What a Heiffer will do for Weigh-In Day

effie

Today was my 1 week weigh-in day at Weight Watchers. I joined last week with a friend (her idea). I showed up for weigh in (she did not). In my planning of how to make the most of this day I wore the lightest clothes I could find. For good measure I put on a brand new pair of compression (torture drawers) panties that go clear up to my bra. I used the word compression lightly. What I really meant to say is that they were so hard to get on that I felt the fat surge up to my eyelids. I was so mad because those people (Walmart) must have mis-sized those jokers and put a small pair onto that hanger and sold them to me! Over them I wore some light weighed goucho-sorta-deal that forgot to land at my waist and spent the whole day north at the bra-line too. I prayed that I would make it through the day without dying because I know the paramedics would have a big time taking pictures of me for their Facebook pages with all of my clothes resting at my bra and them not being able to get it off of me without cutting them and having to do rock, paper, scissors to see would have the duty of cutting them and run the risk of a slingshot effect of my flubber.

Those panties are mean. Sinister. The whole reason why I bought them was to use as bathing suit bottoms under my new bathing suit top (tent). I decided that I would rather wear cowboy chaps to the beach (and nothing else) than to have to spend a day in the hot sun and sand with those unrelenting scratchy-ass britches! I did “save” them however, for when I am lighter. (That’s unless they get outlawed or the rapture comes before my “lighter” days happen)

You must be wondering about my weigh-in? I stepped right up there, took off my sweater, earrings, shoes, necklace, and rings. The weigh in lady looked at me like she didn’t trust that I wasn’t gonna get buck-ass-nekked. They didn’t kick me out. I get to come back next week and give them $13.

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Lizard in the Bed

lizard

It happened.
Our dog, who loves to chase lizards has run one of those damned things into my bedroom. I considered moving or setting the house on fire but I decided to take an antihistamine and go dead to bed instead hoping that the meds would put me into an anti-reptile sensory coma. No such luck. I inspected every corner of my bed an pillows, no sign of that green bastard. I looked around the room for any sign of that Geico-looking-son-of-a-gun. Nothing. I sealed my ass up in that bed and was so tucked in that I was collecting condensation under the sheets. Sleep came.
2:00 a.m.. I bolted up with the strangest tickle on my d├ęcolletage. I started flappin’ and slappin’ my chest and undercarriage so hard that I literally snatched a knot on myself. I flung every stitch of clothes off and sprinted through the house screaming “Oh GOD! It’s Got Me!” The dog, awoken at his post in the family room, thought I was a chubby naked intruder in the dark and bit me right on the ass. The bite broke my run and I remembered that the wall made a “splat” as my first round of titty-slaps sent Mr. Lizard into space.
Beat up, bitten and unclothed I went back to my room to see if I could find him. He was gone. I decided I’d spend the next few nights on the couch and wait for him to be eaten by the dog. They deserve each other.