Past Prego Pic

My sissy just posted this pic on her blog, and I wanted to post it too cuz it's a pic of me almost seven months prego. I know it's hard to see because I'm wearing black, but can I just say that I'm just a regular 'ol lady who got her eggo prego'd and not some pregorexic nastiness? I hope you concur. Nay, you must concur.

Let's Play the Ugly Game

So our family has a tradition. Every Wednesday night, the night before Thanksgiving, my sisters and sisters-in-law get together and cook all our pies for the next day. This practice can take up to hours, and there have been nights when we haven't left till well after midnight. Since the Briester be no baker, I mostly sit there and look hottt, which everyone knows is my job. I do not stir, or whip, or knead dough or pastry or whatever. I do talk and text and show everybody my supercute new boots though. So this year was really fun because we ended up deciding to go to a late show of Twilight even though we'd ALL already seen it, with the exception of my two brothers that we had to drag there so that they could have the "experience" of seeing a gorgeous rock hard hot marble bod aka Edward. The best part of that was when my bro T leaned over to my sissy and said, "Why don't they just do it?" And my sissy was like, "T, he'd, like, RIP HER APART." I agree though. I totally wanted smokin' vampire sex, but I'm totally on the road of digression here so I'll backtrack here.

AAAANNNNYWAAAAAY.

The whole point of this post was to show you pics from The Ugly Game. Every once in awhile my sissys and I will take pictures and make ourselves as ugly as possible and see who can win. I think we all pretty much decided I won by default by the mere fact I'm a tube face, but it was still fun. Here are the results. Click on the pic to enlarge and see my ohsoapt descriptions

Oh, and here's a cute one to boost me and my sissy's self-esteem up a notch or two after seeing the first one..

And yes, I realize I didn't even mention Thanksgiving in this post. I'm so busy, so out of sorts, so not even living in my house...work has been crazy - I just have little or no time to blog or read anybody else's. But I will soon, I promise my lovely peeps. Soon!

Sucksgiving

So I hope you all have a wonderful Sucksgiving.
Savor turkeys never! Save turkeys forever!

And I would proudly like to add that I’ll be eating this year. I mean, I’ll be eating ALL YEAR, but I specifically mean the suckfeast on Sucksgiving. And I expect all of you to too. Save yourself as you would save the turkeys. For you are just as good as them. Maybe better, because hopefully you don’t have that red creepy jiggly neck fat that they’ve got going on.

And that’s all I have to say. Have a fabulous weekend, my peeps. Not Fanny Pack and I certainly plan to.

[EDIT] I've just recieved a couple of concerned emails asking why me no likey the turkey day. And, like I've said before, nothing good ever happens on the day other than that I get to see family, which is cool, but I always get to see them anyway, haha, since most of them are in town. So I just don't like it very much. But I'm going to try reeeeaaaaaaal hard this year, okaysies?

Meet Not Fanny Pack

I tried for several tender and frustrating minutes last night to upload all my pics from my mini vacay this weekend, all to no avail. My laptop wouldn’t recognize my SIM card, and I was supersuper frustrated. So, until I have time to stop being pissed off and try to figure it out, you’ll get a no-vacay post from the Briester. Stop your weeping, you guys are so lame.

First (and best) item on the agenda:

I have comprared a bag for my tubaliciousness! Behold. She is green and girly and cool and as un-fanny packish as possible. I have named her Not Fanny Pack. Guys, meet Not Fanny Pack, Not Fanny Pack, meet my peeps.

Isn’t she glorious? She’s been doing a great job, as you can see pictured here. She’s perched on my lap, tirelessly toting the life-saving liquid that, I’ve been told, will save my life. So as of right now, the tube is running about 16 hours a day. So, to do the math for you, that equals about 16 hours of suckfest in a day with 8 hours left over to dwell on the fact that the suckfest will begin again shortly. But Not Fanny Pack keeps cheering me on. She’s such a sweetheart.

I don’t have plumbing again. Guess who pees in blue paper cups? Oh, just me, just me! And, to be supercreepy gross, I’ll tell you that I can fill up TWO that I make Brandon throw outside. That’s more than 12 ouncers! But what can Tube Face say? The dripdripdrip makes me need to peepeepee.

So, in my mind, Thanksgiving is kind of a lame boner of a holiday. It seems like one of two things always happen on this holiday: I relapse, or something bad happens. I even blogged about it last year, but it was like a really depressing and weird post so no need to go back and read it, though I think the mere fact I’ve mentioned it will have several of you perusing through last year’s November archive.
Annnnywaaaay.
I don’t like the smell of turkey. It makes me feel weird. And the consistency of yams makes me want to yam them up. Cranberries (in ANY shape or form, including sauce) is only good to help ease a bladder infection, and that’s only if you’re humiliatingly desperate and are in a 3rd world country or like Siberia and don’t have access to a doctor. And call me a bahhumbugsuckface, but I’d rather just have it be any ‘ol regular Thursday. I really would. But Not Fanny Pack is encouraging me that this year will be devoid of any relapses or bad things occurring. She can also apparently look into the future, which is why I’m thinking the 30 bucks I paid for her was a damn good deal.

You can’t have her, ya jerks, so don’t ask. She’s mine!

The Girl with the Backpack

Okay, so Tube Face is back again. And she’s totally parked it in my living room and is staying for the L O N G haul. I think I’ve decided that with all the upcoming picture opportunities re: Christmas and Thanksgiving, I’m just going to do this:

No?! Too much? Not enough? Too weird?

Well is this really any better?

Yeah, I know. It's DEF not. GUYS! What should I do? I’m KINDA shrieking out right now. No serene moments captured playing in the snow with the lil tyke. No kissing under the mistletoe pics. No picture of me kicking Santa in the nuts because he came too close and I don’t trust people in costumes and beards. SUCK!! This year is going to be photo-less. Well, unless I sew that Sarah Palin mask I’ve been thinking about…

Ooh, and get this. I just got a random (but sweet that she was thinking of me) call from the D to the ietician. She knows that I get bad reflux et al with the tube, so she wants me to slow down the amount of evil goodness (what an oxymoron!) I’m getting. Before, the tube feed would finish in approximately 8 hours, but she doubled that to a whopping 16 hours. Hold on to your hats, folks. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?? This means that I’m going to be one of those weird people that have to cart around a backpack filled with medical equipment. I’ll now be known as Girl with the Backpack. Oh, and I swear to you with every fiber in every cell of my being, I WILL NOT WEAR A FANNY PACK. If I comprar a fanny pack to cart the tube shat around in, then you can commit me, or kill me, whichever is easier. I’m serious. I don’t want to live anymore if I can commit that kind of fashion faux pas. Seriously. It’s for the better welfare of the WORLD, guys.

What else? Oh yes.

Big B and I are taking the Cadester here this weekend. Zion National Park, baby! It’s going to be WARM! Its hella cold in SLC, though I should hardly be complaining seeing that as the 40-50's weather is very soon going to plummet much lower than that, but STILL. It breaks my heart and numbs my fingers or whatever. So it’ll be in the 70’s. I’ll try my hardest to get a tan without getting a tube face tan, because that would be supergross. I get to spend some time with the gemelo and his weef-ay and my supercool DDF too, which’ll be ohmytotallyawesome. Go baby weekend trips!!

Have fun while I’m away, bitches!

Cliffs and Contracts

Its quiz time, folks.

Question:
If you saw a man hanging from the edge of a cliff who was exhausted from the exertion of hanging on for dear life, and there were sharp rocks and sharks and Bin Laden at the bottom waiting for him and he would surely die if he fell, would you

a) Upon seeing him, ask him if his fingers were killing him from holding on for so long, take a phone call, and then help him away from the ledge
b) Tell him you’ll save him for ONE MILLION DOLLARS, and if he agrees, save him
c) Tell him to suck it and walk away
d) First take his ONE MILLION DOLLARS - and his watch - then walk away
e) Rush to him and save him pronto – ooh, and then notify the FBI and CIA you have found Bin Laden

I’d choose b. I think. Haha

ANNNNNYWAAAAY, I ask you this because I was actually asked this question earlier today in my sesh with the T. Basically, guys, my treatment team has put me under a contract. A contract is a sucky thing that makes you feel stupid and expendable and passive-aggressive. I have to do a number of things, and if I fail to comply, I’m fired. My T and my D said they had decided this needed to happen because I was a LIABILITY. They may as well as called me a leper; it for suresies hurt my feelings. They said that if I get really sick or something bad happens or if I DIE then they could get in trouble because I saw them for this long and basically did nothing to save me blahblahblahsies.

Anyway, so let me explain the question above so you don’t keep thinking WTF Brie that was like the most random thing ever! M said that I’m hanging from the edge of a cliff. She said she knows that there are a lot of sucktastic things going on in my life that I could use help processing and dealing with, but she said that there’s no sense in talking about them when I’m hanging on for dear life, she said that first she needs to rush to save me, and once I was on stable ground and my injuries were taken care of, then we could shoot the breeze. Made sense. Sucks, but makes sense.

I still think I’m kinda-sorta just fine, and I still find it ludicrous that everyone thinks I need to be hospitalized, but I HAVE to do this, because the alternatives are just not an option. I’m ready to do this, guys. Rah Rah Rah! Who’s the coolest of them all? It’s Brie! It’s Brie! (That’s me being a cheerleader for myself. I need cheer. Anyone else wanna join the squad? I’m holding auditions.)

The contract stipulations will include, but are not limited to
1) Using the tube nightly
2) Following the meal plan my D gives me
3) Gaining weight or else I’ll get blue-slipped and forced into the hospital
4) Having a nervous breakdown due to the stress of the aforementioned regulations

Yes, 'tis true. My T said that she was really close to blue-slipping me, but she’d give me a week to gain at least one pound. If you don’t know what blue-slipping means, you can Google it cuz I don’t want to ‘splain it. (And then once you know, you can weep on my behalf.)

Well, I better gosies. I have an appt with the radiology appt to get my intestines raped with a tube. Fun town!

Eggnog, a Liability, & Indecent Exposure

I wasn’t going to blog today, figuring I’d have a dump-load ‘o stuff to say on Thursday, after some lame things I’ve got going on, (one word: LIABILITY) but well, I thought – why not? Why not let people be sickly fascinated with how much my life blows right now? I know I am!

I mean, so first, the car accident. The near-death experience by propane explosion. Wow.

Then my face. It’s really sad and sore. I have massive hives/eczema around my eyes and cheeks, and my face is all swollen and creepy looking and it itches and burns. Seriously. Because I couldn’t stop crying yesterday, AT ANY POINT, the tears were, like, BURNING my face. Tears of fire, I say. And tears of hollowness. Annnywaaaay, I lost my R_x cream for face suckage in the move, but begged my doc to call some more in to the pharmacy, so my eyes (and everybody else’s eyes when they are forced to behold me) will be feeling better in no time at all.

I also am going to let ya’ll be privy to the fact I have massive iarrheaday. It’s from the stress. I whole-heartedly blame my T. More to come on Thursday.

Work’s been busy today. There’s good busy, and then there’s so busy I’m running around like an awkward one-legged chicken with its head cut off. I mean, not only am I missing a head, but a leg too. And the only way that situaish could be worse is if the chicken blew up. Say, in a propane explosion. These things happen. Stay tuned.

You know what’s a really awkward word? EGGNOG. I feel really creepy when I say it or think about it. Ruminate a minute, and you’ll feel the same, I promise. eggnogeggnogeggnog

Why does life have to be all sunny skies or a giant suck storm? Why can’t one bad thing just like happen once a week, in a nice, spaced apart manner? Why does The World hate me? Why am I being Karmically bludgeoned? Why does all this make me want to rip off my clothes, nay, rent my clothes (read the Bible!) and run around the streets telling everybody that I’m almost as hot as Sarah Palin? Why?

Whinewailweep. I’m seeing Orville Redenbacher, the pdoc, tomorrow. Can you tell I’m in major need of a med adjustment? UNNNNSTAAAABLE!!! Also, EGGNOG.
I don’t know?

J, get ready. I need an attorney for a future arrest for indecent exposure. And if you’re lucky, there will be pics involved. But don’t worry; I’ll be wearing a Sarah Palin mask.
Note to self: sew said mask.

EGGNOG

I Almost Exploded Today, and also, My Cats are Weirdos

Remember how Princess the Whore unleashed a hibernating psychosis in Bobbi when she was trying to protect me (her property), and I was like I NEED HELP DOWN HERE, and no one would come, and the whole thing was really very upsetting?? Well, the psychosis is lingering. Bobbi is being such a drama queen, and she still hasn't forgotten what happened. I swear, aren't their brains like the size of an egg or something? Damn this cat could win at Memory for realsies, and she DEF knows how to hold a grudge! She HATES me and her little sister Hairy and is acting all weird. She's acting like I was caught fooling around with another cat, rather than trying to save her beautiful person. And she won't stop hissing at Hairy, and Hairy's like WTF? We used to be besties, you were like my PERSON, and now you're treating me like the dime store hooker I am. Why am I being shunned by my big sister? Why isn't my fur soft anymore? Am I a virgin? And also where did the kitchen go? And now I have to whore myself for love with Mommy and Daddy, since the GIANT ONE will no longer give of it freely.

So I've got a 2 year old in the terrible, turbulent trial that is the too-long lasting 2nd year, and I've got a dick and a slut for cats. Sweet.

Also, I was in a minor car accident today, and it was absolutely my fault. When I got out of the car to talk to the dude I hit, he was like, "Oh, wow, I have 40 gallons of propane gas in my trunk, it's a good thing we didn't explode," and I was like, "You're superlame for attempting a really inappropriate joke with such an OBVIOUSLY tender and delicate/perhaps unstable stranger you're with." Yeah, turns out he wasn't joking. He showed me the propane. So I guess I almost exploded today, too.

And these are the reasons today sucks.

Do You Remember

I saw you today, for the first time in over a year.
You gave me a big bear hug that seemed to swallow me, even though you only came to my chin.
Grandpa! I've missed you! Dude, you've shrunk.
He looked at me, smiled, and called me by my given name
that's barely familiar enough to even claim as my own.
(you're the only one who calls me that)
You seemed frailer to me, and well, older
and though you are in excellent shape, better than any other
88 year old I know,
I found myself looking at you and
wondering
where all the time went.
I wanted to talk to you, really talk to you
but
instead
my throat closed and I
found myself asking you about the rest of the family,
really boring and
menial
things.
I didn't know how to say what I really wanted to say:
do you remember when you used to buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch just for me and Brett when you knew we were coming to visit?
Do you remember that I used to call you Grandpa Hairy Arms?
Do you remember that you're the best story-teller I know?
Do you still have that tea set I used to play with? Do you remember I'd pour water in the miniature cups and break up saltines and call them crumpets?
Do you remember?
I do.
I remember your beautiful orchards heavy with walnuts.
I remember your wrap-around porch, and the way the frogs used to climb the kitchen window at night when it was so hot outside.
I remember the pancakes you used to make that were the size of dinner plates, and I remember that you got upset when we didn't eat at least two.
I remember when Grandma died, and I remember thinking you were so brave.
Do you remember singing us the songs you used to sing to her?
Do you remember, when I was a child, holding me in your arms, and I felt so safe?
I do.
Do you?
My eyes sting now, burn hot with shame and regret when I think that I said none of these things to you tonight. None of them.
And I realize
my life is a series
of regrets, missed opportunities,
one
after
another.
But I have tomorrow.
Yes, I have one more day with you.
And I will ask you
if you
remember.
I will help you
remember
all the reasons I
love you.

I Want to Leave a Flaming Bag of Poop on a Doorstep

I'm a sicky. Boo. Double boo! I've been sick for like a week, and Lil C is sick, and I have to actually be selfless and take care of him because I'm an adult and he shares half my genes so I'm obligated to and it was the Good Samaritan like thing to do. My face feels like it be on fire. Fever's blow.

So I totally went to Joanne's today to comprar another half yard of fabric for my curtains. The line was like a gazillion long and I had to fight with old ladies in creepy mom pants to get my fabric cut. Also, when I got home, I saw that I didn't even buy the right fabric, and I realized that I was, in fact, losing my mind. It was fun.

So, remember Princess, the aforementioned neighbor who was abandoned on her uncle's farm or whateva? Well the little banshee is NOT shy. She keeps wandering into the house because the doors are often open while it's being worked on to help dissipate the dust and such. So, in she saunters, and out we chase her. In again, out again oh how fun (that's what she said). Well, this afternoon she snuck in AGAIN, and booked it down in the basement. I ran after her because my kitties were down there and I knew that there was going to be a major bitch fest if they met. And they did. And it was BAD. I grabbed Princess just as Bobbi lumbered onto the scene. They both started like doing this hiss/growl thing that almost made me wet my pants. Princess started writhing in my hands and I got all busted up. Bobbi ran at her and leaped in the air, grabbed onto her, and dragged her out of my hands. Bobbi's a big girl, I had no idea she had the athletic prowess in her to do such a kung fu-esque thing. (GOOD JOB!) I started screaming I NEED HELP DOWN HERE while trying to not get killed while breaking the two girls up. Nobody heard me due to Paul McCartney blaring upstairs, lame lame lame town. Eventually Princess ran up the stairs with Bobbi chasing her. She eventually ran out the door and I followed her, muttering, trying to find her so that I could take her back to her family next door and tell them to KEEP THEIR DAMN CAT IN THE HOUSE, SHE'S UPSETTING THE DELICATE TEMPERAMENTS OF MY KITTY LOVERS.

I didn't find her, but when I do, oh I will go there and I will tell the neighbors what is going down. And if they don't listen and keep their cat on their own property, then I will poop in a brown bag and light it on fire and put it on their porch. And I will laugh and be gleeful.

I just want life to be easy. I want life to be devoid of old ladies in creepy mom pants and possessed cats who want to hurt my kitty lovers.

I want to be better. I want my child to be better. I want a kitchen.

I want to leaving a flaming bag of poop on a doorstep.

Instead

Instead of being here today
I'd rather be here

or here

or even here

anywhere yes anywhere instead of here

So, You're Stuck in a Bomb Shelter...

Picture this:

You hear explosions and whammos and crashes and shakes oh my. You run into your bomb shelter custom made by this season's winner of Top Design. You seal the door just in time as a cataclysmic whoosh bang shatter takes out the greater population of the world. You take in your surroundings around you, and realize you'll probably be in here until you die, or at least until next season's American Idol airs.

But alas! You are faced with quite the conundrum! What to eat? A little food fairy comes to you in your PTSD-riddled sleep, and tells you that until the end of Time, you will only be able to live off of ONE food while despairing away in your shelter. But the bonus? YOU get to choose it! Now, keep in mind the food fairy tells you, that this food must be non-perishable - or at least if it is, won't smell bad or kill you if you partake of it. So you get a deliberatin'.

You think and think and think some more. Perhaps an explosion of rich chocolate and peanut butter? Hmmm...you've already witnesses a pretty traumatizing explosion. You move on. What about canned spaghetti and meatballs? Um. That'll have to be a big N to the O on that one. What if you don't have power and have to eat it out of the can COLD? Nah. Death by radiation melting your eyeballs and privates would be better than that. OOh! I got it! Canned peaches! YESSSS. Wait. No. Pretty sure I wasn't birthed by pilgrims.

And then, folks, after TWO DAYS of ruminating on this question, it came upon me:

TRAIL MIX

Yes, trail mix.

Why, you ask? Because you get a mix of the sweet AND the salty. You can think, I'm getting pretty damn sick of nuts. I'm just going to pick out the M&M's today. Or, you can think, peanuts just aren't hittin' my spot right now. I think I'll just go with the cashews, because they taste COMPLETELY different. And also, if I were to get especially desperate and felt like I might be dying of scurvy, I could gag down the raisins. I get fat, (pun absolutely intended) protein, and I'm sure some other stuff too. Plus, I get the added bonus of not even having to use a can opener to open anything, because what if it rusts in like year 37 of hiding or breaks a nail? See? This slut be thinkin' ahead.

So, answer this question and leave it in my comments please. I need to know, for I've realized that I can peer into the deep crevasses of your soul by your answer. So answer truthfully.

But also wisely.

Also, who thinks that crevasses, when spelled, looks really awkward and dirty?

Another One Bites the Dust?

When I was six, I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast. I quit shortly thereafter when I realized I was a head or two taller than all the girls around me. I knew I could never make it.

When I was ten, I took private tennis lessons. That lasted a summer.

When I was twelve, I played soccer. For two years.

When I was thirteen, I tried my hand at drawing. Totally stopped that when I realized how much I sucked.

When I was fourteen, I played volleyball. Quit at sixteen when I was humiliated and degraded by my coach.

When I was sixteen, I began modeling. Had to quit because it nearly killed me.

When I was twenty, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. That lasted for literally two days when I didn’t like the calluses on my fingers.

I also discovered myspace. LOVED it. But then I found blogging and tossed the myspace.

When I was twenty-one I began training for a marathon. I was able to run fifteen consecutive miles before I injured my knee. And then I got prego, wasn’t allowed to run like that anymore. And I never started training again.

I was twenty-three when I gave in and decided to start a blog. It saved me in more ways that I can say.

I’m twenty-four.

I’m teaching myself to sew, am throwing myself into it as passionately as I did tennis and gymnastics and blogging.

Will I quit this, too? Blogging, I mean.

I’ve been blogging for almost exactly a year. It was my passion. But I don’t know if it still is.

Is blogging, like all the other attempted-hobbies-but-realized-I-kinda-suck-at-‘ems above, something I’ll just toss out when I get disinterested or feel like no one else is interested?

I don’t know anymore. I feel like I’m bored, I feel like my readers are bored. Who wants to read over and over that I have the tube, or that Cade’s adorable (okay, I can concede that nobody would be bored by that…:) or all other random and stupid things I toss out here? Seriously. See, my problem is that if I’m doing something, I have to either do it all, unequivocally completely, or not at all.

I don’t have very much time to blog anymore. Writing, unlike all the other passions or attempted-grandeurs above, has ALWAYS ALWAYS YES OH MY ALWAYS been my passion, my oxygen. But maybe not in the form of blogging anymore. I just don’t know. It doesn’t bring me the same joy anymore, I don’t look forward to or receive comments like I used to…now, instead of thinking, “Okay! Schwing batta batta I get to blog today!” I think, “Holy oh my moly. I live in a dusty gutted house of despair. I need to clean or organize. I need to rest. I need to EAT. I need every spare second to freaking finish my manuscript. I need to go to work. I need to spend more time with my family. I need to finish sewing the insanely difficult-but-oh-so-cool sewing project I’m working on for the house.” And, I do think, “I should blog today. But I can’t, or I won’t, because I’ve too much on my plate.”

But I have so much to do, so much others want me to do and expect of me. I feel like I need eighteen hands to do everything that everybody expects. I want to make everybody happy. And I can’t. I’m too tired.

But it scares me.

What if this, too, becomes another past entry on my long list of meager accomplishments?

What if another one bites the dust?

My Tummy No Likey the Tubey

Hold on, folks! I'm about to reveal a major mythbuster, here:

MYTH: If one has an NG/NJ feeding tube in, and they vomit, then they will throw up the tube as well.

Alas. I was a believer in this myself, seeing it happen to many a fellow eating disorderian.

FACT: You can totally ralph and keep the tube in, too.

AN ILLUSTRATION: I didn't feel well. Big B and I were en route to comprar some saltines. We were nearly to the gas station when I shrieked for him to pull over because I was so going to toss some cookies.

15 seconds later:
gag gag ralph vomit pause for breath spit vomit gag spit
afterward
my first thought: I feel better!
my second thought: Hey. The tube didn't come out! It's a Christmas miracle!

15 minutes later:
gag gag ralph vomit pause for breath vomit spit gag pause for breath vomit some more ralph curse the kitties for staring at me while I do something as personal as puke breathe ralph lose it toss some more cookies
afterward
my first thought: I feel better!
my second thought: Don't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw upDon't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw upDon't think about glazed donuts or else you'll throw up glazeddonutsglazeddonutsglazeddonuts SUCK
and then
heave gag vomit
my third thought: I better get Big B to clean this up.
my fourth thought: Hey. The tube didn't come out! It's a Christmas miracle! Two Christmas miracles in one night? A record!

Here's to hoping I will get THREE Christmas miracles in one night. My wish? That I will throw up no more...

Mirror Mirror on the Wall...

in the mirror, staring back at me

these are some of the things i see.

(or want to see)

(or don't want to see)

Thanks to the superfabulous Jenn for the idea of this post.

My Life Sucks but Floyd’s Knobs Make Me Happy

I’ve had a weird couple of days. I’m surviving on little sleep…I’m just so crazybusydon’tevenhavetimetobreathe right now; the busiest I’ve been in a hella loooooong time. I see others who thrive on this kind of hectic lifestyle with no pauses for breath or thinking and are like yeah, baby, bring it on! -- BUT…it’s just not for me. Living in a home with plaster and dust and insulation and wood and creepy power tools everywhere…having few belongings to work with because most are packed away…working for The Man…trying to finish a manuscript and needing every spare second (which I don’t have many of - to edit and write and write write write) I think I be goin’ a wee bit crazy…what with trying to eat enough…wowsas. I’m just not a happy camper. I’m totally shrieking out, but not in a good way.

Yesterday I was a sicky. I’d gotten little sleep the night before, and by 6 pm I had major stress runs and even threw up. The symptoms I’m dealing with are very similar to the ones I dealt with before I was hospitalized. Yuck yuck yucky town. I’m sure it’ll all ease up. It has to!

So I have some tubular news! It as seemed that my tubage would last until I was approximately 87 years old, but I saw my D yesterday and told her that I need to learn to eat without the tube, that I can’t keep relying on it. So, for two weeks I need to use the tube hard-core to give me a jumpstart, but she’s willing to put me on a 2000 cal a day diet, plus 3 cans of Boost which brings me up to nearly 3000 cals a day to try to gain some weightage on my ownsies. She says if I can follow through with this, then no tube for the Briester! So I only have two weeks of nose rape, provided I can get all my falling apart-ness together and just do it. (And by it I mean food, and by do, I mean eat.)

So I’m gonna do it.

I just hope this nasty weirdness I’m feeling goes away. It’s not easy to eat or tube it up when my tummy no likey the intruder and wants to get rid of it. Lame lame lamazoing, I’m so sick of my body!

I’m such a dead beat lately. Sorry my posts are so lame. I’m just going through a weird time. This is a toughie, and it hasn’t been this way in awhile. So unfortunately for you, my dear readers, you get stuck in this mess with me. Sorry I’m such a downer. Boo, I’m a whore!

But. Alas, I shall leave you with a bit of humor:
So on Sunday, I was having dinner with my parental units and niece and some other…guests. It was a formal dinner, one where I was sure Lil C was being too loud and obnoxious. I was quiet, just waiting for the whole shebang to be over. So out of the blue, my dad asks one of the guests where he’s from. He replied that he’s from a town (I think it’s in Indiana – note to self: google this) called FLOYD’S KNOBS. Floyd’s Knobs!!! It took every ounce of decorum in every cell of every fiber in my being to restrain myself and not crack a dirty joke. (Floyd’s Knobs, eh? Your wife must not think much of your, you know…down there-ness. Floyd’s Knobs? Floyd! Get a man-bra!) So, needless to say, I was respectful and not dirty. But it was a roughie trying to get through it, I’ll tell ya what. I just don’t understand. Floyd’s Knobs?! Why? I mean. Really?

So, now I can remember that when life gets me down, when I’m so busy I don’t have time to think or do everything I need to do…I can remember that it could be worse. Alas, much worse. I could live in Floyd’s Knobs, Indiana. But I would buy him a man-bra, I can assure you of that my dear readers. Oh, I would buy him a man-bra.

And then maybe we could change the name to Floyd's Perky Knobs. It has a nice ring to it, methinks!

Give Up Already!

Okay, my fine people, I have a lot to say today:
First off, my weekend was really pretty fantabulous. I spent the weekend at my mama’s, as there was major demolition going on in the new pad and my lungs no likey the dust. I carted Lil C and my sewing machine and had a grand time. My mom and I both made some jammy/yoga pants that are really pretty excellent, and trust me, dare I say they look even better than my pin cushion? I don’t have any pics because I’m lame, but I’m sure I’ll show them off another time. My next project is curtains for the bedroom; only I have NO IDEA what to do, because I want a new bedspread to match them but don’t know what direction to take– I’m a decorating monster. Seriously. Interior decorating eludes me…dilemma dilemma dilemma! Any ideas?

Eeewy. The-rape-y was kind of lame lame lamazoid yesterday. In fact, I’m not even sure that to do. See, my T is a leetle stressed – she doesn’t think I’m taking my low body weight seriously. She says that I recently got out of the hospital, but I act as if I’m just fine. The problem is, I don’t feel like I’m acting – I actually feel and think that I’m fine. No pretending, here.

Sigh.

I guess I’m in denial, and I really won’t go into that because I’ve written gazillions and billions about it, and I know it’s starting to get old. So I’ll skip the foreplay and get straight to the penetraysh: yesterday our convo went something along the lines of this:

T: Well, I really don’t want to give you an ultimatum. But. – There’s no point in therapy if you don’t gain weight.
Me: ----
T: I know you’re working hard to eat and use the tube and gain weight, but I’m just not sure where you’re commitment level is. Me: ----
T: Last time you used the tube, you almost got to your goal weight, but then it’s like you got terrified and quit when you had almost reached the finish line. What can we do to change that this time around?
Me: ----
T: Well, you see your dietician on Wednesday, right?
Me: yeah
T: Okay, well talk with her about all of this, and then come up with a plan. What do you think of that?
Me: okay
T: And then can you come in Thursday and let me know what your decision is?
Me: ????
T: …Well, your decision on whether or not you want to commit to recovery and therapy?
Me: yeah
T: Okay. Is there anything else you want to say?
Me: ----

So there it is. I have until Thursday to figure out why I can’t/won’t maintain a healthy weight. And if I don’t do it, I’m fired.

Great.

Back to the treatment strategy that never works for me. Get rid of me because you’re frustrated with me. I know that’s not what she’s thinking, but dammit it feels that way. Does she think I’m just treating this all as a walk in the park? Does she think I don’t care and that I’m not trying? Because I am.

And I’m really, really tempted to tell her on Thursday that I quit for awhile, maybe a month or two to just clear my head. Maybe I should fire her before she fires me?

(Oh, and I don’t mean give up – like give up and stop eating and die. I just mean give up on trying to do what my treatment team says to do in exactly the amount of time allotted they give me in the exact manner they tell me to.)