The Hunger Calls

It is a time for new resolutions. Paying off debt, losing weight, being kinder- that sort of thing. Lucky for me, I’ve come to realize that New Year’s Resolutions are bullshit, so I don’t have to do any of those things previously mentioned. HA

Sadly, my credit cards are pretty much maxed out, so I do  desire to pay off my debt. Buuuut, I also desire to go to Rocklahoma, and hang out with all of my favorite bands. I also desire to buy (what many people would consider) unnecessary decorative items for my home. So I don’t know if I’m going to pay off debt this year or not, ok?

I am also of the age where my weight doesn’t much bother me anymore; though I do, at times, want to be an uber-hot mama that people gawk at. Fortunately, DDD boobs and a penchant for brightly-colored duds can accomplish pretty much the same thing.

However, my best friend is getting married in the end of February, and asked me last year to be one of her bridesmaids. Note, I said she asked me last year. Which means I had over 365 in which to shed the 65 or so pounds that would inhibit me from being one of the sexiest bridesmaids that ever lived. (Hey, just dream with me here.)

As if being on the chubby side wasn’t enough,  her other bridesmaids could fit into a pair of my pants all at once. Dammit.

Now my bestie has always been quick to argue when I’ve been down on myself, so my fears of looking like a heifer in wedding pictures have naught to do with her. In fact, my girl even let us pick our own dresses- to let us show off our own personal style and not have us despise her for picking something we all look like shit it.

No, my insecurities are all of my own making.

So like any normal person, of course I took that year I had to slim down and buff up.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding.

Knowing myself as I know myself, I bought my dress (from China) in the size that I was at the time I bought it. Last year. And now, less than two months away from the wedding, I’m exactly (or maybe a tad bit more) the weight I was then.

It had been over nine months since I tried my dress on initially when I took it to the alterations lady a few weeks ago to get the tail bustled. After much sucking in and pulling back, it zipped, but just. After she measured for straps to hold up the busooms, I was thinking that, HEY! I look pretty good! (Yeah, ok, so I had to have her take my socks off because it was too tight to bend down. Shut up.)

Sadly, the next day, my neck and shoulders were completely jacked up from sucking in and bunching up. So, instead of being the super-sensuous bridesmaid I imagined in my head, I’ve settled for being able to sit during dinner and still being able to breathe, and maybe avoiding my armpit fat from photobombing the wedding party.

The thing I’ve discovered, though, is that the will power that once made me only eat three saltine crackers and a grape each day back in ninth grade has gone on permanent vacation. The simple fact that I’m trying (ok, not really) to lose weight makes me completely ravenous, to the point that I want to eat every single order of boneless wings that I serve to a table. (GAAWWWWWD, boneless wings sound amazing right now….)

I’ve told myself for the month of January, I will focus on eating less, and worry about shaping up in February. Unfortunately, since my daily diet rivals that of an African elephant, I’ve got quite a bit of cutting down to do.

To help keep my stomach from crying aloud with his own voice, (which I imagine sounds very like Boris Karloff) I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of coffee mixed with way too many pink packets. Coffee is supposed to speed up your metabolism, they say. What they don’t say, is that coffee makes you pee like you’ve been drinking booze for seven days straight. And it probably doesn’t help that the sleep I’m supposed to be getting to help me trim down is interrupted by caffeine.

I just…. I just want to be skinny like I was when I thought I was fat.

(On the plus side, whenever I’ve shown a picture of me in my dress to anyone, their first reaction has always been, “Geez, your boobs look huge!” )

My Aging Metabolism

I’m getting older. As if working with a bunch of underage teens has not helped me with this realization, for the last few weeks, I’ve had unsolicited email notifications blowing the fuck out of my phone with these taunting words in the subject line: Your Aging Metabolism.

I could be wrong here, but I do believe that repeatedly sending emails to a potential customer badgering her about her worst dread is just bad advertising. What is it about “Your Aging Metabolism” that makes this asinine company think I would ever respond, and in a positive way to their dim-witted emails?!? Surely, said company is hoping to sell me bottle water from the mythical Fountain of Youth, or whatever magical potion that makes Christopher Meloni maintain his Adonis-like good looks; it seems to me their attempts would be more successful were they to fawn over my general fabulosity, rather than mentioning a little flaw I may or may not even deal with.

I have decided I will respond to them in a blog post…

To the Displeasing Ones It May Concern,

I have received a good many of your emails. Unfortunately (for you), I have opened none of them. I’ve no desire to buy whatever the fuck it is you may be selling, since you have been impertinent enough to remind me of “my aging metabolism”-  a matter that I have little to no control over.

Let me tell you something, you inconsiderate assfaces. My metabolism quit aging when I was ten. My metabolism was thought to be about 107 years old, judging by the pictures of me at that time. Yes, I may have lost my “baby fat” when I was a teen, but that was mostly due to not eating for about four years, and exercising instead of sleeping.

Since you have been so kind to call to mind that I’m getting older, we may as well assume that my metabolism is about 500 years old now. Which means there’s nothing you can do about me getting fat in my old age; I plan on eating the French fries that cross my path, and not foregoing the cake Marie Antoinette so graciously said I should eat. No pill advertised by dumbasses like you will be able to save me.

For future reference, next time you want to try to manipulate unsuspecting victims, try something along the lines of “Let us help you maintain your amazingness”. Not “Buy our shit, Fat ass”, which is essentially the advertising you went with. If you wish to fire your ad execs and hire me, I would consider gracing you with my talents; however, at this point, I’d be charging you up the butt.

I will let you know that I most certainly will tell every person I know who receives emails about your shenanigans, and urge them to also completely ignore your abhorrent behavior.

Love Never,

Sparklebumps

An Apology to my Neighbors

Dear friendly neighbors,

I compose this letter today in the hopes that we can still be amiable aquaintances. While I have done nothing to openly displease you, it is, perhaps, safe to say that one or some of you may be slightly vexed in my general direction.

I apologize for spending five hours outside bent over my garden in my swimsuit.

Were it not the fact that, by some anyway, I would be considered pudgy or stout, I would not be issuing such an apology today. However, upon reflection of my own judgemental thoughts when faced with the excessive flesh exposure of some portly women in the summertime, I felt the need to ask pardon.

I, too, will explain why I have so blatantly bared my ASSets.

I have a problem with tan lines. Like, (and I’m sorry to revert back into a thirteen-year-old girl here, but) omg, batman! Tan lines drive me CRACRA!!!!!!! #insane. Due to having this past weekend off, I have already suffered the injustice of tan lines. My only option is to bare as much of my skin as possible in order to attempt a fading of such horrid atrocities. Thus, the semi-nakedness.

There is always the hope that the men amongst you are closeted chubby-chasers. If this happens to be true, then my apology is to the wives, who may have found their husbands open-mouthed and ogling, and finding reasons to venture outside- maybe feigning getting the mail- in order to get a closer look at my superfluous boobies that so stubbornly kept refusing to stay attired. Here’s the thing: it’s nigh impossible to find a swimmy that fits bosoms of such extent sufficiently. So pay no attention to the fact that I was adjusting and re-adjusting so as not to completely flash the whole neighborhood. Though I’m certain the men didn’t mind.

There is the fleeting thought that perhaps no one noticed me at all. That thought quickly dispersed, however, when I remember how viciously my Rockstar and I verbally gossip about you all when we see you puttering around your yards. Think nothing of it, it’s just something we do.

I cannot promise that I will never again assault your eyes with the sight of my husky thighs, (ha, that rhymed!) but I do hope you all may learn to ignore them. Or in the least, not tell everybody that there’s an almost naked girl outside, because it certainly seemed like A LOT of cars were driving by yesterday. Multiple times.

The girl next door,

Sparklebumps

P.S. I do not apologize for walking around inside my house naked with the blinds open. It’s my house. I can do what I want.

 

 

You Are Beautiful

Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

Ten of Life’s Little Disappointments

As much as I’d like to say that every day is a Zippity-Doo-Dah one, there are just a few small trials we all must suffer through that cause a person to cry “Ay me!”

1. After consuming a particularly scrumptious McDonald’s meal, you reach into the bag from which such foody decadence has emerged and realize that there are no squishy, almost-cold bag fries to complete your meal.

2. When trying on clothes in your preferred department store, you realize that your butt is too large to fit in that pair of jeans you found on clearance, or your belly is in the way of zipping them up, or your boobs refuse to be contained in that adorable top you found, or your boobs are not sufficiently ample to fill out that fashionable frock you discovered. This experience is only made worse when you force yourself into said garments, and after discovering they don’t fit, you cannot remove them from your bloated body because your tits are too big and you are forced to call the shopgirl for assistance.

3. When you are daydreaming all day at work of feasting on a delicious bowl of Lucky Charms when you arrive home, only to notice that the milk is expired when you pull it out of the fridge.

4. When you go out for a nice dinner, and are excited to find that there are many hot and attractive female servers on duty, but you are gifted with the one gay guy as your host for the evening.

5. When you work and slave 60 hours a week, only to receive a check that is $200 less than you expected because those fuckers FICA dipped into it.

6. When you drink a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka, and have a thrilling and  quite amusing time, until you realize that a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka was actually too much, and you spend the rest of the night laying in front of the toilet.

7. When you find out Lady Gaga is finally bringing her tour to town, but the tickets are $160 for nosebleed seats.

8. When you get on the scale.

9. When your alarm clock goes off.

10. When you motion over that stripper that looks so hot on that guy’s lap over there, but as she gets closer, you realize she has a butterface and buck teeth.

Have a nice day.

June 11th and 12th, 1994

Last week, nineteen years ago.

I spent the night at Kelly’s last night, and I met Becca. She’s really nice. We went swimming in the Rum River today. We had fun. Then Mom and Dad came, picked me up, and we went to Kevin O’Connor’s (my second-cousin) open house. I saw Jesse (Kevin’s brother). He’s soooo cute. And when he talked, his voice was really deep. I told Kelly I’d ask Cory if he likes her.

June 12th.

We went to church and then went to Cornerstone (a newly begun church at the time). Cory wasn’t there! 😦 Oh, well. I got to stay home alone tonight. Mom said Kelly could come over one time this week. Kelly called me tonight and asked me if I would go to camp this year. I said I wanted to, and dad said I could. Yea. We can get tan, lose weight, get lots of candy, and meet cute boys! Awesome! Too bad Cory or Ethan aren’t going to be there. Oh well. We’ll still have fun.

As you note my plans for camp, you can see that I haven’t really changed since I was 12. Huh.

The Diary of Sparklebumps- June 1st, 1994

What came before..

We had the school picnic today. I got pop all over Ethan. I hope he’s not mad at me! We had jumping contests, and I skinned my knees. I’m trying to go on a mile walk every day. I’m really fat. And I want to get tan too. Maybe I will. I wish Ethan would ask me. (out) But I doubt he will now.

Drunk I May Be

But feelings I still have.

The fact seems to have escaped my Rockstar.

After a non-grueling day as a Pizza Slut, I arrived home and proceeded to get pleasantly buzzed, thanks to a little (or big) bottle of 99 Apples.

My Rockstar and I sat down and amiably zoned out on a TV show we both enjoy; I cooked him a drunken grilled Cheese, my specialty, ( a grilled cheese slightly askew made with love and Colby Jack cheese), when all of a sudden, his Daddy Dear called. I decided to play a funny, and while he conversed with his male creator, I proceeded to don his newly washed swim trunks over my yoga capris, and my only-minutely small bra over the tank top I was already wearing. I reaped a smile, and perhaps a squashed man-giggle, before he bid adieu to his daddy. I mentioned the obvious swim trunks, when he decided to be his ass-faced self.

“Yeah, my pants used to fit you.”

I admit here that I have gained only two pounds since I last tried his pants on for fun, and so I took this as an affront. (Even more so due to my drunken state.)

I have never once professed to be a skinny-minny; in fact, the opposite is true. I admit to fatness on a daily basis, though I appreciate the times when  people decide to disagree with me. HOWEVER, I may not be a Mena Suvari, but I care (at least sometimes) about other people’s feelings, and would never tell my semi-cute girlfriend with the big boobs that she was less than perfect. That is for people who are jealous of her to do.

‘Tis true that I am more than a little inebriated, but I can still spell inebriated without spellcheck, which means my feelings can still be hurt. And so I persevered in ignoring him for the remainder of the evening, which only resulted in his going to bed early. Fuckin’ A.

What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?

The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand  how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated.  However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.

As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and  designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.

While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.

The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?

Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.

The End of Abuse

I have a confession to make.

I’ve been in an abusive relationship for the past 16 years.

In the beginning, I couldn’t see it, despite the fact that I had my friends and loved ones urging me to open my eyes and see the truth. I began questioning my self-worth when my damaging relationship constantly reminded me I had a weight problem. I had nowhere to turn when several of my aquaintances began ridiculing me about my weight.

I tried to stop the abuse, exercising endlessly, trying to lose the disgusting poundage that caused me to hang my head in shame when out in public. It mattered not. I lost 37 pounds, and was still told I was fat. It was only later that I found out I was being lied to, when the fact that I had only 88 pounds on my 5’3″ frame was staring me in the face.

It’s gotten better, on and off, in more recent years.

As in most relationships, I’ve noticed I receive better feedback when I’m stark naked. When I’m wearing clothes, I’m reminded, “You’re fat! You’re ass is the size of Manitoba and if you go out in public in that, people will be gawking at you in disgust!” There are a few good days, though. Usually, it’s in the morning when I’m commended- “You’re doing better today. That 1200 calorie coffee you had yesterday hasn’t plastered itself on your ass just yet. Keep it up.”  On those days, my confidence is elevated, and nothing can touch me. It lasts, though, only as long as I can restrain myself from snarfing down that large french fry from Mickey D’s, or until the 12 glasses of water I drank completely bloat me. Then it’s back to- “Yeah. You weigh the same as 4 ten-year-olds full off of Doritoes and Ding Dongs, you slob. You might as well park your fat ass in the back of a two-wheel drive F-150 so it doesn’t fish-tail during a rainstorm.”

This morning, I decided enough was enough.

No longer will I subject myself to such hurtfulness. No. I will never have the sleek and slim form that graced Audrey Hepburn. I cannot let another 16 years go by with the voices saying, “Just hurry up and die, you repulsive tub of lard. Make room for someone more worthy.” I will no longer be controlled by one with such cruel and malicious intentions.

It’s time to throw the bathroom scale away.