Crashing the cage match

I know I wasn't invited. But sometimes parties are more fun when you crash them. I found out today that @jterzieff and @sparrowbug somehow spun a conversation about Metallica into a WIP  Cage Match. That's Writer-Speak for Work-in-Progress for you Non-Writer folks out there). The rules are to post around 500 words of our respective WIP and see who walks away the victor.

Well, that was a challenge that was just covered in enough cool frijoles for me to chuck my own rule about posting twice in one day to the wind (Okay, okay, so I'm like 2 minutes past the deadline. But that's only because I like to do things on Mexican-time.) So here I am.

Check out @sparrowbug's entry here. @jterzieff's can be found here.

Unless your brand new here, you already know I'm writing a don't-call-it-a-memoir entitled Baby F(Ph)at: Adventures in Motherhood, Weight Loss, & Trying to Say Sane. I've posted a few excerpts already which can be found here and here. And now that we are all up to date, here's my Muse Cage Match entry.

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I’m holed up in my mother’s room while The Husband sleeps the day away and my mother keeps Buttercup busy downstairs. I’m spread across her bed on my belly with my pretty new netbook set in front of me for my online appointment with Monika Woolsey, a.k.a @incyst, to discuss my current state of mind and the fact that I had to pull my fat pants back out after our weekend trip to the Renaissance Festival. My mother, Buttercup, The Husband, and I had a totally happy family trip that cost us way more than anticipated—what with a toddler running around and pointing to things she totally knows Mommy and Daddy are going to spring for…like a camel ride…and a set of butterfly wings…and a “rare cork-nosed piggy (read: bank)…but neither The Husband or I are complaining about the smiles and the giggles and the chance to see what we take for granted through the eyes of our child. Like the woman in a blue formal with fairy wings trying on a corset while Daddy tried on a leather fedora? Ask Buttercup and she’ll tell you she met the Tooth Fairy. Even took a picture with her.

There were princesses and wood nymphs and walking trees and elephants and smiles. And, of course, the bloat (for mama) that comes with the seemingly necessary fast-food diet that comes with road trips.

I tried to be good. I did! I had, after all, just given up on phase 1 of South Beach just a few days before we left, so my intentions of starting phase 2 (also known as “eating the way I was in chapter 21 that helped me lose 13 pounds before I got stupid and screwed the pooch) after we got back. Because really, there was no point in fooling myself into thinking I was going to stick to anything realistic on a four day trip where I had minimal control on what I was going to be consuming.

Trips to Wendy’s included grilled chicken sandwiches, diet cokes, and yogurt parfaits. Breakfasts at Cracker Barrel were selected from the “low-carb” portion and consisted of scrambled eggs, sausage, and whole wheat toast. Renaissance fare consisted of steak and chicken on a stick with corn on the cob. My one treat at the festival was a fruit smoothie, which I shared with Buttercup and The Husband.

But by day three I was feeling fat again and on the fuck-it train again. So what was a frosty dessert with a double heap of Oreo cookies going to do to add to my pain? Or a chocolate bar purchased at a gas station on the way home. That I ate when The Husband wasn’t looking.

And now here I am in my yoga pants (because my jeans aren’t happy with me right now) and  depressed enough to wonder if going under the knife is my only viable option for losing any real weight in order to make for a happy The End.