Bad Elizabeth (slapping hand)! Bad bad Elizabeth! Sorry, guys, that it's been so long since I've posted. I am making it my New Year's resolution to blog at least twice a week for the ENTIRE 2011 year. Startiiinnnggggggg...now.
Some days, the words just pour out of me and I can't get to the Power Book fast enough. Other days...not so much. But I hope your blur of Thanksgiving family, fun and...ugh...food, distracted you from my absence. Excuses, I have not (and now I'm talking like Yoda). But perhaps I may offer an explanation.
My parents were here for two weeks. Thir-teen days. The last time my parents shared 750 feet of living space (my dad measured it while I was at work one day with a 30 inch gift wrap tube) for two weeks, my previously crimeless mother set my favorite bag and kitchen curtains on fire. In that order. I still have the holy bag to prove it. This was the same trip where we returned from a long, hard day of shopping to find my dad unsuccessfully trying to extricate himself from a disastrous V-8 spill. Who falls asleep with 16 ounces of V-8 in their hand? WHO???
I admit it. I may be the most tightly wound human being you've ever met. I can, and will, freak out over just about anything. In real emergencies, I am cool, calm and collected. But it's the little things you don't see coming that'll make me go Michael-Douglas-in-Falling-Down on ya. For example:
I feel a slight pang of injustice when my twenties come back from the BofA ATM not facing the same direction. I mean, is there NO sense of decency in the American banking system anymore?!?
I've been known to channel John McEnroe at board games past. Rummikub...2009. It was ugly.
And you know what happens when you're fat and feel out-of-control when faced with even the slightest temptation? You become fixated on the things you can control. Or think you can control. In my case, I have become obsessed with two things. Carpet and cars. Obsessed in a way that could easily land me on an A&E reality show...sandwiched somewhere between Hoarders and Dog the Bounty Hunter.
The carpet is a no brainer. No shoes please. Until I can afford hardwood floors. And then you can wear Lady Gaga's meat shoes for all I care.
Then (and this is where the reality show comes in) there is the obsession with my automobile. Or, more specifically, scratches on said automobile. Only now I have to say it like Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles..."oto-mo-biiile." I have a Prius. A gunmetal gray Prius named Miles. Now, I love my Prius. Don't get me wrong. But enough with the environmentally friendly paint, people. Are you friggin' kidding me? It scratches like a you-know-what. My ex drives a 1963 Ford Falcon that wouldn't scratch if you took a sickle to it. That's what I'm talking about. Oh please, auto industry, bring back the lead paint. I promise not to eat it and it will make my life so much easier. Meanwhile, I have to play offensive tackle to unsuspecting people like my parents who dare to do ridiculous things in my car. Like get in and out of it.
I could go on and on about my scratchophobia. And tell you about my relationship with the Auto Body Brothers. Or about the amazing invention of 3M film, which is changing my life one door panel at a time. But it's a story for another day. For now, I'm just realizing some things. One...I might be cuckoo. But a little bit of Southern charm could easily disguise that. And, two, I've got to get back to the task at hand...losing the weight and all the baggage that comes with it. Cause these Samsonites are beginning to get a little heavy.