So recently, I’ve lost a little weight.

Andy really wanted to drop a few (boys are so vain), so he decided to go low carb, and I was all, hey I love bacon and cheese and meat and bacon!

Now, I’ve gotten a few comments about the weight loss, and if we’re being totally honest, I’ve been terrified to talk about it.  When I originally posted my TED video, I mentioned in the opening blurb of the post that I had lost 30 lbs since doing the talk, and I got quite a few angry emails about that. As if I was trying to say, oh here, look at me in my bathing suit, but I pinkie swear I’m way skinnier now, see ya later fatties!

When that totally wasn’t the case. My point was, since finding this place where I respect my body and how it is built, and spending more time buying fun clothes that flatter me instead of crying outside the windows of Anthropologie because I will never, ever, fit into that stuff, something happened.

I wasn’t emotionally eating as much, except during Glee, because season 2 was horrible.

I was more active, because I wasn’t ashamed to be heavier than the other way more athletic people there who’s thighs don’t make that weird rubby-together sound when they run.

I was filling all the time I normally spent eating in my living room, out doing other shit because I wasn’t afraid of my body anymore.

And with all that, came a lightening, both emotionally and physically.

I didn’t say I lost 30lbs to make excuses for what you saw on that video, I said it because I had, and I like to tell you things, and also I was kinda amazed at the revelation.

But, that experience scared me. It felt like I went from constantly having to make excuses for my weight, to needing to defend losing some of it.

Women are not one extreme or the other.

I’m not morbidly obese (fuck you BMI) or rail thin. I’m a plus size girl with big boobs, a post baby tummy flap, bra back fat, and thick thighs. Sometimes I fit into shit, sometimes I don’t.

Weight loss isn’t a victory for me anymore, because I’ve done it enough to know I am one good knocking-up or Costco cake away from gaining it all back.

It’s how I roll.

At my highest weight, I was 260 lbs.

I had just given birth to my second child, 11 months after giving birth to my first. I was carrying the post partum weight of two pregnancies, plus I liked cheetos, like, a lot.

I hated myself.

Shortly after Wyatt turned 3 months, I decided I didn’t want to have this life of going from a fat kid, to a fat teenager, to a fat mom, so I decided to lose the weight. I starved myself, took diet pills, my hair fell out, my nails broke off, I had bruises all over my arms and hands, I ran until my chest hurt, and I was even admitted to the hospital.

Annnd… I still hated myself.

The cycle had to stop, so it did.

No more scale self worth. If I lose I lose, if I gain, I gain, and at this moment, just because I felt like it, I’ve casually broken up with carbs, except, you know, when cannolis are involved, because really, I’m not a robot.

I have no idea how long I’ll be doing this, probably until I want a giant bowl of mashed potatoes, so, I don’t know, any day now. But, I’ve managed to lose about 15 lbs. I’m down to a size 14. I’m good here, and I’m totally digging my big ass right now.

Pssst. Andy totally agrees. In fact, he asked me to stop losing weight. Which only goes to prove, men just don’t care how thin you are; order seconds, eat dessert, bring on the curves!

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I am working on a post about my weight, and it’s shockingly difficult. Plus, I am hungry and craving day old birthday cake; I hate that we had all our kids in stupid April.

But, I have been having bursts of brain activity in my own, personal built in tumblr site, Amuse Bouche, so I thought I would pick a few favorites from there to distract you from the fact that I am looking in your fridge right now, and honestly, Mountain Dew Code Red? Really? That’s made of gasoline and llama period. Please stop drinking that.

Andy Hates Kyle

Please stop putting your rhetoric and bibles in my vagina. It hurts.

I stand by this idea, plus everyone knows sharks are scientologists.

THIS is gonna happen guys, I am going to make THIS happen, FIND ME AN AGENT.

This is the best part of not sleeping, aside from the hallucinations and eye bags.

This is the mega recipe post people always ask me for. You are welcome.

If you don’t know who J.P. Prewitt is, we can’t be friends anymore.

Seriously you guys, we have GOT to get to the bottom of this, and I’m going to need photographic proof.

Annnnd now I need this. Right now.

Open marriage, let’s do it!

OK, enjoy yourself, and tomorrow I will be back…raw.

© COPYRIGHT BRITTANY GIBBONS 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

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So what, we’re that family now?

What family?

The family that hangs trendy fake mooses above our fireplace in an effort to be eclectic and hard to understand because we’re just really cooler than everyone else?

The plural of moose isn’t mooses. And stop talking smack about Kyle, he can hear you up there, and he was feeling really good about him self today.

It’s not even a real life moose, he’s made of stone, like a garden gnome or something.

Kyle thinks your soul patch is a cliche and your Northface jacket is obnoxious. He knows you don’t ski, Andy. We all know.

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A few years ago, I bought each of my kids a domain in their name.

As we get closer and closer to Wall-E times, I assume calling dibs on a url is a smart move. In fact, each year, as I click renew, I scream out YOU’RE WELCOME to a trio of confused toddler faces who have no idea how thankful they should be to me right now.

You’re welcome kids, I’m the reason you aren’t going to be www.JoodGibbonz45.wu.

I mean, it’s the least I can do, I’ve never been a great scrapbooker, or getter of things off memory cards, but they’re getting older, and I really want to make a point to keep memories for them down the road.

Which is when I got the idea to open email accounts.

So fine, most of their photos happen to be taken with my iPhone, that doesn’t mean I can’t preserve the moment for them to look back on to cringe or tell me they hate me for.

I opened each of the kids a gmail account (there is an age requirement, so I had to use my own birth year), and shared the addresses with family members, so whenever the mood or moment strikes, we can fire off an email to Jude, Wyatt or Gigi.

A funny story, a silly cell phone picture, a million I love you’s, it doesn’t matter, one day I’ll give them the password to read all the memories the account holds.

And yeah, there are virtual scrapbooks and memory sites and crap, but it doesn’t get any simpler than sitting next to the soccer field, taking a picture, and clicking send.

This is their scrapbook. It’s not frilly, or shiny or glittery, but it’s the best reflection of our lives right now; digital, in transient, fast, fun as hell.

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	from	Brittany Gibbons brittanymarie81@gmail.com
to		Andy Gibbons <agibbons1@gmail.com>
date		Mon, Feb 5, 2012 at 3:29 PM

Ahem. You said you wanted to try role playing…

B

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Yesterday I received this email:

Good day to you,

I am David Beckham the England international footballer, I am contacting you to represent my charity home in your city so we can spread love to the Orphans, Widows and the less privilege. I have deposited Twelve Million Great Britain Pounds in the Barclay’s Bank London which will be transfer to you to carry out this charity work, you are to keep 50% of the amount for your personal use and the other for the charity work. You are the contact my legal counsel Barrister Lisa Lambert Esq. with the below information for details on how the funds will be transfer to you.

Barrister Lisa Lambert Esq.
email: lambertlisa_58@yahoo.com
Tell: +44 704 576 2915

Please make sure you contact my legal counsel as i have instructed so the funds can be transfer to you to enable you do this charity work.

Thanks for your cooperation and my the good Lord bless you as you assist the needy.

David Beckham.

Which obviously means the following.

First, Becks secretly loves the chubby girls.

Two, I’m probably going to hang out with Madonna soon.

Third, somebody’s going to tell me how much that equals in American money because I’d like to buy a baby platypus. I saw one on Pinterest, it was adorable. That or I’d like to adopt Selena Gomez.

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 Horse Lovers App. Match made in heaven.

We’re out of town.

Just a few hours away, and for nothing in particular other than our house was messy, and we wanted to get away from in and sleep on a bed that smelled nice.

I didn’t post a Lazy Sunday last week, and instead posted the OMG HAIR tutorial. I was dying to hear if it worked out for people with my non-weird hair, and I got a few hot ass pics…

Amy of @thatfowlerchic. How hot does she look? Tons.

Nicole of Sponseller Family Blog. HELLO – MERMAID HAIR!

Kate. Short hair? WORKSIES!

Kelly. We’re basically TWINS.

I know a lot of you addressed my weight in the comments, and I will totally talk about that this coming week, but rest assured, me and my wide ass are still plus size…and I may or may not be eating a plate of hot wings in a hotel as I write this. It’s my 2nd Dinner. IT’S A REAL THING.

I, along with my amazing mama, are also launching a really fun thing this week for the curvy ladies, so pay attention for that!

So, I talked about how loving me is like loving a giant dog, and decided to continue my assault on Andy’s manhood.

And then, I got super duper honest with you about lady parts and who should be in charge of them. I probably lost readers. But, it was worth it, because as women, we have GOT to come together on this. We bleed and leak from them? We get to call the shots.

Here’s some cool shit I saw on the internet this week:

I might die of laughter right now. Also, is it weird I had a crush on him in this movie?

If this happened sooner, Saved by the Bell would still be on right now.

The actual Gay Agenda. Honestly, I’m kinda disappointed there isn’t more glitter.

If you missed this weeks episode of Brittany & Meredith Live, you can watch it here! We talked about storing dead people in storage units and how Wheel of Fortune just became the coolest drunk show ever!

To keep up with everything I love, I suggest joining me on Pinterest, StumbleUpon, Facebook, Google +, and Twitter.

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A few day sago I posted an article on Facebook about Susan G. Komen For the Cure (TM. Seriously.) halting grants to Planned Parenthood; grants used to fund breast cancer screening and education.

Since then, if you have had any interaction on any form of social media, you have seen a virtual cluster fuck of outcry at this decision, and a mountain of furious opinions coming in from both sides.

And now, I’m going to elaborate on mine…kinda.

First, and I know this is an unpopular statement, but Susan G. Komen For the Cure has every single right in the world to stop awarding grant money to Planned Parenthood. It’s true. They absolutely do.  They could use that money to make 50 billion pink spatulas, thongs or roll around naked in it. It’s their right.

But, I also have the right to be completely disgusted by their decision, to donate to charities focused on research and cure, and to be absolutely terrified at the direction of women’s healthcare in this country, because in my mind, politicizing women’s health is a dangerous thing.

Cancer kills women.

Not just Democratic women or Republican women or Swing Voters.

All women.

It doesn’t check your party affiliation card when it invades your body, and it certianly doesn’t check your tax return to make sure you have enough money to fight it.

This needs to be a woman problem. Not a political problem.

It is my firm opinion that religion has very little place in healthcare.

Every person has the right to instill in themselves a personal belief system with which they use to make their decisions.  Whether it be based on religion or faith or spirituality, I don’t care. You have the right to have it.

But you don’t have the right to extend that personal belief system to others.

We can’t let the beliefs of some make the decisions for all. It’s not fair.

This is not about abortion. Stop reducing the importance of women’s healthcare to such a petty political talking point, it’s insulting. Having boobs and vaginas doesn’t render women incapable of making educated decisions about our body.

If you don’t want an abortion, it’s very easy not to have one. You don’t just trip and fall into one.

I know that it’s hard, because it’s such a way of life in this country right now, to be PRO or AGAINST or just plain THIS AND ONLY THIS, but we have to stop and remember that we can’t entangle our personal and religious belief systems with the fact that women in this country, regardless of finances or race, need to be able to take care of themselves, and it’s scary to me that the ability to do so is jeopardized, both from the private sector, as well as the federal government.

That’s why this move and this precedent is important.

This is why it’s time to use your outside voice, because if we are loud enough, it works.

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I haven’t been sleeping well the last few months, and it’s driving Andy crazy, because when I can’t sleep, I feel like he should also not want to sleep, so he can talk to me about stuff until he bores me enough that I pass out.

Andy hates this idea, mostly because he has to wake up at 4am for work, but also because I refuse to see a doctor to remedy the situation.

Most nights, we talk about about random things, like the kids’ school or upcoming plans or if he thinks my hair looked good that day.

Other times, it’s weird and prolific, like when you’re laying in the field behind your parent’s house, stoned, wondering why the moon looks mean or why sassafras is even a word in real life.

Last night was one of those times.

I’ve decided this whole love thing is like a Great Dane puppy.

So, you spend years and years and years looking for someone who is ok with big dogs.

You think you find them in guys who look like pet lovers, but finger you in the back bedroom at a wrestling party, and never call you again. Guys that ditch you mid-date, leaving you at the restaurant while you are in the bathroom. Guys who are just really, excessively interested in anal sex. Or maybe even guys who strictly want all foreplay to happen through a collection of hand puppets. Have you even been gone down on by a puppet? Those kind of guys shouldn’t be allowed to have pets, at all. Maybe just robot ones, and even then, glue the battery hole shut.

But then you come across this guy who never really fancied himself a dog person, because he always had cats.

So at first, he’s kinda freaked out that the dog is so all over the place and without boundaries. He doesn’t really care about the size, or that the dog has really bad taste in movies and laughs at her own jokes a lot.

It doesn’t bother him that his family doesn’t much care for big dogs, and that the dog is super bad at taking hints and she tramples all over his shit a lot, because she’s clumsy and her feet are big, and she also probably sniffs through his bathroom garbage can to check for condoms, but she’s just a puppy you know, and probably really insecure.

The older the puppy gets, the more chill things become.

I mean, it’s still fucking insane, but you went through puppy classes with it, so she stops darting toward stanger’s crotches or peeing on the bed to show you she missed you while you were away. I mean, it’s not gross if it’s a wet spot of love.

A few years pass, and you decide you really love this dog, and just plain can’t live without it. Plus, your sick of covering your furniture every fucking time it goes into heat, so you decide to get married and have puppies and everything is wonderful, except, no matter how trained and domesticated the dog is, it’s still a Great Dane.

They’re still big and messy and overstepping and weird and complicated and menacing, but in a really adorable and loveable and awkwardly sexy way, you know?

It’s just how Great Danes are, like, inherently.

Are you the Great Dane in this story, or are you just trying to get me to like the dog more, because if it’s the latter, I’m honestly a little freaked out about all the dog sex imagery.

I don’t think either of us slept last night.

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I have the memory of a panther.

Do panthers have good memories? You don’t know, because they’ll eat you if you get too close.

Like me.

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