Squish, just like grape (which I can't have, since it's not LC)

I might have cheated this weekend.

I had wine, which is a no-no. John & I went to a party that was BYOB and sorry, I wasn't about to show up with a handle of vodka and holler, "Where all the fun at?!"

Granted (or as my BFF says, granite), I considered mixing up my vodka concoction and taking it over there in one of those tree-hugger aluminum canteens, but then I decided I didn't want to look like a dick, so. Wine it was. Tacky enough that I took one of those industrial sized bottles, and worse that it was only half-full. Yes, I'm classy like that.

Normally I have the tolerance of an Irish steel worker, but on LC, there's nothing to absorb all that goodness, so you get giddy (or whatever your inebriated emotional state is -- bitchy, cage fighter, mean, screw whomever, amnesiac, sad clown, dancing fool, blabbermouth, sink pisser, what have you) all the quicker. This leads to sometimes hilarious behavior, but mostly shit you end up apologizing for the next day. Note to self: you are not a Kennedy. Stop acting like one.

 and, because it's funny:

Even before the wine, however, my weight-loss had stalled, which is not surprising. 8lbs is what you're supposed to lose the first two weeks, not the first 5 days. Annnnd I sort of factored in that I couldn't keep up that kind of loss, so really, I've stopped weighing myself every day, which is hard to do. One must also factor in the fun week that mother nature so kindly provides every month, which also doesn't help matters.

The very important point of this is that when you err, you get your fat ass up on the wagon again, even if it's for the 108th time. Tomorrow is a new day and you will start it accordingly, which I did. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Even better? I had my cat prepare it for me, so I didn't even have to get up off the couch. (She always makes my bacon just the way I like it -- extra crispy. Was there cat hair in my eggs? Yes. The good news? Cat hair? Carb free.)

When considering what patience I must have with this program, I think about my mother, who might be the worst dieter of all time. First, she's been on a diet ever since I've known her. Second, she expects results immediately. Like, next day.

"What? Damn, I'm up half a pound! I hardly ate yesterday. All I had was a little ol' piece of toast, some coffee and two bites of tuna fish. That's it! Plus, I was out in the yard for an hour picking up branches. I just don't understand this!" Mom loves recounting exactly what she ate and what she considers her physical activity of the day in question, and then becomes indignant when she's not showing a 2lb loss every day. She thinks if you hardly eat and weed the garden, you should drop down a pant size by the following day.

 ("I went from looking like a cute tubbah guy to looking like a preppy douche! You can, too, in as little as a week!")

Mom's also one of those lo-carb dieter who's...not really a lo-carb dieter. She'll keep the LC bars and shit around -- in addition to the "dairy beverage" milk -- yet, she'll gnaw on crackers later or split a baked potato with Dad for part of her dinner. LC is like what Mr. Miyagi said about karate: "You karate do yes or you karate do no. You karate do guess-so? Squish, just like grape."



Let me Americanize that for you. You decide to do lo-carb? Wicked. You decide not to do lo-carb? Whatevs. You do a little of both? Bloop! Ass gets big, just like hippopotamus. 

There's no half-assing LC. You can't fool it. Some people, after the induction period (which is incredibly important) can have up to 40 or 50 carbs a day and still lose weight or at the least, maintain. I can't. My limit's about 30. Anything higher than that and my ass just rambles in neutral. 

So. Weight loss or not, there are other things to look at here. John said he thought I looked slimmer this weekend. Bless his sweet heart, he chooses his words carefully, and he does well. And I feel less prego, which rocks. And I feel better. I used to nap every day, and I haven't the past few days. Today was a prime day, and I didn't do it. I cleaned out my closet instead. (Okay, I cleaned out a quarter of it. Better than nothing!)

I will keep on keeping on, because what's the alternative, except blowing puffing up like a toad?

There's not one. I know this is best for me. Results aren't always weight loss. At this point, I'll take feeling better as a good sign too.Take what you get, bitches. Toodles!

Among other things: Fat Monica and Ranch dressing

Well, it's been a week back on the LC wagon (and no, I don't mean Lauren Conrad) and I've lost 8lbs. Don't get all excited -- I pee every five minutes so I think that's mostly water weight. But I do feel less bloated, and  less, you know, 8 months pregnant. (I'd really like for someone to never have to play the Fat or Pregnant game with me ever again, thank you very much.)

 (the world may never know)

As I've said before, the first two weeks are the worst. John practically had to sit on me Sunday night to keep me from driving myself to Taco Bell (Toxic Hell) and ordering my weight in gorditas. And I'm not even all that fond of Taco Bell. But those cravings have subsided somewhat, which is good. Once all this sugar and carb shit washes out of my system, the better off I will be.

In the meantime, I've learned to love coffee. It's pretty much the sweetest thing I can have. I have a Keurig machine, and they have lots of flavored coffee K-cups and so I get a chocolate-yish flavor, make 2 cups, add a shitpot full of Splenda (seriously, I expect to start growing a tail or some such appendage any day now) and an obnoxious amount of whipping cream. It's tasty as hell, as it should be with that much artery-clogging shit in it. But hey -- LC is about learning to get really creative, for one thing, and learning to enjoy what you *can* have for another.

You have to have an inner monologue with yourself (yes, I read self-help books so I know all the jargon). It's not so much the cringe-inducing mantra of "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels!" (always uttered by some chipper bitch with a 22 inch waist), but rather, "I'm not eating this motherfucking cookie because I know if I do, not only will my ass explode, I'll feel sluggish and mostly ill."

I think sugar is the devil. A delicious devil, but the devil, along with most other white shit, excluding heavy cream. And milk, my beloved milk. They have a low-carb milk floating around on the market, except it's not milk. They can't even call it that. It's a "dairy beverage." I've had it, and it's nast-a-roni. Milk is one of the things I miss the most on LC. Anyway, some people can handle a little bit of sugar now and then. They can have a fun size Snickers (which is different things to different people -- for example, my idea of a fun size Snickers is one the size of my coffee table) and be done with it. Me, I'm like the Mogwai > water > Gremlins thing. I just can't have any of it or I turn into a miserable, reptilian creature. Not really. (Sort of.)

 (I feel more like The Incredible Bulk....and judging from this photo, I bet his hemorrhoids are awful.)

Is it hard to get excited about a roast and spinach salad? Yes. But at least, unlike some LC programs (I'm looking at you, South Beach), I don't have to spread fake shit on it. I can have butter, the (solid form) nectar of the gods. And real Ranch dressing, because fat free Ranch dressing should never, ever have existed. It's worse than horrible. It's an affront to all food. Like fat-Monica said about fat-free mayonnaise on Friends: "It's NOT mayonnaise!"

 (Yes. Yes, this is a ranch dressing fountain, most likely at a wedding. A few thoughts: this wedding was in the South, probably Texas. Also? I'm surprised there aren't more fat people hovering around this thing. And? I'm totally having one at my wedding.)

It is, however, easy to get excited about not looking like I belong in stirrups in a maternity ward. Now that's something to write home about.

Until next time, peace bitches.

Back on the wagon: Part II

Oh, there's a good goddamned reason I haven't posted in a while. Some of you might have though that I just gave up this whole blog, but I didn't. What I DID give up was my lo-carb lifestyle. However, I did receive something in return.

About 20 lbs.

Yikey shit, indeed.

(Reminds me of high school pool parties)

I guess I could get into all the self-psychoanalysis about why, and filling the empty pain inside and whatever, but the truth is, I'd just fucking rather have cookies than baked chicken. My will power is non-existent. If someone chose to drown me in a vat of slightly melted Pralines n' Cream Bluebell Ice Cream, that'd be fine with me. I generally don't like being sticky, but I could make an exception.

(This actually makes me weep a little)

I am just one of those people who will always have to keep certain shit away from my piehole. It's that simple. I do all of this to have a better life -- to live longer, be happier, have more confidence, not break chairs, etc. But a friend of mine posed a very interesting question to me today: Would I rather live a few years longer because I adhered to a strict diet and exercise regimen, or would I rather just eat what I wanted and be happy?

It's a tempting scenario. However, I know for me that I have a fighting weight, and I ain't at it. Not even close. Was at it once. Not at it now. I've tried the "eat whatever I wanted" -- I've been trying it all year: throwing sanity to the wind and eating like a 17 year old high school linebacker. And how do I feel? Like this:

Really. I've been moping around, feeling shitty and bloated and guilty. Wondering how gross John now thinks I am (he swears he doesn't.) More than anything, I just find myself feeling resentful (and a little sorry for myself) that this has to be my life -- the constant diligence and saying no and not indulging.

Then I think to myself how lucky I am to *have* a life, and instead of throwing myself a pity party (and I'd totally have ice cream cake at it, bitches), I turn to this blog.

My summer of eating like a field hand has come to an end. Join me on my lo-carb journey....for the 504th time. 

Stuffed

Oddly, this is not about me feeling stuffed with grilled chicken and broccoli.

Sigh....I wish I were neat as a pin. I'm more neat as a pen -- a pigpen, that is.

Sorry to veer away from the ever-exciting topic of what I'm eating, but I had to tackle this topic.

First let me preface this expose by saying that I am not living in squalor or anything. I have nice things. Nice furniture. I have monogrammed napkins and use chargers with my plates. My favorite tool in my cleaning arsenal is a bottle of water/bleach mixture, which I've sprayed all over hell and half of Georgia. Which is probably also why most of my clothes have teeny tiny bleach spots on them. Anyway. I'm not disgusting or anything -- I had an ex who was absolutely foul (readers of my other blog can attest -- holla). Even John would tell you -- most of the time, when he comes over, I've vacuumed and cleaned and spritzed and sprayed. However. 

I spent 15 minutes looking for a roll of tape today. If a sack of recycling weren't still sitting on my counter and had been taken out days ago like a normal person would've done, I would've seen the fucking tape. As it were, I was stomping around, wondering where in the hell I could've put it. Maybe I'd eaten it, since tape, as you know, among other delicious things, has no carbs.

Found in the trunk of my car today? A ziploc baggie of medicine (including my thyroid medicine which is, like, important) that I've been looking for since last week. It had rolled out from a duffel bag and lodged under the two fake mini Christmas trees I rescued from the trash area of my apartment in January, not to mention the broken-down cardboard box and packing material stuffed in the trunk from when I opened my George Foreman 360 grill.

That grill, BTW? Badass. And those trees? Nothing wrong with them. They're going to look darling outside my door this next Christmas. But seeing as how I literally have no room for them in my apartment, they're in the trunk of my car. Obscuring shit.

I've often cited a theory of mine. An allegory, if you will, about stuff. My assertion is that you can tell a helluva lot about a person just by nosing around their living quarters. As it stands this minute, I am jam-packed. To the gills.

(...to the windows, to the walls...til the sweat...okay nevermind.)

I have bullshit in this apartment that has literally accumulated to the point that I no longer have room. You should see my pantry. Cans stacked on top of another can that's precariously perched on top of something else. It's only a matter of time before a gigantic can of chunk chicken that was resting haphazardly atop something else comes cascading down and breaks my goddamned toe. I'm telling you -- a matter of time.

I have two walk-in closets in my bedroom, and they're both so full of shit that the term walk-in really no longer applies. Ditto my linen closet, the guest room closet, the hall closet, the buffet in the dining room, and every fucking drawer of every piece of furniture in this apartment.

It's not like a hoarding thing, either. (Hoes, please, I've seen that show, and I expect to see my ex on it in the near future. But that ain't me.) I can throw out, donate and give away things in a heartbeat. I sell shit on eBay. It's just that as I'm getting rid of things, I keep acquiring other things.

So, the allegory is: my house is brimming with too much bullshit, and so am I the person. My house (apartment, whatever) is me: full of things I no longer need or want, but with no idea how to get rid of them.

I've long envied minimalists. That said, they bore the shit out of me and generally come across as unlikeable since they're fastidiously anal. But I dig their style. If I could incorporate some of that into my way of life, it'd be awesome.

 (Is it me,or does this room make anyone feel....nervous?)

But the question is, can you change things like that about yourself? I mean, I just came in from outside and took off my cardigan and draped it over the back of my barstool. Chances are, it'll still be there in a week. I kick off shoes wherever and leave them there. I can sleep (mightily, even) with a sink full of dirty dishes in the other room. Don't care. Is it just not in my DNA to be tidy and spare, or is it that I just haven't tried hard enough?

And I wasn't raised this way! Good God my parents are neatniks. I think my father personally uses every single thing he owns. There's just nothing extraneous. And my mother has zero sentimentality. "Oh, look, the roller skates you had as a kid. (pauses thoughtfully.) Throw those sons of bitches out. What in the hell am I gonna do with them?" So how I ended up like this is beyond me.

(damned tree huggers....)

I think part of it is whether or not you have an attachment to the things you own. Personally, I'm a homebody. I feel most comfortable with my things around me, in my own routine. Since I work from home, I spend a lot of time here. I hardly ever go out to eat, so I cook here all the time too. My life's here. However, if it burned down tomorrow, so long as I rescued my precious cat, I wouldn't care. Hell, I might even be relieved. But I could see myself starting over and ending up with just as much shit as I have now. So, it's not some unholy attachment. I just like comfort. Always have. I am the MOST self-indulgent person you will ever meet. Trust me on that. Or maybe I'm just lazy.

I have the energy level of a klonapin-addicted three-toed sloth freebasing quaaludes, so needless to say, getting momentum to start mini projects of cleaning this or that requires a lot out of me. Plus -- and here's another thing about me -- when I do start projects, guess what?

Correct. I rarely finish them. I get so distracted. A task that should take me 30 minutes ends up taking me 3 hours because a) when I do clean and organize, even Martha Stewart gets the fuck out of my way because I am nothing if not thorough and b) I'm like a raccoon -- if, during my chore, I stumble across something shiny and interesting, I lose my focus. You know, I scoffed at my old Russian doctor (think Borat, but fat and with a pinky ring) who insisted I had ADD. But maybe that swarthy bastard actually had a point.

I guess when you get to the point where you feel physically and mentally hampered by the shit surrounding you and taking up space in your world is when you know there's a problem. Rational people (my shrink) would encourage me to tackle one tiny project at a time. Somehow, though, I'm one of those people who has to do everything in one fell swoop. I am notorious for taking on more than I can handle and then crapping out somewhere in the middle. And then whining about it. And beating myself up about it. Cycle, cycle, cycle.

I guess I should boogie, since I have about 1300 loads of laundry I need to...oh hey look! Something sparkly!

Blame Canada

I'm probably in the wrong frame of mind to write an entry, but too much time has elapsed since my last one, so now it is. The main reason that I'm about as upbeat as a Lars Von Trier film right now is not because I ate cold cauliflower for dinner, but because of Canada. 

That's right. Those maple syrup producing, eh saying, French speaking, Olympic hosting, milquetoasty neighbors to our north are the reason I am pissy. (Ordinarily I have no problems with Canucks, as they go peacefully about most things. But this time, a line's been crossed. Allow me to explain, eh?)

Since I'm an overweight female writer who's still unmarried at 33 and lives alone with my cat, I shouldn't have to tell you that I'm on anti-depressants, but for the sake of full disclosure, I will. So. I am. And for some unknown reason, those darling little pills -- which normalize my personality and stop me from saying to a kid who stared at me too long in Wal-Mart that the reason I have a scar on my face* is because a monster crawled out from under my bed and took a bite out of me in the middle of the night -- are mighty expensive. 


* Yes, I was in a totally ridonkulous accident 3 years ago that left a scar on my face. Probably as cosmic payback for taunting small children. 

 (still scares the bejeesus out of me)

And even though I have insurance, I have elected to save as much moolah as possible by ordering my goods from Canada, since it's markedly cheaper. So for well over a year, I've been getting my drugs from this one company. 


Has this company done shit that's gotten on my nerves over that year? Yes. Like requiring my doctor send in a script every time I re-order instead of allowing for normal click-n-ship refills. And like playing a four day long game of phone tag with a devilish French woman named Capucine who just wants to confirm my order, every single fucking time. (How about this. How about, if I see that I've accidentally placed an order for $300 worth of birth control instead of Zoloft, and accidentally given you the delivery address of a convent,  I'll call YOU to straighten it out. Otherwise, just assume that I know how to fucking order online and SEND. MY. SHIT.)

So back in late March, I placed an order with these turds, and -- long story short (lucky you) -- I still haven't received it. Even though my poor beleaguered doctor has faxed that shit to them two or three times -- the Canucks insist they haven't received it.  I mean, either they have a fax machine from the set of Office Space or some prankster on their end simply eats incoming faxes -- who knows. What I do know is that I feel punchy and anxious. And that is not the mindset you want to be in when you're restricting your carbs. That mindset allows you to go get tacos from Taco Bell (henceforth known as Toxic Hell) and then cry while eating them.

Not that I did. I'm just saying. 

And maybe it's tied to my yo-yo with the meds, but my weight loss has totally stalled. Why? I'm not eating one thing I enjoy, so therefore, I should lose weight! Dammit! 


In that vein, a friend of mine once said to me, "Have you ever eaten something and actually enjoyed it?" And after a long pause, my answer was -- and remains -- NO. I haven't. I learned about calories and fat grams and carbs at a young age, and so that information was always in the back of my head whenever I lifted something to my pie hole to take a bite. To me, truly enjoying something would mean eating it guilt-free. And I have no frame of reference for how to go about that. I'm too busy thinking I shouldn't have eaten it at all, I shouldn't have eaten so much, I should've made a smarter choice, gee I wish I could have more of that, gee I wish people weren't with me because I'd eat the whole thing...It's something I can't escape. I don't know how chill the fuck out about food.


Of course, having LapBand surgery a few years ago -- easily one of the biggest mistakes of my life, along with an ex boyfriend of mine who had more body hair than a full grown bear -- does fix the "nom-nom-nom, I'm going to eat the whole bag!" scenario. Because I can't. Most of the time, I have to choke down my food like a baby bird, lest my eyes glaze over and I sprint from the table, into the bathroom, to throw up. If I even look at something the wrong way, it might not go down just right. And yet. 

 (believe me, this was the least disgusting picture I could find)

Having LapBand never caused me to lose weight. It's a means, alright, but not a very effective one. (I'll have to write a blog entry about that another day. It deserves its own story.) Even using it as a tool (which is a very popular term in LapBand vernacular) hasn't helped me lose more than 20lbs or so. In fact, it makes me quite uncomfortable -- thinking about the steps I've taken in my entire life to actually like the way I look. I've gone to ridiculous, yet fruitless, lengths and I'm afraid that regardless of the results, I'll never be happy. 


Anti-depressants say what? And yes, folks, I've talked about all this with a therapist. A lot. Everyone should have a therapist -- they're great fun! Knowing and naming your issues is a big part of the process, yes. Indeedy. But taking actual steps to get right with yourself and make changes is undoubtedly the hardest part. And it's the part I haven't conquered yet. 

I'm sure once I get my meds in me, I'll quit snarling at everyone like a petulant possum, and go right back to being my usual cautiously upbeat yet snarkishly sarcastic soul. Let's hasten her return....I'm looking at you, Canada. 

On the first day, God created chicken salad

Well, I'm back on the wagon. Day 1. Just sitting here with a scoop of chicken salad and a toddy.

Oh yes...toddys. One of the reasons I love LC diets. As long as whatever you mix it with is sugar-free, hard liquor is just fine. Naturally, I have my drink o' choice down to a science: vodka, crystal light (special blend), Ocean Spray Diet Blueberry juice and Diet 7-Up. Sounds sort of pitiful, doesn't it? Or, as my boyfriend (henceforth known as John...exciting I know) said when I offered to make him one last weekend, "That's girly." Twenty minutes later, he was swigging one down, so whatever. Girly my ass.

I'm sitting here watching a documentary called: Fat -- What No One is Telling You. It features a variety of poor bastards who drew the short straw in the genetic pool (I include myself among them, so I'm not being tacky. Yet.) The one that makes me cringe the most is a couple -- both of whom are porkers -- and they're going to a gym together, worked out by thin people who seem to have the personality of a shit pie (which, I bet, is lo carb. Just saying.) The couple: they're trying to cook healthy. They're meeting with nutritionists and doctors to discuss their plan, to talk about what it's like to be fattys.

Are you suddenly getting the feeling that someone is looking at you? Well, you're right. It's me, and I am giving you the biggest fucking side-eye I can muster.

(thank you for demonstrating, Zahara Jolie-Pitt)

I just want to shout it from the rooftops: I've done all this! I've been there, with the listless trainers and the condescending nutritionists (who might, along with dietitians, be the most useless people on the planet), Fat Camp counselors and bored doctors. I've done the rotation in that world since I was a wee lass, and I can tell you: all that shit starts to sound the same after a while.

Being fat is not fun. Unless you're dating a fetishist, in which case, slip me his number would you? (Just kidding. John is the best.) Fattys are the last thing out there that it's still okay to make fun of. You can't say shit about anyone because of their race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, height (midgets, I'm looking at you), mental abilities or anything else. Except for fattys. It's totally okay to rake their cottage cheese asses over the coals (like I just did.) Oh, and Republicans. It's okay to bash them, too. So, don't even get me started on fat Republicans.

(for the record, I really like Chris Christie. and I kinda dig on his Tony Soprano thing, too. Holla.)

Thing is, I have a special contempt for the people associated with the weight-loss industry. Well, except Mr. Atkins, who slipped on the ice (WTF?!!!!) and died. That poor bastard -- he was like the kindly uncle I never had. Anyway, I have been around them all -- doctors, counselors, nutritionists, dietitians, motivational speakers, Scientologists...you name it. And they can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned. Other than that, they seem like lovely people.

I guess my problem is -- and the reason it was important for me to start this blog while I'm tubbah-- is because there's a sharp degree of disingenuousness (it's a word, I double-checked) as far as they go. From the way they look and speak, to the idiotic fucking suggestions they make. And more often than not, none of them have ever had to squeeze into a pair of Spanx in order to zip a skirt closed, so they can shut their chocolate creme pie hole as far as I care. They, in my mind, have zero credibility. I was always more interested in picking the brains of the people who'd actually done it. Been a fatty and lost the weight. Whether they kept it off is immaterial to me -- invariably, they had their Oprah-1988-size 10-Calvin Klein jeans moment, so that's what I want to talk about: how in the eff did you get there and what did it feel like?

(I am so glad I wasn't an adult in the 80s)

I remember when I was 21, I went to Fat Camp on the east coast (I'm Southern; I refuse to capitalize that) for the summer. That experience is a post for another day, believe me. But I distinctly remember one of the mousy little counselors they had, giving us a talking-to in a food workshop we all attended. She stood up and squeaked something about putting a few Hershey kisses -- one or two -- in her lunch sack so that when she needed a little something sweet, she could have it. As she said that, I looked over at my best friend from that summer, a fat and sassy El Salvadorian prone to R-rated tirades, and I said, "Bitch, please. She's talking to a group of girls who aren't interested in a Hershey kiss or two. We're the ones who eat the whole bag." My friend rattled something in Spanish and I nodded vacantly. I -- and most of the others there -- definitely felt misunderstood.

That story is exactly why I love LC. (Again, not Lauren Conrad. Or Liz Claiborne.) I can't have two Hershey kisses. I will plot your murder if I think you're withholding the bag from me. I mean it. So my solution is to have NONE. Zero. Nada. I can, however, have as much cream cheese as I can handle, so...I can hardly contain my excitement.

I'm about to keep gulping sipping my toddy and watching this depressing-ass documentary -- and sweet Jesus knows, one is incumbent upon the other. Maybe these poor fat assholes will get to the end of the program and decide that they can stand being fat a lot more than they can stand seeing that sanctimonious trainer every day and sit down with their Zebra Cakes and call it a day.

(I would literally slap a baby for one of these right now.)

As for me, I am trolling through LC casserole recipes to make for John and me this weekend. Poor thing, he might waste away or something while I'm trying to do this. I'll have to fix him a potato or something so he can keep up his energy. Bless his heart.

Stay tuned.

The White Zone is for Carb Loading and Unloading Only

On my drive to Taco Bell at 11pm tonight, I thought, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to blog about this?"

By "this" I'm talking about my lo-carb lifestyle. Now, I see you: you just squinted your eyes, and thought, "But wait. Taco Bell has loads of carby shit on their menu [emphasis on shit], so why in the .....?"

It's because I slipped, kids. I'd been lo-carbbing it for 6 days and I tip-toed back over to the dark side, just for a minute. And it wasn't even a very *good* minute. Believe me, I'm back on the lo-carb train tomorrow morning.

This isn't my first trip around the carousel, either. I did lo-carb about 7 years ago, and lost -- as we say here in Texas -- a shit-pot full of weight. 11o pounds, to be precise. And then, in 2005, I moved to a big city and thought I had my metabolism whipped into shape. Thought I had straightened myself right up -- that I had been magically transformed into the chick who could now responsibly eat carbs. Well, someone forgot to give my ass the memo, because I gained a substantial amount of my weight back over a period of years.

Which brings me to today. Enter grumpy, bloated, fat (but still cute) me. When I started my first round of Atkins back in 2002, it was still a novelty. Believe me, starting Round 2 is much, much harder. Because the first two weeks? I pretty much feel like gnawing someone's face off, either because I'm pissy or hungry. Or both.

Well, I really shouldn't say that. I'm rarely hungry when lo-carbbing it (henceforth known as LC, and no, I am not talking about Lauren Conrad.) It's hard to be hungry after 2 eggs, 4 pieces of bacon and cheese. Of course, it also helps that I had LapBand surgery a few years ago -- which, as an aside, was the most useless thing I have ever done, but that's a story for another day -- so it doesn't take AS MUCH to fill me up as it once did. Still. I don't like chocolate chip cookies because they fill me up. I like chocolate chip cookies because I just really fucking like chocolate chip cookies. They're yummy.

But for me, chocolate chip anything pretty much came fresh out of Satan's oven, because nothing puts weight on me like carbs. Hell, even fruit. Can. Not. Have. It.

Now, believe me, I've heard everyone's opinions. And as we Southerners like to say: opinions are like assholes -- everyone got 'em, and they all stink.

Some people do miraculously well on Weight Watchers, or by calorie counting or just exercising or whatever. You can always find someone who will tell you what you need to be doing. I, however, will not be that person. I'm just telling you what works for me.

It's not without its ups and downs, though, which is why this blog is being started -- Mama needs an outlet. I'm a saucy little shit -- prone to cursing and dark bits of humor (don't let the layout fool you -- I am feminine and genteel and yet I also find myself saying the word "fuck" a lot, so take it all in.)

I just thought blogging about it might a) help me hold myself responsible and b) give a helping hand to others who find themselves in my position. I've always wanted an honest voice about body image and weight and diets, but I wanted it to be real, and on-going. Not a success story, not some "I shed the old horrible me!" story. There are plenty of those. Go to Barnes and Nobles -- the shelves runneth over.

The only thing runnething (yes, that's a word now) over on me are the cups of my bra and the top of my Spanx, so. I hope you enjoy this journey a helluva lot more than I enjoy waving goodbye to anything in my pantry that's white. Except for heavy cream. I can have the hell out of that.