Mary Panza

So here I am. Flooded basement lost my fight with the stupid ass’ that installed my new heating system, New Year, no man, and I’m still fat. I am in a surprisingly good mood these days. Why? You ask like you give a shit? My reason is this: TV.

Trust me; I know I’m low brow. TV is awesome. Here is why. Years ago I was obsessed with the Soprano’s. I would think about things that happened on that show for days. Monday mornings around 7am Capri and I would analyze, argue, and recognize characters in that show. We now do it with Mob Wives, Housewives of NJ and sometimes Jersylicious. Back to the Soprano’s. What I am about to tell you may save your life. On one episode, one of Uncle Junior’s crew has assimilated into Tony’s crew. He was a good looking, 40ish, earner/criminal. Any who, there is a scene where he dies alone on the toilet from straining. It was a public toilet. This gets me to thinking: that could be me. I’m middle-aged, overweight, and I hate vegetables. I am alone two days a week. I have been told (by Capri) everything dries up in the front and the back during peri-menopause. I could reasonably die alone, at home, on the toilet from straining and not be found for days. Not exactly going out like a Viking. No sword, no dignity and I would be talked about (not in a good way) for all of eternity. I can hear some of you now. The conversations haunt me at night. “She died like she lived.” “It serves her right for fucking my boyfriend.” “It serves her right for fucking everyone’s boyfriend.” “Good, the bitch.” Granted, I have done some fucked up things but believe me, I’m paying for them now. I don’t think I deserve to die on the toilet and have to be found because my dog is barking and then have a neighbor (the good looking guy) find me. Knowing my dog, she would eat my face and three of my fingers off so I would have to have a closed casket and not the grand parade I’m planning.

What does this have to do with anything? Nothing really, unless you want to die on the toilet with your face chewed off by a spastic Belgian Maloinos. So, on one of now what will probably by my standard Saturday nights, I’m home, alone, crying, watching home shopping channels. Then, as if it was sent from Baby Jesus himself, there it is: NUTRIBULLET! That is correct. I saw the infomercial. I was sold. You can drink salad. Much better that eating it! As a fat girl, most of my life has been rebelling against anything that is good for me as dictated by society, doctors, and any diet I have ever tried. Now, I can drink vegetables. Stay with me on this. You put the salad greens on the bottom; you put some other kind of green on top of that and then add sweet fruit. If you are straining, you can use flax seeds  I drink like two to three salads a day. It is amazing for my piece of mind. It is visually disgusting. My co-workers will avoid me when I am drinking my salad. They avoid me when I am talking in general these days but really, not the point. I drink these concoctions and they have freed me from worry. Well, I don’t worry about straining. I’m all good. This proves to me that TV is awesome. It brought me the Soprano’s, reality shows, the NUTRIBULLET and endless hours of company. I can’t say that about too many other things these days.