Ant In My Pant(s)

Dewie and I were sitting on the porch this morning with our delicious coffee beverages, arguing about whose turn it was to bathe the dog.

“I’m pretty sure I did it last. Remember, because I had to ask you to get her up on the benches because she was being all belligerent and whatnot and she weighs 700 pounds,” Dewie proudly and overconfidently stated.

“That’s true, but you’re forgetting the last time was when I was watching the kids and we tromped through the flooded cornfield. I gave her a bath before we went in the house, Mistaken Wrongington from Incorrectville. Should I do my victory dance now, or wait until you’re covered in soap and dog hair?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that one.”

“OWWW! Son of a… What the hell?!?” Suddenly the back of my knee is on fire. I start slapping at my pants like a deranged bongo player.

“What’s the matter?”

“Stings! Holy @#$%ing SH@#! For the love of all that is holy get it out!”

“What is it? Is it a bee?”

“I DON”T KNOW!!! I can’t see through my pants!” I frantically pull up my pant leg searching for whatever is trying to murder me.  Nothing. I can’t find anything. I drop the pant leg thinking whatever it was has escaped its horrible cotton prison. Immediately it starts again. “What the hell?! OWWWW! JEEEZ. STUPID #$%^ER!!!!” Alright, now I’m in a panic. I start to take my pants off.

Dewie screams at me, “Where is your underwear?!”

“They’re pajamas! Who wears underwear with pajamas?!”

“Well at least go in the house first!” 

“What if it gets away inside the house?! It’s MELTING MY FLESH OFF! Do you want that crawling into the bed?!

“You’re not showing your ass to the neighborhood! We’ll catch it. GO INSIDE!”

I stumble in the door, desperately tugging at my pants. I brush my legs in case it’s still stuck to me.  My knee pit is covered in welts, but the perpetrator is still on the lam. I turn the pants inside out and a single winged ant is crawling around on the inside of one leg. One ant. Sometimes I hate Florida. 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

It all started with a picture. There I was having a blast, delicious adult beverage in one hand, cigarette in the other, laughing at something I’m sure was hilarious. But looking at the picture did not bring me joy. Instead I felt more than a little horrified. I looked at the woman in the picture and did not see my normal chubby self. What I saw was a big, giant blob of diabetes with a cancer chaser in each hand.  Damn.

As many of you know, food and me, well we’re not so secret lovers. I’m not just talking about junk, it’s all of it. Bright, delicious fruits and veggies, fresh soft breads, nuts, seeds, yogurt, ice cream, chocolate, foreign, unpronounceable cheese, sea creatures, land creatures, you name it, I love it. And I eat it. A lot of it. Now in the past, I have been able to drop 20 or 30 pounds in a week or two. The shock value and water loss alone is usually a good five or six pounds the first day. I’m a good dieter… short term. So imagine my surprise when after the first day of my new diet I stepped on the scale and I had only lost 2 pounds. What the hell? So we’re gonna play it like that are we? I don’t need a calendar to figure out that my body has decided that it’s too old for this nonsense and has decided to hold onto the chub-a-lub with a death grip. This can only mean one thing. This one’s for good. Sigh. So with one week down (and nearly nine pounds gone) and a lifetime to go, it’s time for me to get real with myself.

1.      While it is true that the camera adds ten pounds, it does not add fifty. While everyone takes a horrible picture every now and then, you will not pacify yourself with lunacy.

2.       You will not use your menstrual cycle as an excuse to eat crap. It’s an easy out, and you know it. Just stay away from sharp objects and suck it up.

3.       The food you eat while making food counts. Stop it.

4.       You will not eat things just so they don’t go to waste. They’ll do you more good in the garbage than on your ass.

5.       Adding things to coffee (chocolate, caramel, peppermint candy, schnapps, etc) does not erase its calories. They’re still there, even if you choose to dismiss them as food accessories.

6.       You will not justify eating bad food by telling yourself that it’s better than worse food. A peanut butter and honey sandwich may be better than a hamburger, but you still need to put it the hell down.

7.       I will not explain away poor choices by telling myself that I deserve a “treat.” You know damn well that the real treats will be accompanied by balloons and a theme song, not eaten at midnight while hiding behind the refrigerator door.

I’m sure there’s more, but you get the idea. No more excuses. Here I go; turning the page. And I know, I’m working on the smoking. Let’s focus on one trauma at a time.