Why I Hate Bowling & 3 Inch Stacks of Meat

Last night Brandonius Maximus and I found ourselves bowling with his dad and little brother. It’s kind of a hobby we have. It’s almost the only thing we all have in common, other than watching The Office and telling each other inappropriate jokes.

Now, when I was in treatment stint number 2…no, wait. I mean this with all honesty, I for reals can’t remember if it was number 2 or 3, but I’m thinking it’s probably 3, so we’ll go with that. Ahem. So while I was incarcerated, hus to the band naturally found himself lonely and out of sorts and going crazy with love and worry and pinage awaying for me. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but in his case, MY absence made his heart grow fond of, well, bowling. I know. Lame, right?

But his dad outfitted him with his own special ball complete with custom made finger holes (that’s what she said) and got him some of his own bowling shoes and a bag to store it all in. And while I was gone, he went all the time with his dad and brothers. And I guess he got kinda good. His score went from, you know, like 100ish to 120ish…? No, kidding. He can now score at least into the upper 150’s. So when I finally was released from the place for hope and healing, I initially rebuffed his offers for me to bowl with them.

I mean, they were being so cliquey. They had matching bags. They knew the totally nast guy BY NAME whose face looked like a wrinkly baseball mitt that worked at the alley they frolicked at. And I thought that it was nice Husband had a cute little hobby.

But then I started to get jealous because he was going, like, all the time. Seriously. So I took him up for his offer and I started to go with him. And I sucked. Bowing isn’t easy, I swear. If before you had a pre-conceived notion of bowlers, that they sucked at “real” sports that required real skills, like catching and throwing a ball, or maybe they were real mama’s boys and couldn’t deal with contact sports, so they settled with bowling, and it came along with cheap letterman style jackets and a cigar smoking habit to make up for any and all skills they might otherwise have in life…
But that could just be me thinking that. I mean, it probably is, right?
Trust me. I learned the humiliating way. Bowling isn’t for pussies. It’s haaaaaard.

And if you know me, you know that I’m pretty darn awesome at sports. I was, like THE ATHELETE OF THE YEAR in 9th grade. They interviewed me for the paper.
Er, never mind it was the school paper, and not like the city-wide read paper. Who cares? I had skills. And hand-eye coordination. I had bruises I was so proud of from throwing myself melodramatically all over the volleyball court. I was the stuff legends are made of. And I thought it was time to start makin’ me some legends in bowling. So I talked myself up BIG. BIIIIIIGGG. I made Husband think I was practically pro at bowling. And then, I think, like, my first score was probably 60. If I’m lucky. And I might be lying a little. It was probably closer to 30. Ahem.

But then Bran had the notion that if he just got me my own ball with my own special form fitting finger-holes, and if I got my own shoes, and my own cute pink bag to cart it all around in, then maybe, just maybe, I could be good like him and all the Joe’s wearing trucker ball caps we knew at the alley we went to.

So we bought me a reaallllly supersuperadorablycute ball which we had inscribed Cade’s Mama on. I had wanted to inscribe I’m Boobalicious, but Brandon gave me a big N to the O on that one. He’s such a stifling husband. My creativity cannot bloom in this environment. But that’s entirely another post for another day. He’s sitting next to me doing homework, and I can feel his resentful vibes coming my way. He knows when I’m writing about him, I swear.

So back to the ball: I got one. And a really fashionable pair of pink and black bowling shoes – well, at least as “fashionable” as frickin’ bowling shoes can be.

Cade’s Mama was a 10 pounder, and she was a real beaut. And I started going with them all the time. It was an ideal sport for an underweight anorexic, because it was like I was playing a “sport” without burning too many calories, which, by the way, I was not allowed to do. And I got kinda good. Pretty soon (as in several months) I got to a point where I rarely had a game lower than 100. I never really got higher than 110, but hey. It’s better than 30.

But then, I really learned how bowling is different from other sports: (aside from the fact that only truckers exceed at bowling) with real sports, with enough practice, you get better. But not in bowling. The more you bowl, the more you suck. Seriously. It’s quite a heart-breaking phenomenon. So then I started to feel bad for myself and resent that my previous 100 score games were now dropping to 80’s and 70’s. So I decided I was going to be a quitter. A giant quitter. But I didn’t care! My frail self-esteem does not at the present time need me sucking at ONE MORE THING, geez. Lay off me, okay?

But yesterday. Ah, yesterday. Husband wanted us to go bowling with the boys. And, I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I totally acquiesced, without even a fight. I actually thought it might be fun. So we left to meet them at the alley, and we stopped at the 7 Eleven that was next door so that I could get dinner. I grabbed a Lunchable because who wants to eat a gas station hot dog? EEEwwwy!

Now, my friendly readers, take warning, and please, PLEASE learn from my mistakes: do not, DO NOT get your own bowling gear. Do not purchase a special ball, or shoes. You may only do so if someone has a gun to your head and says they’ll shoot you if you don’t do so. Then you can. But you might regret it. Why, you ask? Why all this drama? BECAUSE WHEN PEOPLE SEE YOU WALK INTO AN ALLEY WITH YOUR OWN GEAR, THEY ACTUALLY THINK YOU’RE REALLY GOOD!! I mean, aside from the fact I’m a female, which in and of itself is weird, because most of the hardcore trucker wrinkly faces have never had one, and certainly rarely had relations with them, they’ll stare. But when you walk in with your own hard-core gear, you are in. for. it.

Because they’ll all crowd around and watch you bowl. Watch the GIRL bowl. I’m supposed to be good, aight? But I’m not. I’ve actually gotten worse. So yesterday just as I was getting up to go, I looked behind me, and there, leering with the few teeth he had left was, like, a bowling groupie. He had my soda, and he looked so happy to be looking at me, watching the chick pro. I think that first turn I knocked down, like, 3.

But that’s all aside from the point! Back to my Lunchable:

I had my first with the cracker and cheese and turkey, right? Only, the turkey was sorely lacking in sodium, and it was strangely slippery-like. I gave the turkey the benefit of the doubt, had another one, and was not impressed. It looked and tasted like pink scotch tape. So I decided to just skip the poorly processed meat and stick with the cheese and crackers. About halfway through the game husband was bugged with me, I think. He said my head wasn’t in the game because I was texting with Racher, but we were planning an intervention, and that was much more important that focusing on Leering Trucker behind me and getting a high score. But if Bran wasn’t bugged with me before, he certainly was when he saw that I hadn’t partaken of all of my so-called meat. I shrugged and gave him my pink scotch tape reasoning, and he said that meat can’t taste like scotch tape, but I quickly assured him that it could, oh – it could. But then, to test the theory out (and, I think, to gross me out) he picked up the entire tower of it – about 3 inches high, and stuffed it in his mouth. I mean, it barely fit, people. And once he saw my horrified glance, he started laughing, and as he opened his mouth, I saw all that pink goo everywhere, and my cheese and crackers started knocking around down there, asking if they could come back up, so I put my head in between my legs and told them no and prayed that what I had just seen was a nightmare.

It wasn’t.

But, Bran did go to the garbage and spit it all out, and I told him it was a damn good thing he did, otherwise he’d be talking to my attorney who would be asking him to sign divorce papers right about now.

So, a few lessons I have learned throughout this whole “bowing phase” in my life.

1. Purchasing a supercute pink ball and shoes doesn’t automatically make you good. It just makes you look hot while you suck.
2. Having an old wrinkly guy with a beard as long as Moses and a chain-smoking habit leer at you is better than having no guy look at you at all. You take your flattery where you can get it, even at the risk of having your clothing taken off with someone else’s eyes.
3. Stick with things you can get better at, not get worse at. My high score yesterday was a 61.
4. Contemplate vegetarianism seriously.
5. Realize that your husband is no different than the sketchy men he frequents the same alley with. Realize he probably learned this meat-stuffing technique from another trucker.
6. Never trust the Lunchable product again.
7. Quit bowling.

Hey, does anyone wanna buy some bowling gear?

Emo is _________

Last night Brandon and I were chatting. I happened to say ‘angsty,’ and he asked me what it meant. After pausing, thoughtful for a minute, this was the conversation that ensued:

“Well, I guess think emo with less black,” I was like.
“Well, that gets me thinking. What really is emo anyway?” He was like.
Hmmm. Good point, man, I was thinking.
“Emo is like the cool thing to do now when you’re a kid. 14 year old lesbians who wear black and are in a band, are, like, emo,” I said, thoughtfully.
“Oh, okay. So kind of like Dawson when his dad died, but with bands or purple hair?” He was like.
“Exactly!” I exclaimed. Eureka!

But then I’ve been thinking about it, and, well, what really is emo? I think we all have our own definitions.

Tell me yours, please.

[I mean no harm to those emo's out there. I just want to know what you are!]

So Many UNs

I’ve been blogging now for close to a year. And, surprisingly, my blog started to be read by more than I ever thought – indeed I’ve heard of people that I kindasortanotreally know that read my blog…and I think, Wow, I kinda write personal things on here (and how on earth did they even find my blog?). But then I also remember: my blog is public. It was my choice to put it on the worldwideweb.

I get my fair share of emails from people all over the country (and even world) who read my blog and want to thank me for the humor I bring even through devastating trials like suffering and trying to recover from an eating disorder – and those emails seriously, like, feed me. They keep me going. They make me think that even though I haven’t accomplished much in my life, at least I’m helping some people. And that's when I remember why I keep my blog public. For the self-esteem boost. No, I'm kidding. Kind of. I really do find a great sense of peace and purpose when I know that others feel inspired from reading moi.

I mean: college – been there, dropped out of that. On independence: I still need my mommy and hubby and therapist. On confidence: I ask Bran at least fourteen times a day if I look fat, or pretty, or if I did a good job warming up the soup we’re having for dinner. I’m not a domestic goddess. I hate to clean. I’m not a perfectionistic clean-freak like most typical anorexics are. I live in chaos. I am chaotic. Hell, I can write on un-lined paper! Whoa!!

I’m a complete failure when it comes to society’s standards. I don’t have a commanding, high-paying, high stress job. I don’t drive a beamer. Half the time my kid only bathes once a week. His hair is crispy. And crusty. And, on some days, mine is too. And still, I didn’t bathe him this morning. I didn’t bathe this morning either, to be frank. And gross. I use a blow-dryer or a curling iron maybe 3x a month. A month, people. The rest of the time it air dries and is in a nasty bun. People think I’m so put together. I have an awesome husband, a crazyadorablepsychotic kid, the whole shebang. And I’m not saying those things aren’t miracles and wonderful supersupercool things in my life, I’m just saying there’s more than meets the eye. There’s a lot more to me, and most of it isn’t really all that swell.

But I don’t often write about that.

Sometimes I wonder, when I’m deciding what I’d like to blog about on a particular day, what people want to read. Or don’t want to read. And obviously my blog is for me, and should be for me. I luuuuuuurve blogging. Sometimes I just lose sight of that.

I forget that some people want to hear the serious stuff, and some are just here to read when I’m funny or at least trying to be and just come off as moronic. And I can't please everyone and I know I just need to deal. And sometimes I’m funny even when I want to cry. And most of the time it helps. But sometimes it doesn’t, and in those times there’s nothing for me to do but take a benzo and bite my fingernails.

And then, to make matters worse, a favorite blogger of mine sent me an article and I read that my teen idol, my love, the face on the countless bookmarks I made and laminated as a teen…David Duchovny, my Agent Mulder, the man I named my car after…went into rehab for, for…A SEX ADDICTION. I almost laid an egg when I read the article, I kid you not. BAGOOOOOOCK! (Is that the sound a hen makes?) Totally shrieking out, people.

And this is okay. I judge not. It just makes me feel a bit uncomfy, is all.

So, this uneducated, unkempt, underqualified, unperfect, uncool, unsuccessful, unaccomplished person is just going to have to suffice. For you. For me. And for David Duchovny.

Food-related addictions, sex addictions, we all the same. Group hug!

A Product of Poor Parenting Skills

Cade has taken up the hobby of smacking. And evil looks, which Brandon so aptly named “spanking with his eyes.” He’ll hit me, and I’ll say, “No, Cade, no hits. Say sorry.” And I’m angry, but I try not to let him see it, only my gentle (but also so, so firm) guiding hand. But then he looks up at me with those dark blue eyes and those long spidery lashes, and he smiles and shows the dimple in his left cheek, and he says, “Sowy Mama.”

And I melt.

Until 2 minutes later, when he smacks me again.

And I repeat my speech. (Which seems to be working, as you can see.) (But I keep trying it.) (All to no avail.) (And yet.)

Or he’ll chuck his toys at the wall, chipping the paint. And he especially loves drawing on them with a pencil. And, so, so unfortunately, pencil scribbles do not erase from walls. I’ve tried. Desperately. Many times.

And then: repeat “sowy” cycle = stern mom, sweet boy, manipulate and melt my malleable (alliteration: 4 points!) heart…

Clearly, he does not really feel repentant for his misdeeds.

So, my question is this:
Is he simply in the Terrible Two’s, or do I suck at punishing (or lack thereof) my son?

I’m beginning to think my first is going to be really screwed up.

But at least he no longer humps the TV.

20 Q's

1. What do you want right this minute? For my hubby to eggo my preggo. Me baby hungry.
2. If you were a boxer, what would your ring name be? Thunder Fries.
3. Would you rather be perfect from the waist up or the waist down? Ooh, what a tough riddle. I love nice legs, but I think I’d rather have a nice mug.
4. Would you rather meet Oprah or Ellen? Ellen fo sure. She’s such a cute lezzy, and she’s totally hilarious.
5. Have you ever had Gonorrhea? WTF?
6. What does your favorite pair of underwear look like? They’re pink boy-shorts that say Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! all over them. I love that I bought them at American Eagle (where many pre-teens shop) and the undies have a subtle sexual theme. I wonder if the 12 year olds got it?
7. What’s one thing you’re afraid of? The dark. Especially if there’s a mirror in the room. I sleep with my bedside lamp on or the hall light if Husband is especially grumpy about it. I’m considering taking the mirror out of my room…
8. If you could be reincarnated as someone/something, what would you pick? A cat that is well taken care of. All I’d do is eat and sleep and scratch up my master’s furniture all day. Also, I’d like to be spayed and preferably have all male cats kept away from me. The poor ladies don’t even want it!
9. Who is your least favorite actor? I’d have to say J Lo. Something about her gives me chills in my private parts (not good ones).
10. Do you ever have recurring dreams? Yes, I have a dream where I am trying soooooo hard to speak, but I can’t open my mouth. This dream sometimes has my hubby, or my therapist, maybe my parents in it…all of these people I so desperately want to speak to, to have them understand me, but they can’t…and at first they’re patient with me, but then gradually they leave me because they’re tired of trying to hear me. It’s very disconcerting, and I always wake up feeling so scared. But then I pop open a can of Diet Coke and it’s all good.
12. Do you like reality TV? Oh yeah, baby. I find it so scandalous, I love it! Though I DEF don’t think reality is actuality, and it can be awfully and painfully scripted, but I sure do enjoy it. (That’s what she said.)
13. Are you happy right now? I kinda wanna mitch and boan for a bit, but overall I’m ‘aight.
14. Would you rather have a salad or a burger? Neither. Give me fries and a hot dog. (Yes, Rachel, I just said hot dog.)
15. What would you do if you were locked in a room with your worst enemy for 3 days? Play dead.
16. Were you popular in high school? You know, while I was actually in high school, I didn’t actually think I was at all. (I was STUNNED when I learned I had gotten nominated for prom queen.) But looking back, I can see that I was sort of in the middle…not the most popular, but I def had friends that put up with my sometimes outgoing most of the time introverted personality.
17. What did you want to be when you were little, and did you follow that dream? I’ve always known that I wanted to write – and write anything, it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m doing what I love. And yeppers, I’d say I’m working on that dream.
18. What’s one of your favorite quotes? “Are you retarded? I really thought you were retarded!” (Garden State) and “Would I rather be feared or loved? Both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me.” (Michael Scott from The Office)
19. What is one of your weaknesses? Oh, geez. There are too many to list. But the first thing that popped into my head? I hate confrontation. Now, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing, but I hate to oppose anyone, because I don’t want to hurt their feelings, or upset me further, and consequently I end up getting walked all over. A lot. I am a door mat that says, “Please, wipe your feces all over me. Or your vicious rhetoric.”
20. Do you see the glass as half empty or half full? If it’s Boost, it’s always half-full, and there’s always too much of it.

I tag Brett 'n Ang and Rachel, mostly because I want to encourage you to blog more. But really, I want EVERYBODY to do it, cuz I like reading them.

My Son Thinks I’m a Pedophile

Yesterday afternoon:

Cade is lying on his changing table, and I am changing his diaper. I have a wipe, and am cleaning his, you know, private area. Cade then points to his manhood and says,

Mama, touchin’ my peeps...RIGHT THERE!!

And then, to make his point, he enthusiastically jabbed at his junk.

I laughed, put on his diaper, and he scampered off to play.

5 minutes later

I’m on the sofa, watching TV, and Cade’s playing with his trucks. He seemed to be in his own world, talking to himself, and I love to watch him in those moments when he is in a far off place, as he is just beginning to imagine how very cool and mysterious life can be. But then he started to say, just as he had a few minutes prior, Mama’s touchin’ my peeps, Mama’s touchin’ my peeps, Mama touchin’ my peeps!

EEEEEAAAAAAAAASY, Kid.

I hope a case worker from DCFS doesn’t overhear him, or I may go to jail.

A Nightmare Come True

Well, I had an interesting afternoon.
And by interesting I mean panic riddled and fear inducing.
Husband and I decided to take Cade to the Living Planet Aquarium. We’d never been, and we thought it’d be a fun family outing.
Um, what was I thinking?
I honestly and for reals truly have a searing fear for all things aquatic. Fish and/or anything living in the water are not cute, or majestic, or awe-inspiring. They are frightening. I hate them. So what happened when I walked up to the shark tank you ask? Well, this giant leopard shark or whatever the hell it was leered at me and like jumped out and I shrieked. And then I said the S bomb way too many times to count, with my own son and a plethora of young, malleable-minded children around.

But the panic attack didn’t start until I saw the octopus.

Brandon moved me away from the tank before I could get a picture, but it was probably a good idea because I was starting to have a hot flash and ready to give my right breast for a benzo. I calmed down a bit when he stuck me under an air-conditioning vent.

Admittance fees: $16
Three-foot stuffed snake for the man-child: $12.95
Peanut Butter M&M’s: .59 cents
Watching Mommy have a panic attack at the octopus tank: priceless

Seriously, this thing looks like it could skin teenagers in the woods. What was God thinking?

Cade and Daddy looking at the nasty eel.

This was taken about 2 minutes before my octopus OMG moment. If you look closely, you can see jellyfish in the tank. They were okay until I saw a dead one.

SO. GLAD. I. SURVIVED.

Shadow Slayer? Really?

Well folks, the results of the poll are in, and they are as follows:

If you were to go by one of these names for the rest of your life, which would you choose?

Chicken ‘n Pickles – 5%
TinRoofSugar – 17%
Munchie – 18%
Shadow Slayer – 22%

Wow. Seriously, do a bunch of sci fi enthusiasts or Trekkies read my blog? Who would really want to be known as Shadow Slayer? I was super duper surprised this won the majority of votes. My vote was for TinRoofSugar, which will be my stripper name when slash if The Husband ever lets me swing on a pole. How can you go wrong by combining your favorite ice cream and cookie to make a slutty name? My sister has a neighbor who believes in letting her children name themselves, which is what inspired this poll. Apparently her oldest goes by Shadow, while her younger child so aptly named himself Munchie. Poor kids. And, this is not a joke, though my sissy M is known to embellish things, like, a loooot, but she swears this is true.

So, random thought: I totally heard Tub Thumping by Chumba Wumba on the radio this morning as I was driving to work. That song came out when I was like 12 or something. It’s an oldie, but DEF a goodie! Who doesn’t love to hear about someone who gets knocked down (by being ridiculously inebriated) and gets back up again for more? I remember before I actually knew what pissing meant in England, I really just thought the poor dude had incontinence problems. Ah, the innocence of youth…

I am in the depths of despair right now. I just tried to multiply .26 by 22.5 and then times that all by 2, and I was all proud, because it was so hard, and I thought I did it, but then I checked my math with a calcy and I was off. What is wrong with me? Isn't that like 2nd grade math? Seriously wtf?

Well, this is a weird nothing post. I feel depleted though, from my last superlongnovel I wrote about my trip and interview, so I have nothing else to say, and you’re probably pretty tired of hearing it. So ciao, LOVE YOU, and have a good weekend!

What's your stripper name?

My name is TinRoofSugar and I approved this message.

Behind the Scenes from my NYC Trip, & Live TV Isn’t All it’s Cracked Up to Be

So many things, so little time!

So, the 4 1/2 hour flight to NY wasn’t so bad for me. I slept on a nice comfy pillow most of the time. And by comfy pillow I mean Brandon, and by Brandon , I mean his shoulder. Bad for him, nice for me, but hey, that’s basically the way our whole marriage has gone, huh honey? ;) The one bad for me on the plane was the fact I was sitting next to some dude that looked like the guy on Prison Break who is in the mafia and likes to kill things like me for sport. Me no likey. (Here we are at the airport on our way home.)

And, can I just say that driving in NYC is like driving in a 3rd world country? Our crazy driver would weave and honk and yell and break every conceivable traffic law known to man. I (literally) was praying for the eternal salvation of my soul lest we crash and die in a fiery wreckage of twisted metal. And…the people! They’d just cross the road even if cars were zooming toward them at quite the fast pace. Apparently getting to where You Need to Go is more important than actually living. That’s got to be bad karma if you ask me. It just has to be.

So, the first leg of the trip once we got in NYC was filming the short clip they showed of me before they actually started interviewing me live. It’s so crazy to me that they edited 27 minutes of the interview down to 2. Huh. They sure left out everything I’d have basically wanted them to say, like how cool and (almost) recovered I am, and how awesome Cade is, and how he’s totally babylicious and super smart and un-damaged and how I give major props to my uterus for being really strong and cool and brave throughout the whole ordeal, and oh yeah, like how I LOOOOOAAAATHE the term pregorexia.

And then when they had to film me like staring off into space and looking hella sad and stuff…LAME. Man I felt dumb! I started to try to distract myself and think about fairies and fluffy clouds and nice pieces of male magnificence to distract me…and then the one short scene where I’m curled up on a couch and Brandon was holding me…gah! We were laughing and smiling the whole time, and finally the camera man had to tell us to not smile since this was a serious piece, but how am I not supposed to when Brandon ’s stomach was growling in my ear the whole time? For realsies, he was experiencing some serious hunger pangs.

When they shot me (shot me like on camera, not with a gun, just FYI) outside, there were millions of people walking by me and staring at me and craning their necks and wondering wtf was going on. The director of the shoot actually told one man who

asked him what was going on that I was shooting a commercial for Advil and that I had a terrible headache! AHAHAHAHAHA! I did look pretty pained, if I recall. I was so sick of the camera in my face.

After all that was over, we hauled our famished, weak selves to a nice restaurant over-looking Times Square . Brandon wolfed down a giant burger that weighed approximately as much as my left femur, and I delicately ate a cheese steak. See? I don’t even remember what anorexia is! I didn’t pick out ¾ of my meat at all. (But to my credit, there was lotso meat.)

We ended up crashing in our (amazing) hotel at 8:30, which was only 6:30 in Utah , but we were suuuuuper tired and had to get up at 4:30 the next morning. I slept quite well, withstanding once when I woke up to pee pee, then decided I was hungry and totally ate like half a box of Crunch ‘n Munch. Seriously, who does that? Who wakes up at 2:00 in the morning and decides they want Crunch ‘n Munch? Consequently, my new favorite saying is Crunch ‘n Munch much? It sounds so pretty rolling off my tongue! Oh, and I have to back-pedal a second. So when we got to the Hotel Mela and checked in, the concierge knew I was on the show and asked me if I minded telling him what I was going on the show for. Yes I do, fool! Only, I said that in my head, and out of my mouth (unfortunately) popped the truth, that I was there to talk about eating disorders. He then so eloquently professed: Kidney disorders? Yeah. Everybody’s got those these days! Bwahahahahaha! What a cute little Indian tool!

When we arrived on set in the green room, there was so much breakfast sitting around, and I was too nervous to eat, but I was thinking that everybody was looking at me disapprovingly, like, yeah, she’s anorexic, and we wasted all this money on this delicious food for nothing! –So I stuffed an egg and ham breakfast wrap in my mouth, and my nerves and innards very much regretted my good-intentioned mishap. Eeeewy for egg nastiness wanting to come back up!! Ew! (This is me just a few minutes before I went on the show.)

The lady that was doing my makeup made me laugh, mostly just because people don’t get eating disorders AT ALL, yo. I told her what I was going on the show for, and then almost in the same breath, she was like, yeah, you should totally try out for America ’s Next Top Model, you’d be perfect for it! Hmmm.

ANTM + Brie+ her eating disorder = imminent death and most likely extreme public humiliation.

I suck at math and even I get it. Sigh…

Mike and Juliet themselves were really nice…but also pretty clueless, it seemed. I honestly really believe that they had to dumb themselves down so that the greater American audience would understand. I mean, I thought that it was as well known that eating disorders are about control (among other things) and NOT FOOD just as it is known that the sky is blue or that Danny DeVito is an alien from a galaxy far, far away.

And I’ll apologize now for all the numbers talk, guys. Bad Brie! Bad M & J show! All they wanted to know were numbers! How much did I weigh? How much weight did I lose? What pant size was I? Yadda yadda yadda. Because America still thinks that ED’s are only about numbers, they want to know that, because they’re greedy and weird and sick. So, I do apologize for you having to hear those. I’m weak. I’m a weak weak weak princess. I’m sorry! BAAAAAA!

First mistake that THEY made: The first question I was asked was by Juliet, and she said something, like, So Brie, you only ate 200 calories? WTF sista? Where did she pull that number from? That’s why I paused for a minute, because I had no no no idea what she was talking about. It’s a good thing I’m eloquent and suuuuuper quick on my feet, so I sort of made it seem like I knew what she was talking about. And in the video clip, they said I got pregnant only weeks after getting out of treatment instead of MONTHS. Second mistake THEY made, which was my least favorite: Mike called my MAN-CHILD a WOMAN-CHILD! He is not a girl! He’s handsome and manly. Cate? Ugh! It’s CADE. And I love that he randomly said he was like 1 pound. Do 1 pound babies even survive? I just don’t think they were properly prepped on the whole thing. But oh wellsies! Everyone makes mistakes, no biggie.

I was really nervous (and I think I expressed some of those deep dark fears to you alls) that the audience and the ENTIRE WORLD (because I’m so sure everybody in the world watches the M & J show) were going to think I sucked at life and sucked at being a mom and sucked at eating and well, just sucked in general. But…I’m going to try to give humanity a chance and hope they like me. I like to be liked. I want to be liked. So please like me! I do wish that they would have asked me how I’m doing now, and how Cate Cade is doing now, too. Because we’re awesome. Totally awesome.

The return trip home was better because I was at a window seat and only sitting next to Brandon , and this time he had to sit next to the Greek (maybe?) Jewish guy who totally looked like he didn’t speak English but DID. All I know is that he ate some nasty smelling food and that I could see the bobby pins in his hair securing his cute little hat onto his head. Brandon also made it very clear I was not to use him as a man-pillow, so that totally sucked. I love man-pillows. Man-pillows for president!!!

And then I got home. And I watched the clip a few times, analyzed when I looked fat, when I looked too skinny, when I said something good and when I messed up. But overall? I give my performance a B+.

And then we found out the water heater had broken and leaked all over our family room carpet. It was sopping wet. And that means mold. BOO mold!

And Cade wasn’t happy to see us, mostly because I think he was maaaaaad we had left him. He now prefers his trike over his parental units.

But my fat fluffy kitty lovers were pleased to see me. They seemed miffed the carpet was wet, and I asked them why they didn’t clean it up, and we got into a mini argument because they never pull their weight around there.

So, welcome home, Me! Back to the non-famous me. But you know what? I’m glad. Being famous sucks with all its kidney disorders and crazy limo drivers and nasty egg sandwiches. I love this crazy complicated sometimes hard most times lovely perfect beautiful life of mine.

And in case you fell off the planet and have no idea what the Briester is talking about, go here.

My TV Experience Posted on Jezebel

Hey all! Mucho thanks to Sarah for alerting me to the fact that Jezebel wrote a blurb about my appearance on the show this morning. Check it out and let me know what you think, though I can probably guage that from your previous comments on my last post, you'll probably agree with her.

Here's the link.

Okay, more later, I have some major male-child bonding to do!

Recovery now! Pregorexia never!

I'M GOING TO FREAKING BE ON NATIONAL TELEVISION - My ED Story

Everybody watch the Morning Show with Mike and Juliet on Wednesday morning! I'll be on the show doing a piece on pregorexia. One of the producers saw my blog piece on either MSN or BuzzFeed. They're flying me and Brandon and Cade to NYC out in the morning to film a little segment about me and my family, then on Wednesday is the actual show. AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

3 Things that Happen When 70 Girls with Eating Disorders Get Together

1. Severe anxiety. When I got to CFC for the alumni reunion last night, I was profusely sweating and shrieking out. We’re talking major underarm wettage that I have not experienced since the throes of puberty. I was so tickled that I had remembered my travel size deodorant, I mean how do you even survive without that shiz? In the end, though, my anxiety was totally unnecessary. I had fun with minimum comparage and maximum love and unity and adorableness. Yeah! CFC sistas 4Eva! It was actually so sweet to see so many of us choosing life over insanity and pain and death. ED sucks! Life rocks!

2. At least one of said alumni comparing recovery to sex. (As in, you don’t know what it feels like till you actually experience it.) Racher was freaking out and coping by eating her hair and I was fanning my face in embarrassment slash heat stroke. Who knew that an ED sufferer could not only come up with a really dirty analogy, but also a really apt one? That’s like my life’s dream goal. I’ve got the dirty part down, just not the apt part quite nailed in. Huh.

3. And, my favorite: at least one meatless hamburger. Poor AY baby was completely opposed to the staff of CFC knowing that she was a vegetarian, even though she’s suuuuuuper recovered (well not completely, but coming along swimmingly). So how does she solve this little dilemma? Throw the patty away when not under surveillance, and then promptly eat a bun with ketchup and mustard and lettuce and a tomato. Ew! Ewwwwwy! It was awesome, though. I had to snap a pic. Go recovery even when it doesn’t include meat! My name is Brie and I approve of this message. Here is me and AC loving each other and life. I can’t believe this is the only pic I have. I’m totally pouting that I didn’t properly document this occasion. Holy mongolian eye folds! Can you say Asianista?Also, I’m having some major issues with a wrist muffin top, and I may blog this later. But first I need to take a picture, and I think I was just quite clear that I’m not very good at taking them when I should.

Oh, and guess whatsies? My sis-in-law Ang called me last night and told me my blog was on MSN dot com. WTF? It was linked (again) with pregorexics. Boo the term ‘pregorexia,’ but yay my blog was recognized again! Tonight I love exclamation points!!

LOVE YOU! [Author does not condone the eatage of meatless hamburgers.]

Floundering in a Giant's Wake - SAD!!

Who else feels sorry for all the other male swimmers in the Olympics who would have gold medal potential if not for the herculean Michael Phelps blowing them all out of the water? If I were them, I'd totally pee in his pool water.

I could be an Olympian, because I’m Not a Pussy (and I'm Not Lying About the Fact I'm Over 15)

I think I may perhaps have a higher self-esteem than I thought; or maybe I have some grandiose and narcissistic tendencies I was previously unaware of. Now, in general, I’m definitely not a love-a of myself, but more of a hate-a. Holla!

However.

I’ve been watching the Olympics, and for some reason I think I could do everything as good as these seasoned, disciplined athletes, or maybe even better. I was watching the women swim last night, and they seemed like they were going so s l o w. And I’m thinking to myself, Why didn’t they ask me to swim with them? I could totally beat all their toned asses. And then, for a brief moment, I realize that I have the lungs of an 80 year old woman who has smoked 17 packs a day for 79 years of her life. My asthma is so bad; I can barely walk from the bed to the couch lest I collapse in a coughing fit before turning on the TV. But still. I could win a gold medal. I bet.

And gymnastics? Don’t even get me started on it. I have the grace of an antelope.
Wait, suck.
I don’t think antelope is the animal I’m going for, but I do know I’m searching for some sort of breed of deer. What’s it called? Okay, hold on, I’m going to Wikipedia this shiz up.
[7 minutes later]
Well, Google and Wikipedia suck. I can’t find the word I’m looking for. Does anyone know what I’m talking about? Suffice it to say, my 37 inch stems are the deer-est of them all.

But I refuse to attempt beam. I seriously hold my breath for their entire routine when the gymnasts are performing, except for China, because they’re winning everything and I’m getting sick of it and would love to see a really awesome fall, but with no injuries, because that would just be plain awful. (But I do love seeing fun Asians everywhere!) I don’t understand why people think walking and flipping and gyrating (Ha, I wish!) and spinning on a 4 inch beam raised off the floor is sane. It’s not. It’s absolutely not.

And don’t get me started on the age controversy of the Chinese gymnasts. They’re practically still fetuses. Their blue eye shadow and sparkles (that really, are in bad taste and don't work at all with their skin tone) cannot disguise the fact they still have baby fat on their faces, and no fat (or breasticles) anywhere on their body. Wtf, man?

You know, people talk a lot about how they feel so sorry for these athletes, because they don’t have a life, and they’ve trained their whole lives and were home-schooled and are probably socially retarded and are breaking their bodies down, and probably have never tasted sugar or white flour in their life, but man. Is my life any better? I’ve wasted my entire life on anorexia, trained – if you will – for years, and I’m breaking my body down, and until recently, I didn’t have sugar or white flour, and I’m borderline socially retarded (or at least socially phobic).

This is so depressing, this realization: I don’t get a gold medal for my endeavors.

Maybe I should have shot for the Olympics instead.

EDIT: Ah! I just remebered the deer word I was going for: Gazelle. I have the grace of a gazelle!! I LOVE GAZELLES!!!

Cat Porn

Today I was reminded why I am a crazy cat lady. A catophile, if you will. Because cats cheer me up. Especially my overweight lover, Bobbi. I snapped these gems and had myself a good roar:

Wtf? Seriously,wtf?! Is having fat in all those places even possible? Do you all believe me now when I tell you that she is 27 lbs? These photos were not doctored in any way, I swearsies. This is the real deal. This is happening. And I love it!

[Lana, Bobbi wants to hump you. You should come over. Don't deny your urges any longer!]

An Old Enemy Moves In

Several months ago, I wrote a post entitled A Visit From an Old Enemy, and it was more or less summarizing the fact that my anxiety disorder had been under control for nearly a year, but that I was having sudden anxiety worrying about the upcoming minor surgery my little C was about to undergo.

The Enemy: my anxiety, my madness, hasn’t just come to visit, it’s moved in, I swear it. Just parked it there, right in the middle of my living room. What an arse-hole. Unwelcome houseguests are the worst. They take up space, sap all your time and energy…and my little home doesn’t feel like a hearth when my leg’s a jigglin’ and my mind’s racing, wondering how I can please It, how I can placate It so that It doesn’t rear it’s ugly head and destroy my home or myself or my poor husband’s resilience. And how do I please the bastard?
By numbing myself.
And how do I numb myself?
With nothing that is healthy, I can assure you of that.
And I fight it, yes readers, I fight and fight and fight, but I wonder (perhaps too often) how much more I can endure.

And even when I am calm, either with a brief respite by taking Xanax, or if, by some miracle, my brain has managed to calm itself, I always feel uneasy, just knowing that It’s there, skirting the edges, flitting around the living room, waiting until it can move in again and get cozy with me on the sofa, and seize control.

I don’t know if this is environmental, or genetic (damn my crazy ancestors!) or if I just simply drew the short stick in this life, but I’m so, so tired. Of it all.

I want my house back.
I want my life back.
I hate being anxious, EEEEEWWW!

Any suggestions?
I'm still angry about the whole Teletubby situation. Poor Poe.

Oh, and on another completely different note (shutup, it's my blog, I can go from subject to subject just as I please) here is the sweetest pic of my sick little C with his guard dog, Scout.

I Want to Murder the Teletubbies

My little C has recently become enthralled with cartoons. Most any cartoon can keep him occupied for approximately four seconds before he wiggles his way off the sofa and demands I occupy his attention in a way that doesn’t allow me to do something really important around the house, like blogging.

Cartoons, more specifically, the cartoons that are geared toward toddlers, are designed in such a way as to grab their attention and hold it in an unrelenting grip. It is necessary for them to be devised in this way so that the brainwashing can begin. (I liiiiiikey watching a "thing" shaped like a wiener with ONE EYE. I promise, Mom, it's okay!)

Well, Cade and I are often snuggling together watching cartoons, and I’ve realized something humiliating: I can’t stop watching them. Now, don’t be confused, thinking that I like watching them. I do not. I can’t. For, just as these shows are designed as a mind trap for young, vulnerable minds, it is, I most humbly admit, a mind trap for yours truly. I have a weak mind.

This morning, as Dora the Explorer ended, (Why is the media attempting to teach my child Spanish when he barely understands English?) Teletubbies came on. I reserve a special, scorching, searing hatred (how’s that for alliteration!) for this mind snare than any other. And, because The World hates me, this evil show happens to be my son’s favorite (he can actually watch nearly the entire thirty minutes – GAG).

And I can’t stop watching it! My mind was simultaneously begging to look away and begging for more. I think I might have to ixnay the ellitubbiestay. They seem kind of shifty, almost like predators incognito. You never know what’s underneath those totally nast costumes.

I have no issue with Poe (the red one). She (He, perhaps? They have no genitalia as far as I can tell, and believe me, I’ve LOOKED.) is small and sweet and doesn’t make very many annoying noises (They don’t speak English, withstanding “tubby custard” and “buh-bye!”) other than that, they make grunts and high-pitched whatevers. I often worry about Poe, wondering if she (he?) is being molested by some of the other bigger ones, especially Tinky Winky. Dipsy and La La I’m going to overlook on this post, mooooostly because any issues I have with them are vastly overshadowed by my hella big problemo with Tinky to the Winky.

The Winkster is a predator. A pedophile in purple. I’m sure of it. I get a very creepy vibe from the tallest and manliest of the four. Brandon now affectionately refers to him as a teletouchy.

Why am I letting my son be drawn in by a pedophile, (he may not have genitalia, but I assure you of his guilt) and, to give you even more food for thought, why does this purple monster draw me in?

I should really grow up.

My Blog on Buzzfeed! - ...The Story of an Anorexic Girl who Got Pregnant

Okay, guys. This is a big deal, at least to me - my blog, well, more specifically, this post, has made it onto Buzzfeed. How freaking cool is that?!

I swear I noticed that my blog was getting more hits than usual...now I know why.

See it here, or if that doesn't work, then here, and tell me what you think - especially about the term "pregorexic."

gyNOOOO!!

This morning was my dreaded annual check up (more like check down) with my gyno. Technically, it’s actually been two years since I was last, well, probed, and he finally tracked me down and forced me to come. These lovely appointments always include, but are not necessarily limited to

-pap-smearage
-boob checkage
-ripping away all my dignity and self-esteem, not to mention my personal space
-putting me in a constant state of worry over my body size and/or potential bodily smell
-lecturing me on my body weight

Is it supposed to feel like casual chit-chat when your gyno tells you that a normal breast feels like cottage cheese stretched over a water balloon? Is it worsened by the fact he is saying this while he is actually, at that very awful, prolonged, agonizing moment, feeling me up and squishing my cottage cheese beneath his fingers? And why am I worrying if my cottage cheese feels nice? And does cottage cheese feel different over different water balloons? (At this point, I may have entirely been dissociating.)

And is it natural to feel fat when he’s checking your ovaries and uterus and tells you that you have “plenty of room in there”?
I certainly did.

I can’t complain, though, because really, in the end, it was this man who safely brought this little guy into the world.

And, in gratitude, I suppose I can endure some awkward boob and va jay-jay talk.
I owe him.
A lot.

Oh, and speaking of, well, breasticles, Cade said to me today as I was changing, Mama’s boobs! After wondering for a brief, albeit enraged second where he learned that word, I firmly said, No, it’s Mama’s chest. Her CHEST. He then replied, very reverently, Mama’s chest. It’s preeeetty.

At least it was my son, and not my gyno, who told me my chest was pretty.

And, very, very gratefully, my son made no mention of cottage cheese.

On Pregnancy, Pushing Giant Things out Your Vag, & why it’s Worth it

I read a post on one of my new favorite blogs, and I thought I’d copycat write a similar one as well, because I liked the idea oh so very much.

It is early December 2005. I’m urinating on a stick, because my boobs hurt, and I had to know if my eggo was prego. Of course I wasn’t! I was recovering from relapse number however-many-hundred-and two of the blasted ED, I had only been out of treatment for a few short months, and most importantly, I. WAS. NOT. OVULATING. I mean, I thought the math was simple:



Doing the nasty + Laying your eggs or whatever + spermy reaching your egg = PREGNANCY

I swear it didn’t work that way for me. So, here I am peeing on my stick, thinking, there’s no way you’re pregnant, calm down, this is just to confirm what you already know.

The box says you’re supposed to wait two minutes for the pee to sink in or ferment or do whatever it does, but it didn’t even take that long. My stick was gloating at me, leering at me, tittering YOU’RE PREGNANT YOU’RE PREGNANT YOU’RE PREGNANT MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
Apparently I don't know jack. I blanched, and my hand started shaking. I was pregnant. I was freaking pregnant. I was not supposed to be physically able to have a baby. (Didn’t you need your periods to have a baby?) (And yet.)

Brandon spoke first. Honey, we’re gonna have a baby. It was said quietly, almost reverently. The look I gave him was not very reverent. You did this to me, you bastard! And, with that, I shoved him out of the bathroom and started crying.

And thus began my pregnancy.

I assure you, my dear readers, I acclimated to the idea of a little spawn of me and my hubby, but it took a bit of time. I was scared of the normal things that normal mothers worry about, like will I be a good mom? Will I be able to keep him/her alive, like I am unable to do with my Ficus? Will he get all of mine and Brandon’s worst traits and look revolting? And will I care? But, on top of it all, I also had the damn eating disorder to worry about. What if I didn’t eat enough? And worse, what if I didn’t want to eat enough? What if my baby was somehow harmed or came out unfinished-like if I didn’t get enough nutrition for him?

But, I was committed to doing it – whatever IT was. I had not eaten normally or anything even close to it for, oh, six years or so. What if I was shallow enough to worry about my expanding waist more than the well-being of my child?

Luckily, it didn’t turn out that way. I felt a connection right away with Cade, and knew, even then, that I would protect his well-being with everything I had in me, no matter the cost to me or anybody else. So embark on eating and getting hella big I did.

And it wasn’t easy. But often, life isn’t. But you do it anyway, you know?

My pregnancy was not an easy one. I didn’t gain any weight at all until I was 25 weeks pregnant. In fact, at my 16 week mark I had lost 16 POUNDS since I had found out I was pregnant. Call it what you want: some of you I daresay are thinking that I didn’t eat enough for Cade, but I’ll shrug off your assumptions, because I know the truth. I know that I ate for the welfare of my son, because I would never do anything so selfish as to withhold food and life from him. So why the weight loss? I dunno. Maybe one of life’s cruel jokes? That the only time I was not trying to lose weight is when it was easiest to? Stupid, cruel irony.

Also, my muscles and organs were still recovering from my last relapse. My body was having a hard time dealing with the giant watermelon invading my temple. And then, at 32 weeks, I went into the ER for a little light painkiller, you know, just Morphine (by this point, Cade was so far into my back that he was moving ribs around back there. It’s like, oh sure, shack up wherever you want, kid. Why don’t you make yourself at home, rearrange furniture, do whatever you need, no problem. Brandon would have to try to massage pound my ribs into place every night as I screamed. I went to a physical therapist three times a week so they could tape my ribs into place. So, as I went to the hospital that night for some Morphine to ease the unrelenting, worst kind of pain, I also realized I was contracting. Frequently. And I was dilated to a three. And I was already 95% effaced.

And thus I was put on bed rest.

The doc gave me these giant steroid shots in my bum cheeks, so at 36 weeks he told me I could get up, walk around, squat or lunge like crazy, do whatever I wanted, because Cade would be okay if he came.

And then, quite stubbornly like the kid he is today, he just…refused.

Seriously people. My doc induced me at 39 weeks. I swear Cade did it just to be a pain. And my delivery was not a piece of cake. Everybody told me that once you had your epidural; it was kind of like bada-bing bada-bang and voila! A little baby! Yeah, no. There was much screamage and panting and telling the nurses to “shut the hell up.” (Yes, that is a direct quote.) I didn’t deliver Cade with an epidural, (long, sad, sad story) and I was literally thirty seconds from a c-section. They ended up having to pull Cade out of my vag with some salad prongs, (yes, that is indeed their scientific name) and his head came out looking like a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

My doc (who I am in love with very fond of) told me that by judging my size told me that Cade would be four, maybe five pounds. Yeah, he was off. BY THREE POUNDS. My little fatty was almost eight pounds! Anorexia, take that, ya giant a-hole. My baby most certainly was not anorexic looking.

So, earlier than I anticipated, I am a mother. I am a mother of the most aggravating, exciting, adventurous, loving, snuggleable, sweet little piece of perfection. He will always be my man. My sweet, angelic baby man. Even on the days when I kind of turn a bit immature and fight with him over who gets the last piece of chocolate licorice, he’ll be my little sweetie. Even when he stops wanting to kiss me and kiss other girls instead, he’ll always be MINE. Mine mine mine.

And I am so blessed. So, Cade, two years down, and I hope so, so many more to come.

Happy birthday, buddy.

I Have Really Gross Knees

But are they worse than Perez Hilton's?

Oh, and thanks Laurie for the amazing pedi - you are a grand, grand friend. :)

The 'after' of my pampered, yellowly delightful toesies.

Oh, and stop looking up my skirt, you sick bastards.

4:23 am

What was I doing at 4:23 am, you ask? Oh, I was just outside with my son.

Guys, last night was awful!

Cade was having some major freak out issues and was up nearly all night. Bran and I got very little sleep. And still, we’re not sure what’s even wrong with him. He’s not really acting sick. At least, he stopped acting sick once we took him outside and sat on the rock-rock (translation: rocking chair). Hence, the reason we were outside in the middle of the night that’s the prime-time for rapists and robbers to be out doing their illegal shenanigans.

I smell of exhaustion and, I think, for some reason, wet dog.

I need four ibuprofen, some ear plugs, and a good long nap.

No one’s feeling sorry for me today the way I am, I can tell.

Boo. Double boo!

On the plus side, I think this lack of sleep is making me feel a bit manic. And that’s not so bad. As long as I don’t get a hankering to jump off my roof, that is.
I know, right? That was a bad night…

I Need an Identity, Someone Give me theirs!

So, if you’re not an eating disorder, what are you?
Um.
C’mon, I know you can think of some things.
Well, I guess I’m a mom. And a wife.
Yes, you are, but I’m not talking about roles. I’m talking about who you are at the core. Do you understand?
Yes (but I really mean no, like, a GIANT hella no).
Why don’t you write a blog about your identity, and we’ll talk about it when you next come in?

So, I’ll do it – though I’ve attempted it before. Well, many times. See? Oh, geez! Make me stop with the links! Okay, I’m done. I swear.

So, if you actually bother to go back and read some of those links, you can see that I have very much in the past attempted to figure out who I am, what kind of stuff I’m made of. And I haven’t had much success, really.

If I'm not supposed to talk about the fact that I'm a mama, and a wife, and a daughter, and an eating disorder, blah diddy blah, then what am I supposed to say? That I'm a hot piece of woman meat? I don’t think M was going for that… Can my identity be centered on the fact I have really shiny hair? I mean, that’s all I’m coming up with. Or maybe my beautifully golden tan? I like my collar bones. HELP!!! Idon’tthinkI’msupposedtobebuildingmyidentityoutofphysicalcharacteristics! I’m an anomaly! The Briester has no identity. Ack!

Well,

then what?

Seriously. Am I supposed to list, one by one, my meager list of accomplishments? My personality traits? Am I supposed to write about my silly hopes and dreams, the fluff one fantasizes about but never dares speak aloud for fear of others shooting their flimsy, whimsical dream to the ground? Hell no. I ain’t going there.

Apparently, I’m SOL. If anyone wants to give me an identity or whatever, feel free to comment.