File this under: You paid HOW MUCH for that?

Dude. People on eBay will buy just about anything. And for WAAAAYYY too much money. Seriously. It's very, very scary.

Now, take this item here. It's a little insulated lunch bag made by Lean Cuisine. It was part of a promotion to raise money for the Susan G. Komen foundation. Cost to me? $10. I happened to get one because I thought it was cute. The one I got was the one in the front there - white with the pink and orange swirly thingies and the pink handles. When it arrived, I opened it up, and while yes, it was a cute design, it got a total "meh" from me. It's not all that, really. It's kind of an awkward shape for an insulated lunch bag and just wasn't something that I was going to use. And yeah, the handles just don't stand up like that on their own. The picture is way cuter than the reality. So I did what I do with things I buy that I can't return and want to recoup some of my money on. I put it up for bid on eBay.

It was a five-day auction that I started out at 99 cents.

Last night, after 18 different bids, that little $10 bag sold for - drum roll, please! - $80. And they already paid for it with PayPal.

Damn. I should have bought more of those suckers. 800% profit is nothing to shake a stick at. All I wanted was my $10 back, really.

Then again, who is STUPID enough to spend $80 on a promotional lunch bag? I guess because you can't get them anymore? Who knows why people spend this kind of money on things.

I think my local women's shelter is going to get a little donation today. It may not be much in the great scheme of things, but at least someone else's foolishness will help out someone in need.

A picture is worth a thousand words

But all I can say is Wow. No explanation necessary. Obviously the person on the right is me back in June. The person on the left is me now. I like the new me a bit better. Her skin feels much more comfortable to be in.

Month Three - It keeps coming off!

Despite my despair that I was at a "plateau" (Oh come on, now. Something that only lasts for a week and a half cannot be classified as a plateau no matter how much you angst over it. Twit!) I have managed to lose in my third month the exact same amount I lost in my second month - 13 pounds. When all added up, I have lost a total of 56 pounds. Not bad for a fat girl with an eating habit, eh?



I will be taking pictures this weekend, but until then, I want to share with y-all my virtual model thingies that I made up. This first one is how I "looked" at my starting weight of 315 pounds.

Now, this is pretty, um, generous. My arms were a whole lot more inflated, as were my thighs. My waist was a lot less defined, and putting in the "less defined" option made me look completely rotund - I at least did still have a waist. But I guess we can't expect a computer-generated "model" to actually reflect reality any more than fashion models reflect reality, right?

This next model on the right is how I theoretically look at 259 pounds. It's a bit better, I suppose. It's still a little bit generous on the size of the arms and thighs, but it's beginning to show more of where I've lost the weight. I have a little buddha-belly going on, though, as where my incision was doesn't seem to want to give up its real estate underneath. That's okay. It's not a hernia, it's just a jealous little bitch about what's going on in my face. It just can't STAND to see the thinness going on there.

The only thing this model isn't showing are those drastic changes in my face. But that's okay, we'll forgive it. We're just that type of people, right?

Our third model over here on the left, is where I should look once I reach 100 pounds lost, sitting at 215 pounds. NOW we're starting to get there, people! Hopefully the hips will be a whole lot slimmer like she shows, the arms will be a whole lot nicer and if I'm lucky, the girls will still be as full as hers. Needless to say I will be sacrificing the pure and unblemished lamb I have been saving for just this type of occasion to the all-powerful and mighty boobie gods in order to obtain this desire of mine.

The last model, again on the right, shows how I should "look" once I reach my goal weight of 150 pounds. This is of course not going to take into account the mounds of sagging skin that I'm certain to have. But that's what our friends the plastic surgeons are there for, no?

All in all, I think this is a fair assessment of what I'll look like. NOT! Reality bites, but at least this will give me an idea to shape my mind around and grasp at least partially the changes that will be taking place.

Excitement abounds!

Oh, and lest I forget to say it, I really and truly love my DS!

Well, crap. We knew it was coming sometime, but . . .

It still sucks when it comes around and smacks you in your face.

The Husband has an interesting condition. The bones in his kneecaps never fused like they're supposed to when you grow up - so he has a three-piece kneecap instead of a normal one-piece adult kneecap. This caused his knee to never quite align up with the other leg bones. Over time, he developed what is known as Bi-Patello-Femoral Syndrome - a condition that is often seen in runners - which has rapidly progressed towards full-on Chrondromalacia Patellae as he has little to no cartilage remaining in either knee. This results in bone-on bone contact occurring whenever he walks. It is especially painful whenever he gets up from a sitting position, as his kneecap can actually slide down the shin bone and has to physically be moved up into place in order for his knee to bend. And moving it back up is extremely painful. Not my idea of fun, let me tell you.

The condition reared its ugly head for the first time when The Husband was in the Navy on submarines. It seems that steel decks don't have any give unlike concrete or asphalt and on his second cruise at sea, his knees registered their opinion on the matter, swelling to the size of softballs. He was in constant pain but could only take 800mg of Motrin due to the restrictions of medication on board ships. When they got back after that cruise, he dutifully reported to the doctors to see what was up with the whole thing. When they took x-rays of his knees, they actually started questioning if he had signed up for the Navy while still underaged because his knees looked like those of a 12- or 13-year-old's due to them not being fused yet.

Once they got over their startlement and accusations, they started talking surgery. However The Husband ixnayed that when the Navy surgeon came in to examine the knee that was the worst (the left) and started talking about how he was going to make the cuts on the RIGHT knee. No way, no how was he going to be someone's guinea pig. So instead of surgery, the Navy offered him either a desk job at the drydock in Connecticut or an honorable discharge and a 5% disability. Since he'd been to war for his country (first Iraqi conflict), The Husband took his Honorable but not the disability and ran. Straight into my loving arms. Well, not quite, but close. That's another story for another day.

Anyway, back to the present. Or relatively near present.

Over the years, the knees have gotten progressively worse. They would flare up when he did heavy work, especially in the winter. I've gotten very, very good at giving knee massages as a result. Very sexy. I have begged and pleaded with him to PLEASE go to another doctor the whole way. But seeing as how he has an aversion to actually going to the doctor (he'd rather be shot), my words fell on deaf ears.

But on Monday, the straw that broke the camel's back (knees?) happened. He was working on his tank (steel deck again, anyone?) and stepped wrong, causing his left knee to wrench sideways. Instant pain, instant inflammation, instant limping.

His crew chief was less than sympathetic. It seems the chief, although being a good friend of ours, thinks that The Husband "gets injured" every time a big job is to be done. Hrm. Let's see. The LAST time The Husband got injured (over a year and a half ago) it was because he was attempting to keep a several hundred pound piece of equipment from falling to the ground from a height of about 8 feet. Said fall would have smashed the equipment into smithereens, and seeing as how said equipment is literally irreplaceable, The Husband considered a torn rotator cuff a worthy sacrifice, and so did crew chief at the time.

Oh, and at that time crew chief was recovering himself from emergency back surgery that took care of two discs in his spine that had disintegrated and were about ready to snap him in two and paralyze him for life. And that The Husband had literally bludgeoned the crew chief into making an appointment to look into his back pain because he was worried about him. Guess unintentional injuries are really "planned" or "faked," right? Ass. He's not getting Christmas cookies this year at all.

After he told me what had happened, I begged and pleaded with The Husband to finally go to the doctor. He could even go see the nice orthopedist that saw Thing Two for her arm the last two weeks. I about fainted when he said for me to call and make the appointment.

Well, I made the appointment and he went today. I didn't go because he said, and I quote, that "it would be easier to lie to you (me) if you (I) didn't go." I just had to sigh over that. He's gotten so good at lying about how much pain he's in and how bad his knees actually are over the years even though I know about it, that this is just par for the course.

He just called me on the phone, crying because the dreaded word has come up again. Surgery. He needs to have arthroscopic surgery on both knees. Because if he doesn't so the doctor can shave away some parts of the kneecap that are going bone on bone, he is "not going to be able to walk his daughter down the aisle at her wedding because he will be in a wheelchair." Somehow I don't think he's lying anymore about all of this.

This surgery won't be the end of it. It's only buying him time before both knees have to be replaced. If The Husband complies with the doctor's orders to immediately stop doing high-impact activities and goes through with the surgery, he will probably have about 15-20 years on the knees he currently has. If he continues the work he's been doing, he will get perhaps 1-2 years before full-on failure occurs. But no matter what, his knees will at some point end up being made of cobalt.

This is going to be a huge change for him. He's not going to like it. But in a way, it's been needed for a while. He hasn't been happy at his job lately because of crew chief's souring attitude - and just a year ago they were the happiest, most respected and envied crew on the range because of their camaraderie and expertise. Things needed to change, and this is giving him a valid reason to change besides "I'm just not happy."

So please, say a prayer (or swing chickens) for my wonderful husband. It's going to be hard, but I know that between him and me we can get through this.

Links, links, we gotcher links! Hot, fresh links!

It seems like every time I turn around I'm finding a new site that is oh so freaking cool. Culminating with this one that has sent me into paroxysms of laughter while finally giving my brain a well-needed workout. So, I've made a few changes on the left and if you like I suggest checking them out. Because damn if they aren't the shit.

Why I had this surgery, Part 3,974 : From the mouths of babes

Back in early spring of this year, something happened that made it necessary to talk to Thing One and Thing Two about the changes their bodies would make as they grew up and became women. I explained to them that their breasts would grow and look like mommy's and that at some point they would get their period and not to be afraid but to come to mommy and that she would help them out with whatever they needed.

Thing One took all this information in stride. In their Little House on the Prarie-type school, she has noticed some of the older girls starting their period and luckily the school has some supplies on hand for these situations. She already had part of the information, and my talk with them just sealed the deal for her on the whole thing.

Thing Two, on the other hand, was a bit squicked out by the whole idea of "bleeding from the area where you pee" and was very thankful that it wasn't going to happen to her for some time. Then she made this comment.

"But will I get fat like you, mommy? I don't want to become a woman if I'm going to get fat."

Ow. That was a wound to the heart. Nothing like being told by your child that yes, you are fat and you look it, thankyouverymuch!

"No, sweetie. You have daddy's metabolism. You know your Auntie D and Auntie K? You'll look like them, honey."

She was very thankful for the information. Even at the tender age of 7, my child has picked up on the "badness" of being fat and wants to avoid it at all costs. Seeing as how she weighs a mere 49 pounds (with Thing One weighing in at a whopping 67 pounds - insert eyeroll), neither of my children are in any current danger of being obese. They look like tall skinny beanpoles - the exact way all of The Husband's family looks like. This is in contrast to my family, who while being tall are all at least slightly plump if not outright obese. Hardy Alsatian stock.

The children eat all the time. Seriously. For example, in their lunches today they had some lunch meat, some cheese, some baby carrots, some grape tomatoes, cheese and peanutbutter crackers and a juice pack. When they get off from school, they are so hungry they beg for a snack, and then they have full plates for dinner. I honestly don't know where they put all that food except that their legs are probably hollow.

In contrast to the average child today, my children get extensive time outside. They have their chores around the acerage to do, which includes feeding the sheep, two pens of chickens and four pens of pheasants. They have to feed the dogs, and are also constantly running around the property every few hours turning on and off some of the waterers for our bamboo. Then add in the trampoline for good solid fun and all the running and playing with the dogs that they do as well as recess at school, and they get well more than three hours of activity per day.

Another thing that we do is that we raise our own meat. Pork, chicken, lamb, turkey. Eventually we intend to do beef as well but haven't gotten around to it. We have raised it all throughout their lives and they appreciate the better taste of meat that is home-grown. No preservatives or antibiotics or growth hormones in our meat. No slopping the pigs. Just whole grain and grass food, Little House on the Prarie style. (Do you see a theme here? I always wanted to be Half Pint!)

Hopefully The Husband and I are setting them up so that they don't fall into the traps that I did that would lead to their becoming obese. I don't want either of them to have to resort to surgery to get their weight under control. Yes, they like their sweets just like any normal child, but hopefully we are teaching them restraint and control. Hopefully they will not become a statistic as many other children their ages are becoming.

I don't want them to get fat like me. I don't want them to face the shame you feel when you step on the scale and the numbers start with a "3". I don't want them to struggle with finding clothes that fit, or facing the subtle and overt discrimination that those who are overweight recieve. I don't want them to feel like less of a person because they are so large. I want to shelter them from the extra cruelties in life that can occur when you are overweight.

I don't want them to become the person that I was, but rather the person that I am becoming.

Normal.

Well, lookee there! I can finally see it!

Guess what, Internet? No seriously. Just guess.

I'm smaller. And I can TOTALLY see it! Eeeeeeee!

Today was the first day that I looked at my naked body (more specifically my torso) and could actually tell that yes, this surgery is working and I am actually really and truly losing weight and it hasn't been a gremlin in my scale's computer fooling me with the numbers showing up there after all. Hot damn!

Previous to this, I could see my face slimming down. Whoopee. It does that all the time when I lose a few pounds. I started getting happy when my calves were noticeably smaller as well. Yay.

But for the torso? My god-awful midsection with the two rolls of blubber? It was never, EVER going to come off there, and I was doomed to be Violet Beauregard-ish - post Wonka gum but pre squeezing, all tiny legs and arms sticking out of this continually rotund middle. Oh, and minus the blueberry skin tone as well.

Nevermind that my weight jumped back up two pounds and has stayed there for over a week. The inches are coming off and it shows. My biggest pair of jeans now need a belt to stay on me and not fall off as I walk down the street.

I think I could actually get used to this.

This isn't going to be pretty

At. All.

My skin, that is. Weight loss is already not being very kind to it in any way.

It's only to be expected and is one of the biggest complaints people have post-op. Whether it be from the deficiencies in vitamins that makes our skin look terrible or from the shar-pei folds that appear in the multitudes as our battle scars from losing the equivalent of another person, it's going to show up in some way or another.

Some people skate away from these issues and are truly among the blessed. I'm not going to be one of them. Let's face it, when you've had children while being overweight, you're going to end up with problems in the pannus area. It's kind of a given. And it appears that this is where my problems are starting.

Ever since giving birth to Thing One, I've had this small fold of skin on the left-hand side of my abdomen. The bigger the fold got, the heavier I was. It's kind of my measure of how overweight I was. Unfortunately when I got my tubal ligation in 2002, one of the lap ports went right in that fold, and ever since then I've had problems with it getting irritated occasionally. It's a lovely place for sweat to collect. Just dandy all around.

As I got up to the weight I started at, beyond the occasional irritation and making sure to clean the area in the shower it was no big deal. But now that the weight is coming back up, that fold is actually growing again because of the loose skin that is gradually being generated. Which means more sweat stays up inside there and it never feels completely "dry." Ew.

This weekend, I went to dry the area and the towel came away with some light red streaks. Lovely. I have now rubbed it the wrong way and the skin is weeping a bit. And where precisely is it weeping? Right where the lap port was from the tubal ligation. Just special, isn't it? This means it will take some time to heal, but at least I can be thankful that this just means that I will likely have some good medical reasons to convince my insurance to help pay for some of the reconstruction that will be necessary once this process is done and my weight is stabilized.

The Husband and I have already started a savings fund for plastics for me once I get down to goal. The breasts will be lifted and possibly have implants - after two children and bad choices as a young adult regarding the lack of a bra, the "girls" are just not perky at all. I already have bat wings that I may or may not have done. A tummy tuck will be necessary at the least, and possibly a full lower body lift if my ass turns into a full-on shar-pei. Ugh. I know the end result will never be model-perfect, but I don't care. I'm not the type of person who can pour herself into Spanx day after day even though I know I will be using them until I get the plastics done.

Is it vanity? Is it trying to make myself look more "normal" so that my husband won't be disgusted in bed? Maybe a little bit of both. The Husband obviously doesn't mind me at the size I was but I don't know what his reaction will be once my skin pools around me as I lie in bed, trying to be sexy. Heck, I don't know what *MY* reaction will be when that happens. In the end, it's more about me not skeeving out over me than anything else.

There will be choices to be made in the years to come. Do I go back and see Dr. K to get the necessary surgeries done? Some of my friends here in town that had the DS have done so and are very pleased with the outcome. Do I go to Tijuana to get a good price? A fellow DS message board member went to see Dr. Fuentes and was very happy with the results. Or do I trek half-way across the country to Iowa City to be done by arguably some of the best body re-sculpting plastic surgeons in the U.S.? Again, another DS board member had spectacular results with Drs. Aly and Cram. Only time will tell, I suppose.

Until then, it's just me and my Gold Bond powder and a sailor's mouth cursing this stupid skin that just doesn't seem grateful for the load that I released it from. It should know better, dammit! Stupid epithelium.

The comments are starting already?

Buh?

After church, we went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things we're going to need before we bring home our new puppy next week. At the checkout, we ended up in the line of a lady we've gotten to "know" throughout the years. She was working at Wal-Mart when I worked there back in the early 90's, but we're really only one of those "Hi, how are you doing?" types of friendships. Surface only, but she does know about my surgery and is always asking me how things are going and congratulating me on my loss.

We greet each other like normal, and then the gentle lecture begins. "I don't want you losing too much weight now, you need to not lose too much! You don't want to get so skinny! We like you the way you are because it's your heart that matters."

People, I've only lost 55 pounds. I am still at LEAST 100 pounds overweight. I am in no way in danger of blowing away with the wind. Yet.

Now I know that she meant well and I'm not really upset at her. But come ON! Where have we as a society gone wrong where it has become OK to tell people how much they should or should not lose? And would she have made these comments to me if I was doing this the "hard" way just by dieting?

I guess that this is one of the things that I just don't "get" and probably never will. Unless I'm asked, I would NEVER presume to tell someone how much weight they should lose. I manage to hold my tongue pretty well in these sort of situations.

My real question is probably not about how we have gone wrong as a society blah, blah, blah. It's more something along these lines: By having a surgery, have we all of a sudden become public property? Property that is to be judged? Property that is to be scrutinized and examined and criticized? Where did this attitude come from?

It's an attitude that is akin to the one you receive when having a child, I suppose. Once you begin to show that baby bump, the whole WORLD thinks that they have a right to tell you things - most of them unsolicited and probably completely unwarranted and unwanted. And the irony is that most of the comments come from people who haven't the first clue about having a baby.

But unlike having a baby, this whole thing is going to last much longer than 9 months - this is going to be for the rest of my life. I just hope that people forget about the whole thing a whole lot sooner than that.

Fat chance, right?

Going to the Dogs

It seems that we did not get a new dog for our family when we got our newest Dachshund last Saturday. Instead, we purchased a dog for our dog. He is not our dog, he is HER dog. Let the eye-rolling commence!

Saturday and Sunday were days of getting Skipper used to us and our family and to try and ease the shock of him going from a clan of eight doxies down to our much smaller pack of little Jasamine and big Nikita. And Jazzy wasn't even around those days seeing as how she was at Skipper's old house hopefully getting knocked up, little tart that she is. Add to that Skipper's freedom to roam five acres of land (compared to a small fenced-in yard at his old home) and you get one mopey and depressed pup.

Skipper is terrified of Nikita, even though all she wants to do is play. The little guy has never seen a dog as big as she (she's an Akita) and seems convinced that this ginormous beast actually wants to eat him. So, he runs away from her. And seeing as how he doesn't really know *us* from Adam either, he runs away from us too. Luckily, a reddish-brown dog kind of sticks out amongst the bamboo so we can easily find him to bring him back to the relative safety of the house.

He's housebroken, which is a blessing, but we're having to crate train him at night and he's a little bit put out by that. Tough love, doggy. It's all tough love.

Jasmine came home from her first breeding foray Monday night. The minute she came in the house, Skipper was glued to her side. The reasons for this are probably two-fold. Jazzy is still in heat, although not accepting a male anymore, and since Skipper is, ahem, intact, this means he wants to get his crazy on. Secondly, he is only used to being around other doxies, and seeing one of his own has probably helped convince him that we're not all that terrible after all, but damn it he's sticking with his own kind, thankyouverymuch!

So now, instead of one small 10-pound doggie bouncing around me, begging to get up on my lap or be picked up (Jasmine considers me HER human), I have 40 pounds of dog weaving in and out around my legs (with Skipper chasing Jasmine everywhere she goes) when I'm trying to get anything acccomplished in the house. This is not good for one's sense of balance, and I have almost come crashing down several times these last two days while trying to avoid stepping on the masses of wriggling dog bodies that surround me. Because if there's one thing about Dachshunds that is true, it's that once you have more than one, it is like you add another ten dogs for every extra one that you have. It's sort of like working to the powers of 10. This is a bit of dog mathematical science that I tend to forget, seeing as how I'm only used to having my one doxie.

Suddenly I find myself hoping that Jasmine's breeding didn't take. Because what on God's green earth am I going to do with MORE doxies? Cause I'm not breeding her to sell the pups. We just wanted more doxies, and what better way to get more of them than to, um, do it yourself, right? Oy! Sometimes I don't think that I think things through.


Anyway, enjoy the picture of these newfound friends. Jasmine is telling Skipper to quit whispering sweet nothings into her ears because she just doesn't believe him. At all. Seriously! I mean, really. Just take a look at her face. You can see her giving him the stink-eye. I swear!

Them's the Breaks!

I have been inducted into yet another level of the Halls of Motherhood. I had to deliberately enforce high levels of excruciating pain upon one of my children, all in the name of healing her. I think I would have rather passed on this badge of "honor" and gone to something much more pleasant and useful. You know, like teaching my child how to field dress a deer without cutting herself or something along those lines.

Thing Two decided that late Sunday evening would be a good time to slip and fall on pennies in her room, banging her elbow against the corner of her dresser. She was in a lot of pain, but there was no bruising or swelling, so we gave her some pain medication and sent her to bed for the night.

Monday morning, we woke her up before The Husband left the house to see what was going on. Her entire elbow area was swollen and she was still in a lot of pain even though she had managed to sleep through the night. Great. One trip to the doctor coming right up!

The poor thing couldn't get dressed without help and the trip into town was a nightmare for her with all the bumps along the way. After dropping Thing One off at school and letting the teacher know what was going on with Thing Two, we made our way to our local Urgent Care center.

We sat down to wait but were called back up to complete insurance information. While there, one of the nurses noticed the pain Thing Two was in and asked the right questions about why we were there and immediately sent us to X-ray.

In X-ray, I had to torture my 7-year-old by making her move her arm in the right positions to get the pictures. Her screams of pain could probably be heard throughout the entire building, I'm sure. Then we went to see the PA who diagnosed a fracture in the head of the big arm bone (the name escapes me except that it's NOT the radius or the ulna. Tibia?) and it was right near the growth plate.

Finally after getting a prescription of Vicodin for my 51-pound daughter, multiple calls to The Husband at work, putting her in a splint (more screams and tears) and getting an appointment to see the orthopedic specialist the next day, we made our way home. My poor child was so doped up on the Vicodin, she could barely eat her lunch, and ended up sleeping away much of the afternoon. I was exhausted as well, and managed to take a nap.

All evening long, Thing Two kept complaining that the middle part of her forearm was hurting, but because of the type of splint she had on (made of this all-in-one fiberglass and padding thing) we weren't able to figure out what was going on. At least we knew that the splint was probably coming off at the doctor's appointment anyway so we could figure it out then. In the meantime, more drugs for my little darling so that she could actually sleep at night.

Tuesday morning, my little one is still in way more pain than she should be. We get to the doctor, and he lets us know that the fracture isn't as bad as the PA thought it might be and that her growth plate wasn't involved. Whew! One thing down. But why is she in this much pain and in an area that wasn't affected by the fracture? Doctor wants to put her in a different splint anyway, so away we three go to the casting room to figure things out.

We peel away the bandages holding the splint onto Thing Two's arm and between the nurse and I we manage to get the splint off. Again, much pain, much crying and many, many tears were involved. And lo and behold, there it was. On her forearm, there was a two inch long by half inch wide welt that was caused by the fiberglass of the splint buckling and digging into her arm. It was a HUGE bump (about 1/2 of an inch deep) to put against my child's arm and then be lashed tightly against it. No wonder we couldn't even touch her arm without her being in such pain!

The doctor gave the staff the best, most complete and most *respectful* tongue lashing I have ever heard in my life. They were to no longer use this particular product because it was trash and he didn't want to see ANYONE in a cast or splint that wasn't made from plaster instead of the fiberglass that they used on Thing One. Instead of just telling the nurses to make a new splint, he then proceeded to make from the plaster strips and padding strips a hand-made splint that goes down the back of the arm, holding it at a 90-degree angle. Color me impressed!

And wouldn't you know it, the pain level for my little one went down. Amazing what happens when a splint is applied properly!

I have to say that these last two days could possibly be described as the worst in my entire life. They say you always hurt the ones you love. But I would rather throw myself in front of a bus before having to hurt my child that way again.

Get well soon, Jitterbug! Mommy loves you!