God, why do I even bother getting out of bed in the morning? Yesterday, it started out with THE phone call which started out with X and E moving here again. Bleh.

My spouse is a vampire. He can totally suck away time into another vortex. When I am with him, time seems to just go away, and not in a pleasurable way. Trying to have a 4 minute conversation with him takes an hour, mostly because I spend 30 minutes trying to get him to quit intterupting, and another 26 minutes listening to inane anecdotes of his exciting truck driving days. Its always been this way. Since we met. He cannot stay on task or focused on anything for more than 30 seconds at a time.

Duct tape over the upper orifice might work.

So anyways, yesterday he managed to vampire away any motivation I had. I got a headache. I sat. I conquered the headache, and felt worn out from the battle, so I sat some more. Then I got mad because I was sitting, so I moved to another room. The effort I expended getting up and moving exhausted me, so I sat down. And stayed. Eventually I managed to take a shower and go to the pharmacy and grocery store. Bought lunch. Ate lunch. Put away groceries. And passed out at 4 p.m. on the couch and slept in a coma for two hours, totally exhausted. Then I got up, or rather SAT up, and then stayed in that position, fighting off sleep for another 4 hours, until I gave up and went to bed. Nothing accomplished yesterday at all. So I went to bed mad that I let myself be overcome and defeated so easily.

Woke up this morning at 7 a.m. Reading and rarin' to go. He woke up at 7:30, and set out starting his day for work. I in turn sat here, at the computer, and slowly woke up and planned my day.

I made the mistake of going into the kitchen, where he was fixing his lunch.

Lunch consisted of the following:

18 hersheys kisses in a ziploc bag

2 ham sandwhiches (ham is honey glazed and cured in maple sugar)

an apple

a can of Kern's fruit nectar

2 chocolate covered granola bars

a pint of chocolate milk

He just had a large cup of coffee with vanilla flavored creamer in it.

In the garbage can was an empty pint container of Ben and Jerrys.

Do you see a theme here people?

S

U

G

A

R

He is a sugar-holic. He is also diabetic, not insulin dependant, but has to take meds for it. His blood readings are right on the border of being told to go on insulin.

I try and I try to get him to think about whats going in his mouth. And I am the bitch.

Federal regulations prohibit commercial drivers from being insulin dependant. Doctors are required to notify some assinine authority when they place a patient on insulin treatments. DMV gets notified. DOT gets notified.

If my spouse ends up on insulin, he will lose his license, and his job. He knows how to drive a truck. Thats it. His carpal tunnel prohibits being a mechanic, so he can no longer do that. He has no degree, or even a diploma. He has no formal schooling in anything else. He doesnt know how to type, or use a computer, at all. Now, I ask you, what the fuck will he do for work if he becomes insulin dependant? Workers comp will not pay him to get training, because it is not work related. State disability, the same. So if he continues to fuck up, and end up insulin dependant, we are screwed. He should be scared, real scared, because the last three years in a row, when it's been time for him to renew his license, he has barely passed his physical each time. His long range blood scans look bad - so bad his Doctor keeps really getting in his shit about it. His older sister is insulin dependant, as well as one aunt and two uncles. This should be a real wake up call for him.

But no. He is a carb, and sugar, addict. Big time. And if I say anything, either positive reinforcement or something snarky, it matters not which, if I say anything at all I am "up his ass and better fucking back off and quit being a bitch."

So that's it. I am a bitch. Okay.

I'm going out on a limb here and tooting my own horn. When I got so disgusted with myself and couldnt take it anymore, I joined Weight Watchers. That was Dec 28, 2002. I weighed 233 pounds that day. Today, I weigh 173. Im not done. Not by a long shot. My progress has slowed to a snail's pace, but I am STILL TRYING. Some days, I try harder than others. But still, I keep going. I have lost 5 pants sizes so far. I can do more, feel better, look better, etc. I want to train up to walk a 10 k. I want to run. I want to get to the point I can run a 5 k, I don't care what time I get, just to be able to run that far. I have never, ever been able to run that far. But now that it doesn't hurt so much to walk, I want to begin training to get there. I want to be able to run in, and complete a 5k by my next birthday in May. What a goal.

Meanwhile, I keep trying to help him, and I am just a bitch. I am so frustrated. Take you 268 pound self, Mr. Belly, and you must decide to change your life. I am no longer going to do it for you.

And when you lose a foot, don't expect me to carry the load for you. If it happened, and I know you tried to prevent it, that would be different. But to see you openly mock the Fates, and scorn me for trying to intervene, well buddy, you are on your own.

That being said, I am now going to turn this negative energy into something positive, and go scrub out my shower.

Hasta la vista, bebe's.