Family, Food, Facebook, Fat, Fuck.

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Flo' sho'

I think I might be content with a life in which my most significant and satisfying relationship is with Flonase.

Who put this Jesus in my vagina?

So today I did the annual gyno exam, which is generally annoying as fuck. I really don't appreciate anyone touching my vagina if it doesn't end in orgasm.

Got put on a birth control pill so I can be a fatter, moodier, assholier asshole. ("What's the Lamictal for?" "It's for Crazy, so make sure I get Pill Lite so we don't make that worse.")

Then went downstairs in the same building to an on-site lab -- SUPER convenient, but the lab is more free about being part of a Jesus-y hospital system. So there are crosses on the walls, presumably so I can pray to Jesus to forgive me for fucking, and also pray while the lady jacks four vials of my blood to make sure my vagina doesn't have any biblical plagues.

This better be the best goddamn sex I've ever had. 

The bitch of it? He's starting to annoy me so I don't think that's even going to happen. But these are all good things to have done in general.

Still, fuck everything. I am dizzy, and getting tacos on my way home. Hmph.

In which I have no interest in sexually transmitting the common cold

The bad news: I had to postpone the other OkCupid date I had scheduled tomorrow. I still have residual plague and it really wouldn't be cute if I were coughing up my entire lung over coffee.

The good news: Now there's time to get my hair cut and colored, get various waxes and a manicure like I'm an Actual Woman, and for my menstrual cycle to end, because I'm definitely not above third base on a first date. (He gives good text; he can skip ahead a bit.)

Make way for my Dating Representative, y'all. She's virtually hairless and wears heels. It's on.

Weight Loss, Crypt Keeper, Trainwreck, Lipstick, and "La-di-da"

A while back I asked y'all to come kick me if I didn't lose some weight, because my clothes didn't fit anymore and I hate shopping.

Turns out all I needed was a (prescription) drug that fucks up my appetite and makes me so thirsty I drink tons of water and always feel full, plus family, friend, and boy issues. I'm running on bananas, almonds, and kettle chips because that's all my body is accepting.

I feel like hell, I get wobbly, and my face looks like The Crypt Keeper, but I lost 5 lbs in one spectacular shitshow of a week.

I spent most of the past 2 days in bed (took a sick day yesterday), but eventually getting up, cleaning my house, then cleaning ME. It's remarkable how an irresponsibly hot shower and clean sheets can improve your outlook. (Plus watching "Trainwreck" again.)

I am going to be fine.

We're good, now, right, Brain? My family is still fucked, but you'll let me pine for just the ONE guy (the one who's actually worth even a passing thought)? And my friends are OK? And we'll be more mindful of eating at least enough that standing isn't so challenging and daylight doesn't hurt our eyes?

Right, then. Onward. Lipstick. Sushi. Power song!

Oh, sweet Jesus...

I think I did a thing.

I think it was a healthy thing.

I think I may vomit.

Results pending...

Cize it up, size me down.

I had a screening at work for insurance discounts, and I got 3 out of 4 of the available discounts -- I am too fat to get the one for healthy BMI. BMI is a bunch of bullshit, but OK -- mine is high, qualifying me as "overweight."

1. Fuck you, I'm adorable. In the words of Cher Horowitz, I'm "like one of those Botticelli chicks." (But certainly NOT a Monet.)
2. HOWEVER...it's getting cooler and I can't just keep wearing summer dresses and ignoring the fact that none of my pants fit.
3. I don't necessarily care that I'm size 14; I just care that all the clothes I own are a 12. I'll be goddamned if I'm getting dicked out of an insurance discount AND have to spend money on larger clothes.
4. Maybe I'm wasting money on therapy when all I need to do to fix a "mood disorder not otherwise specified" is have some at-home therapy with Shaun T​. (It's not, but it can't hurt.) (Also, mmm, Shaun T...)

I've resolved this here before, so if I don't report back soon that I am once again partying in my pants, I'm going to post my address here and one of y'all has to come bust my kneecaps. Deal? Excellent. Glad we had this talk.(As a bonus, if you break my kneecaps, I can't work out. See what I did there?)

P.S. This is going to blow numerous goats, because the weather is changing and pretty much all I want to eat is lasagna. I'm basically Garfield from November through March.

Would a "basic STD" also thrive on PSLs?

My health insurance enrollment form has a space where I can sign up for "basic STD."

It stands for "short-term disability," but still, a weird box to check. (Tee hee.)

Captain Picard never logged his calories.

Diet and fitness challenge with friends, Day 1: There is no cheese on this salad and everything is stupid and tastes like tragedy with a dressing of baby unicorn tears and I'm still menstruating and if you don't hear from me again it's because I died of cheeselessness and injustice.

Saving the sisterhood, one pH balance at a time.

I hear a lot of jokes about "girl code," usually in regard to dating a friend's ex or something.

Let me give you an example of the REAL girl code:

My doctor, a woman about my age, prescribed an antibiotic for the sinus infection that's been beating my ass (seriously, please come tear my face off, and also bring pie). Without me asking, she said, "I'm also calling in a script for Diflucan. If you don't need it, don't fill it, but I don't want you to have to bother calling us back and asking for it."

I go pick up the antibiotic, along with a bottle of acidophilus. I tell the female pharmacist I'm not filling the Diflucan right now, that I'll just leave that on standby for a rainy day in my vagina. She nods, notices the acidophilus, and tells me unprompted that cranberry extract supplements also help her prevent The Evil that Shall Not Be Named.

That's your girl code. Good work, Girl Nation. My pH balanced lady garden thanks you.

"Against Kerry Washington, you will lose."

I read Self magazine because I applaud the bold, innovative way they've cleverly shortened the title from Self-Loathing.

But also, the latest cover model is Kerry Washington, who is my personal Jesus. And in the interview, she says she begins her day by drinking a liter of water with lemon and doing pilates. (Or, after a liter of water, pee-lates, I can only assume.)

Today I was thinking about how I started my morning:

"Well, Self, I swore out loud at the alarm clock and hit 'snooze' 86 times. I hoisted myself out of bed angrily and fumbled around naked looking for an outfit, anything that fits because I'm never sure anymore. And then I shoved Lexapro and two types of OTC drugs into my sinus-infection-addled face with a Dixie cup of tap water from the bathroom sink, followed by an enormous vat of coffee, and now I am finally, but still barely, able to face humanity."

This is why they don't let me talk to the media. And why Kerry Washington never returns my calls.

Bass > Treble

Email to friends:

"Sad: This dress used to be loose on me, but since I've gained weight it's tighter now.

"Happy: It actually looks pretty fuckin' bangin' with a little more body in it."

#NoTreble