Hello, howdy, hola, bonjour, or however you say it in your neck of the woods 🙂
Firstly, a Happy Belated Father’s Day to you men who read my blog (which I think is limited to Father Snort, Hevel, and Brother Snort sometimes). Yesterday was a crappy day on my end, and I didn’t feel like blogging a tribute to my father or husband. Today I shall endeavor to do so.
I will start my tributes at the beginning with the first man I ever fell in love with : my daddy. My daddy was 28 when I was born, and there is a really cute photo buried in an album back home of him, with a giant black afro, cuddling little old 6 1/2 lb. me in the hospital. As I have mentioned before, my dad is an immigrant, and he was naturalized as a US citizen before I was born. He held a great job with the railroad and provided a good living for me and Brother Snort, and his efforts also allowed Mother Snort to be a SAHM. Dad has always had a quick temper and will get loud quickly, but he never punished me or Brother Snort more than we deserved growing up. He worked odd hours, and sometimes we would go up to two weeks without seeing him. Whenever he did have time off he always spent time with us playing baseball, letting us put on boxing gloves and get all Mike Tyson on his ass, take us on long walks, and, if money permitted, to the movies or to play miniature golf. One of my favorite memories is of a day when I was in the fourth grade. Brother Snort and I hadn’t seen Dad in a couple of weeks, and both he and Mother Snort drove us to school that morning. Before we got to the lot where we had to get out of the car he turned around and asked, “Do you guys really want to go to school today?” “NO!!!” we both yelled. Dad turned the car around, Mother Snort was freaking out because unless we had a huge fever or were throwing up we went to school, and Brother Snort and I were wondering what in the hell had brought about this good fortune. We got home, and Dad told us to change into old clothes because we were going to spend the day fishing. Now fishing is something I’ve never been crazy about (like going to the gynecologist), but fishing instead of fractions? Fuck yeah! We took family vacations every summer (never extravagant, just a few days in the mountains or at the beach), and I remember many evenings after Daddy would mow the grass (how I miss that smell!), he would fire up the grill and barbeque some chicken or grill some steak, sometimes drinking a beer or Jim and Coke for good measure. While I was growing up Daddy, even with his quick temper, was the more lenient, level-headed parent (sorry Mom). It was his idea to put a telephone in my room when I was 9, and it made me feel like a grown up. When I was a cheerleader in middle school, the uniforms that our coach wanted to buy (but ultimately didn’t thank heavens) cost $300. We didn’t have $300, but Daddy was ready to pawn one of his hunting rifles to get the money. He supported my ventures on the Academic, math, and science teams (I think those made him the most proud). My best friend in high school, Darrel, was openly gay, so Dad had no problem letting us take day trips to Atlanta or Columbus or stay out late—I think mainly because he knew Darrel wouldn’t put the moves on me. Dad treated me and Brother Snort quite fairly: we were allowed to date at a certain age, weekend curfews were generous provided we let them know where we were or if we were going to be late, school night curfews were reasonable, bedtimes were negotiable, and advice about any given topic (money, sex, dating, education, driving, etc) was offered freely. Dad patiently taught me to drive because Mother Snort is a walking ball of nerves (again, sorry Mom). I was always told that I was loved and that he was proud of me. And I wish that all of you could have heard his reaction when I told him I was pregnant with Footlong. The poor man was convinced that he was NEVER going to be a grandfather, with me having one failed marriage behind me and my brother being a perpetual bachelor. Even over the phone I could tell he was smiling and was about to burst with joy. He now has three grandchildren and is a terrific grandfather….even if 99% of the time it is on Skype. For each of his grandchildren’s first birthday he bought them a whole life insurance policy; that’s my dad…..always pragmatic and thinking ahead.
J is the most wonderful father to our boys that I could ask for. When we decided to try and get pregnant in early 2005, we got the ok from my doctor, but the doctor recommended that I try and lose a little weight first since excess body fat can interfere with fertility. I weighed 250 at the time. He told me to get off birth control, and if I wasn’t pregnant in 2 years to come back for fertility testing. Wouldn’t you know it? We got pregnant with Footlong the very first time we had unprotected sex. I still remember the look on J’s face when I showed him the positive pregnancy test and said, “We’re pregnant!” He looked dumbfounded, like I had announced we had won the lottery. He then smiled and gave me a big hug. He told me during the pregnancy that he didn’t feel very attached to the baby because it was totally my experience: I had the nausea, I ate for the baby, I could feel kicks and wiggles all the time, I peed every 45 minutes. I remember the sweetest thing he did for me during the pregnancy; I woke up one morning about 2:30 am with a mad craving for grits and cheese eggs from the Waffle House. I got dressed, and he woke up and asked what in the hell I was doing. I told him I was going to the Waffle House, about 15 minutes away, for breakfast. Even though he had an early class (he was in grad school) he said, “Well you’re not going alone.” He came with me and sat there, nodding off, while I scarfed down eggs, bacon, grits, and raisin toast like it was my last meal. When I was in labor and the time came to push, I had my best friend, Christy, and my doula in the delivery room in addition to J. I told J that if he wanted he could be behind the midwife so he could have a nice view of his son being born. He watched with amazement. This man had worried the entire pregnancy that he wouldn’t be a good daddy, and when he got to hold his son for the first time he was an instant father. It took him a day or two, but he learned how to change diapers, how to burp the baby, and when I started pumping milk exclusively he liked giving Footlong bottles. J also figured out I was pregnant with 6-inch before I did. I didn’t feel pregnant. He went and bought me a pregnancy test and told me to go ahead and pee on it; I’ll be damned if the thing wasn’t positive. We thought for sure that 6-inch was a girl, but when we heard we were having another little boy J was tickled. He spends nearly all of his spare time with the kids, and he is a fine husband. We argue and yell like every married couple, but he has NEVER raised a hand in anger. He is faithful. He works hard and provides well. I couldn’t imagine having kids with anyone else.
You may have noticed the title of this blog post and have been wondering what in the fuck a Summer challenge had to do with Father’s Day. Jen-Jen just returned from Xyng fete/fling/fest/fuck whatever in Utah and is blathering about getting in better shape for Xyng fete/fling/fest/fuck in Las Vegas next month, making it a point to show photos of Xyng juice and other shit she is imbibing in between visits to restaurants, buffets, and the bar. The photos from Utah were very telling: Mama is large and in charge. Now, I get that I sound like a bitch right now, and I don’t give a shit about her weight. I do, however, give many shits about her constant lying and how her photographs always look so different (i.e. photoshopped) than photos that other folks take of her. Like these gems:
And one of my personal favorites, the one where she at 80 pounds lighter resembles a corn-fed white boy playing defense in the NFL:
I feel I should mention that I am not responsible for the photo’s caption; this was taken from MWOP.
I have been saddled with horrific back pain for years due to a combination of obesity and an old nursing injury. I have been able to do nothing but take brisk walks, and my weight loss has slowed down. Just a few days ago I got the OK to start a formal exercise program and have an appointment this week with a personal trainer to set goals and get familiar with all of the equipment. How would you guys feel about us doing a Summer Challenge? I’m not asking you to guzzle bacon, butter, and whipping cream for a month. No laxatives. No eating/non-eating days. What I was thinking is that for those that are interested we could take a full-body shot of ourselves this week (holding up a newspaper of standing in front of CNN or something) and I could post them here online. The photos would be posted anonymously (no name, no nickname, no email address) and you can pick a fake name for yourself, like Dorothy or something. Then, a month later when Xyng fling/fete/fest/fuck begins in Las Vegas we repost updated photos here on the blog and compare honest progress and efforts (i.e. us) to Jen-Jen’s binging, fat-fasts, 8-day challenges, etc. It would be seriously interesting to see if we could achieve a noticeable difference in appearance versus what her unedited photos from Vegas are going to look like. I realize that my suggestion may come across as bitchy, petty, and downright immature. Hey, I respect your opinions. I totally do. I do, however, think if we banded together we could make a point. If you are interested, send a photo this week to firstname.lastname@example.org. Tell me what fake name you want to use. I’d also like to know what size you are currently and how much you weigh. Measurements are unnecessary. And then in July I’ll announce when updated pictures are due, and we’ll compare. I also think that this is a great way for those of us wanting or trying to lose weight to cheer each other on and hold each other accountable. Interested? Great!! Are you kidding me, Snort? You’re fucking crazy!! OK, I respect that.