Nice Depressing Update

1. Been getting ready for our wedding reception here in the States this Saturday. I am really looking forward to celebrating our marriage with my family and friends, although it seems that we picked a rather crappy date because so many people can't come. But I'll be there. And so will my husband and a cake! So it should be good times. My mother and I have, as tradition dictates, left everything until the. last. minute. All is as it should be in our world (read frenzied activity and voices just a little bit higher and louder than necessary).

2. I got my new passport in the mail today. Reads Christina Danielle Park. Although I've been officially married since December, my name hasn't really been an issue because I was in no position to change it legally until we got to the States. And my bank account and check card here are still under Buckley, so I'm not signing Park to anything. Yet.

3. I have had a series of mild neurotic breakdowns over the past month. Most of them can probably be chalked up to birth control pills wreaking havoc with my hormones, adjusting to my country all over again with husband in tow, and generally being seriously disappointed in myself for all of the things I'm not accomplishing. I remember wishing every day last year that I was unemployed and of all the things I would get done if I only had the time. And yet, here I've been unemployed and not traveling for almost 2 entire months, with one left to go, and I've achieved NOTHING, except gaining weight and beating myself up about it constantly. I wanted to write some stories I outlined while traveling, some travel essays, and a random story about my grandmother who is slowly spiraling into the deep mysterious behavior of Alzheimer's. I wanted to revamp the blog; I wanted to keep my weight at a reasonable place by running again (was going good on that until Florida happened); I wanted to get rid of The Belly for good; I wanted to serve my sister and get to know her and be friends with her; I wanted to read up on some teaching philosophies and stuff to feel a bit less unprepared for my job; I wanted to learn a bit more Korean vocabulary before returning; I wanted to not drive my husband crazy, but be a good wife and tour guide; I wanted to scrapbook something important, like my wedding or bits of our honeymoon; I wanted to be comfortable. Instead, nothing. Nothing except struggling to get out of the bed before 10am and trying to remember to take a shower at least once a day and not strangling my husband because he is always wanting to do something. Ultimately, I feel I have failed at summer. How pathetic is that? Who fails summer?? Me, that's who.

4. ChubbO is here to stay. It really is something inside me. A disease. I have thoughts about food almost constantly, especially now that I'm on the "Eat Whatever the Hell I Want and then Feel Awesomely Guilty About it Later" diet. My thoughts run along these lines: "Hmm... what do I want for lunch? Are we going to eat out? Should I have a large sweet tea or a java chiller while we ride around in the car? Is Mom going to give me the look if I ask for Starbucks? Can I get away with eating chocolate today without feeling judged? Why are there never any Doritos in this house? Mmmm... what's for dinner? Is it going to be good? Is it going to be enough? Will I have to share?" You get the idea. If there is food in front of me, but it seems like I'm having a conversation with you, you're being lied to. I'm obsessed. Help!

5. I LOVE KIMCHI. Yes, I love the food, but I'm talking about my cat. And I also hate her, too, because she has taken to cuddling with and purring for the HubbO instead of me. Jealous much? Definitely. It's just nice to have her around, leaving large chunks of cat hair trailing around the house, snagged on table corners, and embedded in blankets. Her little meow is adorable. I wish we could take her back with us, but it would be torture, really. Here she has a huge house to rule and also a big backyard with two very fast bunnies to chase and squirrels to tease.

6. Sometimes, only sometimes, I find myself having baby envy. I know. That's a what the crap moment if there ever was one.

Journal Week: In the slum

April 4, 2009

Kolkata, India

"Walk to Work"

To get to Mother Teresa's house, we leave our hostel and walk down a long lane for close to 15 minutes. The street is lined with shops of all kinds and intersected by many dirt lanes and one large paved road that the tram rides up and down in its grooves on its line. It is always busy, even at seven in the morning. The taxi drivers are all lined up washing their cars, the cows are already busy on the sidewalks chewing their cud.

Boys and men are wrapped in their dhoti at the waterspouts, rubbing their bodies into a white froth of soap that seems not to clean anything. Old men are already lined up at the shop counters for their daily betel leaf smeared with paan, which will ensure a red smile all day long.

We walk down this dusty lane, avoiding the motorcycles, bicycles, and cars that zoom by. There is a butcher section where large sides of meat hang, dazzlingly red and white in the early morning sun. The smell is already overwhelming, the insides of animals being unceremoniously exposed

to the outside world, then hacked, chopped, and ground. I try not to look too closely because I can't stand the thought of the animals that used to be whole, healthy, wearing their guts inside their skins. I also don't want to feel sick. The smell is almost too much.

There are too many dogs. They are almost as numerous as the beggars, lying alongside them in the gutters and digging with them through the piles of trash swept out of the street. Today, one dog had stopped on the side of the lane. He was brown, with perky ears and his tongue interminably hanging out the side of his mouth trying to find some relief in the Indian heat. He was simply standing, alert. Perhaps he, too, couldn't escape the smell of fresh meat, blood still dripping off knives into drains. He was facing us as we picked our way through the lane.

A young man wearing a white tank top on top of his blue dhoti came walking in our direction, swinging a long thick chain. The links were close to 2 inches long and were round, thicker than a pencil. Both ends of the chain were in this man's hand as he walked down the street. He came up behind the dog- the frozen, all-alert dog. He first brought the chain up, his hand reaching back toward his ear, and then down onto the back of the dog, the long graceful curve of his spine breaking the chain into a squiggle. the dog jumped up and let out the most heart-rending squeal, a plea for mercy and a cry of confusion.

The man who hit the dog was amused by the pain he inflicted. I immediately yelled, "Why?" and turned around to look at the man who had just passed us seconds after his crime. I looked at him as if he were the devil and Kenny also watched him. He was laughing, a full open-mouthed smile on his face, truly filled with glee at his power.

The moment I turned back to continue walking to work, I was undone. could not stop thinking about how unprovoked and senseless the act of brutality was. I cried almost the entire way to Mother's House, unable to stop imagining the way the dog's back must still be stinging from that metal kiss. Everything else was thrown under the bus of this impression- this completely colored my day. Kenny says that my compassion for animals far exceeds my compassion for the people here. And perhaps that is true. I have always felt that as humans, we can understand and rationalize our pain, a gift that dogs don't have.

When the bottom of society are treated as less than our pets back home in America, when the poorest of the poor have less property than my sister's dogs, and the babies sleep on a sidewalk I wouldn't let my cat nap on, how do I expect these people to treat animals well? The dogs are competition. They compete for food and for attention from foreigners. And maybe the dog had won and the chain empowered a man to feel like more than an animal.

What the Crap Wednesday: India Edition 1

India abounds with What the Crap Moments. Here is a small collection of the best from our time traveling:

• When Kenny and I arrive in Delhi, we are prepared. We have already booked our hostel in advance and we know not to take a rickshaw because despite how far away the driver may claim it to be, we know Paharganj, the backpacker's slum, is across the street from the train station. We are also tired of arguing, bickering, and being bothered. So we have adopted a strategy called The Silent Treatment. This has been working since Agra. Instead of telling rickshaw drivers that we are walking and do not need their assistance and still being pestered all the way to our destination, we simply put out one hand flat as if to receive a gift and then walk two fingers of the other hand across it without uttering a single word. It's amazing. No one bothers us after we give them The Silent Treatment. On the back of a business card, Kenny wrote the word "BOOKED" and underneath it, just in case, "WALKING." So, as we pick our way down Paharganj, avoiding eye contact with all the vendors and rickshaw men, we show our card to all the hostel pimps out to snare guests. And guess what! It works. Almost. One man approaches us and tells us he has a great place we can stay, clean and cheap. Kenny shows him the card. He looks at the card and says, "Oh no! I know that place. It's full of cockroaches and dirty." Um, what the crap? We just laugh it off. Illiteracy runs rampant and is best friends with Lying Through Your Teeth.
  

• A rickshaw driver is following us down the street. We want to walk to our destination because our cash is dwindling and it's just faster to follow the map in the guide book than have a driver stop and ask every one of his friends how to get to where we want to go. One driver does not fall for The Silent Treatment. He knows we're walking, but he really wants to know where we're going.

"Where you going?"

"We're WALKING." Plus Silent Treatment hand gestures, not to be misunderstood.

"I KNOW. But where you going?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Where?"

"It's a secret."

"What?"

"A SECRET."

"Oh yes, Secret! I know, I know! Get on, I take you there!"

Gotta love it. This is Lying Through Your Teeth coupled with Feigned and Insistent Knowledge. Say it with me now (think Wheel of Fortune): What! The! Craaaaap!

• While we're in Delhi, we decide we'd like to go to the zoo and check out the white tigers. We have learned to negotiate prices with the drivers before ever getting into the autorickshaw. So, as we come out of the tiny alley our hostel is in, past the two albino boys who cook chicken on the corner and the two urinals that I hold my breath by, we hail a driver and offer our price. Kenny does some haggling. We agree that 80 rupees should get us to the zoo. We hop in and we go. But after a few minutes, perhaps 5, the driver pulls over and stops. We look at each other and then Kenny asks what the problem is.
  

"80 rupees here."

"What? No. We want to go to the zoo."

"Yes, I take you zoo. 100 rupees."

"No way! You said 80. 80 rupees to the zoo."

"No. 80 rupees here. 100 to the zoo."

Can you believe this guy? What the crap is going on? We are only about halfway to the zoo and it is freaking hot and the cars on the roads make it even hotter. But we are travelers of principle! We refuse to be duped (well, any more than we already are) and so we get out and just tell him we'll walk the rest of the way. And we do. So TAKE THAT Mr. Lying Bastard Autorickshaw Guy!

• In Dharamsala, I bought this awesome elephant ring. I have a thing for elephants and it has only been encouraged since The Day of the Elephants happened. So, I buy this ring. It is cool and rather large and I'm sitting on the pot, thinking about some things if you know what I mean, and all the sudden I hear this popping sound. (No, you goobers. Not that sound. That's plopping, with an l. Get it right or pay the price!) I look down and my elephant has popped in two! I think, well, maybe I can still wear this cool ring because now it just looks like it's one of those that goes not quite all the way around your finger. No biggie." So I finish thinking about some things, and I go to read a bit. I'm sitting on the bed reading my book and POP! goes the piece of crap elephant ring. In three pieces now, and no longer around my finger but in my lap. Okay, I know I only paid a dollar for this ring, but this is really ridiculous. So the next day, I haul the three pieces of ring up the steep stairs and to the guy who sold it to me. I show it to him. And do you know what he said to me? And I quote:
  

" 10 more rupees you can have different one."

Hold up, Martin. (Martin? I know. It's a new thing. I just pick a name and throw it in there. And if your name is Martin, you feel special, eh? Blame it on Norman Mailer and Why are We in Vietnam?) You want me to PAY you because your piece of crap broke while I was sitting on the toilet? I think maybe he misunderstood so I explain to him that I don't want to pay for another one. I'd simply like to get one for FREE.99 because it wasn't my fault, obviously. So then he gets mad and says I broke it on purpose, obviously, look at the places where it's broken, I definitely forced it. What the crap, times one million and thirty two! How can you reason with this guy? Turns out, he is UNreasonable. And I walk away very angry and Kenny follows me saying that he talked to the guy next to UNreasonable Weirdo Guy who Sells Rings the Break for No Reason while You Sit on the Pot's stall, and turns out, this guy is UNstable, for reals. All the vendors around him advise us to avoid him like you'd avoid a man who sells crap that breaks. So we do. And I am still mourning my elephant ring.

Journal Week: At Mother Teresa's House

April 3, 2009

Kolkata, India

Modern Lodge Room 21, aka The Sauna

I was nervous about my first day @ Shanti Dan. I picked a home for mentally challenged women because I wanted to love them. And it was very easy to love them. When I walked in the door with 2 other workers, we were smothered by hugs and kisses and "Good morning, auntie!" coming from all directions of the courtyard. There was one woman with her hair very short, sticking out in small tufts all over her head. Her face was severely disfigured, most likely by fire, her left eye wide open without the protection of an eyelid. Her bottom lip was turned down and melted into her chin giving her a baby's line of drool running down her front. But she showed her teeth and her wrinkled, scarred skin became even more creased and pulled taut across her cheek bones as she gave us her own sort of smile. She came straight to me and wrapped her arms about my waist. I hugged her to me as she lay her head on my shoulder and stared up at me with her eternally open eye. What a warm and lovely greeting. I felt that these women were taking care of me. What could I possibly do to take care of them?

My morning assignment was to clip nails. I was given a super-duper large pair of clippers and one of those hospital issue half-moon bowls you throw up in. When I walked out the door of the Sister's office, there was already a line of women waiting on me. I felt awful cutting their nails. I was overwhelmed by my inability to do it well, something so simple as clipping nails! I can't even clip my own nails without making a mess. But I kept at it, sometimes clipping just for clipping's sake because some of the women had recently had their nails trimmed.

Later, an elderly frail woman whose nails I had clipped, hands and feet, was sitting outside on the concrete balcony that ran round the inside of the 2nd floor of the complex. Many of the women lay out on this balcony instead of their beds. Perhaps it was much cooler in the open air. She was sitting and reached for me as I walked by. Being generally lost as to what my exact task was supposed to be, I sat down next to her. She was wearing a scarf, sari too, over her head. This made her head look even smaller. Her gray hair was pulled back at her neck underneath the scarf. Her blue eyes were sunk very deep into her face, her cheekbones scaring them back into her head. She was weathered.

She began to speak to me, holding my hand. Of course I couldn't understand her, but I felt it was only my duty to listen. I nodded at her and looked into her eyes and hugged her and listened. She began to become quite agitated and began to cry. I felt she was begging me for something. I just hugged her and rocked her tiny frame back and forth. I held her face and her head, feeling how small she had become. She was so tiny.

One of the other volunteers came to fetch me. I unwrapped myself and hugged her once more and squeezed her hand. I told her that everything would be okay. But maybe it will never be okay. I will remember her. It was my only day to work with the women and I was shy and uncertain about what was appropriate behavior. I was terrible. But I listened to her. And maybe she hasn't been listened to in a long time.

Journal Week: At the Planetarium

This week, I've decided to share more of my travel journal with you. Most of the entries for this week are from our time spent in Kolkata. 

April 2, 2009

Kolkata, India

Modern Lodge Room 21

"The Angry Old Woman"

Because Thursday is the day of rest for the volunteers at Mother Teresa's house, we had the day to ourselves. So we decided we'd go to the Planetarium in town to amuse ourselves. The review in the guidebook wasn't great, but it would be indoors with AC, so that was that. I expected some really cheesy light show, but it was an extremely formal affair. We got there just in time for the English show to start. 

We fell back into movie theater-like chairs that reclined way back, but somehow weren't comfortable. A few seats down, a white woman and her 4 or 5 year old son and an Indian man came in together and sat at the end of our row. The ceiling was a big dome with black cut outs of the cityscape around the bottom where the dome met the walls. The seating was circular as well, following the shape of the ceiling. In the center of the room was a large unattractive machine. Balanced on the end of a long arm was what looked like a disco ball.

The lights were dimmed and an aged voice with a hint of a British accent addressed the audience, her R giving away her native Indian tongue. She was first just a voice- the lights were off completely. She made a very stern announcement about turning off your mobile phone and keeping it off until the end of the presentation. The voice was extremely measured and I felt that perhaps the speakers' back was very straight and that maybe she had to fight to keep her shoulders from creeping up in tension around her ears. 

The lights come on as the disco ball in the middle of the room reproduces a sunset. The stars eventually appeared in all their pinpoint glory. Sometimes the voice called forth lines that connected certain stars, making the constellations, turning the ceiling into a grid of lines and dots. The voice patiently tackled each constellation in its turn and in the middle of a sentence the voice immediately grows even more authoritative and suddenly shouts, "Who turned on their mobile?"

She pronounces mobile with all the vowels long so that she chops it in two: mow-bile. The voice continues, firm and righteous: "Did I give you permission to turn it on? Why would you switch on your mow-bile? Who gave you permission to turn the mow-bile on?" 

By this time I am extremely uncomfortable because the voice is direct, instead of being politely neutral and addressing the entire audience. I am embarrassed for this great trespasser of the mow-bile rule but am also annoyed because he has brought the show to a complete halt. I look down the aisle and see the Indian man with the white woman and boy, his face aglow in the green light emitted from his mow-bile screen.

The voice switches on the house lights, enraged by this person's defiance. She appears, an old woman with her grey hair parted down the middle and clasped tightly into a tense bun at the base of her neck. She glares through severe glasses with eyebrows as crumpled and disapproving as she can manage. With the lights turned on and an usher standing at the end of the row, the man finally becomes intimidated enough to drop the phone into his pocket. He makes eye contact with no one, not even the woman he accompanies. The voice is still very indignant, the dignity of her proper and perfect presentation now disturbed. She shouts, "I think it's a disgrace! Turn. It. Off!"

Lights are switched off and immediately the voice is restored once more as she continues, "This most beautiful nebula here..."

A few minutes later she interrupts herself once more. "Keep your child quiet," she snips to the woman at the end of our row with her son. The little boy had cooed and then spoken out loudly, "Wow! Look at that! Look at that over there. Whoa! What is that?" while jumping out of his seat and pointing wildly at the twinkling presentation above him. Later, while explaining the milky way in detail, she stops again and asks about the mow-bile phone. This time, abusing a patron across the room. She abandons her proper English and begins to shout forcefully in Hindi. She finally resorts once more to turning the house lights on, erasing the stars, planets, and milky way, causing the little boy to groan in disappointment. After a good verbal thrashing, the voice switches back to English and its presenter's tone, continuing on about the marvels of the milky way splashed once more across the hemisphere above us. 

It was impossible to enjoy the show, we were both so nervous about the boy who wouldn't be quiet and the apparent idiocy of the mow-bile toting patrons. And I wonder about that woman, her staunch pride in her work of explicating the mysteries that move above us in the dark. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a constellation without hearing her voice screaming at me to turn off my mow-bile. 

Runner's Rage Recycled

Today I have a guest post up at Life is a Marathon, which is always a bit ironic because my life is anything but a Marathon. It's more like a Jog-for-5-Minutes-and-Try-Not-to-Die-athon. Anyway, in honor of running, which I have been doing close to every other day since my return to The States, I decided to post the guest blog I did for Melanie last year when this blog was still called Rage in the A.M. I never posted it here, so there was only ever a link to it, but here it is in it's entirety for you to enjoy.

Runner’s Rage
Or, Chubbo Takes up Running. Again.

Hello all of Mel’s wonderful readers! It’s me, Chubbo, from over at Rage in the A.M. I’m extremely excited to be posting here on Life is a Marathon. First, I have never run a marathon. Second, I don’t know that I ever will. But I have been a regular runner before and have run a few 5Ks and the good old Bell Buckle 10-miler. So, I’ve got some running experience under the belt. However, the experience was forced out from underneath my belt as large chunks of lard stealthily took its place. But I’m back, baby. This is for all the big girls who read what the skinny girls write about running and think, “What? That’s not how it is!”

Runner’s Rage – a noun meaning the overwhelming and gushing anger that sloshes about inside one’s guts when they try to run, but are kept from being 100% successful because of their own laziness (i.e. chub) or weird physical impediments that no one else on earth could possibly understand or has ever experienced before.

I pull on the sports bra, mushing my voluptuous breasts into one shelf of pro-bounce boob. I wiggle into my running shorts, which haven’t been worn since… well, nevermind that. Who cares? I’m IN them, aren’t I? Oh. Legs not shaved. Eh, it’s not a fashion show. I find the t-shirt that is least likely to hug that small, circular hill rising out of the sinking crater of my bellybutton. Dang. It hugs. I pull on my socks with the flying pigs. I un-double knot my Asics, tuck my pigs in, and re-double knot my Asics, cursing the double knot all the way.

I reach for the door. Oh crap. My back hurts. Of course. I didn’t even do anything yet and something hurts. Typical. I make my way down the 9 floors of my apartment building, glad to have the elevator to myself. My armpits are already celebrating the heat, pre-run. Heck, pre-do more than ride the elevator. I reach the lobby and avoid eye contact with the old doorman behind the desk. I am the only Western female living in this building (so far) and I can feel him staring at the massive wonder that is my midsection.

Thank you God for my legs. Oh they work! Oh loooook! I’m walking. How nice. Alright take it slow. Stretch out those muscles a little bit. Mmmmm. That’s good.

I reach the riverside. I have decided that this is the starting point for my run. Oh, next streetlamp. Oh, right after this tiny hill. Next streetlamp. No, the next one and this time I mean it. Okay, here. I pick up my feet. I begin to swing my arms just a little, making sure I don’t crisscross my body, wasting that precious energy I’ve stored up from the last 5 pieces of cheese pizza and two bowls of curry rice I ate. Feeling good. This is not so bad. I look out over the Han River and try to avoid being run over by zealous Korean bikers with their stupid little handlebar bells.

Good job, Chubbo! You’re moving. You’re not eating ice cream and you’re not sitting on your butt reading blogs and trying not to think about ice cream. Deep breaths. Easy does it. Good pace. Look at that tiny Korean girl. OH MY GOD! I can see half the park between her thighs. Which reminds me…I pull my shorts down out of my crotch, where they have hidden themselves as if a nuclear blast has hit and the only safe place is in my crack. If I run more, maybe my thighs will slowly grow every more distant, like the friend you once called everyday but now only view her Facebook profile like a stalker, clicking obsessively through photo albums to see if she has gained any weight. Run faster! Faster!

NOT THAT FAST! Oh legs. I have legs. And I also seem to have an animal trapped inside me, somewhere around my pancreas, who wants very badly to rip through my intestines, (wait, are they close to my pancreas? Maybe it’s really over near my…) IT WANTS TO KILL ME! STITCH! STITCH! Oh God. Why am I doing this? Because you are Chubbo. But I like Chubbo. She’s funny and she gets to eat goooooood food. Macaroni, macaroni, macaroni, macaroni. I just found my mantra! Runner’s World always talks about running mantras and now I have one! Macaroni, maca- WHAT IS THAT? Oh poor little arch! It’s okay, don’t scream like that. I’m not hurting you on purpose. Please carry me just a little further. Oh please. I know you’re the only little arch in the world to ever carry this weight, but be patient. No? You don’t tell me no. You are MY foot. My. Foot. Stop it. Shut up. Macaroni, macaroni, macaroni…

I have run for…. ooooh 8 minutes and 30 seconds! Woot. That’s like three minutes more than yesterday. Breathe… Um, hello? Breathe. I can’t breathe. I… can’t… breathe. ICANTBREATHE! ICANTBREATHE! I’m dying. Oh my lungs. It’s burning. Burning….. Water! Must have water…. Who puts the water fountain that far away? Ugh, healthy skinny Koreans. Wait, am I still running? Oh my gosh, I’m still running. No. Stop thinking about running. It will hurt less. Let’s make a list of things that don’t hurt: My eyes. Nope, nix that. Sweat running into eyes. That burns. Okay, my back fat doesn’t hurt! Wait, my back fat? I have actually given my back fat the honorary title of body part? What is this world coming to? My back fat does not hurt, but it is very busy. It is jumping and bouncing like a 7 year old on a new trampoline.

I busy myself by psychically trying to convince the back of the size 0 woman in front of me that I have never supersized anything in my life. However, I must confess that I have partaken of the Route 44 at Sonic. Hello! I have legs. I have feet. I have some kind of monster gnawing at my spleen like an aggravated snow leopard attempting to feast on a frozen deer. I look down. Why isn’t The Belly any smaller? I’ve been running for like, oh God, 10 freaking minutes! Why hasn’t it gotten any smaller! Shrink! Shrink!

To the bike rental shack. I can make it to the bike rental shack. Okay, maybe to the porta-potty. Yeah, I can do it. Eh, that next crack in the sidewalk looks good. Oh, hello knees! Hi. I’m sorry, but the run is OVER. Now is not the appropriate time to begin hurting. It’s over I tell you! Over!

And so ends my every run. And the 10 minutes grows to 15, and the 15 turns into half an hour eventually. And then I’m running miles at a time. Tomorrow, The Belly will be begging for another go ‘round. Because once you start, it hurts so good! For all of you who feel my runner’s rage at your body, remember: if you’re angry enough, you’ll work hard enough, run fast enough, and begin to change your body one step at a time.

Now you should click here to find out why Marathoners Make Good Best Friends. 

What the Crap Wednesday: Dream Edition

Last night I had a dream. About the Brownie Batter Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Seriously. Although I have been drooling every time the commercial comes on and reminiscing about the days me and the Wifey could drive down the street and consume one guilt-free, I didn't think I wanted one that bad. Turns out, I really really really want the Brownie Batter Blizzard. In my dream, I go up to the counter and I order this tiny size that doesn't exist in real life. Instead of filling my cup with the most delicious ice cream concoction on the planet, they give me Sprite. I walk away from the counter, taste Sprite instead of Brownie Batter, and immediately turn around to demand my Blizzard! But it seems this disappointment has increased my craving. So when I reorder I ask for a larger size. And they fill it up and I watch them put the right stuff in the cup. 

Aaaaand.... END DREAM.

Seriously? I order it twice but never get to enjoy it? What the crap?

No, wait. I take that back. BRAIN! What the crap are you doing? Don't you know we only have a few weeks until we're putting our wedding dress back on? We have to have that taken in 2 sizes. We decided to try and make it three! But NooooOOOooo. You've got to go and obsess over the most calorific treat that exists on my crave radar at this point. Why? Why are you doing this to me? 

Apparently you can take the chub off the girl, but it's another thing altogether trying to take the ChubbO out of the girl. I sure hope I don't pass a Dairy Queen today.