettucine Alfredo at a restaurant. Now there's gabbing about sensible snacks, morning smoothies and success stories!

This morning I got on the scale at Weight Watchers. I had a whole speech prepared to the lady running the machine, "Listen, I'm not trying to lose any weight before the holidays, okay? Just maintain, so when you see the scale has not budged since last week you can save me the SAD EYES and the PEP TALK, okay?"

But before I could say that, she said, "You lost 2 pounds." Then she stamped my card with three, COUNT 'EM, THREE "Bravo" STAR STICKERS.

I almost cried. And had we not been separated by a 2 foot counter, I might have lept over it an HUGGED HER, I WAS SO FRICKIN' HAPPY. (Which is probably precisely why that counter is there.)

Somethings I know for sure, today. I'm always going to bet on myself - I might just lose which means I win. When I do lose all this weight - it will be for the last time. I don't care who dies, who goes crazy or who dumps me. When I am at my goal weight, like I was just 2 years ago, I will not THINK ABOUT "MAYBE IF I JUST LOSE 10 MORE." I will not think about "MORE," I will think about how lucky I am that I am at A HEALTHY AND GOOD AND SKIRT WEARING WEIGHT and that I don't want to waste anymore time NOT appreciating where I am at THIS MOMENT RIGHT NOW.

Like this moment right now. Two pounds lighter. To someone else, it might not seem like much. To me, it's a miracle.

The Biggest Loser

Thinking About Death is Fun!

UPDATE: Getting Truth-y
I wrote this entry because I had one too many glasses of red wine. Okay, that's a lie. I had one glass of red wine. Which is even worse, because I wasn't even drunk enough to justify why I would write a post like this. EXCEPT: It was a great, fun way to avoid Part 3 of "How It All Began" which I swear, I will get too shortly, unless I can think of some other embarassing INNER WORKINGS OF MY MIND

I don't know why I always think about death this time of year. It's two days before the celebration of me shooting out of my mother's loins (my birthday. What? I was trying to be colorful.)

Anyway, a few weeks ago I said to my friend L, "If I die, I want to have my spec sitcom scripts paper mached around my feet like boots and then I would like to be SHOT OUT OF A CANON. Make that happen." (Which, if she comes up against my mother, she WILL NEVER MAKE THAT HAPPEN.)

Then I was looking through old emails of exactly this time last year and found one to L, again, requesting what I would like to happen to me if I died. (WARNING: MUCH WINE WAS CONSUMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS EMAIL, as I had by now, spent over one month, unexpectedly in my childhood twin bed after my mother's glorious, tragic and somewhat entertaining nervous breakdown.)

HERE'S THE EMAIL:

"If i die, i would like to lie in state in a cascde of broken ice chips (not cubes, cubes will not be right for the occasion.)  In the ice there will be stations for fresh rolls, then roast beef, turkey, ham, assorted salads and dressings. Should there be a hot station, too? If so, that's where the rolls should be. Also, a rotissere chicken or a tri-tip might be nice. Let's talk soup, too. Something in a bisque, a crab or tomato. The last stop, would be my feet, is where people will help themselves to one or several imported beers. So in essence, if we can steal one of those huge salad bar stations Whole Foods, I'm good."

I know, I'm bizarre. If you haven't figured that out yet, really, what can I do?

Thinking About Death is Fun!

Can You Die Of Humiliation???

So last night I'm at my weekly "Project Runway" Party where we all gather for dinner and wine and gossip and overall fashion cattiness. It has become the highlight of my week and as my friend R put it, "The weekend officially starts on Wednesdays." (Which for me, being unemployed, it could offcially start at 10:45am on a Monday... not that I'm bragging.)

Anyway, one of the beauties brought this gorgeous box of Christmas chocolates and it was passed around until it came to me in which the hostess swooped in and said, "NO CANDY FOR YOU, I'VE READ YOUR BLOG." At which point, I was really humiliated because for 1, don't really want my blog used againist me and 2, I know the blog IS OUT THERE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE, but some people there were strangers and I really don't want them knowing that I AM OBSESSED WITH MY FAT ASS.

The Hostess then metaphorically wagged her finger in front of me, letting me know, I, MYSELF, THE POSSESER OF SAID FAT ASS, had blogged about wishing my friends had said something to me while I was in my deepest depression and couldn't see for myself that my OWN ASS WAS GROWNING IT'S OWN ASS. To which I say, GO REREAD the entry, "OH, MY GOD, YOU'RE SO FAT, CONGRATULATIONS!"

Because I'm pretty sure for all it said, IT DID NOT SAY, YANK A BOX OF CHOCOLATES AWAY FROM ME and embarass me in front of strangers.

That said, those fancy chocolates weren't that good so I stole a Santa Hershey bar from one of Hostesses' kids and ate it on the way home.

Can You Die Of Humiliation???

How It All Began Part 2 aka "Gimme Some Damn Drugs!"

The day I found out that David died, I immediately left work and went home. I laid or lay on my bed (which ever is grammatically correct) and stared at my ceiling fan. I FELT THE MOST ALONE I EVER HAD IN MY LIFE. Alone. I can't tell anyone what really happened. Alone. I can't let anyone see me cry (my secret fear). Alone. How do I go back to a job AS A SITCOM WRITER where I get paid TO BE FUNNY after this?

I will get fired.

They will see me when I come back to work and they will see right through me. They will see the sadness and the grief and they WILL GO BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and say "she will never be the same," "she cannot pull her own weight," "we should just cut our loses."

And then they will fire me.

Which in a weird way brought me relief... because I was in a deep black cold dark ocean with waves coming at me in both directions and everything they would say would be right and true. BUT THEN, the fact that if I DID NOT have that job and I had to lie or lay here in bed, all alone, staring that that ceiling fan with nothing but envisioning my cousin's murder, OVER AND OVER AND OVER again in my head, that's what might be THE END OF ME.

SO I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE. Where I called a doctor after formulating a plan. That he would give me drugs. Happy pills, anti-depressants, not get fired from your job pills, horrible inexplicable situation pills, SOMETHING TO CUSHION THE BLOW pills.

Good idea.

I called and made the appointment. Now I just had to stare at the ceiling for eighteen more hours.

(To Be Continued - Right Now I'm Thing the Title Will Be "How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs."

How It All Began Part 2 aka "Gimme Some Damn Drugs!"

Why Bloomingdales Must Immediately Install Treadmills In Their Dressing Rooms

If you are having trouble starting your diet, going to the gym or putting the figgy pudding down, HERE'S MY ADVICE TO YOU: Get thee to the nearest mall and try on, oh, say, a festive holiday blouse, sweater, shrug, top or cardigan. It can be silk, cotton, acrylic (though I hope it's not), wool, spandex or rayon.

In preparation for the biggest holiday of the year, MY BIRTHDAY, (this Saturday, mark your "Hello Kitty" calendars) I went to the mall to buy a new top. WHAT I FOUND OUT ONCE in my most VUNERABLE STATE OF UNDRESS in the dressing room is almost too HORRIFYING TO ADMIT.

NOTHING FIT. (Not even the Spandex). Not even with sucking in, hardly breathing or imagining certain parts of the body BEING TAPED DOWN WITH DUCT TAPE. NOTHING.

That's when I came up with this BRILLIANT IDEA. (I needed to have brilliant idea or I was going to have a screaming, crying, why did I eat a crossiant nearly everyday for two years hissy fit.) My idea is, Bloomindales or (Insert name of Favorite Department Store here) needs to IMMEDIATELY INSTALL TREADMILLS IN THE DRESSING ROOMS.

I swear, I would have paid $25 bucks to work out right then and there. MAYBE MORE! The stores would make a killing. The treadmills could be coin operated like washers and dryers! And after a workout, I would spend, spend, spend, knowing my 30 minutes on a fifty dollar rent-a-treadmill had given me hope that maybe some of my purchases might fit in 3 - 5 weeks. (Results may vary)

Perhaps, too, like a ride at DisneyLand, they could also take a photo of me ON THE TREADMILL, in the dressing room, wearing the shirt I picked out BUT DOESN'T FIT but I have still insisted on cramming over my head and shoulders and I am probably going to have to be cut out of it in order to give it back. MAYBE IF I SAW MYSELF like that, my stomach peeking out of too tight jeans with a top that looks like a half-shirt because I can't get it over my round-y stomach, I would keep running and running and running and fit into this top in 3- 5 weeks (Results are not typical.)

Okay, I gotta get cooking on this idea. Treadmills! Coming to a mall near you!

Why Bloomingdales Must Immediately Install Treadmills In Their Dressing Rooms