So I accompanied Mother to her one year post-op visit with the surgeon.  I seriously considered having her drop me off some place while she went to the appointment.  I always enjoy seeing doctor Swartz, plus this would be the appointment where she got to view her before picture in comparison, but let’s face it; I cannot handle going to that office.  Patients breezing in and out bragging how they’ve maintained for two years and how their life is so wonderful, and don’t forget the walls plastered with an inconceivable number of 100+ pound weight loss before and after pictures.  It’s enough to make me stab my eyes out or walk in front of a bus.

Mother’s lost a total of 140 pounds and got to take her cute lil after picture.  She mentioned to Dr. Swartz that she really doesn’t enjoy eating anymore.  She loves to savor the first bite or two, but because she can’t eat much the admiration is gone.  Suddenly a deep and wide canyon grew between us; I had wondered why she just opted for soup all the time but I had no idea that’s how she really felt.  This has always been one of our unbreakable bonds:  We heart food.  But now occasionally I need binoculars to see her and she’s drifted so far away – I haven’t shared this with her yet.

I still love food; damn, hell, ass love it!  Not just one particular dish or variety, but all types.  I still loved food when I was vomiting it up.  You’d think the opposite, but…  I did go through a period where I quit eating but that was just out of desperation.  My admiration is still glowing and fiercely loyal now just as it was before surgery.

So to add a bitter lil bing cherry on top of this fun filled visit, a man came skipping up behind me with the swelling of pride and dick-in-his-eye look of one who’s lost a great deal of weight and can’t wait to yap about it.  I was waiting for Mother to bring the car around and poked my damn eye out started a conversation.

DUMBASS OLD FART: So, you gonna have it done?

I turned to him with a deadpan face and the voice of a soulless possessed Linda Blair, “I had it done nearly three years ago.  It failed.”

CLUELESS OLD FART: Oh… well…  I was really lucky…  Although I was really sick in the beginning.

With the same voice and glassy eyed stare that bore through his faltering happy go lucky expression, “So was I.”

Now slightly terrified dumbass old fart is quickly shuffling away to his car, calls out but does not turn to face me for fear of turning into stone, “Well I hope things work out for you.”

I raised my voice just enough for him to hear, “I seriously doubt you give shit.”  Then I stared at the pavement and said, “I wish I was dead.”

As a gag, the night before, I made an annoyingly peppy cd for our lil trip.  When I opened the car door I begged, “Please, please stop the peppy music; I’m not up for it.”

You'll have to pardon the erratic behavior of this website and yours truly as I'm terribly busy having several emotional breakdowns a week.  The other night I honestly sobbed over some hokey, dripping with sticky sap, Lifetime original movie.  Any other time I would have made raucous fun of the pretentious crap while rolling around on the floor.

I am shamed.