Adventures in Emotional Eating

August 5, 2009

Well friends, it's official. I, Amy Lawson, am an emotional eater in the most serious sense of the phrase.

Let me back up.

Have you ever come across a new person and you instantly fall in love? I'm not talking romantic love or girl-crush kind of love, more of a if-I-happen-to-die-on-my-next-drive-home-will-you-raise-my-kids-for-me-and-oh-yeah-wanna-be-my-new-best-friend kind of love. I'm sure you've all experienced it.

It's deep, it's instant, it's magical, on oh my heavens, I have it with my midwife. The woman has a magnetic personality, a bedside manner that can't be beat, she's smart, she's funny, and I won't mince words here--her boobs are simply out of this world. On average, Jared and I spend seven to eight minutes discussing the fantasticness of her cans after every single appointment.

See? Love.

The first time I met her, I literally had to restrain myself from nuzzling up in her lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and crying the words, "You'll take care of me, right? Right?" Instead, I opted to kind of tilt my head, lazily gaze into her eyes and say, "You're great," eight or nine times in a row.

Perfectly normal.

Well guys, today, I'm very sad to let you all know that there's been a bit of a rift in our provider-patient-soulmate relationship. I guess I can refer to this little bump in the road as "West Virginia."

As in, my midwife is moving to West Virgina. In two weeks.

She broke the news this morning, at my 31 week appointment. She was like, "Sit down Amy, I need to tell you something important."

And in my mind I was thinking, *Aw crap, does 180-pounds really look that bad in these skinny jeans?*

Yes in fact, it does--but this news had nothing to do with my wardrobe choices, nothing at all. Instead, it had everything to do with twice the money, half the hours, student loan repayment, and some kind of a dream job in West Virginia.

I'm very proud to say that I more than kept my wits about me when she gently dealt the news. I was like, "West Virgina, huh? I hear it's beautiful in the fall. I can do West Virginia."

Well apparently I've been experiencing what some might call "unrequited love," because get this, I'm not invited.

Deep down I guess I always knew she was a punk. Something about the boobs.

So I scheduled my next appointment with the other midwife, gave one last hug to the woman of my dreams, and calmly walked into the parking lot. No tears, no snot, no tearing of clothes, no gnashing of teeth. Just a big, loud SH!T when I settled into my driver's seat.

(side note: sh!t is the word of the week)

Then, I did the only thing that a distraught, hugely pregnant woman can do at trying time such as this--I drove around the corner, pulled into the nearest Burger King and ordered a Whopper with cheese, some onion rings, and a bucket of Sprite. Then I snapped at the window lady for leaving out the spicy ring sauce.

Sure I feel bad about getting sassy with the burger slinger, but dude, I'm GIANT, I'm HUNGRY, and I JUST GOT DUMPED. GIMME THE DAMN RING SAUCE, BYOTCH.

In all actuality, I blame my midwife. She left me no other option but to resort to such unbecoming behavior. It's a shame really.

I spent the next four minutes navigating the roads, searching for a appropriately sappy song, and shoving all manner of nastiness into my mouth. It wasn't until minute five, when I was stopped at a red light, ferociously licking my burger wrapper, that I realized, "Damn, I didn't get anything for dessert."

And thus commenced Round Two, which I like to call "Get in my belly you Devil Dog Muffin."

So what exactly is a Devil Dog Muffin?

Welp, it's a chocolate muffin, roughly the size of one of my ass cheeks, filled and topped with half a cup of homemade frosting. They're baked--with a tremendous amount of love, mind you--by an elderly woman in town. They're sold at the local gas station, and if I had to wager a guess, they weigh in at about 1,200 calories a piece.

I ate it in the parking lot.

Then I saw some spots and had to roll down the driver's side window in case I had to ralf all over the pavement. Thankfully I used some Lamaze breathing and urge to boof subsided about fifteen minutes later.

Yeah, the spots are still there.

But you know what else? I feel much, much better. Thanks to 2,300 hundred calories and 105 grams of fat, I've managed to master my emotions, weigh my options, and come to grips with the details of the situation.

And ya know what I've figured out?

I'm moving to West Virginia whether she likes it or not.

The End.

Bye Bye Happiness

June 4, 2009

If I happen to seem a little extra cranky this week, it's all because of Mister Market. Actually, it's all because of the lack of Mister Market. Yes, that's right, my local grocery store has closed its doors and the replacement won't be opening until the very end of July.

This is freaking torture.

Sure we have one drug store and a convenience store in town, but for the next two months the closest actual grocery store is just over ten miles away--and when you're knocked-up, overly demanding, and hungry like a hippo (as I am), that's just too darn far.

Back in the good old days, when I wanted to eat an entire rotisserie chicken all by myself, I'd hop in the car, drive two miles round trip, bring that sucker back to my office, and that was that. But now, now, it's a twenty mile ordeal--and not just for precooked chicken, that goes for Cool Whip and Mediterranean Olives and Croutons, too.

Dang. It.

Let's take yesterday for example, when I was asked to bake eight pans of my famous brownies from scratch. I happily drove the twenty miles, swung by the grocery store, and came home with enough cocoa powder and margarine to give an elephant the runs. I fastened my apron, dusted off my KitchenAid, and as I began to sort my ingredients I almost fainted from the horror of my unwelcome discovery--I was completely out of salt.

Not a mother lovin' speck of it in the entire house.

Usually, I'd calm down, take a pee, and drive to Mister Market, but there was NO MORE MISTER MARKET TO DRIVE TO!!! So I did the next best thing--I drove to my mother-in-law's house, tiptoed in through the side door, stole three sandwich bags (I put the extra two in my purse), and siphoned her salt for my own personal use.

Unfortunately, I was caught.

My mother-in-law was like, "Amy, what're you doing?"

And I was all, "Who? Me? Hi? I need some salt for a recipe."

"Oh," she replied, "just take the whole container."

"No," I insisted! "I couldn't take your provisions at a time like this!" Then I put my right hand on her left shoulder, looked her bang in the eye, and said, "Mister Market has closed, this is no time time be hoarding supplies. I'll only take what I need."

She agreed.

Now everyone here knows full well that I steal groceries from my in-law's pantry on a regular basis--everything from peppercorns to twelve-pound turkeys--but in the past I've only stolen those items for the adrenaline rush, never out of necessity. And let me tell you, necessity is a beyotch.

I mean seriously, which of these scenarios is more humiliating?

Scenario A...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, why is that pork loin in James's backpack?
ME: Because I want it in there.

or

Scenario B...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, I think a jar of Fluff just fell out of the leg of your pants.
ME: I'm so sorry! We need that Fluff or else we'll starve and die! Please forgive me!

Um yeah, definitely the second one.

Please--you know who you are--spare me the comments that say things like, "Try living FIFTY miles from the grocery store!" or "Do you know how many miles I have to ride my horse to buy a box of generic Tampons? It's even farther for the name brand kind!"

You did that to yourself, ladies. We bought a house that was one mile away from Mister Market on purpose--I know myself.

My grocery store was ripped out from under me, and my joy went right along with it.

I'm hungry.