Stupid people suck. Out loud.

Deciding which car to take to go to town is an interesting one. There's my LandCruiser. It will fit all of us, but because of the high heat and the lack of normal airconditioning, plus the severe jounce you feel because the shocks need to be replaced puts it completely out of the running.

Then there's the Mustang. I'm not quite ready yet for the aerobics that one will take. Mentally, anyway. That's out.

That leaves one of the two trucks. The Ford F250 or the Dodge 2500 4x4. The Dodge has better airconditioning and fully electronically adjustable seats. That makes it the winner.

Only problem here is that I need a step stool to get into it. No biggie. We've got one.

So, we go into town to get a few things. On the way there, I realize that my stomach isn't as settled as I would like it to be, and so when we get to the grocery store, we need to get me out of the truck - FAST - so that I can bolt for the bathroom.

We pull up in the parking lot in front of the double doors. Thing 1 bolts out of her seat and grabs the step stool for me to use to get out. I get out rather quickly and begin to make my way into the store. I imagine that my child was very, very quick to get back into the truck. One of our pet peeves is people who park in front of stores, take For. Ever. to get out of their car and then take For. Ever to get their stuff (you get the picture) and my little girl had a fire lit under her little booty so this wouldn't happen.

I amble into the store, holding my stomach, my binder clearly exposed for the world to see. It's obvious that there is something not normal about me. I'm either pregnant, have some sort of stomach problem, or have had surgery. (Duh!)

I make it to the bathroom - it was a false alarm :::sigh::: - and hook up with the family for some light shopping.

We exit the store, and The Husband tells me what happened after I got out of the truck. There was a small green sedan behind us when we stopped, apparently. The Husband, courteous person that he is, sought out the driver of the car afterwards to apologize to them, and to thank them for patiently waiting for me to get out of the truck (see our aforementioned pet peeve). Apparently this, um, man (I'm being kind here, people) had some choice words for the love of my life that included mentions of me moving my fat ass. I'm surprised The Husband didn't haul off and hit him, but considering the children hadn't heard what this man said, he decided to cut his losses and get into the store.

The Husband didn't tell me the words that this man used, precisely, but I know exactly what they were. To this guy, I was a fat, ugly bitch who was so obese that she couldn't get out of the truck like a normal person and instead had to inconvenience people who just wanted to get into the store already. Stupid bitch.

All I could do was feel pity for this man. He has no clue of what it's like to be me, no clue of the lengths I've gone to to become normal. No clue that I've lost TWENTY FREAKING POUNDS in eight days because of the lengths I've gone to.

I looked at The Husband and gave him the age-old response.

"He has to live with being an asshole all his life. At least I can lose weight."

And this time, I actually believed it. Life is good.