My Deadly Valentine...or Valentime- I aint mad at ya!

What is it with me and doctors? It's a conspiracy is what it is. Not only do they insist on weighing me for the slightest cough due to cold, they always manage to get in a fatty dig. I give you the allergist. Not my favorite person. Nothing personal. I just don't enjoy being injected with all things evil, waiting 20 minutes to see if I die and then being sent home to scratch for hours on end. I could accomplish all of this with a simple yeast infection sans the $30 "specialist" co-pay. Every 6 months they insist I need to come in for a check-up. Porque? You see me every week, I'm not dead and not for nothing we aren't friends. But I play along bcs I never know when I might need drugs. Yes, I am a drug whore as well as a fat whore. So what did they do....they scheduled my appointment on Valentines Day! Only the biggest fatty holiday next to Thanksgiving! Clearly this office is run by insensitive 1/4 Pounders! It would take a miracle to pry me me away from my giant heart filled with candy (that I bought myself mind you) for a visit with Dr. "I have the personality of paint drying" and her crew of mold spores!  A miracle...or chocolate. When the nurse suggested I arrive at 10:45, I suggested she bring chocolate. Look...she weighs me. There are no secrets here. After marinating on the idea, I noticed a notation in her folder that read, "bring Kelly chocolate for 2/14 appointment." It's official. I have a Valentine.

I awoke on Valentines Day with a mission...sex and chocolate. I would get chocolate from the allergist and sex from...well I hadn't exactly figured that part out yet. Plenty of daylight left. However comma, no amount of daylight could have prepared me for an unexpected visitor....Aunt Flo. Bitch. The one day I have a 98% chance of getting guilt sex and she decided to pop in. I say pop in...she was somewhat expected. I take this miracle pill that warns me when unwanted guests are coming....within a day or 3. I wonder why it doesn't work on the rest of my relatives? Can't be sure. Like an unruly bitch she came a day early. I really need to tie off my uterus or sell it on Ebay or something. Clearly I don't need it. I won't be duplicating all that is me for all the obvious reasons and I prefer donating blood to the Red Cross vs. Tampax, thank you. It's useless. I wonder if the allergist can rip it out before she weighs me? It'd save me some embarrassment and another $30 copay. Frugal Fatty always thinkin. No such luck. I had barely crossed the threshold of all things itchy when the nurse said, "Kelly come on back on get on the scale. Oh and here's your chocolate. I didn't forget." It was like telling me to use the cross walk but failing to mention I might want to look for oncoming traffic! I had half a mind to inhale the chocolate heart and then jump on the scale! Instead I used SIF reverse psychology. I refused to play nice. I asked her if she would be so kind to take my blood pressure first. Getting on the scales tends to send the numbers due north. She agreed. Phase 1 of operation "take your chocolate and your scale and shove it up your ass...complete." 95/70. Amazing how the numbers fall into place when a SIF is in control. I had half a mind to phone the "Mercedes Mechanic" and tell him to update my chart. I feared mean nurse and decided to focus on the mission at hand. After scoring big with the BP it was time. The scale. I refused. I made her prick me with the evil serum first. The plan was...after being pricked with said evil serum I would step on the scale only to fall off as a result of severe allergic reaction...to the scale. I would just leave out that part and blame the dust mites. No one likes them anyway. She gave me the shots. Phase 2 complete. Once again I was ordered to slaughter. I refused. She threw me a look that said, "Look you fat bitch, I gave you chocolate, complimented you on blood pressure numbers that were most likely flawed and now you won't simply step on the scale?" That is correct. SIF powers activated! I just looked at her and said, " I weigh _____(8 digits). I know because I weigh myself every day like a good fatty." She agreed to go with my number. And then nothing. I'm use to everything from shock and awe to "you don't look like you weigh that much." Nothing. I wouldn't let her win this round. I said, " I know. I don't look like I weigh that much. There was this car accident and...well you understand." Yes, I am still using that. It's been a year now. It hasn't passed it's expiration until it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And it doesn't. I fear it never will.

It was time to meet with the Dr. Very nice lady with a personality as dry as my nether region. As she was looking over my vitals I was dreading the snarky weight comments that were inevitable. She doesn't buy into my excuse driven agenda. Perhaps why I require chocolate to visit. She also doesn't believe drugs are the answer. Frankly I'm surprised they haven't taken her medical license. We went through the usual. "Has anything changed?" Gee I don't know...have you peeped my weight? I wasn't bringing it up. I went with a sure thing. "No not really. I'm still in some pain from the car accident but I'm trying to work my way back." She wasn't amused. I told her stories of my attempts to eat fruit, how my throat would close and the trauma of being limited to chocolate and cheese.  Didn't even crack a smile. I had a half a mind to break out the allergic reaction scheme if she didn't budge. Instead I let her tell me stories of the latest and greatest advances in allergic medicine. When I awoke she was asking about acid reflux and if mine was under control. Of course it was. I take Prilosec every day as instructed. Seems she has changed her tune on that. Apparently she now feels it may cause esophageal cancer when taken for prolonged periods of time. Excellent. I love how medicine works. Take this until we do more research and figure out it will kill you. She wanted me to see a GI specialist. Something about him sticking something down into my stomach and how it would be less than pleasant. Not. She even said, "I know you won't go but..." But what? You are going to waste my time with the gory details of how you almost killed me and are now trying to make up for it by sending me to a Dr. who can actually SEE the french fries in my stomach. Ah no. I'll take a flaming case of crabs for $700 Alex. With that she came around to the place where all of my other Dr.'s had long since been. "You know. If you lose weight your acid reflux will get better." There it was. The dig I had been waiting for. The dig that made the paint not so dry.

As I was leaving the office I overheard her telling the nurse she was going to regift the chocolate she gave her. Of all things sacred! Is there no Fatetiquite in this world? Who regifts chocolate? Muderers. That's who.

New Generation SIF...

Thas right...get it girl! When dinner is that good it's perfectly acceptable to trade in the fork for a shovel! The original SIF ate with their hands...Emma Grace is bringin it back! Go Girl! Note the milk tossed to the side and the extreme focus. Trainin her well Kimo!

A Miracle...Scaled Down

Today I did the unthinkable. No, I didn't throw out a donut. It's more probable I would dumpster dive for a half eaten donut. Reminds me...I bought these scrumptious chocolate covered bear claws on Sunday. What??...It's not like it was "New Me Monday"...gheez. Who knew bears were so tasty? Not my husband. He didn't get his hands on a one of those. There were 12 in the box. 6 for me on Sunday and 6 more when I came up with a reason to eat them. Like..it's Tuesday. Or Wednesday or something.  There are now 3 left. I'm actually hiding them from myself. It's tricky hiding things from yourself. You know where they are but you try and forget. I can't find my f'n car keys on a good day but I sure as hell know where to put my hands on 1200 calories in a hot minute! Damn! Anyway, back to the unthinkable. I'm more comfortable on that side of town. I stepped on the scale. Why? Who the hell knows. Why does any woman step on the scale? Hoping for a miracle perhaps? Sort of like when you get married. You know it's a train wreck waiting to happen but whatever Everyone's doing it. So I stepped on the scale not sure it would even hold me at this point. I have, after all, been on a non-stop holiday binge. Yes I realize the holidays ended months ago....in my world holiday's don't end. Fala freakin la.

So there I was... on the scale hoping my husband wouldn't burst into the bathroom and realize he's married to a zip code. I'd much rather have him watch me take a dump. At least that occurs naturally within the human species. I haven't quite figured out how I occurred. Not naturally. That's for sure. Sometimes when I hop on the scale it flashes a number so high I just know it can't be right. I'm good for about 4 pounds a month... of gain. Not 40! I wish I had that kind of ambition. Anyway, on this particular day the scale was plotting against me. It flashed a huge number. I dismounted the piece of trash to grab a knife and put and end to the madness when I realized it read, "Error." Can't get rid of me that easily bitch!  I decided to press my luck and stepped on it one more time. My dream come true. It was dead. Gone. Right in front of my very eyes. I killed the scale. Under the pressure of all that is me it finally went home... to hell. Yes, scales have souls. Dirty, rotten souls. There I was. After 6 bear claws, 2 trips to McDonald's and no sex to burn it off  hoping I would put up a good number. It's all about managing your expectations. It didn't say "Error." It didn't say, "You fat whore. Thanks for killing me." It simply said, 'Battery." So...now this bitch needs something from me? How interesting. My scale wants me to bring it back to life. Give it a reason to torture me some more. I'd have to think about this one...

So I'm in Walmart looking for a battery when I realized I needed new underwear. Mother convinced me Hipsters were all the rage back in December. I'd grown a size since then and it was time to move on to big girl panties. Attractive. Yet still not enough of a reason to stop eating. Instead I bought boy shorts. Who thought this was a good idea? I don't have a dick. I have a huge ass! Who wears these things? 1/4 pounders that's who! No part of my 10 gallon ass was fitting in these things. But...just like my scale, I assumed a miracle was on the horizon. I took my old battery to the section of Walmart that sells these sorts of things. Actually, I just asked the man with no teeth and a blue smock to snatch me one. I was getting hungry and I didn't have time for a dissertation on batteries. Shift workers. They always want to share their expertise on shit I could care less about. I had boy shorts to try on and a scale to revive. So I got home and decided to try on the boy shorts post haste. Yes, I thought maybe I would look hot and score some sex. Not even close. I looked like a large prepubescent boy born without a penis and an abnormally large ass.  They would have to be exchanged for thongs immediately if not sooner. I was in need of a miracle. I dug in the bag looking for the battery. No battery. It was sabotage! That no tooth havin mother f'r forgot to put the most important thing in the flippin bag! Thanks! Send me home with man shorts and no way to counteract the man in the mirror! I looked on the receipt. It wasn't on there. Great. At least I wouldn't have to call and admit to buying scale batteries at my size. Back to Wally World it was. No one should have to go there twice in their life much less twice in one day. This frugal fatty loves a good bargain but not at the expense of the scenery...if you know what I mean. Surely you've gotten the emails...

I started thinking, this was a sign from God. He wants me to be fat so I can finally write the book that's going on 39 years in the making. Hell, if Snookie can write a best seller surely I can make some pocket change. Speaking of which.....outrageous! What world do we live in where a midget with big hair from NJ writes a book and it sells enough copies to be a NYT Best Seller?! WTF?! All you bitches better buy my book and I betta outsell that hooka or I'm outin all a y'all. I know who you are...I got tracking on this bitch! So anyway, was this a sign from the man above or just confirmation men who wear smocks are idiots? I swear I'll never know. God wants me to be fat? But I want to get laid. Just another round of Hail Mary's I suppose. It's the sweets. That's what keeps me fat. Sugar. Men are like sweets. They are no good for you yet you keep going back for more. Both deliver a slow agonizing death. At least sweets are all pleasure. I can live without men. Not sugar. Or my rabbit. I did this visualization exercise. Imagined myself thin. Who am I kidding? I don't have that kind of imagination. What would I be wearing? What would I look like? Well...I would be wearing all the clothes in my closet with tags on them and I would look just like I do now minus a few chins, half an ass and some love handles. Still hot. Just less heat. I don't know. Those clothes in my closet went out of style like 10 years ago. Apparently the diet has taken longer than predicted. I really should stop buying clothes for when I'm skinny. Hell, leg warmers are back. That's what sucks about being fat. Missing out on style. I see girls walking around in cute clothes that I could soo rock. Except the part where they don't come in Junior 22X. I know there's a market for that, fyi. Even shoes are a problem. Cute little flats all open and dainty. Not so cute and dainty when the cankles pour fat over the opening like a class 4 rapid. Not a good look at all. So I stick to stretchy jeans and long shirts. Dead give away. SIF. Yes, I could go to the big girl store. I could also stick pins in my eyes. I'll be doing neither.

I need to get out more. Maybe if I was more stimulated I wouldn't concentrate on food so much. My current level of stimulation involves looking for blackheads on my husbands back ripe enough for picking. Shocking? Gross? More than enough reason to stay single. Believe me....this is what married people do. They tell stories of wild parties, sex... all lies. "Backne." That's where it's at.  All those years of watching Dallas I thought marriage would consist of knocking back Bourbon and banging a Bobby Ewing look alike. 1out a 2 aint bad. I like Bourbon. I did start running again. The Dr. told me not to. More reason to do it. He doesn't seem to understand my caloric bank is in foreclosure. I was a runner storing up calories for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or any day. Now I owe more than I can ever pay back! It's a caloric crisis! I need a loan! So I went running the other day and noticed my back wouldn't straighten. I felt like I was running with my back arched. I immediately knew something was wrong. I had gained so much weight my ass was causing my back to bow. Shit! More reason to keep running. It never occurred to me my back might be getting ready to spasm. So I ran some more. Then I drove 10 hours and slept in a foreign bed. And then my back said, "Screw you fat girl!" It stopped working. Darn I would have to lay in bed and my husband would have to do everything. Was this even possible? It had never been done before. Could I have willed my back to do such a thing? If so I need to take that shit on the road! I got good drugs. Of course at the expense of being weighed. At least this nurse didn't make a comment. She was too busy being a bitch. That's a big job. How can you be in the medical field and be evil? You can get drugs any time you want...be happy! I thought about going back on the crack. That whole stroke thing worries me a bit. I don't want to be skinny lying in the dirt. I don't do dirty.That's not to say I'm not dirty. Just out of practice...