Archive for August, 2011

Everything is Just Beachy-Keen

I’m going in for my 6-week post op appointment at my new favorite place Final Inches next week. It was supposed to happen today but apparently I totally spaced it because it’s the last week before school starts and I’m in the depths of hell known as NO CAMP OR PLANNED ACTIVITIES OF ANY KIND. It’s really hard to leave the house because everything I do requires fourteen arms for grabbing snacks, getting drinks, helping go pee pee, picking up blankets, putting wispy strands of hair in ponytails, finding game pieces in the carpet, texting, pulling out my credit card every 12 seconds, and a slew of other mind numbing activities.

Today I took the kids to the natural history museum which made me feel like a better parent but also left me a shell of a human being. I’m so happy that school starts back up next week and I can get back to some sense of normalcy again. Look, I know these are not new thoughts, I know we all feel that way but this is my damn blog and I’ll be a big old cliche if I want to.


I will say that all the times we’ve been to the pool lately have been much improved due to my fat suckage. You wouldn’t think that taking out the pockets of fat on my outer thighs would make me feel like a new woman but it has. In fact, I think I’ve scared a few of my friends and family with my over-confident zeal. I would like to enjoy it and I believe I have earned the right to enjoy it but in case you get some fat suckage, I have put together some helpful tips to get you through your special life change without losing friends or scaring colleagues.

1. If you’re not a fan of receiving dirty looks, when strutting your stuff in a bathing suit around a condo swimming pool where your brother and sister-in-law live, refrain from yelling out, “Look what I’m bringing to the table in the ass department, Bitches!” Especially when there are toddlers. Toddlers having a little family birthday party.

2. When trying on jeans at the Gap and the girls asks if you need help, fight the urge to say, “Yeah, I’m going to need a much smaller size in these.” Because you don’t actually need a smaller size. In fact the pair you tried on is actually a little snug.

3. Fat suckage is not an excuse to binge on an entire bag of Michelle’s almond cookies in front of Bachelor Pad on Monday nights. Even though Michelle’s cookies are fruit sweetened which makes you feel like you are eating something healthy, they still have a ton of fat and calories and really, a whole bag? Plus, just because the fat cells are gone from your ass permanently does not mean that it can’t come back. It’ll just land somewhere else. Like your arms.

4. a) When someone says, “You look great! Have you been working out?” Try try try not to say, “No, I had the fat sucked out! And you should totally do it too! You’re a perfect candidate!”

4. b) If you tell the person you had laser lipo and they ask you about it and you tell them and they say “I want to do it too!” The correct response is “Well, I don’t even know if you have enough fat! Where would they take it from?” and not, “I would definitely take care of your back fat first.”

There you go. I’m here to help.

Posted by Stefanie Wilder Taylor on August 30, 2011 1:13 amUncategorized5 comments  

Don’t Get Drunk Friday: Jo’s Story

Hi. It’s me Stefanie. Here is a post from a member of the Booze Free Brigade. If you would like to be a member of the Brigade, an online support group, please click here. And now, meet Jo.

“We were alcoholics. It had to get worse before it could get better.”

This post also could have been titled: “Today Would Have Been My 10 Year Wedding Anniversary: My Marriage and Other
Things Alcoholism Destroyed”

Or: “We Loved, We Fought, We Lied, and it Killed Us.”

Or: “How Alcoholism Helps You Build a Cocoon and then Destroy it from the

Or, my current favorite: “It’s Not My Fault, but I Am Responsible for It.”
I think you get the drift.

Yep. Ten years ago today I was atop a beautiful Northern California cliff, on a crystal clear day, with soaring views of the Pacific, vowing to love, hold, honor, respect… and pull through when the going got tough. Hand in hand with my lover and friend, both injured in various ways, but with youthful bravado coloring our thinking, we thought could conquer the world with our love.
But we were alcoholics. And things had to get worse before they could get better.

Even before August 25, 2001 there had been signs: his depression and suicidal fantasy. Always needing space and time to be alone, which he spent checked out on pot, wine, porn and movies. My controlling tactics and manipulation, obsession about him cheating or leaving or dying unexpectedly. The livid anger and helplessness I felt when he was a few minutes late getting home or calling. My reckless party girl behavior on the weekends, which was usually a reprieve from my stressed out, control freak behavior during the week. Our terrible fighting, that would be followed by equally passionate “making up” only to have the whole cycle repeat itself. Over and over.

By the time we were married the patterns were already set, but they would have to play themselves out to the bitter end. After all, we were alcoholics. And things had to get worse before they could get better.

Maybe you know this story? It goes something like this:

1. It feels good to get a little drunk and loose.
2. It feels good to get a little drunk and loose again.
3. The periods between getting a little drunk and a little loose get shorter.
4. You start to get a little drunker and a little looser once in awhile, more so than your other “grown-up” friends, and vow every time that you’re going to keep it under control going forward.
5. You begin to break your promises, to yourself and to others.
6. Bad things happen.
7. Even though it doesn’t even feel that good to get drunk and loose anymore, you do it anyway.
8. You start to act drunk and loose even when you haven’t been drinking.
9. Everything kind of blurs together, and one bad decision or outcome leads to another.
10. Things really suck.

And that brings me back to the marriage. It started to really suck. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly happened to make it fall apart. Maybe it was slowly spiraling down from the beginning (speeding up a little toward the end). Or maybe that handful of really terrible episodes just soured any hope of resurrecting it. Whatever the case, we were alcoholics. And things had to get worse before they could get better.

It is said that an alcoholic is uniquely unqualified to make healthy decisions, that he/she frequently lives in a state of denial, and that the disease is progressive. (In other words, it gets worse.) Ten years ago today, when I was gazing into the eyes of my beloved, I couldn’t imagine a day that I’d be trembling on a street corner explaining my marriage and its abuses to a female cop who didn’t give a shit. I remember even in that moment wanting to prove to her that we were somehow different or special, and this wasn’t your garden-variety Jerry Springer domestic violence.

It was, however, your garden variety alcoholism. This time he was the one who’d hit me. But had been many episodes before that (going both ways)—all of which we would later deny or excuse, or get down on our knees and hold one another, and promise never to do again. That night my husband was handcuffed and put into the back of a police car, and was carted off to jail in front of our children and neighbors. He was the Vice President of the PTA, a stay-at-home dad, a brilliant writer and musician, and generally regarded as a nice, sensitive guy. We were a well-known and well-liked family. And, as you might guess, we threw the best parties! And in one moment – a moment that was years in the making — our lives and reputations came crashing
down on us. And the sobering truth was there for everyone to see.

Here’s the deal: we were alcoholics. And things had to get worse before they could get better.

I could titillate you with the details of what exactly we were fighting about all those years. It would make for a good movie or book or soap opera. Yes, there were mundane issues, like conflict about division of labor in the household or with the kids. There were also heart-wrenching things, like money troubles, dying parents, and affairs. You might even get carried away in our drama; you might even, based on what you heard and who you heard it from, choose to take his side or mine. But that wouldn’t matter, because the real truth is that we were alcoholics, and we were doing what alcoholics do, which is destroy things that we care about, most specifically ourselves.

Alcohol is an ice-breaker, a means to maintain friendships, an event for every weekend, a symbol of personal freedom and ability to make choices (there are so many varieties!), and a little something to rely upon when things just don’t feel right. It’s there for the celebrations, for the milestones, and for when the shit hits the fan. It was there on my beautiful wedding night ten years ago today, and it was there for me that wretched night I was alone with my children while my husband went to jail for both of us.

Our alcoholism isn’t our fault. But we are responsible for it. It builds a prison for us to live in, and it’s next to impossible to get ourselves out.

It is completely outside of my comfort zone to seek help, but I have to remind myself of something that my ex-husband (who made it to recovery before I did) said to me: “If a person can lead themselves to a place like this, they would be a fool to try and lead themselves out.”

God bless that man. May he achieve the happiness and freedom he deserves.

And me too. May I, with the help of [god, goddess, higher power, higher truth] achieve the happiness and freedom I deserve. And may this anniversary of our marriage be a reminder to me to love and forgive myself and him, to raise our children as best we can, to listen to other people, and to seek help when I need it.

For all alcoholics whose marriages were casualties of this disease… with gratitude and sobriety,


Posted by Stefanie Wilder Taylor on August 26, 2011 2:40 pmDon't Get Drunk Friday6 comments  

The Post Where I Talk More About My Ass and the Gym

So listen, just because I have thinner thighs now doesn’t mean I’ve totally gotten cocky about what’s happening from the waist down. In fact, au contraire mon frere (that means, on the contrary my brother man) I have been keeping up my gym workouts despite the rampant nudity and sketchy cleaning policy at my gym which rhymes with Ally’s. In a completely unrelated thought, is Bally’s a nationwide chain? I went to the gym this morning in fact. I think that my laser lipo actually inspired me to really pay more attention to my body in a positive way. It’s sort of like having the procedure didn’t change my body drastically at all but it made me feel like it’s not a lost cause either. Unlike my cleaning skills.

I have been getting a lot of requests for some before and after pics. The thing is, I have to take the after pics which I will do probably next week. Let me just warn you that the before pic I have is horrifying. I had no idea that my ass looked that enormous mainly because I spend as little time as possible around three way mirrors and I try to avoid having my picture taken from the back looking over my shoulder. I mean, who does that besides people have a “before” picture taken of their ass and contestants on Bachelor Pad? So, yeah, when I saw the before picture I thought, “Lipo? Good plan!”

I’m not holding out on you with the picture I just don’t want to frighten you with the before without an after to follow it up. Okay, you know what? Screw it, I’m starting to think I should just post the damn butt picture so you’ll all see what I mean. This is highly embarrassing. If I get ONE comment that my ass is my signature, I will personally come to your house with a loaded Uzi and go all Tupac on you. Or I will just be really bummed.

There, now what right? You have a before picture and you will have to wait for the after. I bet you’re sorry you asked. But are you? Just a warning: if you stare at the picture long enough a sailboat pops out. Don’t just take my word for it.

So what else is going on?

It’s almost like I farted and then bolted out of the room.

So before I go, if you want to hear some of my old school snarking, I have a new blog over at Babble Voices. I’m going to focus a lot of attention on that one and it will have lots of pictures so bookmark it if you miss the old Sippy Cups style comedy. If you’d like to subscribe to the feed for the new blog go here

Keep checking back for my after photos.

Bye bitches.

Posted by Stefanie Wilder Taylor on August 22, 2011 6:48 pmUncategorized14 comments  

If These Thighs Could Talk

As of Thursday I am free to not wear the compression garment they gave me after my Final Inches procedure. But guess what! I don’t want to part with it. It’s so damned comfortable and smooths like a mother fucker! I just looked at the word smooths and couldn’t decide whether or not it looked wrong. Then I kept looking at it until it definitely looked wrong until finally it just looked absurd and like a nonword. Of course “nonword” isn’t a word either so touche! Did I just touche myself?

I know what you’re thinking, “Stef, did you go back to drinking?” And the answer is a resounding NO, I’m just high on thin thighs. Seriously, I know that my blog has become a little repetitive but when you discover something awesome like sugar-free popsicles, Phil Hendrie or low risk fat suckage, you have to go on and on a bit.

So the other night I went out with no garment on and in a pair of pants that used to fit, well, differently and I got a lot of compliments. It’s the type of thing where people don’t know I made a change but they sense something different. The day before that, I went to my friend Diana’s pool and went swimming…in my bathing suit. Wha? Yah. Okay. Cue the Saturday Night Fever theme -actually I just googled the lyrics and it really doesn’t fit the situation at all-because I was strutting around with my non-saddlebagged thighs. Honestly it feels good. Of course that very night I mowed down a bag of Michelle’s fruit sweetened cookies which have about 3.5 grams of fat per cookie and there are six to a bag. I’m not math whiz but that seems like an assload of fat. Let’s never speak of those cookies again.

I’ve also been motivated to work out again. The last few weeks I’ve gone to my gym four times a week which is more than I’ve gone in a reeeeally long time. I think I’d be more inspired to go to my gym if it were a skosh nicer. The problem is that it’s very inexpensive and therefore extremely low rent in every way -think people shaving in the steam room and no paper towels ever. Today there was a woman working out in a cardigan, moccasins and earrings. Seriously. It’s distracting but like I said, cheap. I’ve been a member of this gym for over 20 years and this particular one is right by my house so what I do is go in dressed in my gym clothes, throw my purse in the locker, work out and then wash my hands using my own towel to dry them (as I said, no paper towels ever) and then get the hell out. I would never even dream of walking barefoot in that locker room let alone showering!

But the good news is that exercise has had this unexpected effect of stabilizing my moods a bit. Have you ever heard of such a thing? It’s like I’ve discovered a new reusable energy source. I should be celebrated in some way I think. Maybe Nova can do a story about me and my awe inspiring discoveries and then I can speak at a dinner in front of a room full of sexy scientists who will all ooh and awe at the sight of my slim thighs (thanks to www.finalinches.com)

So to summarize, thighs are thinner, working out, eating cookies, possibly delusional. How are you?

Posted by Stefanie Wilder Taylor on August 16, 2011 5:10 pmUncategorized11 comments  

Thin Thighs in Thirty Days Meet Thin Thighs in About an Hour

This procedure I did was like the Lens Crafters of Lipo. I know people don’t like the word lipo; it’s a savage word that calls to mind Discovery Health programs showing desperate surgery addicts getting jostled around a table having their fat sucked out of them rapidly and aimlessly. This is laser lipo and it’s totally low key. It’s like traditional lipo’s much younger, smarter, computer programmer, stoner brother. This lipo knows a lot more and yet is a lot more relaxed because “dude, it’s not a big deal.” Am I making sense at all?

The thing is, I haven’t told you about the actual day I got my thighs trimmed yet. I guess because it was really no big deal but in case you’re wondering here goes:

My friend Kathee and I went together because Fat Suckage is a bonding thing, you know? When we got to the center we had our before pictures taken (and no, you will never see these so don’t even think about it. Pretend I never even told you they existed. Seriously, stop it. STOP IT. Get the image of my ass out of your brain this instant. Thank you.) and then Dr. Ngo (the smallest, feistiest, prettiest Asian doc you’ll ever meet) came in to draw on my thighs with a Sharpie -something that heretofore has only been done by my children while I was sleeping.

Here’s where we get to the saddest part in the whole experience: While I was gazing at my butt in the highly unflattering florescent lighting reserved for doctor’s offices and bathing suit changing rooms, I couldn’t help but complain that I really wanted my butt to be smaller and not just my thighs. Dr. Ngo grabbed a handful of lady butt in both hands, pushed it up and then said, “Stefanie, the problem is not that you have fat here but that your butt is heavy and it’s pulling it down. The only thing that you can do is get a butt lift.” Seriously? A butt lift? Who the hell gets a butt lift? By the way, and this is totally unrelated to this story but totally related to my butt, yesterday I was at the mall and met up with a mom friend there. She remarked that Matilda and I had the same butt and walk. Then she went on to tell me that my big butt was sort of my signature. I’m not joking. Obviously I’m not just paranoid that I have a big butt, someone actually said to my face that it’s my signature! Holy shitballs. Anyway, I’m not getting a butt lift even if you paid me. Then what would be my signature? My dirty mouth?

Okay, next I went to the procedure room and picked out my music. Yes, you can let them know what you want to listen to while they contour you. I chose Sara Bareilles who will from now on be thought of as Sara #Fatsuckage Bareilles to me. Next, my thighs were numbed which I’m not going to lie was very uncomfortable. But once I was shot up with lidocaine I didn’t feel a thing and it was over before I knew it. I got up, put on a pair of snug leggings (compression garment) and hung out while Kathee got her arms sucked. Then we went home. I didn’t miss a beat. That’s it.

Any questions or comments? Have you ever had a part of your body you wanted to change? I’m interested to hear.

Posted by Stefanie Wilder Taylor on August 8, 2011 6:24 pmUncategorized12 comments  


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