I could tell something was different from the moment I walked out of the doctors office (and not just because I had the average looking middle aged doctor). Things felt a little tight in the chest area and I even felt a little nauseous so of course I had to "try it out" when I got home. I had a little bit of vegie patty (mashed vegies and not much else) and woohoo - I felt that awesome dull, full tightness, not pain or lumpies or stuckness just pleasantly full and satisified after one bite. It was then that the heavens opened up, the angels began to sing, I was moved to tears when I realised this was the feeling I had after the operation and it was back again minus the pain and awfulness of being hacked open. Dinner was the same just a little plate like the early days and then full and satisified. Damiens chucking a wobbly be back later
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Drum roll please.........
And its official - I have restriction!!! I can hear the angels singing, symphonies bashing out an earth shattering chorus, tsunamis in Japan, earthquakes in Nigeria, butterflies rooting in Hawaii!!!
Praying for a Cockroach
Third fill today and my God, if I'm not doing a cockroach (ie: puking every two steps) I am going to have a royal case of the shites. Have to admit this fill has been slightly better than the last but I'm still going bezerk, and really its 8.28am here and I really have to pretend like I'm a half decent mother and get the kids off to school - hopefully with their hair brushed and a lunch bag in tow. So this whole civilised "cappuccino and catching up with the peeps" thing really has to end here. Will be back this arvo with a fill update.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
I have lost the will to live
I have just written a post about my grand mother who died 4 years ago today and the post was wiped while I was trying to post it. I will take this as a sign that I shoudnt dwell on her death but it has broken my heart and I have lost the will to live for at least the next few hours and 8 glasses of wine
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother on the first date
Happy Mothers Day to everyone out there in blogland. Dont feel sad for me cause here I am blogging on Mothers Day morning. We've been up since sparrow's fart and I've had a lovely breakfast with my mum who lives and next door. The kids made us croissants and coffee and now everyone is either out or watching Beverly Hills Chiuaha (sic) and I have some lovely moments to myself to ponder how this whole mother hood thing started.
In order to tell the story in all its glory I have to start with how my husband and I met. I was 25 and getting really sick of the young single party girl thing (sick or what?). I remember one day working out the numbers and realising that if I met someone that day, went out for 2 years, got engaged for 1 year, got married and lived as a couple for say 2 years, tried to get pregnant for 1 year, was pregnant for 1 year I would be almost 40 by the time I heard the pitter patter of little feet. Hell man, I was clucky and that was a seriously disappointing amount of time for a really impatient girl of 25. I had just broken up with a seriously crap boyfriend, was toying around with a toy boy, just flicked the crap job, landed the job from heaven and who should be sitting next to me but this suave, sophisticated, cultured, clean, professional and far too nice for me, Latino boy. There were a few young ones in our office and we all hung out together. Latino Boy was off limits - he'd had a girl friend for 7 years, they lived on Castlreagh Street (smack bang in the middle of the city) and he was just too well paid and too mature and too unlike all of the other losers I went out with so I kept my distance. But we all had fun together. Latino Boy didnt smoke or drink so we only hung out at lunch time but we all got along well. I had never even considered he would be interested in me so he got the full version of Shaggs on Steroids - the smoking, the drinking in the office (Friday Beer O Clock etc), the filthy stories from the weekend, the swearing and blah blah blah. I really didnt think I'd be able to pick up a bikie.
So it came to be that one week all of the young ones except me and Latino Boy were in Melbourne working so it was just us for lunch that day. I dragged Latino Boy around the shops to buy cheap jeans and he had to carry my bags and he even carried them to the train station for me and not once did my alarm bells ring.
That was Friday and on Monday it was just us again and we were off to get a coffee for morning tea and Latino Boy seemed a little troubled. He had slept badly on the weekend he said and I was all very sympathetic asking why and was everything OK (couldnt believe I was seeing another side to Latino Boy) he continued his story saying he couldnt sleep because he was thinking about me......
Yes I nearly fell over! What!???? Now as an Aussie Sheila I find it very hard to cope with overt displays of such emotion but I have to say I think I did ok. We wondered around the city for a long time that day trying to work up the courage (without the use of alcohol) to discuss what was going to happen with this revelation. Latino Boy decides he should break up with old girlfriend and I agreed we could give it a go but I wasnt going to promise anything and if it didnt work then Que Sera.
So Latino Boy broke up with old girlfriend that night and the next morning there was a bunch of red roses on my desk bigger than my parents dining room table (unextended). The next day there was a bottle of my favourite expensive perfume in my desk drawer (and yes it was in a limited edition bottle and it was Eau de expensive Parfum and beautifully wrapped from David Jones), the next day was November Lillies and it just went on from there. We sent filthy messages to each other all week via NetSend messaging (very early MSN via a linked network - he was a network engineer) and finally Friday night came and we went out for dinner to a Spanish restaurant. He ordered in beautiful, fluent orgasmic Spanish (second only to beautiful, fluent network engineer lingo) and I drank copious amounts of Sangria (of course, finally alcohol to help me deal with this crazy scenario) and before I knew I was waking up in a thick bath robe eating chocolate croissants and fresh orange juice overlooking the QVB and Darling Harbour - exuisite!!! It was like Pretty Woman without the exchange of cash (just dinner and the apartment was like a hotel oh and breakfast - lucky little westie that I am!)
So what has all of this first date stuff got to do with Mothers Day??? Well, everything. You see it was that night, after a week of truly filthy messaging, flowers, parfums, Spanish, food, his beautiful apartment on Castlereagh Street etc etc we both caved in and went ahead without adequate (or any) protection. I knew my cycle and believed it was a calculated risk but what I didnt calculate was the effect of all this wooing on my hormones making me ovulate early and wham bam thank you mam two weeks later I realise I am "late" and yep, I got pregnant on the first date! We know it was the first date because after that night we were vigilant about contraception and that was the only time the troops went in without a helmet.
So we had been together for two weeks and I was four weeks pregnant (pregnancy is counted from the start of your last period). Let me say it didnt go down well amongst his family who all believed we must have had something going while he was still with the last girlfriend ( who was still a friend to the family and the poor woman scorned) He also comes from a long line of women scorned and left by men. I urged him to leave me before anyone found out. We had a good few months before I would start to show and by then the baby could technically be anyones and he didnt have to look like the deserting baby daddy. But he was keen to stay (I really think now he wishes he had of run) and I looked like the seducer who trapped the poor Latino Boy.
So we got married when I was 11 weeks pregnant ( I just couldnt handle having a baby with a different name from mine and we'd already toyed with the idea of getting married before the baby thing was discovered). I just wanted to have a registry wedding and go to Doyles for seafood lunch but my mother thought it was rude to ask people to go to Doyles so she made us have a "reception" (and I use the word loosely) in her backyard. We had a pig on a spit and some coleslaw and potato salad out of huge plastic boxes, I had a fight with my sister, my brother had a fight with my father, I went with my new husband to pick up his old grandma and by the time we got back there was my mothers western suburbs back yard with South Americans on one side and Aussies on the other and no one knew who the f%^& anyone was and if they were even in the right place. I then (bitterly) watched everyone but me get pissed and then I went with my husband to take his old grandma home and by the time I got back it was over and everyone had gone home and we didnt cut the cake (a running tradition in my life). We should have just left it at Doyles. Did I mention I wore a maternity dress? I had gained about 15kg in the first 3 months of pregnancy.
So, by the time I had known my husband for a year (and I mean to the day) my daughter was born. Just the sweetest, blue eyed, blond haired gorgeous little cherub. We were total lunatic first time parents and did everything wrong but she's turned out surprisingly well balanced under the circumstances. And yes, no one believed my husband was the father because she is so very fair and even less so when baby number two turned out darker than her father even. People still ask if they're both mine and I always answer yes and that they both have the same father just so no one gets uncomfortable (or rude) and has to ask. Funny thing is, number one looks like his family but has my colouring and number two looks like my family but has his colouring and number three is the Devil's Spawn so we're still not sure who he looks like.
So that was all nearly eleven years ago and we're still here to tell the story. I'm not the size 10 beauty queen anymore (I gained 40kgs in that first year and I'm still trying to get rid of it) and he's not the sweet Latino Boy who showers me with affection and gifts anymore but then, thats life. I dragged him out to the burbs to live near my family just while the baby was little and of course we're still here. He can sometimes be seen in unironed Target clothes and even has a pair of jeans from Big W that I never got around to taking up so are frayed on the bottom. I know a little part of him has died in order to accomodate me and father hood but then, I think we're better now than we were then. And Devils Spawn and all - I wouldnt change thing.
In order to tell the story in all its glory I have to start with how my husband and I met. I was 25 and getting really sick of the young single party girl thing (sick or what?). I remember one day working out the numbers and realising that if I met someone that day, went out for 2 years, got engaged for 1 year, got married and lived as a couple for say 2 years, tried to get pregnant for 1 year, was pregnant for 1 year I would be almost 40 by the time I heard the pitter patter of little feet. Hell man, I was clucky and that was a seriously disappointing amount of time for a really impatient girl of 25. I had just broken up with a seriously crap boyfriend, was toying around with a toy boy, just flicked the crap job, landed the job from heaven and who should be sitting next to me but this suave, sophisticated, cultured, clean, professional and far too nice for me, Latino boy. There were a few young ones in our office and we all hung out together. Latino Boy was off limits - he'd had a girl friend for 7 years, they lived on Castlreagh Street (smack bang in the middle of the city) and he was just too well paid and too mature and too unlike all of the other losers I went out with so I kept my distance. But we all had fun together. Latino Boy didnt smoke or drink so we only hung out at lunch time but we all got along well. I had never even considered he would be interested in me so he got the full version of Shaggs on Steroids - the smoking, the drinking in the office (Friday Beer O Clock etc), the filthy stories from the weekend, the swearing and blah blah blah. I really didnt think I'd be able to pick up a bikie.
So it came to be that one week all of the young ones except me and Latino Boy were in Melbourne working so it was just us for lunch that day. I dragged Latino Boy around the shops to buy cheap jeans and he had to carry my bags and he even carried them to the train station for me and not once did my alarm bells ring.
That was Friday and on Monday it was just us again and we were off to get a coffee for morning tea and Latino Boy seemed a little troubled. He had slept badly on the weekend he said and I was all very sympathetic asking why and was everything OK (couldnt believe I was seeing another side to Latino Boy) he continued his story saying he couldnt sleep because he was thinking about me......
Yes I nearly fell over! What!???? Now as an Aussie Sheila I find it very hard to cope with overt displays of such emotion but I have to say I think I did ok. We wondered around the city for a long time that day trying to work up the courage (without the use of alcohol) to discuss what was going to happen with this revelation. Latino Boy decides he should break up with old girlfriend and I agreed we could give it a go but I wasnt going to promise anything and if it didnt work then Que Sera.
So Latino Boy broke up with old girlfriend that night and the next morning there was a bunch of red roses on my desk bigger than my parents dining room table (unextended). The next day there was a bottle of my favourite expensive perfume in my desk drawer (and yes it was in a limited edition bottle and it was Eau de expensive Parfum and beautifully wrapped from David Jones), the next day was November Lillies and it just went on from there. We sent filthy messages to each other all week via NetSend messaging (very early MSN via a linked network - he was a network engineer) and finally Friday night came and we went out for dinner to a Spanish restaurant. He ordered in beautiful, fluent orgasmic Spanish (second only to beautiful, fluent network engineer lingo) and I drank copious amounts of Sangria (of course, finally alcohol to help me deal with this crazy scenario) and before I knew I was waking up in a thick bath robe eating chocolate croissants and fresh orange juice overlooking the QVB and Darling Harbour - exuisite!!! It was like Pretty Woman without the exchange of cash (just dinner and the apartment was like a hotel oh and breakfast - lucky little westie that I am!)
So what has all of this first date stuff got to do with Mothers Day??? Well, everything. You see it was that night, after a week of truly filthy messaging, flowers, parfums, Spanish, food, his beautiful apartment on Castlereagh Street etc etc we both caved in and went ahead without adequate (or any) protection. I knew my cycle and believed it was a calculated risk but what I didnt calculate was the effect of all this wooing on my hormones making me ovulate early and wham bam thank you mam two weeks later I realise I am "late" and yep, I got pregnant on the first date! We know it was the first date because after that night we were vigilant about contraception and that was the only time the troops went in without a helmet.
So we had been together for two weeks and I was four weeks pregnant (pregnancy is counted from the start of your last period). Let me say it didnt go down well amongst his family who all believed we must have had something going while he was still with the last girlfriend ( who was still a friend to the family and the poor woman scorned) He also comes from a long line of women scorned and left by men. I urged him to leave me before anyone found out. We had a good few months before I would start to show and by then the baby could technically be anyones and he didnt have to look like the deserting baby daddy. But he was keen to stay (I really think now he wishes he had of run) and I looked like the seducer who trapped the poor Latino Boy.
So we got married when I was 11 weeks pregnant ( I just couldnt handle having a baby with a different name from mine and we'd already toyed with the idea of getting married before the baby thing was discovered). I just wanted to have a registry wedding and go to Doyles for seafood lunch but my mother thought it was rude to ask people to go to Doyles so she made us have a "reception" (and I use the word loosely) in her backyard. We had a pig on a spit and some coleslaw and potato salad out of huge plastic boxes, I had a fight with my sister, my brother had a fight with my father, I went with my new husband to pick up his old grandma and by the time we got back there was my mothers western suburbs back yard with South Americans on one side and Aussies on the other and no one knew who the f%^& anyone was and if they were even in the right place. I then (bitterly) watched everyone but me get pissed and then I went with my husband to take his old grandma home and by the time I got back it was over and everyone had gone home and we didnt cut the cake (a running tradition in my life). We should have just left it at Doyles. Did I mention I wore a maternity dress? I had gained about 15kg in the first 3 months of pregnancy.
So, by the time I had known my husband for a year (and I mean to the day) my daughter was born. Just the sweetest, blue eyed, blond haired gorgeous little cherub. We were total lunatic first time parents and did everything wrong but she's turned out surprisingly well balanced under the circumstances. And yes, no one believed my husband was the father because she is so very fair and even less so when baby number two turned out darker than her father even. People still ask if they're both mine and I always answer yes and that they both have the same father just so no one gets uncomfortable (or rude) and has to ask. Funny thing is, number one looks like his family but has my colouring and number two looks like my family but has his colouring and number three is the Devil's Spawn so we're still not sure who he looks like.
So that was all nearly eleven years ago and we're still here to tell the story. I'm not the size 10 beauty queen anymore (I gained 40kgs in that first year and I'm still trying to get rid of it) and he's not the sweet Latino Boy who showers me with affection and gifts anymore but then, thats life. I dragged him out to the burbs to live near my family just while the baby was little and of course we're still here. He can sometimes be seen in unironed Target clothes and even has a pair of jeans from Big W that I never got around to taking up so are frayed on the bottom. I know a little part of him has died in order to accomodate me and father hood but then, I think we're better now than we were then. And Devils Spawn and all - I wouldnt change thing.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The (Un) Support Group
So, the support group meeting is primarily a farce. The staff try to "make a difference" and it just turns out a bit tedious and boring. However, the people and the "free time" we get to have to chat to each other is brilliant! I have met some truly hilarious, lovely, generous and mental people and it is not uncommon to still be standing chatting in the car park until 10pm (we are kicked out of the meeting room at 8pm). We talk all about the ridiculous mental things we do and how messed up we still are despite taking steps to unmess ourselves. The ridiculously skinny phsychologist who runs the group appears to be more messed up than us and had us doing the "mindful raisin" task which quite frankly was an insult and I told her so. When she asked us to express how we felt (in her best Neil from the Young Ones voice) I let loose told her I think it is criminal to give one raisin to overweight people at dinner time and then be lectured by an extremely thin woman about savouring that raisin and being "very mindful" of it - of course I also had to add in that it is obscene to be preached about how to eat by a girl who hasnt seen a steak since last century. She appreciated my honesty (I think the psychologists oath dictates that she must accept any expression of her patients feelings no matter how confronting or personally offensive). Everyone went very quiet after this and it seemed the meeting came to an abrupt and premature end but that worked out well for everyone because we were granted the freedom of "free speech" and we could all chat about how Cherry Ripes hurt on the way down and if get someone to pat you on the back you can get unstuck and continue eating a Big Mac.
Its all very sad really isnt it? We pick on the skinny girl (whats the difference between picking on the skinny girl or the fat girl?), we (I mean I) get the shits because I cant eat whatever I want (I want my cake and eat it too and the chiko roll and whatever else is going), we (I mean I) are given really good advice and we (I mean I) rubbish it even though I know its what is lacking and what I need to get ahead and we all revel in how bad we can possibly be and how we can abuse ourselves and our bands. Nice.
So my band seems to have been working a little more these days or I'm just not deliberately ignoring it. I still eat when I'm not hungry in order to avoid getting hungry at inappropriate times eg: while out or when there is no food or bad food around. I got stuck again last night on those hideous chips that got me stuck last time (will I EVER learn!) this time it didnt last as long but man it hurt!
So the scales have been a little kinder this week and I really am going to get a casual pass to the gym and there is a personal trainer session on Thursday mornings I can take Damian to and work out with some other mothers so I'm getting back on the horse so to speak (not the trainer and yes I attract hot trainers like a I attract the medical professionals also "I'm sorry hot trainer but I cant do a sit up because my gut rolls are in the way").
So off for another week - I really am going to try and reign in the nasty sting of bitterness and quell the stinking swap of resentment that has permeated my experience with this band for the last few weeks and try and make the most of it. Only a week to go to the magic 3rd fill.
Its all very sad really isnt it? We pick on the skinny girl (whats the difference between picking on the skinny girl or the fat girl?), we (I mean I) get the shits because I cant eat whatever I want (I want my cake and eat it too and the chiko roll and whatever else is going), we (I mean I) are given really good advice and we (I mean I) rubbish it even though I know its what is lacking and what I need to get ahead and we all revel in how bad we can possibly be and how we can abuse ourselves and our bands. Nice.
So my band seems to have been working a little more these days or I'm just not deliberately ignoring it. I still eat when I'm not hungry in order to avoid getting hungry at inappropriate times eg: while out or when there is no food or bad food around. I got stuck again last night on those hideous chips that got me stuck last time (will I EVER learn!) this time it didnt last as long but man it hurt!
So the scales have been a little kinder this week and I really am going to get a casual pass to the gym and there is a personal trainer session on Thursday mornings I can take Damian to and work out with some other mothers so I'm getting back on the horse so to speak (not the trainer and yes I attract hot trainers like a I attract the medical professionals also "I'm sorry hot trainer but I cant do a sit up because my gut rolls are in the way").
So off for another week - I really am going to try and reign in the nasty sting of bitterness and quell the stinking swap of resentment that has permeated my experience with this band for the last few weeks and try and make the most of it. Only a week to go to the magic 3rd fill.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Love is Gone
So, I go to see the dietician this morning cause I figure - what else is the skinny bitch there for other than to make me feel bad cause she's such a skinny bitch? Afterall, I AM having problems here and I like to share and damn it, its her job, so fix it skinny bitch! And the bottom line is...... diet and exercise or the band wont work!! Tah-dah!!!
I paid over $6000, got royally chopped up, humiliated myself (several times and continuously) in front of a not-so-bad-on-the-eye surgeon, went through shocking pain, suffered Optifilth, suffered nursing home liquids and gave up the ability to comfortably eat Cherry Ripes all to be told that I must now diet and exercise!!!! What is wrong with this f$%^& up world?????
Now please correct me if I'm wrong - but I got a band because...... and let me think hard...... I am ABSOLUTELY shite at the diet and exercise thing???? If I could diet and exercise I'm pretty sure I wouldnt be 94 95 93 92 95 94 93 93 94 freaking-shithole kgs! I thought dieting was over once I got the band. That I would feel full and not even have to think about the kilojoules in any given food stuff because I could only ever eat a "safe" amount???!?!!? That even if I ate pure lard all day I couldnt eat enough to do any damage!!!!?!??!?! Talk about freaking well let down. This is shiteness in the extreme. I hate this. And I'm pretty sure my blog says the same thing at around about the same time last month and i was begging for another fill and dejavu! Here I am again!
How many more f%^&ing fills do I need to have to make this work? Will I be that poor sad loser that even a band cant stop? Even Skinny Bitch thinks I should go for another fill but the doctor said only once a month last time and she cant override that. What good is it to be skinny if you still cant get your own way?
And my mother, god love her, now looks at me with even MORE disappointment in her eyes. I'm sure she thought she would all of a sudden end up with Cindy Crawford for a daughter, meeting up with her for lunch and showing her off to all her work mates. But alas, no, she suggests I go back on Opti. "Bend over mother and I'll show you what I can do with Opti!" She keeps asking me hows it going I'm sure just to see if I'm a liar or not cause quite evidently I havent lost a gram and if I should say I have then we can put it down on record that Shaggs is officially a liar.
So much for zipping up my winter boots.
So much for the size 12 shirt dress.
So much for the wedding dress tryonmarathon.
This sux (cue Shaggs' teenage alter ego).
So Skinny Bitch says I have to watch what I eat and exercise. I think not being able to eat Cherry Ripes and having to physically wrangle Damien The Devil's Spawn pretty much qualifies me under the umbrella of diet and exercise. I am now off to my monthly support group meeting call me psychic, but I dont think this is going to end well.
I hate this.
I paid over $6000, got royally chopped up, humiliated myself (several times and continuously) in front of a not-so-bad-on-the-eye surgeon, went through shocking pain, suffered Optifilth, suffered nursing home liquids and gave up the ability to comfortably eat Cherry Ripes all to be told that I must now diet and exercise!!!! What is wrong with this f$%^& up world?????
Now please correct me if I'm wrong - but I got a band because...... and let me think hard...... I am ABSOLUTELY shite at the diet and exercise thing???? If I could diet and exercise I'm pretty sure I wouldnt be 94 95 93 92 95 94 93 93 94 freaking-shithole kgs! I thought dieting was over once I got the band. That I would feel full and not even have to think about the kilojoules in any given food stuff because I could only ever eat a "safe" amount???!?!!? That even if I ate pure lard all day I couldnt eat enough to do any damage!!!!?!??!?! Talk about freaking well let down. This is shiteness in the extreme. I hate this. And I'm pretty sure my blog says the same thing at around about the same time last month and i was begging for another fill and dejavu! Here I am again!
How many more f%^&ing fills do I need to have to make this work? Will I be that poor sad loser that even a band cant stop? Even Skinny Bitch thinks I should go for another fill but the doctor said only once a month last time and she cant override that. What good is it to be skinny if you still cant get your own way?
And my mother, god love her, now looks at me with even MORE disappointment in her eyes. I'm sure she thought she would all of a sudden end up with Cindy Crawford for a daughter, meeting up with her for lunch and showing her off to all her work mates. But alas, no, she suggests I go back on Opti. "Bend over mother and I'll show you what I can do with Opti!" She keeps asking me hows it going I'm sure just to see if I'm a liar or not cause quite evidently I havent lost a gram and if I should say I have then we can put it down on record that Shaggs is officially a liar.
So much for zipping up my winter boots.
So much for the size 12 shirt dress.
So much for the wedding dress tryonmarathon.
This sux (cue Shaggs' teenage alter ego).
So Skinny Bitch says I have to watch what I eat and exercise. I think not being able to eat Cherry Ripes and having to physically wrangle Damien The Devil's Spawn pretty much qualifies me under the umbrella of diet and exercise. I am now off to my monthly support group meeting call me psychic, but I dont think this is going to end well.
I hate this.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Nipple amputation and getting the most out of your empty wine bladder.
I dont think I need another pic for my pic updates as I look exactly the same now as I did a month ago and a month before that so can you all just appreciate the pic that is there and imagine the words "Two months post op" and "Three months post op". I do naively have faith that this thing is going to work and pretty much everyone in any walk of life will agree that there is a wax before the wane and just when you're about to give up, things start working again. But for now, I'll go with an ever so slight discomfort about 30 seconds after I swallow and we'll call that restriction. Right lets move on cause this band shit is getting old.
Ok, so since boobs are about 99% fat and not a terrible lot else of course they are one of the first things to go when you start on the losing streak. Mine need to be "picked up" and placed in a bra cup. Removed from under my husband when we wake up in the morning - we call that hold the "mammogram". When my husband sits in his desk chair his head is exactly level with my chest and there's no hiding the fact that that is the perfect opportunity to almost suffocate him with a hug to the head into the DD cups and it does actually suffocate him as the loose skin actually has the capacity to be sucked into the nasal cavity. Now, thats all good and well but this all takes place with the bra and shirt on and yes the girls are most definitely level with his head. However, try going for the full monty flash and I nearly wet pants and cried all in one when my husband actually had to readjust his neck in order to even look at the said DD cups. What started at eye level ended up resting on the arm of his chair. Nice. It all happened so fast he had to get an adjustment with the family chiropractor - yes girls - another handsome doctor at the most inopportune of times - "Excuse me handsome, dapper, older man but it seems that my frame is struggling under 40kg of excess flesh - do you think you could manipulate my cottage cheese back cleavage and realign my frame to accomodate another deep fried mars bar?".
So, as you can imagine my DD cups (which they still are because what they now lack in plump cushy fat they make up for in loose skin) are begining to resemble empty wine bladders (back to those 90cent mozelle days - if you hold the valve open and blow into an empty wine bladder you can get more goon out - did you know that?). We all remember the 4 year old AKA Damien the Devil's Spawn. What I havent mentioned about Damien is that he also has a touch of the obsessive compulsives (of course he has you say) and he went through a period of opening every kitchen drawer and having them all opened but staggered - quite a nice look I must say - from opened a little to the bottom drawer which is opened alot. Now this kitchen is very new and has very slidey drawers that almost shut on their own very fast and very smoothly.
So there I am in my old nanna's seer sucker nightie with my empty wine bladders swaying in the breeze and I bend down to shut all the drawers but I'm not moving fast enough for the shutting of the drawers and the next thing I remember is lying on the kitchen floor and looking at the ceiling and wondering why someone has shoved a hot poker through my nipple. The pain was blinding. Somewhere off in the distance someone was screaming and I thought I had to pull myself together and save my children from whoever was killing them and then I realised the screaming was coming from me. I didnt want to look in case there was blood and how was I going to explain to the paramedics (of course they would be hot paramedics) what had happened. Do you put an amputated nipple in a bag of frozen peas in case they can reattach it? Would they find the nipple amongst all the peas? Are peas allowed in the operating theatre? Would they build me a new nipple out of ass fat? Would I lose weight? Would I have a dent in my ass? Could they suck more fat out of my arse cheek so at my arse looked smaller from one side at least? Should I get the surgeon (of course it would be a hot surgeon) to insert a nipple ring while he's there stitching me up? Could he put in a silicone insert while he's in there so at least one of my DD cups stays up in my husbands face?
Oh what goes through your brain in times of stress.
As it so happens, the nipple was red and a bit bruised for a couple of days but otherwise fine. The same cannot be said of my 14 year old nephew who was staying over - poor boy - young impressionable boys should not know that nipples can get stuck in drawers. If he turns out messed up I've promised his mother I'll pay the therapy bills. I'm sure he'll never be able to hear a woman scream in pain without thinking of his aunties saggy boobs and elongated nipples. He'll be in the delivery ward with his wife and he'll be rocking in the corner in the fetal position at the sounds of her screams (unlike all the other dads who are cosy in a bean bag sleeping off the gas abuse).
I can still feel the pain now. You can too, cant you? Hands up who's rubbing their boobs right now?
So the DD cups are looking great in a bra and with a smaller waist but they hide that smaller waist when the bra is gone. Ass is still huge. Guts gotta go. Que sera!
Oh and by the way, my husband has an office at home - this didnt all start in some cube farm with a young intern (of course he'd be hot) wondering who was suffocating his boss at his desk with a pair of big saggy titties.
So, if you have big saggy boobs - watch out for the kitchen drawers and if you have small perky boobs (I hate you) and watch out for the tall boy drawers.
Ok, so since boobs are about 99% fat and not a terrible lot else of course they are one of the first things to go when you start on the losing streak. Mine need to be "picked up" and placed in a bra cup. Removed from under my husband when we wake up in the morning - we call that hold the "mammogram". When my husband sits in his desk chair his head is exactly level with my chest and there's no hiding the fact that that is the perfect opportunity to almost suffocate him with a hug to the head into the DD cups and it does actually suffocate him as the loose skin actually has the capacity to be sucked into the nasal cavity. Now, thats all good and well but this all takes place with the bra and shirt on and yes the girls are most definitely level with his head. However, try going for the full monty flash and I nearly wet pants and cried all in one when my husband actually had to readjust his neck in order to even look at the said DD cups. What started at eye level ended up resting on the arm of his chair. Nice. It all happened so fast he had to get an adjustment with the family chiropractor - yes girls - another handsome doctor at the most inopportune of times - "Excuse me handsome, dapper, older man but it seems that my frame is struggling under 40kg of excess flesh - do you think you could manipulate my cottage cheese back cleavage and realign my frame to accomodate another deep fried mars bar?".
So, as you can imagine my DD cups (which they still are because what they now lack in plump cushy fat they make up for in loose skin) are begining to resemble empty wine bladders (back to those 90cent mozelle days - if you hold the valve open and blow into an empty wine bladder you can get more goon out - did you know that?). We all remember the 4 year old AKA Damien the Devil's Spawn. What I havent mentioned about Damien is that he also has a touch of the obsessive compulsives (of course he has you say) and he went through a period of opening every kitchen drawer and having them all opened but staggered - quite a nice look I must say - from opened a little to the bottom drawer which is opened alot. Now this kitchen is very new and has very slidey drawers that almost shut on their own very fast and very smoothly.
So there I am in my old nanna's seer sucker nightie with my empty wine bladders swaying in the breeze and I bend down to shut all the drawers but I'm not moving fast enough for the shutting of the drawers and the next thing I remember is lying on the kitchen floor and looking at the ceiling and wondering why someone has shoved a hot poker through my nipple. The pain was blinding. Somewhere off in the distance someone was screaming and I thought I had to pull myself together and save my children from whoever was killing them and then I realised the screaming was coming from me. I didnt want to look in case there was blood and how was I going to explain to the paramedics (of course they would be hot paramedics) what had happened. Do you put an amputated nipple in a bag of frozen peas in case they can reattach it? Would they find the nipple amongst all the peas? Are peas allowed in the operating theatre? Would they build me a new nipple out of ass fat? Would I lose weight? Would I have a dent in my ass? Could they suck more fat out of my arse cheek so at my arse looked smaller from one side at least? Should I get the surgeon (of course it would be a hot surgeon) to insert a nipple ring while he's there stitching me up? Could he put in a silicone insert while he's in there so at least one of my DD cups stays up in my husbands face?
Oh what goes through your brain in times of stress.
As it so happens, the nipple was red and a bit bruised for a couple of days but otherwise fine. The same cannot be said of my 14 year old nephew who was staying over - poor boy - young impressionable boys should not know that nipples can get stuck in drawers. If he turns out messed up I've promised his mother I'll pay the therapy bills. I'm sure he'll never be able to hear a woman scream in pain without thinking of his aunties saggy boobs and elongated nipples. He'll be in the delivery ward with his wife and he'll be rocking in the corner in the fetal position at the sounds of her screams (unlike all the other dads who are cosy in a bean bag sleeping off the gas abuse).
I can still feel the pain now. You can too, cant you? Hands up who's rubbing their boobs right now?
So the DD cups are looking great in a bra and with a smaller waist but they hide that smaller waist when the bra is gone. Ass is still huge. Guts gotta go. Que sera!
Oh and by the way, my husband has an office at home - this didnt all start in some cube farm with a young intern (of course he'd be hot) wondering who was suffocating his boss at his desk with a pair of big saggy titties.
So, if you have big saggy boobs - watch out for the kitchen drawers and if you have small perky boobs (I hate you) and watch out for the tall boy drawers.
Back by unpopular demand
So what do you want to hear? Yes, I was blessed with some minor form of restriciton a week after my second fill. Yes, I am still hungry and yearning for food but I have learnt to overcome that by either eating sloppy, greasy, fatty foods that slide on down or take little nibbles and eat very slowly the foods I really should be eating. Either way I have enormous capacity, little pain and consequently have only barely managed to shift approx 1kg of the debacle we'll call my first fill. I have lost all interest in blogging (cant you tell by the lack of signature hilarity in this post). I have all the bad aspects of the band with none of the good. I have gotten royally stuck, found solitude and refuge in the backyard and puked continuously in pot plants with every two steps I took like a cockroach. Havent done that since 90 cent mozelles at Revesby Workers Club circa 1990. I can go the rest of my life without eating another chip thanks to that little stroll around the estate. Fun. I have now eaten myself into a state of non restriction again and shall now proceed onto the "two steps back phase" of my "one step forward two steps back monthly diet plan". And that is my idea of "living with a band".
Other than the band, my life has been rather grand. Work is taking off. Size 18 jeans are too big (size 16 too small) so officially a size 17 now! Yay! I've gone down 5 sizes from a 22 to a 17!!! Brilliant. Everyone is well. No one has swine, bird or tortoise flu. School holidays are over and we're back in Shaggstime. Winter is here which means comfortably getting away with covering every square cm of my body and wearing a lot of black. Nothing like a black turtle neck to bring out the jawline and cheek bones and is there anything better for straight hair than cold, dry, windy weather? Big scarves that cover your apron and add colour but not size to an outfit. Hot, savoury winter foods. Bad weather being a great excuse to stay in and get pissed on thick, sweet port and juicy red wines. Hunter Valley weekends away. Cheese that doesnt go off in the heat after 5 minutes out of the fridge. Slow cooked foods. Chocolate shots from Fox Studio food markets. Ahhhh winter....... size 17 jeans and 4kg of thermal fat.
I must release you from my malaise. You are all far too good for me (as the follower who has left the fold has already realised). I have been reading all your blogs and love them all but I lose patience and get hungry trying to post comments and waiting for my decoding word thingy to load. Sorry about that - always had a problem committing to the responsibilites of friendship but then thats another post. I understand if none of you are here when I get back, I really do.
Other than the band, my life has been rather grand. Work is taking off. Size 18 jeans are too big (size 16 too small) so officially a size 17 now! Yay! I've gone down 5 sizes from a 22 to a 17!!! Brilliant. Everyone is well. No one has swine, bird or tortoise flu. School holidays are over and we're back in Shaggstime. Winter is here which means comfortably getting away with covering every square cm of my body and wearing a lot of black. Nothing like a black turtle neck to bring out the jawline and cheek bones and is there anything better for straight hair than cold, dry, windy weather? Big scarves that cover your apron and add colour but not size to an outfit. Hot, savoury winter foods. Bad weather being a great excuse to stay in and get pissed on thick, sweet port and juicy red wines. Hunter Valley weekends away. Cheese that doesnt go off in the heat after 5 minutes out of the fridge. Slow cooked foods. Chocolate shots from Fox Studio food markets. Ahhhh winter....... size 17 jeans and 4kg of thermal fat.
I must release you from my malaise. You are all far too good for me (as the follower who has left the fold has already realised). I have been reading all your blogs and love them all but I lose patience and get hungry trying to post comments and waiting for my decoding word thingy to load. Sorry about that - always had a problem committing to the responsibilites of friendship but then thats another post. I understand if none of you are here when I get back, I really do.
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Weight Loss From 27th January 2009
