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.
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10 smart alecks said...:
I never thought to blame the country responsible for manufacturing the scale! Mine was made in China. And you know they are just bitter because we stopped buying their formaldehyde flavored toothpaste. Surely that is why my scale says I weigh only 2 pounds less than my husband. Or maybe your calf has a twin who has migrated to my jeans. Doh! Take back your farm animal, Shauna Glenn!!
Well, if you're looking for someplace else to house your farm animals, PLEASE DO NOT send them to the broadsided barn that's attached itself to MY ass. It has no vacancy and my jeans (who some insipid bunghole designed as HIPSTERS in a size 18??!!!) are already at MAX capacity.
Keep your farm animals in your own pants...or send them to Germany to be made into nice sausages...with sauerkraut. DOH!
Think of chocolate chip cookies (insert your favorite culinary weakness here) as farts. It's that simple.
It always baffles me that this same argument (I'm fat, fat, fat), which is a constant is my house as well, never seems to get the right motivation and/or focus.
This blog gives a lot of attention to flatulance, on behalf of the men-folk, and how we don't keep that noxious gas in.
How is it that the women can contain said gas, even in the face of incredible pressure build-up (3,000 lbs. per square centimeter, perhaps -- you know it's true, otherwise you wouldn't be human) in any given situation, but not pass on a cookie calmly, innocently sitting lifeless on a counter?
How is it that you wait to go to the pooty for hours, until your bladder is about to rupture, causing sepsis and a meltdown, but not resist eating that second serving of mom's enchildadas?
If you can find a way to redirect your valiant and successful attempts at what men fail the most, i.e., farting, snot disposal, et al, no food product can be your lord.
Just sayin'
commish--
nice try, but you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.
comparing farts to food?
are you serious?
Commish,
WTF?
Shauna,
I've completely given up on the idea of "dieting" from Thanksgiving to New Years. I find that if I just go with the flow, I want to kill myself less.
Give yourself a break.
i feel your pain...thank god for breast feeding!
BTW, I did mean "potty" and not "pooty" -- LMAO
I really got to fire my editor.
Well, my point was ability to resist. The comparison -- I thought -- would get your attention.
I am, however, in deep mourning, one brought on by last night's game at Texas Stadium. I was there for the loss, and the ceremony to close down the old yard.
That contributed to the lack of reasonable correlation to the post at hand.
I can't really talk..I just finished eating 3 oreos!!!!!!!!
PS..My scale says it was made in the USA..how about that one!
That Girl From Lubbock is dashing past the Chex Mix and cheese ball to check her scale.... I'm CERTAIN to find out it was made by none other than Al Qaeda!!
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