I weigh 196 pounds.

Woah, wow, what?

Did I really just admit my real weight to everyone? I don’t even admit my real weight to myself!

It’s true. I must be drunk. That or the stress of my husband staying home from work “sick” has pushed me over the edge. Maybe both.

When I moved to Arizona in 2004, I weighed 135 pounds. I was skinny and I was hot. (No, I was haaawt!) Sadly, I thought I was the fattest, ugliest girl in all the world.  It’s funny how girls do that to themselves. Everyone told me I was pretty, everyone said “Amy, size six is not fat!” but I didn’t believe them. All I saw was what I saw in the mirror and that was “fat.”

Fast forward five years, a few traumatic experiences that psychologists are still trying to figure out and I weigh in at a chunky, two anorexic tween girls weight of ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY SIX pounds. The strange thing is, though, that I’ve never been happier. I know for a fact that I’m not skinny and I’ve got the size 14, ok 16, pants to prove it.

When I first started gaining weight it was really hard. I refused to take pictures, wore baggy t-shirts, sported extra big jeans and didn’t wear makeup. My theory was that I’d rather people say “oh, she’s probably not that big, it’s just the clothes” than “wow, why does that fat girl think she can get away with a shirt like that?” Totally normal, right? Wrong.

I’m now happy to say that when I do look in a mirror, I can see positive things about myself.  Just writing that sentence has taken over 26 years of self inflicting doubt. Regardless, I want to be healthy and don’t think that I am. I know that my miscarriage wasn’t because of my weight, but it couldn’t have helped. I know that I’ll never be at my high school weight of one-hundred-and-eat-anything-you-want-and-it-won’t-matter, but I do want to be able to say that I can wear pants with only one digit again. Plus see my feet. Crazy, I know.

That being said, I joined Weight Watchers! My sister Katie started 8 weeks ago and she’s doing great. My friends Crystal and Sarah (the blurry one on the left) have also taken the plunge and I like the accountability factor of having people checking up on me. (Uh, hence this post.) I’ve been going back and forth about joining for a while, but why not? What do I have to lose except a few pounds and every ounce of my dignity? Because I did just admit my true weight. On the internet.

I must be drunk.

These flowers right here are my favorite of all time. They’re plucked off an Arizona tree strangely called Texas Mountain Laurel and the flowers only bloom in spring. I love the flowers so much that I bought a tree last year and planted it in our front yard. It’s not the way they look, it’s the way they smell. If I could somehow put the scent in a jar and sell it, I’d make millions. These two little guys made the entire house smell like spring for close to a week. And then they died.

I got a job!

And then I got fired.

Yeah, yeah. Who doesn’t get a great job working from home, double the salary of their previous job while doing what they love and get canned after 14 days? The story of your life, right?

I’ll start from the beginning.

I came upon a freelance gig on Craigslist looking for a designer to prototype a new magazine in Arizona. I interviewed, it went great, and they called less that two hours later offering not only a job, but a salaried position with great pay. I jumped at the chance.

Two weeks go by, I’m working my little heart out on making this thing amazing, and they called and said “hey, let’s meet to go over some things.” So I packed up, met them at a coffee shop and the conversation went like this.

“Hey guys! How’s it going? Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Yeah, hey, we forgot to have you sign this little piece of paper.”

“Oh, no worries. What does it entail?”

“Not much, just that as our salaried employee, the work you do is ours.”

“Cool! I love being a salaried employee that gets paid for the work she does! Where do I sign?”

So I signed.

And then they said, “Thanks, hey, it’s not working out. You’re fired.”

They said that I wasn’t putting in enough hours. Strangely, though, all of my work was 95% close to completion, a week ahead of schedule and they had files of everything. So basically they got their magazine designed for a price of two weeks salary instead of a commissioned fee. And when they got what they wanted, they dropped me.

I was had.

This all happened on Monday. I’m cool with being “fired”, especially knowing that these guys were grade-A scum bags, but I’m not cool with getting so excited about everything. When I landed the job, I told friends, family, their family, neighbors, my dogs, your dogs and possibly your mom. It doesn’t feel so awesome that two weeks later I get to say, “Oh yeah, that job? Uh, it was a huge scam and I was a sucker that signed paperwork without reading it thoroughly.”

If I had to find a moral to this story it would be either be “people are meanies” or “don’t be so trusting, you crazy Midwestern girl.”

The beautiful, amazing beach of Majahuitas south of Puerto Vallarta. If you squint really hard, you can see our cabana in the trees.

I’ve been wondering for the last few days how to start a post on a blog that has been dead for close to a month. “Oh hello, you again?” “Me? Gone? Nooo, you just didn’t see me.” “My grandmother is dead?” I finally decided that the best way was to be completely honest.

I’m a schmuck.

Since I’ve been gone, a few, tiny little things have happened.

I got married!

The wedding was absolutely everything I ever dreamed of. Rocket Man was handsome, we had very few mishaps and Sparky, the Arizona State mascot, showed up at our reception. Oh yeah, it was awesome.

Speaking of ASU, the Sun Devil Story went really well but they STILL haven’t posted it online like they promised over a month ago. I continue to look each day and the minute I see it, you’ll see it.

We went on our honeymoon!

Mexico was amazing. It was like we were on our own private island. RM described it as being dropped off on the set of the show “Lost.”

And there’s one more very little, size of a lentil with a tail, thing.

I’m pregnant!

I had no idea that I’d be marrying the Michael Phelps of procreation, but I did and we’re expecting a Rocket Baby in late July. Some people have joked that it’s a honeymoon baby, but we’re both pretty sure it’s a wedding night baby. Although neither of us have a clue how to keep babies alive, we’re both really excited.

Since it’s come to my attention that these few things are actually extremely big things, I’ve decided to talk about each one individually over the next few weeks. I’ll also finally be redesigning my mast to get rid of the “almost” in place of something more appropriate like “knocked up and completely clueless.”

I’m back, bitches!

(An unintentional buge hoobie shot, but I had to show you that my NKOTB shirt still fits … barely. I can’t stop looking at that arrow that’s pointing right to my belly button. Also, I can’t help but notice the poor guys heads are stretched a liiiiittle too far. And also, can you tell that we have a lot of “warm” lighting in our house? I never know how to get rid of the yellow glow.)

I had an “ah-ha!” moment today. Have you ever had one of those? I rented a four bed, four bath apartment in college. My best friend and I recruited a girl we barely knew and another girl we knew even less. Half way through the semester, another friend of ours asked to stay on our couch, use the coat closet as her space and pay our utilities. At the time we weren’t thinking of anything but the extra cash! One afternoon, after months of living on top of each other, I forgot to pick up my glass from the coffee table and returned home to the squatter screaming at me to respect her “bedroom.” And there it was … ‘Ah-ha!” Five different girls and one tight living space was a BAD idea. I don’t even like girls that much. (Yes, I’m that girl.) Too much estrogen is never a good idea.

I’ve been having a hard time motivating myself to do much of anything. Laundry? I’ll do it later? Blog? Later. Dishes? Never.

Until it hit me. Ah-ha!

I should put myself on a schedule! So simple, yet I hadn’t thought of it before today. Schedule exercise, schedule looking for a job, schedule blogging, even schedule noon to 1 for Roseanne. (I’m SO addicted. I was never allowed to watch the show as a kid. Now I watch partly because I enjoy it and partly because it makes me feel like a rebel.)

And now, so I feel obligated to stick to it, I’m telling you that I’ll be updating each day between 11 and noon. (Pacific time) I’ll even tell you that I’ve penciled in walking on our treadmill at 10 a.m. Why 10? Because of The View, silly. Those are some bitches I can’t get enough of.

(Taken at our favorite sushi and sake restaurant in Arizona. If you’re ever in town, I’ll give you directions.)

Typical argument with Rocket Man brought on by watching ‘The Notebook’ and a dash of insanity.

Me: “If I die, will you die with me?”

Rocket Man: “What? Did you just ask me to commit suicide?”

Me: “No, I’m asking you to promise that our love is so great that you’ll naturally die when I do. You know, like in the movie.”

RM: “I don’t think I can do that.”

Me: “Is it because you don’t want to marry me?”

RM: …..

Me: “Is it because you don’t love me?”

RM: …..

Me: “IS IT BECAUSE YOU THINK I’M FAT?!”

RM: “Amy, you don’t need to worry about it. After a lifetime of arguments like this, I’m surely going to die long before you ever shut up.”

Point taken.

(Absolutely not sober in San Diego, California. My forehead isn’t usually that shiny … I hope!)

The plan for last Saturday night was simple. I was to drive my friends to the Irish pub, have a quick drink and then drive solo to Coronado Island to watch the sunset. The only thing that went somewhat according to plan was the drinking.

First stop before the bar was a new tattoo! (Yes, I’m linking to it again because I love it a whole lot. Plus, I feel pretty hardcore after getting a white dove on my wrist. Nothing says “don’t mess with me, bitch” like a barely visible bird tattooed on your body.)

I was full of adrenaline after the tattoo and both Sarah and Adam offered to drive. I said, “No way, man. I have a tattoo! I can do anything!”

We made it to our destination in time but with nowhere to park. We drove around for what seemed like an eternity before we saw a parking garage with a sign that advertised parking for one dollar per hour. Sold! I didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg for parking when I wasn’t going to be there for very long. I maneuvered my little Hyundai down the steep drive and got to the gate.

It was then when we realized that the one dollar parking was only before 6 p.m. Anything after that was a twenty dollar minimum. Balls, it was 6:25! I didn’t want to pay twenty bucks for an hour of parking but a car had already driven up behind me and I was stuck. I was about to push the button and say “screw it” when Adam said “Amy, for twenty dollars, get out and tell the guy behind you to move back.”

So I did.

And he was very nice about it. He was even nice enough to honk his horn to warn me that I was about to hit a wall. My companions in my car were just as nice to scream “There’s a wall! There’s a wall! YOU’RE RUNNING INTO A WALL!” But I didn’t listen. I crashed right into that wall like it was nobody’s business. Hey, I have a tattoo, walls mean nothing to me. After a slew of obscenities and a lot of fist pumping, I drove around and settled on another parking garage.

How much was that, you ask? Twenty dollars. I think that’s what you might call irony. I called it “settling in for the night with a stiff drink and saying FU to the sunset.”

(Arizona road, taken months ago but eerily familiar to the highway that “the incident” occurred.)

Have you ever, um, pee-peed in your pants? If you answered no, count your blessings! The first time I ever had an “accident” was eight years ago on a spring break trip with all of my high school friends. Completely sober, I thought it would be hilarious to throw shoes over the balcony and onto the beach. So funny, in fact, that when my best friend and I rode the elevator down to retrieve the shoes, I couldn’t hold the hilarity any longer and wet my pants.

The second time I’ve ever had an “accident” was tonight. Rocket Man and I went to dinner (a rare occurrence) and we were feeling so frisky that we stopped at the casino on the way home. Three hundred dollars, three hours and three large alcoholic drinks later we were back in the car and heading home. I knew I had to “go” the moment I stepped in the car, but I’m a genius and thought I could hold it. Ten minutes into the drive I looked at Rocket Man and said “you have to pull over! I’ve gotta go!” He barely glanced at me and responded, “hold it.” Five minutes later I said, “I really think you should pull over! I REALLY have to go!” He responded, “we’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Hold it!” And just as he was blurting out his last demand, right there on our brand new leather seats, I wee’d like a three year old learning how to potty train.

That definitely got his attention and he quickly swerved onto the shoulder like I had asked him to do, oh, too many minutes ago! He had a good laugh about it after I was forced to bleach the passenger seat. Me, I’m still not sure if I’m laughing, but I do know that I’m never drinking any type of liquid ever again.