Spanx (Images May Be Larger Than They Appear)

© John Takai - Fotolia.comMy body is out of control. I’ve been working out for seven weeks, six times a week and can’t lose a single pound. I have no clothes that fit me and I don’t want to buy any because I plan on losing it. It’s just my body isn’t going along with the plan. My thyroid is fine, I’m drinking green tea, I’m eating my fiber; still my body betrays me.

This past weekend Homer and I were invited to a private function at Ki Modern Japanese Restaurant in Toronto.  I mention the name because it was fantastic and the staff was fabulous and I like to give shout outs when I get good customer service. It’s so important because people just don’t seem to give a shit anymore so when you actually get good service it stands out.

Anyway, another blog for another day.

It’s been about two sizes ago that I’ve gone anywhere dressy. I combed the closet and found a black, kind of stretchy cotton dress I thought I could get away with.

I thought wrong.

I’m not one for girdles or tight control panties, I opt for comfort every time but there was no way I could go anywhere in that form fitting monstrosity. At least, not without some help. I didn’t want to buy anything new because I’m determined to lose the weight so I did what I swore I would never do. I broke down and bought Spanx.

Did I mention I hate tight things? How I value my comfort? These are desperate times people!

I pulled it out of the bag and presented it to Homer. I don’t know why, I guess I just wanted him to have the heads up that we’ve turned a corner. Of course, by this time we were running late so I stepped into them with no time to change my mind. Homer stood there watching me squeeze my flesh into this sausage casing. It wasn’t pretty.  In fact, it was downright fugly. We can never divorce because I don’t want his second wife to give me the “I know you look hideous getting into Spanx” look. I actually hopped across the hall and lured The Girl from her room to assist in hoisting upward and tucking the folds of flesh spilling out the top. She protested but I insisted it was a valuable lesson in reality.

With no time to think about what I was doing we left the house. I really should have thought it through. I figured if all those people at the Oscars could do it, so could I. I just have to pretend I’m going to the Oscars, I told myself, which isn’t easy sitting shot gun in a four year old Caravan.

I don’t know if anyone can fully prepare themselves for the Spanx experience. Just the logistics of such a contraption alone are exhausting. Standing was good for a while, I could at least squeak in the odd breath, but ten minutes into the sit down meal my legs went numb. And it never occurred to me that going to the bathroom might require an escape plan.

I held it as long as I could, which wasn’t long since my bladder was constricted to half its size from being wedged into my spine. If you’re going to do this you might want to consider bringing a friend and a drink to the can because you’re going to be a while.  I shut the stall door behind me and for the first time that evening thought something through. This time I didn’t have The Girl to help me, so I had to go into old school bush party mode and move the crotch of my Spanx to the side to pee and pray for no spillage. It all went well and I think I actually heard my vagina thank me for the breather.

By the time we got home I practically shoved the babysitter out the door and shed my dress right there in the foyer. I tore at the material and released my belly. At first I think it was in shock and then all sorts of unladylike bodily functions happened.  There I was overcome with a huge sense of relief until the cramps came and then the pain.

Clearly my body was punishing me.

I’m pretty sure I may have some internal injuries.

So the moral of this story is, use at your own risk because unless I’m ever attending the Oscars, you can count me out Spanx. I’m either wrapping up in a huge tensor bandage (hey, at least there some elasticity) or I’m going full on blubber.

Sex: Then and Now

Picture from www.sodahead.com

Its been said when a woman reaches her forties her sex drive increases. Without getting into details I’ve found it to be true, but I don’t know if it’s a biological thing or a psychological shift.

Sex just wasn’t fun for me when I was younger. It was serious business. I had extraordinarily high moral expectations. It was all about love and feelings. It was supposed to be magical and mean something.

Gag.

In reality it was all awkward and embarrassing. I was a chubby girl with an insane fascination for bad boy musicians. Do you see the conflict here? Instead of settling for the math geeks who wanted to date me, I stood my ground insisting on a bad boy with long hair, preferably in a band with a sexy snarl who wrote music that would sing to my soul.

You can stop laughing now.

I was deep. A fat girl with standards. A rare breed.

I spent all my high school years waiting for them to realize the skinny, easy girls couldn’t satisfy them emotionally like I could. You can see how my judgement was a bit flawed.

My second year of college I lost weight. Suddenly bad boys were everywhere including one I’d had a crush on for months. I gave it the old college try but found my heart just wasn’t in it. I was still caught up in feelings and it bugged me to know he was only dating me because I was skinnier.

And that’s how I pretty much looked at every guy from then on. The problem was my judgment still didn’t match my morals. I was still attracted to the wrong guys; the difference was now they were attracted to me. Be careful what you wish for.

Somehow I always thought I was going to find that diamond in the rough, but time after time I would always end up thinking, “Would this guy be with me if I was thirty pounds heavier?”

The answer of course was a firm no. And that’s why I was never good at the one night stand. Which probably pleases my mother to pieces, but DAMN why did I have to think so much? I didn’t want to be that way. I wanted to let loose and have lots of sexual experiences but somehow my standards always got in the way of all the fun I was sure I was missing.

Of course the guys didn’t make it any easier. One time I ran into a guy I’d actually met the year before but because of circumstances our “alone time” had been interrupted. This time when alone again, he looked at me all sweet and sexy and delivered the same EXACT line he had said to me the year before. WORD FOR WORD. Of course, being who I was I had to point it out to him…this led to him making a big girly scene, which totally proved I was right and single-handedly set my head straight. I met Homer not long after.

Now I’m so grateful to be older, wiser and not so intense. My body issues are still there, but they’re my issues and have nothing to do with my relationship, except when I eat something bad and then complain for hours. So not sexy.

I’m at ease in my relationship and that makes sex better. I still have high expectations, but Homer ignores me and it all works out.

I have my regrets about not being more promiscuous, but not enough to tell my daughter to have at it when she’s ready. Sex is for the experienced, not for immature heads filled with deceptive fairy tales of what a relationship should be.

Did I mention Homer’s a drummer? Just sayin.

Lie To Me

Last night I failed at dinner. Totally and utterly failed. This upsets me because I take my cooking personally. I like to try new recipes when I have the time which is usually Sunday. Except this Sunday seemed to get away from me as I attempted a magnificent Lemon Chicken with Croutons. You can find the recipe at the link below, (which pisses me off because I spent $50 on the cookbook). http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/lemon-chicken-with-croutons-recipe/index.html

What followed is too hurtful to post in detail. Let’s just say I underestimated the cook time, maybe burned my hand more than once, glued my hot, expensive pan to a plastic cutting board and had an adult sized pre-menstrual tantrum while Homer tried to avoid eye contact while slapping sandwiches together.

I announced I was too pissed to eat, grabbed a chocolate cupcake and walked past my family to go watch the Oscars. After a breather (two hours) and a glimpse at George Clooney, I went back and finished the dish and put it in the fridge for later.

Tonight I warmed everything up and served the dish as planned. The kids ate in between smart ass comments and Homer raced in the door, panicked to get the boy to hockey practice and ate fast before trying to make a getaway. It was then I noticed the crouton part of his supper still on his plate. I also noted he had left his plate on the table but this isn’t about that. This time.

So I asked, “Are you done?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you not going to eat the croutons?” Thinking he must be trying to cut out Carbs and silently wondering how long it would last.

“I didn’t like them.”

All the sound was sucked from the room. He didn’t like them? Really? This man witnessed my mental breakdown yesterday after trying to piece this meal together and he dared to say he didn’t like every last morsel?

He said it all nonchalantly too, like it was no big deal. Of course it was no big whoop, he didn’t have to make it. Yes, I like to cook but we aren’t siding with Homer right now and it adds nothing to the story. Besides like I said I was in no womanly condition to take criticism; I’ve been dieting, and haven’t had a class of wine in two months.

TWO MONTHS!

But, I’m fine.

The kids ran for cover.

“What? Do you want me to lie to you?”

Fair question. Here’s the answer. Yes. I do. I wanted him to eat everything and say it was the best thing ever…even if it wasn’t. And I mean that with every fiber of my being.

This reminded me of a couple of years ago when I was over at a friends house for lunch. She’d made us burgers and served chips and veggies on the side. I ate all of it. Then as we were talking, she brought up the subject of friendship and honesty. I started to get uncomfortable because she always had a reason for bringing up such topics.

“I think friends should always be honest and give their opinions.”

I nodded (I didn’t agree, but at least I didn’t lie out loud). I didn’t know where this was going so I was being cautious.

“For example,” she said.

Oh shit. Here it comes.

“I’ve noticed you have put on a few pounds.”

What? WHAT? Did she actually just say that to me? How did she expect me to respond? Was I supposed to thank her?

She was clearly confused between telling the truth when asked a question and just sucker punching someone in the face! What really threw me was she just volunteered the information. Did she think I didn’t know?

Oh my God, you’re right. I never noticed the waist of my jearns was trying to severe me at the torso. It’s a good thing you brought this to my attention before it got out of hand.

“I would want you to tell me.” She smiled sweetly.

I cocked an eyebrow and looked around for hidden camera’s before I told her how I felt about lying to friends, which is the same thing I said to Homer tonight and I will repeat here just so everyone is clear.

If I ever ask your opinion on how I look, how my cooking was or if I looked ridiculous in the short shorts and cowboy boots I wore to your cousin’s wedding, I want you to look me in the face and lie. Don’t ever, EVER tell me the truth. I want you to tell me I look fantastic. Always. Lie to me. I do not care. I give you permission to blow smoke all the way up my ass. You will not fry for your sin. Didn’t God want us to do unto others? I would never tell a friend she put on weight, not in a hundred million years. I will lie to your tripled chinned face and I expect you to do the same.

AND if you cook me dinner, I’m going to eat it, or spit it in my napkin, but make no mistake, if you ask me how it was I’m going to tell you it was fanfuckingtastic!

Ms. Honesty and I aren’t friends anymore. Not because of her obvious craziness, but because of her not so obvious craziness. One day I emailed her to tell her we couldn’t make it to a Christmas party (our daughter was sick..total TRUTH), she never returned my email and I didn’t pursue an explanation. I haven’t seen her since. Which is totally better than being around her and all her honesty.

So what do you say? Do you want the truth? Be honest now.

 

 

 

 

Sleep Alone? Yes, Please!

It’s finally happening. People all over are starting to come around to my way of thinking, well, at least on this one issue…but, it’s a start.  It’s taken some time but finally couples are starting to see the benefits of sleeping alone…GASP!

A 2011 poll by the National Sleep Foundation found 11% of married or partnered couples don’t share the sheets with their significant other. I know it’s only a low percentage but sign me up because I’m totally on board.

This is no news to my husband (whom for this post I shall refer to as Homer). He knows if we had a room to spare and he agreed to sleeping in separate beds that I’d be all over it like a fat kid on a Smartie…And I just might get my chance, I just have to move to Britain by 2015 because according to the National Association of Homebuilder’s, 60% of new houses there will have “his and her” master bedrooms by then.

I better start planning my move because I’m getting me one of those houses!

Is it wrong to want to sleep alone? It’s not that I’m in a loveless marriage (please don’t send me inquiring emails) I love me some Homey, it’s just that I prefer to have a bed to myself. I have a hard time getting to sleep, my mind is in a constant state of GO!!  So, when I fall asleep I like to remain that way. And if for some reason you disturb me, well, let’s just say you better bring protection.

When I was working full time I would be in bed before Homer so I could try and fall asleep before he came to bed, it was my only chance to fall asleep gracefully. Somehow this worked to a degree because if he woke me when he came in with his moving, tossing, gas passing business then I would already kind of be relaxed and had a better chance of falling back asleep.

But now that I don’t have to get up so early, I go to bed later, which means most of the time we are turning in together. This is not working for me. He seems to be doing just fine. Albeit, he has his own issues with sleep but they seldom have anything to do with me.

I settle in with my pillow tucked under my neck, turn on my right side and stare for about fifteen minutes, making sure not to get too close to Homer because I hate to be touched when I’m sleeping. Yes, I have lots of rules. Then, I move onto my back and lie there like a plank of wood and wait for sleep. Just when I’m dozing off, nine times out of ten, Homer clears his throat or does one of his famous double rotations with a twist and startles me awake causing my anxious little heart to race. And the cycle begins again.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame him, I mean I guess he can move if he wants to but it’s very disturbing.

Lately though, well, two times this week he has taken his life in his hands by waking me up because apparently I’ve been snoring; I must add here that I never snore, but Homer has been known to let a few lose after a night with Bud Light. I know he’s getting a little of his own medicine by having to deal with this interruption and that should be satisfying but somehow it’s overshadowed by knowing that I’m snoring and not lying peacefully like Snow White. Snoring is so not sexy.

The kicker to all this is those two nights when he woke me, I was having the best sleep I’ve had in a long time. So you see, if we could agree to sleep in different rooms (with mandatory options for midnight visits) we could snore, flip, fart and scratch our way into a better night’s sleep. We would wake up refreshed and ready to tackle another day with possibly enough energy left over for a “conjugal visit” before retiring.

Your room or mine?