Pics of the New Pad

Snapped a few today. What say ye?

The bathroom. The master bath still isn't finished (Husband's lamenting over the plumbing as I type this) but should be done (please, please?) by tonight.

The bedroom. It's not finished yet, but you can see the curtains I made (sans a pattern, thank you very much!) that almost killed me. Alas, they did not. Yea verily.



And here's an idgen of the master closet. IT'S.SO.BEAUTIFUL.


Just some deets here and there:

More pics of the kitchen to come later. It still has dust and tools in it...

You likey?

I Had Forgotten

This morning I was going through some things, and I stumbled upon my Eating Disorder Autobiography that I wrote back in 2002 while in my first stint in treatment. I paused what I was doing and flipped through it. And I had forgotten.

Forgotten how miserable it was.

I remember wandering the aisles of the grocery store for hours, looking at all the food that I was not allowed to eat.

I read about having sore hips from doing hours of leg-lifts, or dreaming about food and waking up in the middle of the night on the floor frantically trying to burn off my dreamed calories.

I read about the shame of putting even a small morsel of food in my mouth, and the anxiety it caused, and how the repercussions of eating “too much” would resound with me for days, for that’s how long I’d punish myself and eat nothing to “make up for it.”

I recalled the poking at my fat, the feeling for bones…

I remembered the sallow, gray skin, and the brittle hair and purple lips and fingernails…

Fainting. So tired. All the time. My head hurts, but it always hurts, and I’ve felt so sick for so long I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be well at all.

Obsession. Compulsion.

I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve life. I’m bad, I’m sorry.

“They tell me I’m going to die. I don’t believe them, and anyway I don’t think I really care. I’m crying now. I don’t know what’s happened to me.” (ED Autobiography, 2002)

~~~~~~~

And now I’m here. And I’m so glad I’m here, and not there.

Glad I could sit down at the table this morning with my baby and have a bowl of cereal and not mind at all when I had to drink Baby’s 2% because my Skim was gone. And I didn’t care.

And I had forgotten all this.

But some things, you need to remember. You need to remember the horror and suffering and anxiety and pain and tears. Remember, and learn.

I had forgotten that I never want to wander down that path again. Ever.

Distorted Proportions

For those of you with good ‘ol BDD, (Body Dysmorphic Disorder) do you ever wonder what the H bomb you actually look like?

I do.

I'm...so...confused...

Raw Raw Raw!

Well, the dreaded D appointment was dutifully dreaded, as I knew it would be.

I seriously don’t even wanna talk about it, because the news isn’t that fantastic.
At all.

What rhymes with PEG?
Suck? No, but it SHOULD.
Balls? Maybe.
THE WORLD HATES ME? Nah, too many syllables.

Since they’ve thoroughly destroyed my sinus cavity, they’re now thinking about drilling a hole in my stomach.
Sweet.
Please, by all means, keep destroying my body. Never mind I've done it already for the past 8 years.

WHY CAN'T I JUST EAT? NO TUBES, NO BODILY INVASIONS ARE NECESSARY! BAH I WANNA SCREAM!
I'M GAINING; YES, IT MIGHT BE SLOWLY, BUT I AM GAINING. WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY???

It (and by IT I mean my BODY, and by my body I mean AMAZING) kinda wants some personal space, but whateva.

At least they've given me a week or two to keep stuffing before they decide definitively. EATEATEAT!! I’ve got to do more, they say, yet my D looks at my food journals and is incredibly happy with how well I’m doing. So, what? More Boost? More praying? More luck? Good karma? What’s going to get me to my goal weight, people?!

It sure as hell better not be the PEG tube.

I’m feeling pretty raw today.
And a little emo, too.

Oh and PS I’m thoroughly in love with the Blythe Dolls. I want one!

The Dreaded D Appointment

Well, the Obama poll has finished, and it looks like the v a s t majority of my readers are body-conscious democrats. Way to go! ;)

Well, I have a very sceeeery appointment with my D this afternoon. If I haven’t gained weight I’m supposed to be tubaged again. And it’s so frustrating, because if I try to explain to her that I was really sick this weekend, and I can’t help it if I have diarrhea because NO OF COURSE NOT NEVER EVER would I take laxatives, and I drank my Boost and did my best to follow my meal plan…..butbutbut BUT. And if I say this, and I still lose weight, which is an incredible phenom that seems to happen to me all the time, she won’t believe me. Or she’ll say she does, but I get all paranoid and know she doesn’t. And then she’ll want to nose rape me again, and then I’ll try to tell her what the allergist said, how the tube wouldn’t be a good idea at all even if it were possible, and she’d just think I was making up excuses.

So I don’t know what to do. I’d lament and rent my clothes and weep except I really like this shirt so I’ll do all the other stuff I just mentioned minus the renting part. BAH! So not looking forward to later today…

Oh, and I snapped this pic because I’m preeeeeettttty sure it’s the first time I’ve used hair product since I was a Freshman and desperate to look hottt so I’d use half an aerosol can a day hoping to look “in style.” I’m not sure how it turned out, but I’m a fan of my (very expensive) “Blair head band.” You like?

[BONUS POINTS if you know where the “Blair head band” reference comes from. Lana, you should...don't let me down!]

THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTSPRAYFORHEAVYBLESSINGS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTSPRAYFORHEAVYBLESSINGS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTSPRAYFORHEAVYBLESSINGS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTSPRAYFORHEAVYBLESSINGS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTSPRAYFORHEAVYBLESSINGS

Amen.

I Dub Thee

After listening to my allergist today and all that he had to tell me about my cats regarding my, like, lifespan, I have re-named my cats appropriately:

I decided to follow in the doc's footsteps and just go on a creative adventure. See, when he was looking up my nose and then later dictating notes to himself in his voice recorder, he said that my sinuses look "balmy" and "overcast." I highly applaud his effort at using not only fantastic weather words, but also very lofty adjectives.
Way to shoot for the stars, kid.

Allergies Aplenty

Just finished my THREE HOUR appt with my allergist. It was quite the interesting one.

When I initially came in, my lung function was at 48% which is “beyond bad,” according to the doc. He for realsies asked me why I hadn't gone to the ER. But it's honestly better than it is a lot of the time.

I told him that and he just stared.

After steroid and breathing treatments, they got it up to 70%, which was just high enough they could perform the scratch testing.

So. After 64 scratches on my back and 14 injections in my arm, I am allergic to 48 different things. FORTY-EIGHT.

Yeah. I know.

The severe allergies include:
Cats, dogs, horses, Alder trees, Birch trees, and Aspergilla (a common mold).


Other allergies include cows, all birds with feathers, (wait don’t they ALL have feathers?) a dozen or so trees including oak, maple, and sycamore trees, almost all grass grown in Utah, a couple dozen different kinds of weeds, hay, and house dust (See honey, I wasn’t just trying to get out of vacuuming. It really does give me asthma!)


Phew.

It seems the only thing I’m not allergic to is ‘yo mamma.

So the plan?

Immunotherapy shots twice a week. I can only do them if my asthma is under control, and I have to be tested before each shot. My allergist said that almost any other doc would tell me to get rid of my furry lovers or find a new allergist, (I'm a liability you see, but I hear that all the time so whatever) but he’s a dog breeder and shows dogs at the Westminster Show, and he said he knows how important animals are, so he said he’d let me try this, but he said with how severe my allergy is and my asthma, (especially to cats) he’s not even sure the shots will work. Boo to that! But I remain optimistic.

Oh, and he also thinks I might have sinus disease. What is that? I need to see an ENT now. I think I should Google this. Ooh, and get this! My nose and sinuses are so swollen, that he said he wasn’t even sure a feeding tube would be able to get stuffed up there anymore. I think perhaps that’s like the only good thing to come of this congestion. And he wasn’t surprised that my allergies and asthma seemed to begin when my ED was really severe. Weird connection, eh?

He also said that “People like you are the ones who die of asthma every year. I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know.”


Gee. Thanks.

So I guess there goes my dreams of, like, becoming a farmer or whatever. Oh darn.

Weekend Wig Out

Weekends are difficult for me. I don’t quite understand it, because during the work week, I look forward to the weekend – don’t we all? But when the weekend comes…I just…fall apart. By Sunday I’m a hot mess.

Do I need the structure of knowing that everyday I’ll wake up at 6:45, get ready for work, wake up Lil C, drop him off at the babysitter, and go to work? Do I need to know I’ll be off everyday by 12:30 and have a few hours of Mom and Mini-Man time until Big B gets home? Do I need to know that I’ll hang out with Bran and C all night, watch some TV, the go to bed and do it all over again?

Everyday, why do I always think, “Okay, four days till Friday. Now three, now two, etc”? Why do I look forward to the two days every week when I fall a-freakin' part?

I missed two days of taking *C, and I went insane. Not as insane as this was, ("The world is a horrible, terrible place. It takes all the things you need like your arms and your joy. What's the point of even living?!") but still. I’m so sick I didn’t eat for almost 24 hours straight. My asthma is horrible. So is my anxiety. The only thing worse than having a panic or asthma attack is having them both at the same time. Yeah, you should ask J, the dude that works at Rite Aid, all about it. I had a freak out on the phone with him last night. Trying to tell him how disappointed I was with the performance of his pharmacy while I’m wheezing and crying was kind of like disgraceful. And demoralizing. And pathetic. And what’s even more shocking is that after I got off the phone with J and huffed on my nebulizer, I sobbed while watching an episode of Desperate Housewives. IT.WAS.SO.SAD.
I’m not sure if it was supposed to be. Usually it’s just smutty.
I should watch it again when I’m stable. But whatever. I hate dignity anyway.

(And I’m dead serious about the dignity thing. I actually cross-stitched that once in treatment: I HATE DIGNITY. Didn’t go over well with the treatment team.)

So anyway, here I am. It’s Sunday night. I feel awful. I look even worse than I feel. Bra-less, makeup-less, pigment-less, breathless, calmless, useless, without dignity (and - as of last night - a pharmacy).

Boy am I glad tomorrow is Monday.

*An anti-freaker (aka pill)

Commence the Soiling

I’ve had several chipper and, like, totally awe-inspiring posts up recently…but…alas…

NOT TODAY. This post is totally going to soil my High Number of Consecutive Happy Posts Garden. Le cry. I hate soiling things. I'm such a soiler.

Balls. You know, I think that no matter how well I remember to take my anti-freak pills, I’ll just get down and anxious anyway, irrevocably, at some point. It’s just gotta be cyclical, and I can’t get out of it no matter what I do. I can distract for awhile, (reading blogs, anyone?) and I can go to work, and I can dance with Cade or talk dirty to my cats…but still, just beneath the surface, is the sad yucky grossness. Make it stop!!!

I’ve had a headache for over 24 hours. And it’s bigger than my growing bum-bum.

And I slammed two of my fingers in my desk drawer at work today, and it looks all squished and sad and it’s made me even more unhappy.

And I have no plans tonight.

And Big B is going to be gone ALL DAY tomorrow, so I’ll be alone trying to entertain a toddler, which means I’ll watch Spongebob Squarepants approximately 13 times and try not to scratch out my eyeballs and/or burn something down.

Plus I’m still a bad person from the Krispy Kreme incident.

Will someone tell me a joke, or find me a black bag, or something? Stop sitting there and HELP!!

Docalicious vs. Docavicious

Oh my swoon! I had an appointment with Docalicious today. It started rough though, not gonna lie. I wasn’t having a very smooth go of things and had pretty high anxiety, mostly because right before my appointment I realized I was a bad person when I flooded the women’s bathroom at Krispy Kreme. (And get your mind out of the ED gutter. It was via another dirty deed. Indeed.) Anyway so I was really distracted and stressed out, I was trapped in a bathroom for 15 minutes until my mom could come rescue me and so on and so forth, so I wasn’t looking my best, I’ll admit. Also I was distracted because on my way there I distinctly remembered wondering to myself if I was a sociopath, and I had good reason to, but now I can’t remember why, and as far as I can surmise it didn’t have anything to do with a el bathroom incidento. I think.

So anyway when we were going back to the examination room he touched me on the back. SCORE! Then when I started going all in descriptive, excruciating depth about my allergies, (think MUCUS and STICKY) he was actually interested. And concerned.

When he wanted to listen to my asthmatic lungs, he helped me onto the table thingy. TOUCH NUMERO DOS!

And then he asked me how the tube was going – weight gain, et al. And I told him what ya’llsies know – that as long as I drank 3 Evil Satan’s a day (Boost) and followed my meal plan; I’d hopefully gain weight on my own and not have to be tubaged again. He said he was so HAPPY to not see me with the tube, and he was HAPPY I was doing my best, and I had a long way to go weight gain-wise, but even when I reached my goal weight, I’d be STUNNING. Yeah, he said that.
About me.
And, he TOUCHED ME TWICE.

Swoon City.

But then – ah, then. Then is when things started going downhill. See, he was giving me a referral to see an allergist because OBVIOUSLY I have some sticky, mucus-y problems. He wants to get a scratch test done to see how many other things I’m allergic to other than cats ‘n dogs. He knows I have cats, and we’ve argued before because he insists I should give them up and I tell him NEVER. So we were in the same argument, when he suddenly says, “I HATE cats. They’re like Satan in fur. Seriously. They’re like the devil incarnate to me. It’s like a psychological thing with me.” And I asked him why. I ASKED HIM WHY. Why did I ask him why??

Guess what he told me? Oh, just that he’d killed a cat when he was eleven. KILLED A CAT. He said his friend’s Siamese lunged for his neck and before he knew what was happening he grabbed its tail and slammed it down. Now, at this point in the conversation, (and let me tell you I've drastically edited the story) I was politely looking down so he wouldn’t see the Judgment Daggers coming from my eyes. And yeah, Siamese cats are a daunting enough breed to deal with for even the most devout of cat lovers, but you’re eleven. Not three, not five, or even ten. Pretty sure you could’ve got through the cat “attack” just fine on your own, doc, without killing it.

So it was at this point I started crying. The story tipped me over the edge, guys. All my Krispy Kreme and sociopathic and work anxieties that I’d been holding in, waiting until I got home…slipped…and landed in his lap. His cat killing, feline loathing, Siamese abhorring lap.

Is he Docalicious or is he Docavicious?
And also what do you do when you have a cat killer on your hands?

I don’t want to like him anymore. And yet…
HE LISTENS TO ME TALK IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL ABOUT MY SNOT, GUYS.
MY ALLERGIES.
SOMEBODY IN THIS WORLD FINALLY CARES. CAT KILLER OR NOT, I NEED HIM ON MY TEAM.

So, I’ll try to tone down the Judgment Daggers and instead say THANKYOU FOR THE RECOMMENDATION OF IMMUNOTHERAPY. I HIGHLY LOOK FORWARD TO TWO SHOTS A WEEK FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE IN ORDER TO NOT BE ALLERGIC TO MY FURRY LOVERS ANYMORE.
AND NO, YOU CAN’T COME TO DINNER.
MY CATS WON’T HEAR OF IT.

[edit: I really only have eyes for my hubby. I just think Doca(v)licious is cute. But I love my hubbster with all my might, mind, and strength.]

Dear Diary

I’m not sure why I feel so introspective lately. I used to be reaaaaaaallllllly introspective. And pensive. And, like, in It all the time.

But that didn’t work. Obviously. I didn’t recover. I think all that extra thought made me delve deeper into my ED.

So I think about It, yes, but I laugh about It more. But for some reason, I’m not laughing much right now. Just thinking.

I feel like this post is going to turn into some bastardized version of my pathetic journal entries from years ago. You know – all those ones that I literally burned? Yes, BURNED.

(I like burning things down in a lawful sort of way.)

Why me, Dear Diary?! Why is life such a roughie? Why did this happen? Why didn’t that happen? Am I fat? Tell me, Dear Diary! Is Danny DeVito an alien? Am I an alien? Am I worth taking up space in this world? Oooooh dear, dear, dear, sweet, luscious Diaaaarrrrrrrry! Boo to life! Sad weep moan rent clothing lament cry.


Yeah, NO. I can’t do that again. And I don’t want to.

Instead

I want to say life is hard, but that’s okay. I’m not in this alone. Things happen, or they don’t. But you get over it, you move on. And you’ll be okay. No, breathe, calm down, you’re not fat, and even if you were, you’d still be a good person.

You’d still be beautiful.

And no, as far as research can tell, Danny DeVito and you are NOT aliens, though according to Mulder and Scully they do exist. And yes you are worth space in this world because you are needed and valued and loved. Your heart needs space to grow so that you can fit all the love you have for your son and your family and your hubbster.

The world needs you.

Dear Diary:

DAMN! Now that's a good entry.

xoxo,
Brie

This is Me in a Sad, Weird Little Nutshell

I was born a la vaginal birth one hot summer day ten minutes before my twin brother. I was a really smart baby, but also a total whiner. I wasn’t very cute, and I’m dead serious.

When I was five I almost died. I was in the hospital for a loooooong time and had two surgeries. Appendicitis turned into Peritonitis and it was a close call. So I made it, eventually, sans an appendix but with a gained a fear of the world. I knew that life could be taken from me at any time. I had no control. And it scared me.

Growing up was okay. I loved my twin brother, and we were together almost every minute it seemed. I had a few friends.

I really liked to play sports, especially basketball. I was always quite the tall one! Elementary school wasn’t all that bad (aside from my debilitating anxiety) until my 5th grade teacher died. She just didn’t come back after one weekend. We waited and waited in our classroom for what seemed like hours, until the principal told us what had happened. And then the new replacement teacher made me see the school therapist because I didn't seem to be "handling it well." I seriously always tried to be sick on the Thursday afternoons she'd come to get me.

Un-fun times.

Oh and then once in 6th grade during Middle Ages Week all the girls were paired up with a boy, and I was paired up with a deaf boy who was also mentally retarded. (What is the PC term for “retarded?” Is there one? I’m not trying to be crass or rude.) I remember that he had a huge crush on me, and at first I was angry that I couldn’t have fun and participate in all the activities like all the other boys and girls were. But then I remember Mrs. H pulled me aside and said she knew that I was the only girl who was kind enough to be with him who would treat him like a normal kid and not hurt or make fun of him. She seemed to think that I was kind and special, but I didn’t know why. I still don’t, to be honest. I remember when the week of festivities was over; he gave me a pink rock in the shape of a heart. We remained good friends after that.

Oooh. Also, one summer when I was ten I got beat up in a movie theater. So random, so funny. (At least it is now.)

Junior high was balls. Isn’t it for everyone? I was really depressed my 7th grade year and wore gross jeans and baggy hoodies all the time. My two best friends in elementary school were no longer really my friends. I didn’t really have anybody, at least, not at first. But I did have my English classes, which I excelled in. I always had the highest marks and eventually my teacher pulled me aside and told me she wanted me to go to the honors class. I readily agreed. I mean, what can I say? Junior high was full of not growing boobs but growing everything else. I went from a teeny little toothpick to a woman. (Well, a boob-less woman.) It was rough.

High school started better. I had my BFF, M, with me and we were next door neighbors and had a lot of fun with each other. I had my first “real” boyfriend then, and had fun hanging out with my friends and with Brett’s group of friends. I started modeling, and that’s also when my ED went from only thoughts to actually actions. By the time I was 17 I was full-on restricting and had an emaciated BMI. But nobody knew, not yet. Even I didn’t know I had a problem. I was just doing what I needed to do to model. It wasn’t a “disorder,” it was part of the job.

I was also nominated for prom queen which was THE.MOST.SURPRISING.THING.EVER. I still remember the shock when my name was announced. People liked me? People thought I was pretty? I was stunned. I still don’t get it.

Then my parents forced me into treatment before I was 18 and legally adult and could refuse it. I went in two months before I was to graduate from high school. Yeah, missed that rite of passage.

And then a miracle happened: someone loved me. Someone wanted to marry me.

But I relapsed and went back to treatment at 20. Adjusting to early marriage is hard.

And then because I’m a total reject and don’t learn from my mistakes, I started modeling again. I had so much fun in L.A., but it was still a bad, sucky idea.

I went to treatment again when I was 22. I had to leave my precious baby boy when he was only four months. I still tear up thinking about this.

But now I’m here. Recovering outpatient, drinking Boost, sometimes tubing it up, and loving writing Blogxygen and all my readers.

And the amazing thing is this: once I dared to shed just a little bit of ED off, I'm finding I like to do things other than starve and obsess about my weight. I like to sew. I might even be a bad-A seamstress. I like to be a clumsy, novice interior decorator. I LOVE being a mama: giving C his cereal and watching him try to use a spoon. Cuddling with him. Playing with his hair when he asks me to because I know he's sleepy and it makes him feel safe and calm. Loving my husband more than ED. Trying to love me. I'm learning, I'm progressing. And it's goooooood.

I’d like to think that if I were to write another short autobiography in time, it’ll only get better and better.
Hopefully because I’ll have repressed my entire junior high experiences into some deep crevasse in my brain I hope to never open again.

And that is me in a sad, weird little nutshell.

Any questions?

One Pound Wonder

Holy oh my moly with some guacamole I’m SO EXCITED! I had an appt with the D today, and for reals I was SO NERVOUS because if I lost weight or even just maintained, my nose would’ve been all over the tube again. So I prayed to the dear Lord above for some HEAVY blessings.

and--

and--

I GAINED WEIGHT!! Shriek laugh joy doajig pelivthrust or whatever!!! When the D announced it was only a pound (as in, ONE) I did an unhappy/unbelievable shriek and yelled WHAT?? I THOUGHT I HAD REACHED MY GOAL WEIGHT! (Dude, I swear. My pants feel all tight and foreign and uncomfy.)

She tried really hard not to laugh and told me that she thought that at the rate I was going I wouldn’t reach my goal weight for three or four months. As in, ridiculously long. Butubutbutbut I did gain on my own. First time ever, since, like, I was in puberty and gained 35 pounds the summer before my freshman year. (But I don’t want to talk about it. It still stings.)

She was reaaaaaaal proud of me though, and said that she and my T were okay with me staying un-nose raped as long as I started drinking 3 cans of Boost (as in, 750 cals extra) a day along with my giant meal plan. But I’m so all over trying it guys. My poor little sinuses cannot take anymore hostile, foreign objects invading their already swollen space.

I also asked her why I had to have a feeding tube. I know I’ve briefly talked about this before in a recent post; but I told her that I was sure she saw tons of other patients with eating disorders who needed to gain weight, and I told her that I’m sure none of them had a feeding tube, so why me? She then replied and said, “Because most patients who weigh as little as you have to go to inpatient treatment. I know you want to do this on your own, which is why you need the tube.” And then I said something really deep and profound like “But I’ve already gained a gazillion pounds and I know I need to gain weight but I.DON’T.NEED.THE.TUBE.ANYMORE. my weight is stable enough that it shouldn't even need to be an option anymore. Plus it’s just really lame and makes me ugly, okay?” And she said (and I swear on my life and expensive boobies that this is a direct quote: ) “Brie, your BMI is really low. I see cancer patients who are DYING that have your BMI. That’s why you need a tube.”

So I shut up real quick and said a ‘lil prayer of thanks that at least I wasn’t dying of cancer. That’s super sad.

Also, if it took me 2 weeks to gain a pound, and I was eating maple bars and oreos like a million times a billion times a day, raise your hand if you think this weight gain thing is going to be hard for me. My body no likey.

So anyway, moral of the happy story is that weight gain is cool and so am I and you guys can all dry your tears of happiness for me. I’m sure you’re all puffed up with pride about it too, and that’s cool cuz even though pride is like a sin or something (Wasn’t that one of the seven deadly sins? Who saw the movie S7VEN?) But I think it’s all right since this is a noble pride to have. Because I’m pretty much amazing. And awesome. And, well, A POUND HEAVIER.

(OMG am I fat? ;)

Church: ‘Lil C Style

'Lil C thought church was pretty rad today. He got to color. He got to paint a cool picture. But best of all, he got to sing. And sing he did.

In Sacrament Meeting, while Brandon, Whit, and I – along with the rest of the congregation – were singing

There is sunshine
Blessed sunshine
When the peaceful, happy
Moments roll
When Jesus shows
His shining face
There is sunshine
In my soul

Cade was singing

I’M SIIIIIINGGGING! SINGGGIIIIIN’!!!
SINGIN’ THE SOOOOOONG! MAAAAAMAAA’S SIIIIINGIIIIIN’!
DAAAAADDYY’SSSSS SIIIINNNGGIIIIN’!!!!
LLLLLAAAAAA LALALALALA AAAAAAHHHHH SING SINGGGGGIIIN’!

Seriously.

‘Lil C and his sweet innocence and enthusiasm had unwittingly made the entire congregation start laughing. He was by far the loudest singer – and really, he wasn’t singing, he was practically yelling.

Best moment of church. Thanks for making me smile, Little One. Thanks for your humility. Thanks for your passion. Somehow, inadvertently, you were MY lesson in church today.

Well, before you started screaming.
And biting my boobs.
(And laughing about it.)

Braving the Eating Disorder Front

I’ve made quite the effort to not talk about ED much on Blogxygen. Ever since I had that freakoutmeltdown and made my blog private for like 2 days and 11 hours so I could take some time to de-freak, I’ve just been wary. But I thought I’d give all ya beggars a little spoonful of what’s been going on. You’re so greedy.

I am currently sans tube. Hi, my name’s Brie, I’m an anorexic, and I’ve been tube sober for 2 weeks and 4 days! (HIIIIIII, BRIE.)

And it feels good.

Butbutbut. BUT.

I have until Tuesday to actually gain weight on my own (not just maintain) to prove to the treatment team that I can do it all by my onesies, or else I have to return to Tube Territory.

Le sigh. The D-ster says I’m not quite yet out of the “danger zone,” which to her means I need to gain more weight, while to me it means “You’re crazy who gave you your degree?” Kidding.

No but for realsies I keep getting in these power struggles with my T, because I don’t understand why I need a tube. I understand I need to gain weight, (AND I’M WILLING) but gajillions of girls trying to recover need to, too. So why do I have to have the tube? How come they don’t? Whinemoanlamentbitchcry. Seriously. Like, this is a question I.DON’T.UNDERSTAND multiplied by 17 + a billion.

But other than that, things are really good. I’m eating really well on my own, and consume a maple bar almost every day. Fat, calories, pastries, and artifical maple flavoring have become my new Thing. Donuts with love in every bite = amazingness.

7 Eleven pretty much rocks my rocks because I’ve searched far and low and they by farsies have the best donuts. Shutup I’m not even joking, I highly recommend. A maple bar and a giant Diet Coke every morning for breakfast. Just what the scale ordered! (Plus LOTS more throughout the day, of course!)

So please keep your phlanges’ crossed for me. I see my D on Tuesday and need a high number. Well, higher. Even if it’s like 3 ounces or something. Just something. AAANNNYYYTHAAANNNG!!!

So, I’ll keep trekking, and ya’ll do the same, mkay? I don’t want to settle for this plateau I’ve reached, where I’m doing better, but I’m not there yet. Maintaining my weight for almost two months is like so amazing I’m probably like awe-inspiring to all of you, but I still need to gain. I need to do better. I realize this. And I’m totally having a serious moment when I say that I’m totally committed to gaining my weight (and I really want to do it without morphing into Tube Face. That’d be like the best thing to happen to me all year!) …so I’m nowhere near perfect, and I have a lot of changing to do, but that’s okay cuz at least I’m trying, right? That’s all we can do. Go team!

And thanks all so much for your support regarding my last post. I’m really interested in this and it’s something I’m definitely going to pursue. I’ll keep you posted, and stay tuned for another installment coming your way shortly.

My name is Brie and I approve of this message. And of Shia LaBeouf’s delicious face.

Write or Wrong?

Hello my pretties!

So I have been thinking about, like, this cool thing I could do, only I don’t know if it’s cool, and what if people think I’m lame ‘n stuff?

See, I like to think of myself as a writer. I may not be very good, and some may not like my super suave style, (alliteration: 3 points!) or think I’m very funny, or maybe I’m a total yawner to them, but I’m cool beans with that because I can’t please everybody. But ever since I was a kid, writing has always been my obsession.

And I don’t say that lightly.

Writing is and has always been a TOTAL PASH for me. I remember as a three or four year old, writing out poems and short stories. I won writing competitions as a kid.

(Yay for meaningless badges and medals!!)

I was reading college level books at 12, aspiring to be like the great writers I worshipped: Dostoevsky, Bronte, Austen, Steinbeck...

I’ve always secretly dreamed of writing the next Great American Novel, and while I know that’ll never happen, because The World does seem to hate me, and I could never be that great, but I think that maybe I could write something that people might like. Maybe relate to? Certainly most haven't suffered from an eating disorder, but everybody hurts, everybody struggles, and I'm not ashamed to share my story. I don't want people to be ashamed for their hurts, their mistakes, because we're all human, we're all flawed, AND.THAT'S.OKAY. It's taken me a long time to come this realization, and I want others to know this. That they're okay as they are. That you can change and be flawed but still laugh through it. That's what this is all about.

I actually turned in a manuscript into a publishing company, and I still haven’t heard back, but I know they’re interested, and I can’t believe I’m telling you this because if I fail then the whole world will know, but I think it’s pretty swell I tried, and you never know what will come of it…

But I was thinking…

What if I tried to publish my From Behind Bars series? I’d of course change the title, because even though sometimes it felt like it, I wasn’t actually in prison.
(I think.) (And yet?)
But I could go back to some of my past entries, jazz them up a bit, fill them out…and write more in detail about every aspect of every day I spent there – from a humorous, and I hope inspiring viewpoint.

What do you all think? Is it something you’d buy or be interested in? And by you I mean like the whole world? How do you think the public would respond? Or would you think I was a big box of lamesicles for even thinking this?

Please let me know. I honestly and for realsies want your opinion. Most of you are dedicated readers of mine, and I value your input. (Unless it’s negative, haha.) Because if even the Lovers of All Things Blogxygen wouldn’t be interested, then the general public sure as H bomb wouldn’t be.

What do you thinksies?

Oh, and my next entry (thanks Kara for the idea) is going to be on what my first day of treatment was like. I LOVED the idea and it’s going to be totally fab. Stay tuned!

LOVE YOU! (And if no one comments, I will hang my head in shame and find a black bag. I feel so insecure about this post.) (Gross.)

A GIANT Bucket ‘O Yuck

I look so disgusting today. My alarm went off at 7, and I didn’t crawl out of bed until 7:28. I put on some mascara with (literally) my eyes half closed, threw on some really cute wide leg pants from Nordy’s that’d be totally chic if it weren’t for the fact it looks like I’m wearing a 90 year old women’s skin because they’re so wrinkly, and, like, depleted. My iron is hiding from me, and even if it wasn’t, I’d still use that as an excuse – and my hair is in a wilted ‘lil ponytail, and I’m gulping down Diet Coke in the hopes it’ll make me NOT look like I actually look today.
Meaning tired and disgusting.

Seriously, I look like a giant bucket ‘o yuck today.

So, interesting: I heard on AM radio today that according to Men’s Fit Mag, SLC is the most “fit” city (for men) in the US, while – get this – Miami comes in last. Why do I find this, like, IRONIC? Or just weird? Or maybe I just found one of the only perks to living here? Or maybe I’d feel better about myself if I lived in Miami? I actually think I want to visit Miami’s beaches a little less now. Yeah. It’s true.

Oh, and can someone tell this GIANT bucket ‘o yuck what the difference between the blog counter you have on your profile through Blogger is, and a gadget counter you add to your profile? It seems the gadget counters seem to jack your profile views up way higher than Blogger’s do. I tend to believe Blogger because they’re pretty kick A and stuff and are like totally legit and have decent bow staff skills ‘n stuff, but the inconsistency bugs me. Has anybody figured it out?

Oh and who watched American Idol last night? Who's kinda is bored with it already? Who thinks the new judge is hotttt ‘n feisty?
Oh, and the answer is THE GIANT BUCKET ‘O YUCK to all of the above questions.
…And you?

Oh, and PS - I'm totally going to write more From Behind Bars chapters, and I've had several people tell me what they want to hear about, but if you have any ideas or suggestions and want me to let it rip, leave me a comment and let me know!

From Behind Bars, Part XV, on that One Time I Farted in Honesty Group

I am a woman of many bodily functions. Combine that with massive amounts of weight gain, gallons of boost, no place to do it in privacy, and you’ve got yourself a classic story of That One Girl Who Farted in Honesty Group.

For those of you who are not familiar with Honesty Group, and I hope there are a lot of you,(!) let me give you a brief history on what it’s all about:
Every Tuesday night, from 7 pm till whenever the confessional was deemed to end, the girls on RTC (residential treatment center – that means you had been in IP at least 7 weeks and were practically recovered and moved to a less intensive part of the unit) were made to sit in a group and confess their sins of the past week or like, life or whatever. The masterminds of this group (probably a group of therapists taking their patient’s opiates) thought that the group would be beneficial for the following reasons:
1. Laugh about it in treatment team the next day when they found out a girl did secret, special things in her room when everybody was asleep.
2. Time filler, plain and simple. Unthinkable that the “untouchables” should get even 10 minutes of spare time
3. Punishment
4. Depriving us of our media outlet. You see, Tuesday night was the coveted TV night. You only got one a week, and you were able to watch it beginning when the last group of the night ended until lights out, which was around 10ish. (Oh, and TV night in and of itself should be a post all on its own. We were not allowed to watch shows with disturbing themes or language, women who were too beautiful or too thin, people who were too overweight, any show with food in it, people who engaged in anything that looked like it was even close to any addiction like alcohol, drugs, shopping, sex, and cowbells. This left us with the Discovery Channel on Humpback Whales (Aaah! I’m so triggered! Once I got called a whale!! Or Inside the Actor’s Studio, and even though there was a chance you could see a hot, young, skinny celebrity on there, the show was too damn boring to watch much anyway.)

Now, telling you about TV night is important because you have to realize that Honesty Group was the only thing left in our way before we could learn more about Humpbacks.

Humpbacks were our only link left to the outside world.

So basically, everybody hated the group and wanted it to get over with. Every Tuesday before the group began, we’d have to read a Very Important Document stating what Honesty Group was, why it was important (it’s the only way you’ll recover lalala) and once that was read, the time was turned over to us to begin the purging of our souls. Except, except (EXCEPT). There was a catch: if you were honest about a rule you had broken while confined during imprisonment, YOU STILL HAD TO DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. So basically, you’re willfully walking the plank on this one. I mean, WHY? If you were ballsy enough to break a rule, AND cool enough to have gotten away with it, why on earth would you tarnish your excellent track record, be honest, and get the consequences for it? Like, I’d have been all over Honesty Group if by being honest you’d have gotten a Get out of Jail Free card. I think it only fair. You’re brave enough to come clean, and you get rewarded for being ridiculously responsible and still get to have privileges. But NOOOOOOOO. You still got phase dropped or caution status’ed up or lynched or something. So why would we talk? None of us could figure it out either!!!!

So basically, most of the time it was silent. Aside from the tapping of feet, the looking at watches, seeing if we were missing the lame TV shows that we were allowed to watch, that is. Now, I never really talked in Honesty Group, because I was definitely never a rule breaker. But there were some goooood Dishonesty Bombs that were dropped in my day. For instance:
One girl had stolen a tech’s set of keys for MONTHS so she could let herself into a bathroom and do things NOT conducive to a recovering bulimic. I think she was sentenced to death on that one.
Some other poor girl had been squirreling her salt packets away in her sleeves for no conceivable reason I could ever think of. I think it was mostly just to take a walk on the wild side.
One girl stole a pair of scissors from the art room, and that was basically the worst because they put the unit on lock down and frisked us in our sad, weight gaining skivvies to find out who had done it.
Oh and one girl ACTUALLY DID, IN FACT, confess to doing secret, special things alone in her room at night. And in the shower. And at the breakfast table, which takes miracle muscles, if you ask me.

So really, Honesty Group could be quite entertaining. Only, most of the time it wasn’t. Most of the time it was minor offenses with little or no penalty time.

So, on that fated night, I was sitting on the large sofa next to Whit. We were all staring glumly at the ground, waiting for somebody to say something so that the group could get over with and we could fill our heads with watered down media images.

Okay, look, I’d had gas ALL DAY, alright? Do you know how freeeeeeaaaaaaking hard it is to hold it in for 8 hours and counting? I’m never alone! I can’t do that sort of thing whenever I need to! And it was making me bloated and gurgly, and I was bored, and I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I lifted up my left cheek so it wouldn’t vibrate the entire sofa, and let it rip. And rip (so, so unfortunately) it did. It wasn’t one of those cute ones babies do, or even one of those accidental squeakers. It was LOUD and LONG. And if you know me, that’s absolutely in character. And, because I’d lifted a cheek, it all ended up right in Whit’s lap.

Of course, of course, immediately, everybody burst into laughter. I did too. Hell, it was funny! It was the best thing that had happened to Honesty Group in a long time, and I also, felt much, much better. Totally bonus, right?

WRONG.

Of course it took awhile for everyone to stop complaining about the smell and stop laughing enough to resume the painstaking silence. But once it did, nobody could stop tittering, and once when some girl dared to start talking about that one time she stole a pink pen from Rite Aid when she was five, some girl, usually Whit, would burst out laughing again and COMPLETELY ruin the whole thing.

Ah, man. It was beautiful. The Immortal Fart. It will forever be remembered in the annals of CFC history.

FINALLY it ends, I take some Gas X, and it’s all good, right? NOPE. Wrongsky again.

The next day when my therapist finally got me to concede to actually going into individual, apparently it had gotten CHARTED that I had farted in honestly group and ruined the whole thing. WHO CHARTS THAT? Who writes “Patient got a little out of control last night and farted?”

And what kind of therapist PUNISHES YOU FOR IT? I got chewed out, guys. Lectured for farting?? Where was I? A cushy $1000/day treatment facility or a Nazi concentration camp? You tell me. Although, if you think about it, I got exactly what I deserved, in that lame lame lamazdoid group: I needed to fart. I was entirely HONEST about it. And I got the consequences. Chewage out by therapist and an order to hang my head in shame.

Anyway, after that, cuz I was so bugged, I never came clean about the iPod I managed to keep hidden for the entirety of my months spent there. It was an amazing feat, and I’d tell you the methods to my genius, but I think care techs read my blog, plus I don’t want to give any of ya’ll ideas.

But personally? I’d take a Fart Confession to an iPod Confession any day. What about you?

Anxiety Me No LIkey

Hey Kids, today’s no fun. I’m sitting here on my break at work and am wondering why I’m swimming laps around the anxiety pool. Work was so crazy earlier, and I was freaking out and muttering to myself and trying to figure it all out…and I didn’t – or maybe I did? – But now that the too much drama for your mama has passed, I still can’t calm down. I totally need to take A Pill, but if I do I’ll probably fall asleep at my desk and drool all over my keyboard and maybe even get the letter V stuck to my face or something. And since I don’t want my coworkers to know I’m A FREAK I’ll just suffer in silence. Well, almost silence. I can’t quite stop the muttering. And sometimes I’m even doing it in a British accent which simultaneously makes me feel a leeettle better but also classier. Muttering in Spanish creates the same phenomenon. I highly recommend.

So what do I do? I think I’ve got a stress ball and a dart board hanging around here somewhere, I mean they’re totally inter-office staples. Just one of the perks of working for a corporation. They know the chances of going insane are pretty high so instead of giving you a raise they buy you fun little toys with the companies name plastered all over it. But shutup I love my new white board they gave me!

I don’t even know anything anymore. This post is all over the place and so is my head. I want some kettle chips from the vending machine but I only have .33 cents in change. I’d go panhandle the rest of what I need, but I’m freaking out too much to do the math. Maybe I should whore myself for it. The World hates me.

So, I obviously need to calm down, you folks are witnessing a breakdown here. Waitsies I totally know what to do:

Ah. I feel better. My little boy can always do that for me.
And so can my creepy husband.

So, the From Behind Bars post is coming to you shortly. Monday, I think.

Hope you’re having a less stressful day than I am. And if not, I’ve got an extra stress ball hanging around here…and also a creepy voodoo clown doll.
Which is totally another story.
See? I can’t stop my head. My crazy thoughts.
Weenie.
SecretStealerPants.
Construction orange.
Cat Porn.

Quick! I need a black bag!

Kidneys + Going Backsies = LAME

Only a few hours left to vote on the poll, folks! And to my supreme pleasure, it looks like the majority want to know about that one time I farted in Honesty Group. I can’t wait to share this gem with you, it’s for realsies a goodie!

Onto other news:

Who else thinks it’s totally lame that Richard Batista wants the kidney he gave to his wife back? Like, how does that work? They take it out of her and put it back in him? So, she dies and he’s got an extra? Sounds like a greedy little bastard. He said that he wanted it back because they’re getting a divorce because she cheated on him, and that has caused him “deep pain,” which absolutely I believe. But wouldn’t he be in even more “deep pain” if they opened him up and stuffed the kidney back in? Or what is he going to do? Donate it to charity? Or maybe sell it on the Black Market? What a freak. And really, he doesn’t technically want it back. He instead just wants $1.5 million for it. That’s all. No biggie.

I mean, you can’t just be an Indian giver with stuff like that. I heard an example on AM radio today. Like, what if you went back to Red Cross where you donated your blood and asked for your unit of donated blood back? And what if you said you didn’t want just any unit, but you’re exact unit? Like, please put back the platelets and the plasma and infuse it back into me p to the ronto! I mean this is all just insane. Who, when in a divorce settlement, asks for their kidney back? It’s like, “I’d like the dog, my grandmother’s locket, and oh wait my kidney back. You can keep everything else.” I honestly can’t wrap my mind around it and I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. So instead, I did neither. I, like, roared. Roaring for humans is not what lions and tigers do, but laughing REALLY HARD. There’s a diff.

Anyway, I hope the wife gets to keep her kidney even if she did cheat on him. Ludicrous. What is our world coming to?!

Onto other news, I morphed into a man for about 2 seconds this morning. See, I’m having some phlegm issues. Reaaaaaaaaal bad. My allergies make everything so complicated. I can’t just get a regular cold, my asthma makes it go to my lungs then my chest and I cough and have post nasal drip and I blow my nose 17 plus a billion times a day and it’s all red and hurts and there’s phlegm rattling around down there. So this morning I was hacking up what felt like my ribs, when I coughed up some phlegm. We all do this, right folks? Only most swallow it. I decided to spit it out in a bucket in the bedroom. The bucket happened to be there, and I didn’t want it in my mouth any longer, and walking another 1.5 seconds to the sink was unthinkable. Brandon looked at me, like, what are you doing, YOU MAN? Totally bewildered him. I think I just spit my first logie. But I pronounce it like loogie, because it sounds less like a private part and more lady-like. Anyway, it was weird. I’m not sure if I want to try it again. Is this acceptable?

Oh, and our master closet is almost finished, I’ll post pics soon. It’s so big; I’ve got so many shelves and cubbies, I can put all my clothes in them but also my special secrets and treasures. It’s amazing!!

Oh, and another thing. Does anybody know much about blogged.com? I got an email from the editor yesterday saying she had reviewed my blog, and it was an honor I had recieved a score of 7.2 'n stuff, (hence the link on my sidebar) so I was all puffed up with pride, but then I went to the webiste and there are like 200 blogs ranked higher than mine, haha. Whateva. How did they even find my blog?

Hope you all have a great day! Don’t be an Indian giver today either, because it’s National Indian Givers Are Lame Day.
Oh, and if anybody needs a kidney, I’ll totally sacrifice. Just don’t mess with me, otherwise I’ll give you my left one, and you don’t want my left one because it’s the one that always has the UTI infections ‘n stuff. And then maybe I’ll even hack my phlegm on you…?
I’m just saying.

[EDIT: I just now realized that the term "indian giver" is racist. I honestly and truly did not mean it in that way. I remember as a kid saying that...but not knowing what it meant. Truthfully I still don't know the story behind where that term came from, I only know that it means "taking things back." I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to offend anyone and meant no harm.]

Hummus my Bummus

When I saw the D on Monday, she asked to look through my food journal – which I absolutely abhore, btw, who wants to list all the foods they’ve eaten in a day and start shrieking out about the cals they’ve eaten? –- and she was noticeably impressed that I was eating more, but noticeably deeeestressed because I seem to be lacking an invite to the protein party. So she was giving me suggestions of ways I could get protein sans furry creatures, and one of them was hummus.
HUMMUS?!
I thought only therapists and new-agers ate that stuff, plus I’m not Greek. So anyway she was telling me it was really yummy and had protein and could be eaten with a variety of things. So I went and bought the brand she suggested and only dared open it last night while I was watching the oh so amazing premiere of the Biggest Loser. Jillian can biggest MY loser any day. She’s totally georg and I could probably make love to her eyebrows. EEEks. Annnnywaaaay,…

So I tried it, and initially like eeewy’d out because all I could taste was creamy white lemonity stuff. But I gave it another try…and liked it! So I began gleefully noshing on my hummus with some Triscuits, thinking maybe I am a new-ager after all…and then turned brilliant with this thought:

ME to hubby: Hey Brandon. Do you want to hummus my bummus and like lick it off?

He said no. (But he would with BBQ sauce.)

But the offer still stands.

Any takers? Jillian?

Magnificent Maintenance

So I saw the D yesterday for the first time in almost a month. As I stepped on the scale, I had this mantra in my head that I was repeating over and over: THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTS THINKHEAVYTHOUGHTS

…and…

…Guess who maintained her weight for almost a month?? Oh, just me.

Just amazing, glorious me.

That’s the bomb-big ass-diggity right there! Seriously. Do we all realize what a huge feat that is for me? It’s so hard for me to have the appetite to feel hungry enough to feed my amazon 5’11" frame. I have a metabo like some hardcore athelete or something, maybe like Lance Armstrong cuz he was like, “Ooh, I’ll be all ‘be strong’ and beat cancer and win that big ‘ol french race a bunch!” and that’s pretty tight. Anyway what I mean to say is that I bet we have identical metabos. And rock hard bods.

So even though I was like high for a week from surgery this month and didn’t eat all that great during that week, I still maintained. Forget gainage folks, I mean, that’s still totally a goal, but this is quite the milestone for this mama.

The Return of Routine AND My BFF

Despite the fact it’s like 11 degrees out and I’m freezing my left boobsicle off, I’m in a good mood. Why, you ask?

Because my BFF lover in the whole world is finally leaving AK and coming to stay with me!!
I’m pretty sure I don’t get why Alaska was invented. Who likes polar bears and sub-zero temperatures? Not me!
But at any rate, she was supposed to get in at like 10 this morning, but then Seattle and their de-icing equipment sucks hardcore and decided they hate her and want to make her suffer, so she’s delayed until like 4. Poor thing. But still, she’s coming! And maybe we’ll go to Red Robin and get some of their fries, which I love so much I could almost take them behind the high school and get them pregnant.

Our new humble abode is coming along nicely. Proud to say we have plumbing, and pretty sure I’ve been promised that they’ll never take my toilet away, so hopefully no poopy accidents on diapers or droppings in special secret places by the shed will ever have to happen again. Time to repress those memories cuz they’re pretty embarrassing slash juvenile slash desperate slash really, really sad. Life can be so cruel.

I’m totally going to give ya’ll a pic tour of the new pad once it’s finished. We still have work to do on the master bath and kitchen and our lusciously delicious oh so amazing walk-in closet slash room for this seamstress bitch goddess (aka the Briester). I’m about to start working on the curtains for the kitchen, and once they’re done, I swear to you on my favorite MEK jeans and clean underwear I’ll most likely never sew any again. It’s time to shake off the selfless and bring on the selfish. I TOTALLY have the cutest sweater wrap thingy I wanna make. Methinks it needs to be made by me. Soon. Curtains never, clothes for me forever!!

I’m kinda glad the holiday shebang is over and the regular ‘ol depressing routine of my life is back. As much as cinnamon candles and sprinkles and presents and New Year’s kisses can be rad, I’m just done. Although I love the way Christmas sugar cookies envelop my mouth, I’m ready to sacrifice that all for some plain 'ol routine. I like routine. You know that. I mean, I have an eating disorder, or maybe I don’t anymore, that’s highly debatable, but I love control and I love routine and I love sugar cookies but surrender I must. (Although not really, cuz we have a bunch in the candy machine thingies at work, so I can always indulge!)

Anyway kids I just saw the time and I gotta bounce. But love you, have a great Monday!!

Finally Some Photos

I found my camera charger. That makes me almost as happy as pink things and dirty jokes, no kidding. So, for your viewing enjoyment, here are a few I snapped today:


Lil C and his ohsomuchBETTER haircut. He no longer looks like Ellen, an 87 year old, OR an inbred freak.

LOVE THIS PIC LOVEITLOVEITLOVEIT. He tried this hat on at the store today and kept asking, "Mommy BUY IT!" Too bad Hot Stuff. If it had been in boy colors I'd have gone for it...

C got to be the first to use the bathtub in the new pad. Daddy's above him fixing the shower head. Isn't my shower curtain smokin'? (For LAME NEWS regarding the bathtub sitch, read on to the last pic...

These beauts are the curtains I made for the living room. The light made it difficult to take a good pic, and you can see Bobbi's large and in charge butt in the pic, as well as Hairy, who we all know is the most magnificent creature on the planet. You likey?

Here's a close up pic of two of the panels. I made four total because the window was so big.

WANNA KNOW WHY I'M SO FRUSTRATED? The plumber didn't hook up the shower drain to the pipes, so when we washed out the bathtub and ran C's bath, then drained it, ALL THE WATER exploded down into our basement. Sweet. So typical. A flooded basement, fantastic. The World hates me again. We seem to have cleaned it up for the most part though, but it was totally sucktastic. Frigtarded. Such a BJ!!

A Poopy Problem

I've blogged on here somewhere that going to stores where cheap items are sold makes me need to go poo to the poo. Weeeeell, I went to Walmart with my mom, and I totally had to go, but I didn't want to go in a creepy cheap bathroom with I bet pee and germys everywhere, so I thought, no prob, I'll hold it till I get home. So I made it home to the beautiful new pad, and DON'T HAVE A TOILET. Yeah, guess we're buying a new one? So I was talking with the Big B-ster, in a panic, and went through my options:

1: Go in one of the many dry-wall buckets in the house.
Pro: it's full of water and is dumped outside.
Con: the water could splash up and get my bum bum.

2. I considered using one of C's diapers. Wait. Stop!! I wouldn't like, VELCRO it on or anything, just hold it under me. I found this intriguing. Huggies proclaim to never leak. This could be like a scientific experiment or something. When I mentioned this to B, he said PLEASE STOP. IF YOU DO THIS, I WON'T SPOON WITH YOU TONIGHT.
Pro: I'd be the only adult to ever poop in a diaper for fun.
Con: I'd be the only adult to ever poop in a diaper for fun. Plus, I like spooning.

3. Go outside. I have a regular spot out by the shed when we didn't have plumbing before, but that was strictly for tinkling only.
Pro: I could put some snow or mud over it and nobody would ever know.
Con: A neighbor could see me. OR WORSE: I could get hypothermia on my privates.

4. Hold it.
Pro: the least messy option of them all.
Con: it's not nearly as cool.

Help?