Missed Conections

You: a hot, greasy McRib, slathered in BBQ sauce. The sun was glistening off the reflective surface of your billboard about a mile from my house. The caption next to you said "Missed me?"

Me: driving past you, finding myself jealous of the box of fries resting next to you. I did miss you, with all my heart. I'm fighting the urge to order you and gobble you right up, McRib. Why must you torture me? You are gone most of the year and then just show up around the holidays, expecting me to take you back? I haven't even seen you since last January. Just go McRib, it easier if I never see you again.

Call Dr. 90210

It turns out the sausage casing situation is a little more desperate than originally anticipated. This morning my cousin and I thought we'd try the wedding dress on (together in the sense that we were in the same room, though not in the same dress) to re-assess the ill-fitting situation. Once zipped in, she noted that the dress was not tight at all in any area other than where my ribcage was trying desperately to expand in an effort to provide oxygen to the rest of my body.

"The good news is," she said,"that you will be able to eat at the reception, but the bad news is that we are going to have to remove your bottom ribs."

Does anyone have the contact information to an inexpensive plastic surgeon in the borderland area?

Thank God for Well Made Sausage Casings

I nearly just crapped all over my bathrobe. And by "nearly" I mean "totally". So the first two days I was worried none of these "cleanse and detox" pills were working. But judging by the commotion I just made in the bathroom, I'd say that they are. All I need is a little breathing room, and I mean that literally, in my dress. If I have it hooked in and zipped up, the best I can do is pant in shallow little breaths, like a puppy, and I'm pretty sure it will only take about 10 minutes of that before I pass out.

The good news is that even though I will be crammed in that thing like some kind of hot and spicy ground Italian meat, thanks to the high quality construction of the dress, the unknowing onlooker will have no idea that I am in the worst kind of pain and probably beginning to bleed internally. Not a single bulge or roll can be seen. I can only pray that the structural integrity of the garment holds up for the few short hours I need it to. After that, I can walk around for the rest of my life, eating turkey legs and funnel cakes at state and county fairs, packing on pounds and saying things like "I was so thin when I got married." God, I hate people who say that.

This Time, Lil' Miss Check-Out, It's Exactly What it Looks Like

Unlike all of the other times I feel like the items in my cart or hand basket or in a disorganized jumble in my arms are an unfair representation of my lifestyle when I go through the check out line, today you are welcome to judge me based on my purchases. The pair of Spanx, two boxes of Jillian Michaels Detox and Fat Cleanse, bulk sized tub of spinach and fat free yogurt are all products intended for exactly what you assume.

There is a wedding gown in my closet that I purchased 5 weeks ago that was only a little snug when I got it, but I was way too cheap to buy the next size up and pay $100 to have it altered to fit me properly. Unfortunately, the same pirates who killed my daddy are apparently allies with the Ambien Walrus, who fed me fried chicken and brownies against my knowledge. So, here I stand at the check out, ten days before I'm about to get married, in a last-ditch effort to lose enough post-funeral bloating so that when they zip that bad boy up I don't pass out from hyperventilation caused by the inability to breathe enough oxygen to remain conscious.

Don't worry. I have plenty of time. The disastrous gastrointestinal side effects of this plan should wear off at least 48 hours before I have to wear the very expensive, and obviously stainable dress. And if this doesn't work, you can expect to see me around that same time frame purchasing water pills, laxatives and ace bandages (for binding reasons.) I appreciate your nonchalance, I suppose this is nothing really, compared to last week when I came in here buying a pregnancy test and a bottle of tequila.

My Eating Disorder is Just as Grotesque as Yours

You know, telling me to eat a sandwich is just as rude as me knocking yours out of your hand, mid-bite. Every time you say "put some meat on them bones" and then shove a handfull of walnuts into your chubby squirrel cheeks, I feel offended, not flattered. You are not giving me a compliment when you remind me that my collar bones protrude disgustingly from my chest or that my usually round face looks gaunt and skeletal.

I know you thought it was kind of nice to have a conversation with other people, in front of me, about how I would be pretty if I were one of those "cracked-out heroin models" but I really don't look pretty at all this thin.

I remember how it used to be cool in the 80's to have anorexia. It was the designer eating disorder. Then came bulimia. You weren't cool if you weren't barfing up all the food you had just gorged yourself on. Then in the 90's diet pills and laxatives were all the rage. Shitting your pants in public was almost cool, as long as you could still shop at 5-7-9. But now, someone decided that being an overeater is a disease too. Jillian Michaels and the Biggest Losers made that possible. Now society doesn't feel the same way about skinny bitches, now they are just bitches. The newest fad in eating disorders is the comfort eater. The over eater who eats to take control of their environment. Now we all cry with joy when someone looses enough weight to make a whole other person.

So, please, let's just ignore when I take my belt off at the airport, my pants fall down, and I won't draw attention to the fact that while you read this, you ate an entire loaf of banana bread. I hate my body just as much as you hate yours. The only difference is that I don't ridicule you about it.