The Diaries of a Fat Chick

Two posts in two days…look at me go!

Ben and I have a lot of mutual interests (sushi, starbucks, animal rescue, making me happy) and another of those mutual interests happens to be a little comic strip called Calvin & Hobbes.

For our sixth anniversary, we each had a Calvin & Hobbes scene tattooed on our body.  As always, I documented the occasion with pictures:

I chose to get my tattoo on my leg just above my knee.  Our tattoo artist was Clint; while we’ve had tattoo’s done in the shop before, this was the first time we had tattoo’s done by Clint.  We were sitting in the waiting area when Clint came over and introduced himself.  We had emailed our images to him a few days before so after introductions he sat down with my tattoo to talk about placement and sizing. 

Me:  I like the size of the image you have printed and I’d like it on my leg just above my knee.

Clint: *frowns* Hmm, I’m not sure about the size, it’s pretty large, Hobbes will end up wrapped around your entire leg.

Me:  *pulling up my pant leg*  Well, I was thinking if we put it right here…

Clint:  *brightens* Actually, you’ve got a pretty lar…. 

At this point he stops and looks completely chastened with himself.

Me:  *unable to stop laughing*  Yeah, I’ve got a larger than average canvas to work on.

Clint:  *stuttering*  Um, well, yeah, um this should work actually.

Me:  Excellent!

First he placed the stencil:

And then got to work with the outline:

Here I am being all brave and shit as my leg is pierced over and over with a tiny sharp needle.

The outline:

Starting the colour:

Super cool shot:

I don’t actually have a picture of the completed tattoo but as soon as it’s done healing I’ll post one.  One thing of interest, this was my 6th tattoo and while the actual tattooing hurt about the same, afterwards?  More pain then I thought.  Apparently my leg is extremely sensitive because the tattoo was bright red and swollen for nearly a week afterwards and I could barely walk for three days.  Not to mention the bruising:

Me:  Honey, look at my leg, I think the redness has started to fade.

Ben:  Look at that, the red has gone down.

Me:  Yup, it still hurts like a son of a bitch though.

Ben:  The yellowing is a nice touch, it’s a great bruise you’ve got going.

Me:  I can’t believe it bruised.

Ben:  Really?  You stand in a strong wind and it gives you a bruise and you’re surprised that your tattoo made you bruise?

Me:  Shut up.

Next up - Ben’s tattoo.  He chose to get his on his rib cage (YEOWCH!) with the idea that he would eventually have a “comic strip” of different comics tattooed down his side.   He chose this particular scene to commemorate his 25th year of teaching this year (dude is OLD).

First, the stencil:

The tattooing begins (ignore the BEARD! - don’t worry, I’ll talk about that in another post…)

This next shot is how Ben looks after being forced to listen to me repeatedly asking him:

Me:  How much does it hurt to have your ribcage tattooed?

Ben:  It smarts.

Me:  Does it really hurt?  More than your others?

Ben:  Yeah, it’s slightly more painful than the others.

Me:  Really?  Do you feel the need to cry?

Ben:  Nope.

Me:  Are you sure?  It’s okay if you want to cry. 

Ben:  I’ll be okay.

Me:  No one will think you’re less of a man if you cry.  

Clint:  I might.

The finished product:

And an added super cool bonus picture… Rob, the tattoo artist and owner of the shop, took pictures of the tattoo he did for Ben last year and added it to his wall of pictures in the shop.  I don’t think Ben’s son and daughter ever thought they’d end up on the wall of a tattoo parlour:

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I’ve become rather peevish over the last month or so.  I’m not entirely sure why but there you have it.  I am peevish.

On the outside I am still the happy and funny and possibly slightly insane Kelly that everyone knows and loves/tolerates (for the most part anyway - poor Ben would probably disagree as he has been receiving the brunt of my peevishness) but on the inside I am knotted full of anger and anxiety and irritation and general angst.

I have my theories on the reasons behind the sudden peevishness - dissatisfaction with my job, unhappiness about my current weight (although I did lose 2.6lbs last week at WW - yay me), financial concerns, too busy all the time and feelings of being trapped in a house that’s messy and cluttered and too full of stuff. 

In the last couple of months I’ve had a reoccuring daydream where I sell everything we own, grab Ben and hightail it to Paris where we will pay too much rent for a tiny apartment in the heart of Paris and if you stand on your tiptoes on our tiny balcony and crane your neck you will be able to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.  We will drink coffee and eat baguettes every day and learn French so that our neighbours stop giggling at our silly Canadian speaking.  Ben will shine shoes, I will work at a small cafe, and we’ll make just enough money to cover our rent and buy us baguettes and we won’t own a phone, a tv or a computer and will communicate with loved ones by postcard.

Sounds completely unrealistic and disgustingly romantic doesn’t it?   Which, and trust me on this, is utterly unlike me.  I am more buried in realism than anyone I know, I have our financial budget spreadsheeted out for the next three years for fuck’s sake. 

Truthfully the romance part worries me the most.  I am not romantic.  My idea of romance is coming home to a house that I didn’t have to clean.  And seriously ladies, am I wrong in that?  Imagine coming home to a house that has a dog hair free carpet you didn’t have to vaccum or a clean bathroom that wasn’t scrubbed by you. 

A word of advice for the men - you wanna get lucky?  Forget the fucking flowers and the going out for dinner and scrub the toilet and tub for your lady.  Trust me - you’ll get laid.  Possibly twice.

While I am sure there are more serious underlying issues to my sudden peevishness the one I have focused on is the “too full” house (watching Hoarders every Monday night only fuels the “my house is too cluttered” fire) and I am quite certain that if I could only get rid of 75% of the stuff currently occupying my house my peevishness will disappear.  Hence the great decluttering of 2010 has begun. 

In conclusion, I am nearly 35 years old, I am suddenly peevish and I am on a mission to completely rid my house of clutter in the hopes this will ease my peevishness.  Good bye books that I’ve held on to for years and years and will never read again, good bye yarn that I will never knit with, good bye knick knacks that I never dust, good bye shoes and clothes that I will never ever wear again, good bye dvd’s I will never watch, good bye games I will never play and good bye Ben’s extensive record collection that he never listens to (what ?  You didn’t think I was the only one who was going to fall under the axe of declutter did you?).

What does all of this have to do with “Soy delicious” you ask?  Nothing really.  I started this post and wrote the title with the intention of writing something completely different then what came out.  But in the interest of tying it all together:

I have come to the conclusion that I am lactose intolerant.  In regards to both weight loss and financial matters I have cut out the “extra’s” such as Starbucks and Tim Horton’s for the last week or so.  The last few days the debilitating stomach issues that plague me daily have been better.  Yesterday, we treated ourselves at work and did a Timmie’s run where I purchased a large hot chocolate.  I drank half of it and almost immediately regretted it (spending the next few hours with terrible stomach pain and running to the bathroom every 20 minutes or so can often cause regret in a person).  I had a moment of sudden clarity and realized that the milk in the Timmie’s hot chocolate and the milk in the Starbucks mocha (which is about the only way I drink milk) was contributing to the stomach issues.  I googled lactose intolerance and immediately self-diagnosed myself as lactose intolerant.

Again, not that big of a deal.  Milk equals bad for the most part in my books anyway.  But I can’t go the rest of my life without a Starbucks mocha.  I can’t and you can’t make me dammit.  So I will be experimenting with soy milk… any thoughts on that?  Anyone drink soy instead of regular milk?  If so…what do you think of it?

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I remember asking the nun if Jesus would hit a small child.

That’s when I learned how to take a punch.

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When I was a kid my favourite show, without a doubt, was MacGyver.  MacGyver, played by the oh so handsome and affable Richard Dean Anderson, was, well he was this guy who worked for this other guy (named Dana) and he, well did stuff and helped people out of bad situations by using nothing more than a pen, an old elastic band and his intelligence (or variations of said items).  He was the coolest motherfucker on the planet and I knew I was going to marry him.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to marry MacGyver? 

A few years ago the mumsi entity collected the entire MacGyver series (Seasons 1 to 7) and gave them to me for various Christmas and birthday gifts.  I used to force Ben to watch the episodes with me but after so many “That’s so fake!” and “There’s no way that would work!” and “What the hell is with that mullet?” comments I couldn’t take it any longer and banned him from watching them with me.  No one likes to see their childhood hero/future husband mocked.

Here is my purse:

Here are the contents of my purse:

(minus the random loose receipts and other bits of trash I seem to collect)

I carry all of this crap around with me not because I’m unorganized and messy but because some day I may get trapped with MacGyver in an elevator that is armed with a bomb (obviously) and nothing will save us but MacGyver’s wit and the contents of my purse.

Can you imagine what kind of contraption MacGyver would be able to build with the stuff out of my purse?  I’ve got like five pens, two syringes (don’t ask, I work at a vet clinic okay?  And we have a sick snake that needs to be injected with antibiotics and you know what?  I don’t have to explain myself to you people.)

Using the splash stick from Starbucks as a stirring utensil, he’d create a viscuous liquid using the advil, visine, inhaler, perfume sample and battery (heating it with the matches) that would begin to eat through the elevator doors.  As this was working it’s way through the elevator door he’s use my hair bands, keys, multiple lip balms, the three random hoop earrings and the rubber finger to defuse the bomb.

And, once we were free, I’d use my Walmart gift certificate to buy him a new shirt.  What?  Obviously creating this type of contraption would be messy and there would be a need to remove his dirty shirt while we were trapped in this elevator.

MacGyver?  It’s a lot of work carrying all this crap around but I do it for us baby, I do it for us.  Call me.

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Last night Ben and I were driving home from work and we were talking about our day.  He told me a story about talking with a few of his students about movies.

Ben:  The last movie I saw was District 9.  I really liked it and was surprised by that because I hadn’t wanted to see it.  My wife really wanted to see it and had to convince me to go.

Student:  You didn’t want to see it?  But your wife did?

Ben:  Yes.

Student:  She had to convince you to go?

Ben:  Yes, that’s right.  And I ended up really liking it so I’m glad we did.

Student:  You must have a ballin’ wife.

Ben:  Um thanks? 

Me:  So “ballin’ wife”, that’s a good thing?

Ben:  Yeah, I think so.

Me:  Crazy kids today with their crazy slang.  Get off my lawn!

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It’s no secret that I’m not, how can I put this delicately?  A big fan of children.

At about the age of 20 I made the decision to be a non-breeder.  I didn’t share that little tidbit of information around much because I always got the “You’re young, you’ll change your mind” speech that made me want to rip the eyeballs out of the person who was so smugly assuring me that sooner or later I would be popping out a kid from between my thighs while two doctors and eight interns all watched my hoochie koochie stretch to impossible widths.

Because believe me, any kid I delivered would have a noggin the size of a watermelon.  Did you know that my head is 27 inches around?  That’s the size of a super model’s waist… no wonder I can’t find a fucking hat to fit me.   Ben has a lovely small head, but the kid would inherit my super sized head and after giving birth to it I’d never walk properly again.

Truth be told, I sort of like babies and small toddlers (despite the smell and the drooling) but I wouldn’t want them around 24/7.   But once they’re past the age of five or so I have zero use for them.  I don’t find them charming or funny or interesting to be around.  Unless they’re doing useful things like washing my dishes, getting the tv remote or bringing me a beer I don’t find them that handy in the least.

Also?  They are a lot of work.  This past weekend I spent about six hours babysitting a friend’s three children, all under the age of 6.  It was unbelievably difficult; all the demands and requests to “watch me do this Kelly, watch me!  You’re not watching me! Are you watching me?” not to mention the baby that needed feeding and burping and diaper changing.  It only confirmed that I made the right decision.

 A puppy is difficult; but a baby?  A baby is like being hit with a nuclear bomb.  And there’s no escaping them - they’re around all the time and it’s not like you can just give them away once they start to really annoy you.  And it’s not just an 18 year commitment - I was 27 years old and still bumming money from my mum for fuck’s sake.  

I stumbled upon this little article (it was being passed around Facebook) and because I have a sick sense of humour, I laughed for at least 5 minutes straight.  This has to be the most useful article ever created.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you - “How to Win a Fight Against 20 Children”

http://www.cracked.com/blog/how-to-win-a-fight-against-twenty-children/

Read this article.  It’ll save your life someday.

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So I’m one of those people that bruise easily.  You know what I’m talking about?  I’m the person that if you playfully poke them they end up with a bruise.  I was in a fairly bad car accident in my early 20’s, a truck turned directly in front of us and we smashed right into him.   Luckily we were both wearing our seat belts and not going that quickly, but the car was still totalled.  David and I both returned to work the next day a little sore but no worse for wear.  However, by the second day my entire chest aned stomach were covered in rather spectacular bruising from the seatbelt.  I also had a massive bruise on my right calf from the window handle.  I had a perfect line of bruising in the shape of the seatbelt across my chest and down my ribs.  It took months for the bruises to heal; they weren’t particularly sore but they were certainly colourful.  David?  Didn’t have a mark on him.  Not one single bruise.  The Bastard.

Just recently I had to get a shot of gravol in the arm for some debilitating stomach pain.  Patty the nurse did it very gently and it barely hurt.  Two days later I had a massive bruise on my arm and a lump to go with it.  It looked like I had been hit with a baseball.  The damn bruise lasted weeks. 

Honestly, it’s annoying as hell and one of these days poor Ben is going to end up in a small claustrophobic room being interrogated by two large detectives just because his wife has unexplained bruises.   And bitch that I am, you know I’ll let him be interrogated for at least two hours before I tell them I just bruise easily.

The hell of it is - I’m a clutz so I’m constantly falling down or over or into something and I have a poor memory so it takes me forever to even remember why I have a bruise.  People will ask me, I’ll give them a blank look and stutter around for a bit before finally remembering and explain how I was walking in the kitchen, tripped over a piece of dog food on the floor and landed half on and half off the steel guinea pig cage.  Hence the gigantic bruise on my forearm.  Also, would you like to see the one on my ribcage?  It’s spectacular.  It’s too late though, they smile and nod politely and walk away thinking I’m in denial of my abusive relationship.

Very rarely do I have a bruise that I don’t have some vague idea of why or how I got it.  However, I woke up a few days ago with this:

And absolutely no memory of how I might have gotten it.  Nada, zip, zilch.

Did I run into something?  Did Hannah the dog step on me?  Did I drop something on my leg?  I have absolutely no idea and as such have decided that sometime during the night while I was sleeping a “little tiny ninja” came along and punched me in the leg with his teeny, weeny fist.  Why?  I like to think I accidentally pissed him off by snubbing his teeny weeny wife at the grocery store.  It sounds like something I’d do.

Also - I hope you people noticed that I shaved my fricken leg for this picture.

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The other night we invited the boy child to have dinner with us.  After picking me up from work, the three of us were driving home when the conversation took an unpleasant turn.

Ben:  We don’t have any water at home.

Me:  Yes we do.

Ben:  No we don’t.  There isn’t any bottled water and we still don’t have a new filter for the Brita.

Me:  It’s called a tap.  Turn it on and you get water.

Ben:  Ugh.

Me:  Don’t be so picky.   You drank plenty of tap water before these new fangled Brita’s and bad-for-the-environment bottles of water came out.

Boy Child:  Ever since his bout with crypto a few years ago, he’s been a little leery of the tap water, haven’t you Dad?

Me:  I guess shitting your pants changes a man huh?

Ben:  Eh, not so much the pants.  It’s the socks and shoes that really shakes a guy.

Me:  *laughs hysterically*

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So Heather over at Dooce has a post up where she did a “meme” about her marriage to Jon.  Like her, I quickly get tired of the “meme’s” (they’re all freaking over Facebook at the moment) but the idea of doing one about our marriage?  Right on! 

What are your middle names?

My middle name is Elizabeth and Ben’s middle name is David. 

How long have you been together?

We will be married five years this August; we dated for a year before that. 

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

Hmm, let’s see - I met Ben in December of 1999 but we didn’t start dating until 2003.  Which, sweet baby moses, means I’ve known Ben for 10 years.  10 years and 5 of those have been “married” years.  Most of my family never thought I would find anyone willing to marry me.  Hell, I didn’t think I’d find anyone who’d marry me.  Cause I’m sort of a bitch.

Who asked whom out?

Hmmm…sort of a mutual thing I think.  I was pretty sure he was going to ask me out and if he hadn’t I would have asked him. 

How old are each of you?

Oh how I love this question.  I’m 33, he’s 46.  That means he’s super old; something I remind him of on an almost daily basis.  The year I was born was the year he started shaving. 

Whose siblings do you see the most?

I’m the second of three children and Ben is the first of five children.  With the exception of one of Ben’s siblings, none of them live even remotely close to us.   Up until the last year or so we saw my brother the most but recent events have resulted in more visitations with Ben’s sibling who lives here.  Huh, that sort of makes it sound like his sibling is in prison.  Which I can assure you is not the case.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Mornings.  No, seriously… mornings.   I am wretched in the morning and after five years, Ben’s patience for my morning wretchedness is, not surprisingly, wearing thin.

Did you go to the same school?

Living in different provinces and growing up a decade apart means no.

Are you from the same home town?

No.  I was born and raised in Napanee, Ontario and Ben was born in New Westminster and grew up in Westbank, BC.  Before he met me, Ben had never heard of a “Giant Tiger” and before I met him I’d never heard of an “Overwaitea”.

Who is smarter?

Ben teaches physics for a living, he has a masters degree, he can do long division in his head, and he knows how to make the perfect tuna wrap.  I can type 100 words per minute, french braid my hair without looking in the mirror and frequently trip over cracks in the sidewalk.  Ben’s definitely the smart one. 

Who is the most sensitive?

Yeah, that would be me.  Ben has the thickest skin of anyone I know.  Of course, he has to have thick skin to be married to me.  I’m sort of a bitch.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

There’s a tiny little sushi restaurant tucked away in a small strip mall on the south side of town.  We go there often enough that the owner and his wife treat us like old friends.  It is the best sushi I’ve ever tasted.

Where is the furthest you have travelled together as a couple?

Edmonton.   Pathetic I know but we’re planning on changing that.

Who has the craziest exes?

It’s a tie.

Who has the worst temper?

Once, when Ben and I were first dating, I borrowed his car and while attempting to park it in the very narrow parking space in my apartment building, I scraped the side of it against a cement pillar leaving very noticeable and very permanent damage.  When I confessed, Ben said (and I do quote), “No problem honey.” and never brought it up again.  Ever.

Once, I stopped at a Wendy’s restaurant and picked up some take-out for Ben and I.  After ordering a burger with no cheese for Ben and asking not once, not twice, but three times to confirm they didn’t put cheese on it, I arrived home and discovered that they had, indeed, put cheese on the burger.  I lost it.  A steady stream of the most horrendous and vile curse words spewed from my lips for over half an hour.  I wailed, I ranted, I stormed about the house, I banned them for all of eternity and eventually - I called the Wendy’s Restaurant so I could personally unleash my putrid hatred all over their stupid pimple-spotted faces and then threw the phone against the wall in a final fit of rage when the line just rang and rang and rang. 

So um, I guess that makes me the one with the worst temper.

Who does the cooking?

Ben.  I can’t, don’t and generally won’t cook.  And due to a few unfortunate burner fire incidents, I am, in fact, forbidden to use the stove when Ben isn’t home.

Who is the neat freak?

That’s a complicated one.  I would say Ben in that he tends to be better at putting things away when he’s used them and prefers to have items placed neatly in their designated areas.  However, it bothers me more when the house is messy.  See - complicated.

Who is more stubborn?

I am stubborn.  But if I am the princess of stubbornness, then Ben?  Ben is the EMPIRE of stubbornness.  What I’m trying to say is that if there was a stubborn contest Ben would win it blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.

Who hogs the bed?

Me.  But it’s not my fault; I have to make room for my Smokey kitty cat.  He likes to sleep beside me on the edge of the bed which means I have to sleep in the middle of the bed.  We bought a king sized bed for the cat.  True story.

Who wakes up earlier?

Ben.  He’s not what we refer to as a “good” sleeper.  On a typical night, if he goes to bed around 11 he’ll sleep maybe four, five hours and be awake by 3 or 4.  

Where was your first date?

I can’t remember.  Not surprising since half the time I can’t even remember our anniversary.

Who is more jealous?

Neither of us are ever jealous.  Is that weird?

How long did it take to get serious?

We were serious from the start.  We’d been friends for so long before we started dating that once we did actually start dating and the first kiss went smoothly with no awkwardness, I knew he’d be the man I married.

Who eats more?

Despite the fact that I outweigh him by about 100lbs, it’s actually Ben who eats more.  He’s been blessed with a good metabolism.  Asshole.

Who does the laundry?

I do.  In fact, one might suggest that I am a control freak about the laundry.

Who’s better with the computer?

Depends.  If it’s a word processing program, or email or solitaire then me.  Of course, I’ve witnessed Ben build a computer from spare parts so you probably think he’s better with them.

Who drives when you’re together?

It used to be Ben but more recently, I’ve been driving more because of my new job.  He probably enjoys this as I have a tendency to both nag at him to drive faster and shout advice about his driving skills when I’m a passenger.   See, I told you I was a bitch.

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Tonight I learned that when you jump in the shower, discover you have no shaving cream left and make the rash decision to use your husband’s shaving cream you will a) quickly realize just how strong the scent of gillette shaving cream is:

Me:  Feel my legs honey, I shaved tonight.

Ben:  Very nice.

Me:  I know.  I have very nice legs.

Ben:  Question?

Me:  Answer.

Ben:  Why do your legs smell like my face after I shave?

Me:  Shut up.

and b) if you cut yourself shaving, men’s shaving cream stings like a motherfucker.

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