A Love Story. Well, sort of.

Everytime I think I am alone in my weird, crazy, voices in my head, thinking out loud world, I meet someone that makes me feel normal again. This person is my hairdresser. We will call her Amorette. This is both to protect the innocent, and because she made me promise I would give her a fancy, exotic name. So Amorette (which is Latin for ‘Little Love’), this ones for you.

Amorette and I have lengthy, inappropriate conversations on a monthly basis while she makes me blonder and blonder. We bond over stories of lame ex-boyfriends, bad sex stories and embarrassing fat moments. The fact that she called me Skinny today and made my hair look fabulous has no bearing over the fact that I absolutely adore her and look forward to our monthly giggle sessions. I’m pretty sure when the other hairdressers see me come in, they roll their eyes and start playing circus music in their heads to drown us out.

So on this particularly sunny day, Amorette and I somehow got to talking about when we realized we were….um, kinky. I will have to keep my story a secret a little longer since my husband reads this blog and I want to save him the embarrassment of telling the world his wife is a porn star wannabe, and a little bit of an ex-slut. But as for Amorette, her story is fair game.

Amorette and her boyfriend have been dating for about a year and a half, which is almost a year and a half longer than the relationship might have lasted were she not bored and single, and just a little sick in the head. We will call her boyfriend Caleb which is Hebrew for ‘Faithful Affection’. I couldn’t find an exotic name for Creeper or Rapist so Caleb will have to do. I skipped ahead of myself, so let me get back to the story.

Amorette was telling me about their first date. It was uneventful and ended in a hug and a 'See Ya Later'. She had no intention of seeing him again. He was 10 years her senior and seemed to have the personality of a wet mop. But like I said, she was bored so when he called and offered to drive an hour and a half to come see her again, she figured, why not? Caleb asked if he could spend the night, and while Amorette was leary of this because A) reference the wet mop personality and B) she lived alone and didn’t know him very well, she didn’t want to seem like an giant, ungrateful ass monkey since he was driving all that way, so she said sure. After a hike and hanging out, Amorette made it clear that they were going to bed early…..to sleep. I shit you not.

Any women out there knows that the first night in a bed with a new man is spent doing anything but sleeping. And I don’t mean because this boats a rockin’ or because we are doing the horizontal tango. It’s because we are constantly aware of our bodies and how flat we can make our abs look or how perky we can make our boobs seem. God forbid we should fall asleep and let our gut hang out, snore or…dare I say it, fart. So she was surprised when in her half awake/half asleep, sucking in the gut sleeplessness, Caleb started to feel her up and kiss on her neck. She kept saying, this isn’t right, and I shouldn’t like it so she kept telling him no, but not really stopping it. Long story short, the next thing she knew his pants were off and she had a belly button full of perv juice. And while she felt slightly violated and unsure of exactly what happened, she was strangely, and newly intrigued by this night raping kink master. So after this, as she was lying there wondering if she had just been raped (yet knowing full well you can’t rape the willing), Caleb started playing with her hair. Post night rape. And the creepy meter started to rise again.

We were laughing so hard for so long that I never did get a chance to ask her what inspired her to see him further, other than the fact that he was still there in the morning which proved he wasn’t there just for some weird middle of the night drive by sperming, or if it was because she realized as weird as it is that he decided to make his move when she was sleeping when they hadn’t even kissed before bed, that she actually liked it.

What is the point to this demented little rape/sex story? I think back to ex-boyfriends and weird sexual experiences and for that moment in time, I didn’t feel alone. Plus, it was too surreal and funny a story not to be retold. This is what she gets for trusting me. I blame it on the bleach. It ate away at my sense of discretion. At least she was tipped well for her work and humility!

Amorette, when you and Caleb get married I will totally stand up and toast you both. With this story. But don’t worry, I won’t use your real names so no one will know.

My post giggle blondness

Bringing it back with....

I’ve always wanted to own a taser gun. I’m not sure why, but I think I would overuse it and probably end up in jail. What? Those shoes were only on sale yesterday?? TASER!! Because I’m the mom and I said so! TASER!! Yes, I legitimately have a headache and no I don’t get off on you groping me like a horny teenager! TASER!! Sure officer, I have my license and registration right…..TASER!!!! See, I would end up in jail and I do NOT look good in bulky silver cuffs. I only like the fuzzy ones that are used to restrain me for a whole different reason.

What is with men and morning wood? Why do they think it’s ok to jam their steel rod of horniness into our lower spines at 7am? And what in their tiny pea brains tells them this will turn us on and we will roll over and allow them to ravage us? I am going to perform a social experiment. Sunday morning, when my husband is sound asleep, snoring like a lumberjack and dreaming of naked Playboy bunnies at his beck and call, I am going to take a giant dildo and ram it into his spine and fondle his man boobs while breathing heavy, overnight morning breath on his face. Let’s see if THAT turns him on!

What would the world be like if men went through menopause? Would they switch to light beer while watching their games because they feel bloated? When they scratch their balls would they then look at their fingernails and ponder getting a manicure this week? Would they be a little more conscious of their back, nose and ear hair and then clog up the our spa time with facials and waxes? Would they spend hours obsessing over weight gain, sagging breasts, facial wrinkles and finding jeans that doesn’t make their ass look fat? I would love to see my husband break out into cold sweats, get a migraine and start crying for no reason whatsoever. Picture it….

Me: Babe, are you ok?

Husband: Fine. I’m fine. Is it warm in here? It feels really warm in here.

Me: No, it’s fine.

Husband: Are you sure because I am dying here. (takes off shirt)

Me: I can get a fan or something for you.

Husband: No, I don’t want a fan honey. I want for the temperature to stay at a reasonable level so certain people don’t have to live in misery and sweat to death while trying to watch the hockey game. Jesus! Is that so f**king hard to manage?

Me: Um, k. Well, I am going to the kitchen, away from the crazy. Can I get you anything?

Husband: Do you SEE how fat I am getting? Does it look like I need a snack? Are you trying to get me fat so no one else wants me? That’s it, isn’t it? You just want to make your fat, sweaty, menopausal husband even fatter and more undesireable so no one will ever look at me again. Real nice, baby, real fucking nice.

Me: Silence.

Husband: What? Nothing to say now? Just leave me alone.

Me: Walk away.

Husband: Yeah, fine! Just walk away from me. Just leave me here to sweat to death.

Me: Pause.

Husband: Honey?

Me: Yes?

Husband: I love you.

Me: Fantastic.

I have figured out why dogs are a mans best friend. Only a man could have a genuine appreciation for a creature that lifts its leg to pee on things to mark its territory, who can sniff another dogs ass and have it be foreplay, who can walk up behind another dog, mount them and have their way without question, and who can fart in the middle of a crowded room and think nothing of it. Add to that the fact that dogs can lick their own business and they have the life most men only dream about. Instead men are left to devise a lifelong plan that involves finding new and innovative ways to talk women into believing that blow jobs really are a gift, and that sex three times a week is truly the way God intended for it to be.

These are my random thoughts for the week!

Downward Facing Doggone Tired

I have been a lazy whore lately when it comes to working out. I don’t know if I am just burned out, if it’s a phase or if my body is on strike because I’m not eating enough. I can’t even force myself to get on the treadmill lately. The thing is, I look at myself in the mirror and I like the changes that are starting to take place and this should be the motivation I need but then I lie down and put on Jerseylicious and I forget all about hardening my ass and flattening my abs. I blame it on the fact that my vagina may or may not still be broken. And, my abs still hurt from when I worked out on Friday if that is any indication for just how out of shape I really am.

I did make myself walk while my son was at baseball practice last night, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I have lately. It was forced and unenjoyable and not even the Black Eyed Peas could make me say “Imma Be” skinny because all I wanted to be was napping. I need to refocus my energy and find something new that will get me off this couch and get me moving again. Maybe I should order a stripper pole and do one of those videos filled with half naked women who swing their vaginas around like a tether ball and make hanging upside down using only your toes look easy peasy. If I had a little less shame I would absolutely put on a pair of boy shorts with glittery words like “Fancy” or “Sweet” on the ass, along with a tiny tank with a diamond studded Playboy Bunny on it and swing on that thing like a $2 hooker and then post it on YouTube so I could become rich. Then I would just get fat sucked out of my ass, have my jaw wired shut, and do colon cleanses to get skinny so I wouldn’t have to feel bad everytime I have a bad day and don’t workout.

Apparently all this time alone with my thoughts and DVR’d TV shows really makes my thinking a tad bit extreme. I mean, really, there is no way I would get my jaw wired shut. I like talking to the voices in my head way too much. I miss the days when I could eat Twix bars and hot chocolate for breakfast and an entire bag of Combos for lunch and never gain a pound. It’s absolutely a cruel joke that our metabolisms are faster than a procreating jack rabbit when we are in our teens, but slow down like a geriatric man with no hands in a wheel chair the minute we enter into adulthood. Don’t get me started on the dimples that show in places other than our faces the very minute we enter our thirties.

So, now here I am 35, going through menopause, and battling my way back to a healthy weight with no enthusiasm for exercise at all. It’s not a combination that works to my advantage. Today, I think I will try yoga. Maybe a little downward facing dog will brighten my spirits and put me back in the workout mood. Besides, it sounds a little dirty and I like that too.

So, I just want to start out by saying that I did not blog for the weekend because I am pretty sure I broke my vagina, and I had to get a pedicure. One really has nothing to do with the other but I didn’t think a broken vagina would be enough to get you to accept my apology. I’m not sure if I pulled a labia muscle or if I hyperextended my clitoris, but I swear to the heavens, my lady space is badly injured. The worst part is, I have no idea how I did it. It felt like it broke while doing situps the other day, but who breaks their vag doing situps? This girl right here apparently!

I took a walk around the park thinking I could somehow walk off a broken vagina, but that only made it worse. It hurts to sneeze, or pee, or laugh and I was pretty sure the only thing that could make it better would be a pedicure. Because going from having winter Flintstone feet to beautiful summer feet covered in pink sparkly nail polish would surely be the cure all for a wounded vagina. Let me tell you, my feet look awesome but the lady space is still revolting against me.

What exactly does one do for a problem of this magnitude? I can’t imagine the humility behind going to the gynecologist to tell her somehow I broke my crotch without the aid of falling off of mens bike or being kicked in my private space while fighting with ninjas.

How did you break your vagina Mrs. Sinclair?

Well, you see, this is how it is. I was a Fatty McFatAss, and I had surgery to become less fat ass, and so I started exercising…

Ah, I see.

No wait, that isn’t it though. I was exercising and all of the sudden it felt as though someone kicked me in the lady lips and stabbed me in the clit.

Silence.

I can clearly see you don’t believe me. Is there anything you can do?

For a broken vagina?

No, for the crab grass growing in my side yard. YES, for my broken vagina.

I would suggest rest, and massage of the wounded area by a hot latino man with smoldering eyes and abs you could grate cheese on. And shoes. Lots of new shoes. With matching purses. And a manicure. Manicures totally cure broken vaginas.

Ok, ok, so this is the conversation I would like to take place. Wouldn’t the world be perfect if the cure for broken vaginas was shopping and manis??

So, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. My vagina was broken and I couldn’t blog and the only thing that made it better was a pedicure and a Saturday afternoon nap. Deal with it.

Just some random mush....

"I just found out there's no such thing as the real world,
Just a lie we have to rise above."

-John Mayer "No Such Thing"

I have come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as the real world, only the world as we want to see it. We have to create our own happiness, learn when to stop dwelling in our sorrow. I look around and see all that God has blessed me with and realize that this is as real as it gets. Two beautiful children, a family that sticks together through the thick and thin, a husband that loves me despite my flaws and a place to call home.

I sit in conflict
Surrounded by sorrow.
Refusing to believe
I could wake up tomorrow
To a sunset or sunrise
A day filled with love.
Refusing to believe
In the heavens above.
Yet each and every morning
a new day abounds
with a promise of happiness
and miraculous sounds.
Children laughing and playing
sleeping beside me in bed.
Each day I get to kiss them and hug them
as I put them to bed.
Each night I lay down beside
the love of my dreams
and with a needle and thread
I begin repairing my torn seams.

So, tomorrow I will wake up and see the sunshine for the first time. I will hold my children and my husband as if it's our first embrace. I will listen to the sounds around me as if it's the first time my ears were allowed to hear and I will laugh for pictures so I can look back and forget what I was laughing about and just remember that I was happy.

Stage 2 of Grief: Anger.

Yesterday was my 5 week checkup and things went off without a hitch. If, by "without a hitch" you mean I was 2 hours late for my doctors appointment, had to fight to be seen that day, and got the cliffs notes version of an appointment. Nevertheless, I've lost 30 pounds, all my bloodwork came back good and I get to move onto soft foods. That means I get to eat my meatless burgers, vegan patties and lean ground beef again, and THAT makes me a very happy girl.

At the same time, it got me thinking back to a blog entry where I talked about the five stages of grief, and I think it might do my mind some good to finish working through them. The first step was denial and isolation. I think that blog entry could have been written without words and you would have gotten the picture. So onto the second stage - Anger.

Definition: The grieving person may be furious at the person who inflicted the hurt, or at the world, for letting it happen. She may be angry with herself for letting the event take place, even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped it.

I will admit I AM angry, although probably not as much as I have anticipated I might be. I am angry with myself for so many reasons, but I am also old enough to know that those reasons no longer matter. You can’t change the past, but you can plan for the future and that is something I am doing every day. I can’t go back and make myself put down the bag of Doritos, or stop myself from believing that being the “girl with a pretty face” was enough. I can’t go back and predict my depression and the toll it would take on so many years of my life. I can’t go back and stop myself from losing hope and giving up. I can only say that what I am doing today will make a positive impact on tomorrow. I will wipe my eyes, stand firmly on my own two feet, own up to my mistakes and only allow myself to be angry if I allow myself to be defeated.

My horoscope for the day read: You may be facing a situation where you have to deal with some unknowns today, Capricorn. It's possible that you may be worried, but don't let that worry convince you that hope is futile. Keep your mind on your purpose for taking that risky step, because your advantage today lies in the willingness to face the unknown, and to trust in the value of experience. Fear of the future in one of the most paralyzing and failure generating afflictions of modern times. Don't let it bring you down today; it just might stick.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. I am going to take all the years of pent up anger and not feeling like I was good enough, and reward myself, rather than punish myself, for finally doing something about it. Rather than take my anger and disappointment out on myself, I will take it out on a treadmill. I will remind myself I am worth more than just my outer shell.

However, if my outer shell turns out to be the smokin’ hot body of a 25 year, well I won’t shed any tears over that either.

Run Forrest, er Lisa...RUN!

Something fantastic happened yesterday and I feel so empowered at the accomplishments I am making in this torturous journey towards non-fatassedness. I RAN. Not ran like that half-assed gaited limp I tried to pass off for running a few weeks ago. And not ran like, i-have-to-catch-the-ice-cream-truck-before-he-turns-the-corner, or running to get the last chocolate chip cookie either. I FUCKING RAN! Now, I’m not saying I am going to be competing in any half marathons or anything, but it’s a step (or a run) in the right direction. Besides, this ass and these thighs are not conditioned for nylon running shorts or fitted shirts quite yet.

I discovered something very disturbing while running. Even now, 30 pounds later, I find that I do not check out how my backside looks when I put something on. I stand facing forward, admiring the waist I have found after years of estrangement, and I get so lost in my pride that I forget there is another side to me. And that side ain’t so pretty, let me tell you. While my waist is about 6” smaller and my belly has gone down dramatically, my ass has a mind of its own and it is not cooperating with the rest of me. That thing jiggled and bounced like an unrestrained passenger on the sinking Titanic. It was like it was its own separate entity, completely independent from the rest of my shrinking frame. I figure I can resolve to this fact in one of two ways – 1) I can start doing more lunges and squats, which is the equivalent of being stabbed in the eyes with sharp spoons in my world, or B) I can work the J-Lo booty and pretend I intended for it to be that way. I opt for plan B. Squats and lunges suck and leave me in pain for days.

I am off to the doctor for my 5 week check up today. I cannot believe it has been 5 weeks already. Time flies when you’re sweating like a pig and starving. I have a lot of days lately where I am not happy about my progress. I feel like I am working so hard, and I have sacrificed so much, and yet the number isn’t as low as I had hoped it would be. But then there are days like yesterday where I do something that seemed so far out of my capabilities, or I look at myself in the mirror and really see the changes my body is making, and I am sure I made the right choice for me. I figure, it took me 15 years to look this way, so maybe I should cut myself a little slack and give it a few more months before I march into the doctors office and unhappily and relentlessly stab her with her own pen. It only seems fair.

Me, minus 30 pounds

I hate driving. Like hate it more than I hate not being able to eat grilled hot dogs in the summer. Because people suck on the road. And I mean suck like piss me off to the point that I pray for a red light so I can get out of my van and verbally attack them like a crazy person. I don’t know -what is worse – old people that cut me off and then stay in front of me for like 5,285,949 miles consistently doing 5 miles BELOW the speed limit because, GOD FORBID, they should actually drive the speed limit in fear of their 1989 Chrysler New Yorker with 31,000 miles on it might implode….OR…..people that pick a speed and stay there. Whether it’s 30mph or 55mph. So I am either on their ass looking for the right moment to pass or far enough behind that I think there is enough distance so that I won’t catch up anytime soon, but then get caught up in scenario A again.

And conversely, I also hate the assmunch morons who want to do 10 mph OVER the speed limit, but rather than pass me so they can get to their cow fucking convention or their $0.99 cheeseburger special at the Rodeo Corral, will ride my ass in an attempt to get ME to go faster. What they fail to realize is that I will purposely drive slow as a mo fo just to piss them off. I need the bumper sticker that says “If you are going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair first” or “If you are going to be up my ass that far, you better be wearing a condom”.

I am pretty sure this is a main reason I got married again. Not because I didn’t learn the first time around that marriage was for suckas and fools, but because I need someone to drive my Ms. Daisy ass around. I would rather be caned with a leather strap filled with nails than drive out here. And if it isn’t a slow poking senior citizen or a speed demon 20-something year old with a hard on, it’s friggin farm equipment. I get stuck behind more tractors, seeders, harvesters and idiots on John Deere riding lawn mowers than anyone I know. I don’t even know what some of these contraptions are. They look like Transformers. I keep expecting them to break down and convert into an SUV or a Porsche as I pass them. That would surely be more than meets the eye. (If you got that reference and laughed, I love you!).

Just give me a clear road ahead of me, the sun on my face, and good music on the radio and I am a happy girl. I will make a deal with you, moron drivers of WNY, if you stay out of my way and don’t piss me off, I won’t have to follow you home, chop you into little pieces, mix you with protein powder, and eat your for dinner. Because murder is my least favorite thing to do. Plus it screws up my manicure.

Family = LOVE

I had a wonderful weekend with my family, away from all the craziness and noise in my head, and it was exactly what I needed. It was a real turning point for me because I didn't have to drink and overeat to have fun, or to drown out the voices in my head. It got me thinking how lucky I am to have the things I have, and to love the people I love, and be loved in return.

This is a blessed Life I live. Full of insanity and love. A house filled with people who are the sun, the moon, and all that the universe revolves around. These people - big and small - who love me no matter what. This place that opened new doors, created new possibilities, and brought me new hope. These days, where I wake up and fall in love with who I have become. This moment, where I am grateful - eternally grateful - for this blessed life.

Days pass with lightening fast speed where people come and people go, circumstances change, and life goes on. Nights are filled with love making, the sound of the rain on the roof above our heads, the peaceful faces of my beautiful children, and the anticipation of the dawning of a new day filled with endless possibilities. My heart grows bigger as my resentments become smaller. My eyes are wide open as I close old wounds and old doors. My fingers entertwine with his, and for that moment, everything else ceasts to exist.

My past is no longer filled with heartache and sadness. It is now consumed with the sounds of childrens laughter, the soft breath of my husband's slumber on my neck, and mental pictures flickering like bursts of light, each of the people I love.

This is a blessed life I live.

And so, I want to share something I wrote:

Today was a day like any other,
I kissed my husband goodbye,
I called my mother.
I played with my children
and tucked them into bed.
I read a book
to silence my head.
I washed and I folded,
I cleaned and I swept.
I finally sat down on the couch
and I wept.
For today was not a day
like any I'd known.
Today I found solace
in being alone.
I let go of my anguish
I allowed my soul to cry.
Today a miracle happened,
Today a part of me died.
I relinquished my anger
and let go of my fears.
I allowed myself to mourn,
then I wiped away my tears.
I stared at my new self
for a very long while.
Then something extraordinary happened,
I smiled.

I am the Biggest Loser

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Just keeping it real with a new episode of....

Why does my dog feel the need to tea bag everything? He lays his man junk down on my carpet, my couch, my leg and rubs it around like some sort of territorial right of passage. And he doesn’t just do it once in awhile, he does it all the time. This is apparently a male gender universal symbol of manliness and I don’t like it. I don’t go around rubbing my lady business on passing strangers and the arms of my sofa. I don’t stake my claim on the world by plopping down on a couch pillow, rubbing my vag all over it, and then leaving it for some unsuspecting person in need of a pillow for an afternoon nap. The tea bagging must stop. And it must stop now. Or I swear I will start diapering that dog like an untrained monkey.

Why is it that I never have a single thing in my eye until the minute I put on makeup. I could run naked with my eyes held open by toothpicks through a sand mine, and if I wasn’t wearing makeup, I would come out looking like a subject from a Clear Eyes commercial. But the minute I put on eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, I have a circus of air particles, lint, and environmental crap glued to my corneas. So I either leave it alone and walk around squinting like I have turrets, or I rub and cry until my makeup is running down my face and I can star in an Alice Cooper video – as Alice Cooper.

If I start running backward, will I lose weight any faster, because running forward seems to do nothing at all. Maybe I need to live in a backwards world in order for it to start moving forward. Of course, this would entail NOT sleeping, NOT brushing my hair, and NOT buying ridiculously expensive shoes that I just have to have without my husband knowing, so maybe that isn’t such a good idea after all. Can you imagine if we lived backward, and you were a really hot chick, with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, and you walked into some perv who was standing still?? Ouch.

I know this has been discussed by many before, but is it an omen that the first three letters of the word diet are D-I-E? Because realistically, you do actually feel like you might DIE somedays while partaking in this most heinous of activities. Which is sad when you think about it. You feel like you are going to die because you can’t eat 500 calories worth of cheese encrusted Doritos, or fill the fat pockets on your ass with an x-large DQ Oreo Blizzard. I myself have felt like I would rather be poked in the eye with a dull stick on more than occasion because I could not eat something as trivial and stupid as a piece of birthday cake or an entire bag of malted eggs. I think we should change the name from “dieting” to “eating empowered”. It might not always be true, but at least you can put a more positive spin on it.

Lastly, I know you have all been waiting with baited breath to find out how my “shitty day” went, and I am happy to report it was a success! Of course, I still have no feeling in my right foot or my left ass cheek, and my crack is so raw that if I fart I am pretty sure it will start my panties on fire, but nevertheless, it was a success. Instead of being bloated and filled with poo, I have gone from looking like I was 6 months pregnant, to a mere 3 months. It’s all in a days work.

What is your random thought for the day?

Caution: The blog you are about to read is not for the faint of heart. Please consult your doctor before reading if you have non-humorous stickuptheass-itis or take laughter inhibitors. You should also contact your doctor before partaking in the following laughing exercises, as some may be hazardous to your health. Signs that you suffer from this disease may include: total disgust at the brutal honesty contained in this entry, lack of the ability to imagine the enclosed scenarios without violently throwing up and the inability to eat or swallow the shit I am about to toss in your general direction.

With that said, have no fear, for the psycho-maniacal, mood altering, laugh-till-your-gut-busts woman of a million faces is back!!! I don’t even know where to begin but I started to feel lost without time to put my thoughts into words. Instead they have been swimming around in the muddle that is my mind and creeping into my dreams, making a peaceful nights sleep pretty much non-existent.

Can I just start out by saying, food has become like porn for my eyes. I know I shouldn’t look, or want it, (or lick it), but I am pulled into the fantasy of it all and I want to be a part of its dirty little world again. Watching someone scarf down a hamburger with a side of greasy, delicious fries is like girl on girl action to a nymphomaniac man whore. It is beautiful, and I shouldn’t be looking, but I just want a little taste. Just a bite. Or a lick. Does this make me bi-foodual? I love eating healthy and losing weight, and I feel absolutely amazing physically, but I still want to go out and have a 2 AM slop dog and an order of chili cheese fries that I will totally regret in the morning. After this is all said and done, the only food I may never be able to stomach again is chicken, because it hates me, and goes into my belly and then immediately comes right back out of my mouth. I would say chicken is the equivalent of full bush porn. You only eat (watch) it when all other food/porn options have been exhausted.

And to top it all off, I have now officially have lost enough weight that I have been crowned with the honor of having front butt. No lie. My stomach is shrinking and doing things that are NOT attractive. Like splitting down the middle, just below my bellow button so that it looks like I have two asses. And the messed up thing is I can’t poop out of either one. Which sucks, because I thoroughly enjoy pooping. I love the release of pressure on my belly, and the fact that when I am done I feel like I can wear a smaller pair of pants. But I have been DENIED this pooping glory time and time again since the surgery. And I have to wonder – what does my body DO with the poop? Is it like some form of alternative energy now? Is my body taking the poop and turning it into fuel? I don’t know, but it’s a pretty shitty situation.

In light of my non-pooping, and the fact that I am going back to the doctor next week and don’t want to carry one extra pound with me, I have designated an entire day to the art of pooping. I will paint my intestines with some Mylanta, accessorize it with an Ex-Lax or two, and hopefully end up with a white porcelain slate covered in beautiful brown poo. My only two goals for today are 1) get out all the poop I possibly can and 2) manage not to get any one me. Sounds simple, right?

Wish me luck folks, I’m going in.

Hello Kitty

Why is it that when you are indisposed (and by indisposed, I totally mean sitting in a comfy leather chair getting my nails done by a tiny Vietnamese woman) you have all your best blog ideas? And why don’t they stick in your brain for more than five minutes? Or is this just me? Because I will admit, as I sat there laughing inside my head (as I so often do) and listening to all the great ideas the voices had, I was instantly distracted by a shiny object. On the front counter, no more than two feet away from my wandering eyes, was a glittery, one foot high, motorized cat whose arm waved hello to people coming in. And….it was glittery, gold lamay. No lie. And I tried so hard to stay focused and keep repeating the lines in my head so I could frantically type them into my phone when the nail polish dried, but the cat kept waving at me. And it kind of made me smile. And did I mention it was shiny?? Stupid glittery, gold lamay cat that makes me smile and steals my bestest thoughts. Damn you!

It’s funny because the lady that does my nails is very pleasant, speaks English that I can decipher for the most part, and always remembers my name and thinks to ask how my kids are doing. Yet, and I hate to say this, she has the absolute worst breath I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. I mean, she wears one of those cloth surgical masks (which freak me out, because if there is something toxic in the air, where is MY surgical mask) and I can smell her breath as if she were tongue kissing me. No lie. It’s like something crawled out of her ass, died, crawled into her mouth, died again and was absorbed into her gums. And then she breathes it onto me. Gross.

And apparently they don’t realize that in order to continue to thrive as a business, you as an employee have to market the business as well. As I was sitting there having my acrylic beauty applied to my fragile, peeling human nails, I looked at her gloriously long and lustrous nails, and asked “How do you get your nails to look like that?” To which she replied “I don’t put this stuff on my nails (referencing the acrylic)”. Um, hello! What she should have said in a perfect universe was “I wore acrylic nails so long that they strengthened my natural nails so please come back time and time again. The process takes about 20 years”. Sweet naïve little Vietnamese woman with stinky ass breath.

Also, as a side note, I totally realize by posting this, I will have to find a new nail place should I ever become rich and famous and have this crap I speak published, but it’s a risk I am willing to take.

Trying to keep a house clean on Spring Break with two kids was work enough, but add two step children and it is the equivalent of trying to stuff a coked out octopus into an eight legged pair of spandex pants. We had my sons birthday party and my only *Make a Wish* request was to keep the house free of Easter basket grass and Pokemon cards until all the guests arrived. Then they could do what they pleased because I would have 10 other kids to blame the mess on. Neverless, it was a beautiful day, filled with beautiful people whom I love more than anything in the world. I have only two words to describe this most perfect of Sundays – Awe. Some.

We basked outside in the warmth of the sunshine, telling stories, laughing, poking fun at one another and enjoying one anothers company. Our ears were blessed with the sounds of dogs barking, children playing basketball and Rock Band, and sometimes me yelling for all the kids to get along or “they would be sorry”. Our noses were inundated with the smells of hot dogs and burgers on the grill. OK, so that part wasn’t so great for me, but it was still a beautiful day.

And today……ahhhhhh, blissful silence. Spring break is over and peace is restored. My mind is right side up and facing forward as the house is filled with the sounds of nothingness. My thinking is free again, my ears have stopped bleeding from all the arguing and whining about how, despite a house filled with every electronic gadget, toy and board game you can think of, there is nothing to dooooooo. No one is asking for anything, arguing over anything or stealing my lap top to download wrestling matches on YouTube. It’s truly a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

And if I am speaking in truths, let me also say I am doing the unthinkable, and I am taking a day off from working out. Because this weekend EXHAUSTED me and I need a day to do absolutely nothing but get my nails done and catch up on the 1001 shows I have DVR’d and haven’t taken time to watch. At least, that is my plan. Because I am obsessive compulsive. And already feeling guilty about not working out before I’ve already not done it. And because I’m a rule breaker. And unable to sit still. Like the 8 legged coked out octopus.

As they say, sometimes even the best paid plans go awry. But, no matter what I choose to do, or not do, at least the day is mine again to do with as I please.

Who wears short shorts?

I've heard of junk in the trunk, but I wish you would

pack it into an SUV instead of a Geo Metro.

As a right of passive into Spring and Summer, we start to notice the ass munchers coming out. What is an ass muncher, you ask? An ass muncher is a teeny, tiny pair of shorts worn by girls between the ages of 15-25 that ride so far up their adolescent asses, that their ass starts to munch on the cotton/poly fabric as if partaking in an afternoon snack. I live near a college where ass munching is a popular pastime. I believe that when you are young and you have a bangin’ body, free from the stretch marks of childbirth or the cellulite that comes with middle age, you should work it however you chose. However, these girls’ bodies….not so bangin’.



There is an epidemic going on out here in good old Perry, NY called “The Lovehandle Syndrome”. All the girls have it. It isn’t the freshman 20 or a symptom complicated by wearing the wrong pants, it is part of the culture out here. And they all have stick legs. It looks like a sea of bowling balls walking around on stilts. They squeeze their size 12 asses into size 8, low rise jeans, throw on a wonder bra and a faded tank top, top it off with a pair of flip flops, and make a day out of it. It’s really quite sad, yet oddly fun to watch. Once again, I digressed from my main point.

The ass munchers. A society of girls who think it’s sexy to wear shorts, whether denim or cotton, that are so short that as they walk the back end rises up into the crack of their asses and make it look as though each cheek were its own separate entity. Sometimes the asses have words on them. It might have said Juicy when they put the shorts on, but after a 5 minute hike to class their ass now reads Jucy. And don’t even get me started on the cellulite and thigh flab these girls sport because I might have to vomit up my protein shake.

How did I come to live in a place where it was socially acceptable for your ass to eat your pants and no one seems to notice or pass a law against it? Should we form support groups for these girls? Should we hire additional law enforcement to site them for lude conduct? Can we get some volunteers to walk around campus randomly yanking girls shorts out of their asses and giving them a pair that fit? I don’t know the answers but if the world is being taken over by these love handle sporting, ass crack shorts eating, tank top with booby flab wearing girls, it might not be a world I want to raise my children in.

Ninja Sarah

I have a best friend/ninja. Her name is Ninja Sarah. We talk in half sentences. With pauses in between them. And she is aWeSoMe. Because she totally gets me. And we have the most redonkulous conversations together. I told her about my long term goal of traveling cross country in an RV with someone and she was instantly down. She never asked where we were going or what kind of RV we would get. She wanted to get a leg up on ordering matching track suits. And sun visors. And a pair of matching Crocs. What says best friend better than matching Crocs. Um, nothing.

Ninja Sarah and I have the longest conversations about absolutely nothing. They span for days – sometimes, months. They seldom make sense to anyone but us, and we are ok with that. We laughed so hard that once, we almost drove off the road and into a field because our eyes were watering and our heads were pounding as we had a 45 minute conversation about all the naughty things we wanted to do to our boss. Because although he has a huge head, and a wonky eye, he had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.

We have conversations about men and their manginas. Feminine men who we can’t help but to love but who piss us off and need to grow a sack and man up. We have the same ideals on relationships and why our brains are crazy-psycho-upside-down-and-backward when it comes to long term relationships and happily ever afters.

We shop too much, drink too much wine, laugh too hard at our own jokes, spend too much money on purses and heels we never wear, enjoy buttered bananas and nutella cradled in sugary crepes to the point of inappropriate public orgasm, and we both have a broken filter. There is no swinging door between our brains and our mouths and so we tend to talk too loud, for far too long about things like poop, constipation, full butted underwear and anal sex.

Neither of us are morning people. We do not enjoy the feel of a steel rod (commonly known as, morning wood) pressing against our spines in the morning in some lame effort to get morning sex. We are makeup snobs, we are anti-wearing-your-pajama-bottoms-in-public, and when I was whining and complaining about being a Fatty McFatAss, she didn’t sugar coat a thing. She said, with all the love she could muster, “get off your fat ass and do something about it, or deal with it”. And I loved her for that.

She is the female version of my soul mate. I can talk to her about anything from an itchy vag to hemorrhoids and she doesn’t bat an eyelash or cringe or make a face. Instead she jumps right in like we are having a conversation about something as important and controversial as global warming.

She brings me lattes for no reason at all, tells me when those jeans make my ass look fat, tells me I’m pretty, and never judges me when I burp in public, pick my ass, have a zit the size of Mt. Everest on my face, or talk incessantly about how my boobs are different sizes and I am convinced it is because one of them is loaded with tumors.

I can’t remember the first time I knew we were Ninja soul mates, but I am pretty sure it was the day we spent an entire workday writing each other emails in song verse. We sent them back and forth for close to 8 hours using song lyrics from NKOTB and Barbara Streisand and since that day, I can’t get the lyrics “you don’t send me flowers anymooooorrreee” out of my head.

Everyone should have a Ninja Sarah. They should sell them on an endcap in Target. Mostly because when I told her I was writing a blog about her and asked if she had any stories I should (or shouldn’t add) she sent me this:

Aw Tear! All I have to say is that I love you, you are my soul mate and I remember the day I fell in love with you. It was a lovely warm day (I have no concept of month or time of yr) and we went to TGI Friday’s and had the worst dessert ever and that was the last time we ever ordered off the healthy dessert menu (dumbest thing we ever did) but it was our ride home that I truly knew that we were meant to be together. We laughed so hard our heads hurt and our throats were sore and we both told secrets to each other that will bind our love forever. It was first day of the rest of my life (or some bullshit like that) and at that point I knew I never needed to filter my life for anyone and it was fantastic. My give a damn was completely smashed by you and I am forever grateful. Although I had the zsa zsa’s for you the first day I met you that day made me truly believe that coming to NY was the best choice I ever made in my life b/c I found my ninja wife, my life partner and my HOAR!
I am not the writer in this relationship; I am just a Ma-chine.

I laughed, cried, farted and almost peed my pants when I read that. Let me explain a couple of things just so they make a little more sense.

1) Ma-Chine. I don’t know if anyone will ever get this unless you were there but I will make an effort to explain it. Ninja Sarah and I were driving in Geneseo one day and we were reading the bumper stickers on the back of something very Yugo-ish. The word ‘machine’ was on one of the stickers in some capacity, but when Sarah was saying the word, she forgot how to speak and it came out as too words. Ma. Chine. And it was hysterical. See, probably only funny to us, but funny just the same.

2) The zsa zsa’s (aka the zsa zsa zoo’s) are that crazy, gut, over the top, madly in love, butterflies in the belly feeling when you meet someone that just gets you and makes you feel alive again.

3) A HOAR is the same as a WHORE but with different meanings. For different reasons. A HOAR is someone who is off the charts, both whoarish and stupid as opposed to a WHORE who is just a skank in the average sense of the word. If you yell either one really loud, it sounds hysterical. The HOAR was derived from a trip home from Vermont, listening to the Playboy channel, and playing along to the Porn Alphabet. The lady on the radio said, in her best $2.99/minute voice, name a word that starts with the letter H, and without hesitation I screamed out HOAR. And that is when we almost drove off the thruway at 70mph from laughing like escapee insane asylum people. (And yes, I knew even at the time that it was spelled WHORE, but it just came out and has made for a great story ever since.)

4) Lastly, and most importantly, Sarah and I were bonded by our hatred for all things Perry. She came from Vermont and was here only with her boyfriend. I moved here from Buffalo with my husband and kids. Although her drive to see her family was 7 hours, and mine only just over an hour, we still felt like we were thrown into some alternate universe from hell. The culture and the atmosphere out here is unlike anything I have ever known. People talk different, dress different, raise their kids different, have different ideals and values, and think hot dogs covered in peanut butter are a food group. We were both miserable, and both attracted to each other by each others accessories. Partly because they were shiny and distracted us, but mostly because they were like some universal symbol that we, in fact, did NOT belong here. Our friendship has made living out here seem not only bearable, but at times enjoyable. It has forced us to find new places and new things like a giant life long scavenger hunt. Oh, and we have not one, but two matching tattoos. We both have a ninja tattooed on our necks, and we have a very feminine and beautiful bird/heart tattoo. We are ink bonded for life.



These are a few of the reasons why I am the person I am today. Because I found someone that allows me to be the person I am and smacks me with a shoe when my head gets too big or I whine too much. Thanks Ninja Sarah for being my keeper of all secrets, my tattoo buddy, and my family.

To Eat or Not To Eat....So NOT a Question

This surgery and non-eating business is screwing with my fat girl psyche and I think she is getting pissed off. Today I tried to up my calorie intake because I was hoping to boost my weight loss. Sounds like wonky math, right? I know. This is how my world has been turned upside down.

Increasing caloric intake a month ago would have resulted in my back having more rolls than an Italian bakery. Increasing it now results in a lower number on scale. Me so confused. I jumped for joy when I saw that I had taken in 955 calories the other day. I burned 300 off on the treadmill but this was the most food I have eaten since surgery.

It was actually hard work trying to manage eating all day long. How is that possible? I used to be able to eat any time of the day or night without provocation. I could down a bag of Pepperidge Farms Macadamia Nut and Chocolate Chunk cookies like it was the last meal I would ever eat. And follow it with a handful of tiny candy bars. Washed down with a diet soda. Because that totally cancels out all the other calories I just ate.

But today I was totally uninterested in eating and I had to force myself to continue to do so until until that stupid calorie counter went up. This wasn’t an easy feat when the list of things you can eat are about as long as my pinky nail. This was the first time since surgery that I have eaten over 700 calories and I feel kind of guilty for doing it. So much so that I worked out twice as long on the treadmill which means I burned more calories and kind of defeated my original goal. Plus I wanted to vomit. And I hate to say it, but I kind of hated food and the way it felt sitting like a rock in my undersized belly. I felt loaded down and gross and it curbed any craving I have had lately for chips or cookies.

And to add insult to injury, I can’t sleep. It’s like I have betrayed my body with exercise and eating better and as its revenge it refuses to shut down and let me fall into a peaceful slumber. Instead my mind works on double overload, my legs twitch and some nights, I have this odd need to get out of bed and just dance Ellen Degeneres style around the room. It’s like I’m not even in control of my body anymore.

And without the self deprecating feeling of eating like a sumo wrestler and getting fatter, I don’t feel as funny anymore. There is nothing funny about getting skinny and eating like a prison inmate. The only thing funny is watching me walk the treadmill after about 30 minutes with sweat dripping down my face and the beginning of a limp coming on. And I would totally YouTube it for your entertainment, but I’m too vain to let you see me with frizzy hair, last nights pajama pants and a face full of day old makeup that makes me look like Gene Simmons.

Yet another mind blowing rendition of.....

Why do grown men think it is just as sexually and socially acceptable at age 36 as it was at age 15 to grab a girls boob and giggle about it? Why do they think this is some prelude to sex that gets us all hot and bothered? I for one DO NOT like to be mauled like the last cupcake at a Overeaters Anonymous meeting. I would like some romance. Maybe some candlelight, some mood music, a little K-Y His and Hers….anything but the rough groping hand of a man who hasn’t mentally matured past the “girls have boobies” phase.

Secondly, I am seriously considering changing the name of that thing that tells me my weight, from a scale to a “mother-f**king-son-of-a-whore-lying-POS” because this is the name I call it every day when I check in on the level of my fat assedness. I need him to cooperate with me and tell me what I want to hear, and I really, really, want to like him, but he keeps going behind my back when I’m not looking and flipping the script on me and telling me I weigh more than I should. He is like that “awesome” friend that tells you your dress is cute only to mutter under her breath as you walk away, “if by cute you mean, horribly ugly”. Bitch.

Why does my body hate 6” heels? My feet look FABULOUS in them, my legs look longer, and I look leaner, so if my body could just get the memo and catch up that would be super. The worst part is, my body deceives me repeatedly. I put on a pair of these super, killer, very Carrie Bradshaw, walking the runway, heels and my feet say “hey, these are the bomb shit! And comfy!”. And then, I leave the house. Without a backup pair of shoes or flip flops to put on when my toes curl into tiny balls and my feet start to feel like I am walking on a bed made of nails. I go from walking like a Victoria’s Secret Model down the runway to hobbling along like a participant in the Special Olympics who fell and wasn’t wearing a helmet. Not a pretty sight.

Why do men assume that all women wake up looking like a soap actress in the morning. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a chipper person in the morning. I wake up looking like Frankenstein’s bride, I do not like to actually BE woken up, but instead I like to wake up and watch infomercials on mute for a half an hour, and I hate hot morning breath in my face. I am generally cranky for the first 15 minutes, I scratch my ass, I don’t like morning wood poking the side of my leg because that just isn’t going to happen, I fart out all the gas I was apparently holding in while I slept and my breath smells like I ate ass chips in my sleep. Just an FYI for all the men out there that wonder what it would be like to wake up next to me everyday.

Lastly, I am the queen of weird long term goals. One of my bucket list dreams is to travel cross country in an RV with someone who makes me laugh and who I could stand to sit next to for 12 hours a day. I want to wear matching track suits, collect souvenirs from famous diners and truck stops in every state, and take pictures in front of things like alligator farms and giant dinosaurs. Then I want to turn them into a slide show and make all my friends sit through it as we narrate each and every picture ad nauseum until they either pass out from boredom or revoke our friendship license.

Those are my random thoughts for this week. Stay tuned next week for Episode 3 of “Days of My Dysfunctional Over Thinking Life”.

Weight Loss Goals and Upper Body Whoa's

So as of yesterday.......drumroll, please......I hit my first weight loss goal. I am now 1/4 of the way towards my long term goal. That's right, I dropped 25 pounds. 25 pounds!! It didn't seem like a lot until I broke it down into percentages, but it IS a lot. My body feels better than it has in 10 years. I can walk without leg cramps, I am more agile, I don't get tired as easily, OH! AND!! I can see my feet without having to peer over my boobs and my gut. Gross I know, but monumental just the same. It inspires me to keep looking forward and to stop getting so stuck in the present. I get frustrated that the weight didn't just fall off. It's like I expected to become a surgical wonder child who would lose 60 pounds in a single bound. My own negativity is my kryptonite and I need to find my way around it.

With that said, while my legs are like tiny cellulite filled power houses that could walk for days, I have found that I currently have the upper body strength of a toddler. Walking is the only exercise allowed for four weeks until everything inside heals, so while my legs are like Iron Man strong, my arms and shoulders are like day old, watery jello. They get tired just washing my hair for God sakes. I was shaving my legs the other day and I swear I got a muscle cramp in my bicep (if I actually had a bicep that is!), and I just stood there with a half shaved leg and a WTF look on my face. When did that happen? When did I become....dare I say it....almost middle aged? I am counting the days until next Wednesday and then I am going to lift weights like Rosie O'Donnell eating at the Chinese Buffet. It's on like Donkey Kong now.

I have a mini informercial type gym set up in our sitting room that consists of a treadmill, an Ab-Doer Twist, a Shake Weight, hand weights and a body ball. I have DVD's for days all lined up and ready to collect dust....I mean, get used. One more week of walking the treadmill, and then I am venturing on to new workouts that will hopefully at least increase my upper body strength to that of a 10 year old boy. Everyone has to have a dream, right?

My kids being home on Spring break is cock blocking my writing like a bad yeast infection on a first date. Instead of being overloaded with funny thoughts and insights into my wackadoo life, they are flooded with the repitition of very mom-like things such as "because I'm the mom and I said so" and "if I have to tell you one more time to stop that". My already very ADD mind is on system shut down and restarting it will take more than a battery jump or a slap upside the head. I just want a margerita (strawberry please), a comfy lawn chair and a cool summer breeze on my face. Then I need a comfy bed and a spooning partner...and a door strong enough to shut out the voices in my head. Is that too much to ask?

My morning routine is FUBAR (f**ked up beyond all recognition) because for some odd reason, we are all sleeping in till like 8:30 or 9:00 o'clock, which is normally unheard of in my house. I remember years past when I was so psyched that it was going to be a school break. I would dream of sleeping in and awakening to the birds chirping, and the sunshine on my face, and I would get up and lazily have coffee and toast while the kids slept in till noon. Well, that dream sucks. Getting up an hour or two later than I am used to throws off my whole day. Sleeping in is for suckers and people without ambition as far as I am concerned now. I feel like my morning is wasted, between taking all of eternity to drink my protein shake, writing my blog entry, checking out how everyone is doing on Facebook and then mustering up enough energy to tackle the dreaded treadmill. Before I know it, it's noon and I have to get my ass moving on cleaning the house and tackling any errands I have for the day. I glance at the clock again, and it's dinner time. WTF? How did an hour or so throw off my entire day. I blame it on the kids. And Tim. Because they are a convenient excuse and it's easier than listening to the voice in my head that says "then just get up earlier dumb ass".

This break in my daily cycle has to be the reason that my body revolted against me last night when I tried to eat my chicken and fat free refried dinner again for what seemed like the 450th time this month. I was sitting peacefully, eating teaspoons of pureed chicken and pathetically watching Grey's Anatomy re-runs on TV when all of the sudden.......it happened. I slowly felt the chicken making a repeat appearance in my throat and then there it was. In the toilet. Still in the chunks I had swallowed. Laughing and pointing at me like some sort of cruel joke. Which sucks because tuna and chicken are basically the only meat I can eat right now, and with the chicken acting like a jealous ex-boyfriend, I am having a hard time remembering why I ever liked it in the first place. Which takes me back to shakes, soups and jello. Yum.

Oh, and as a side note, with the kids being home, my life has not only become one repeat episode of Clean House, but I am apparently stuck in jelly bean hell. Everywhere I go it's like a mini jellybean Easter egg hunt. I find them everywhere. Yesterday I found one behind the damned toilet. Who eats jellybeans in the bathroom? Does it take so long to take a piss that you need a sugar boost at 3pm? Kids are stupid. I know that sounds mean, but really take a minute to think about all the stupid things your kids do and then try to disagree with me. It's not to say I don't love them more than life itself. It's just that they are stupid.

And on that note, I am out of here. Because half my morning is gone, along with half of my sanity, and I need to try to preserve both before you catch me on the 11 o'clock news.

I'm here for your entertainment......

So, since I am still high off of the smell of honey baked ham, plus exhausted from a busy weekend, I am copping out of an actual blog and posting one of those "tell me more about your boring life" quizzes. Only, I answer it by my rules! So enjoy, and I will try to slough off yesterdays resentment toward all things delicious and get my head back on semi-straight.

Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth?
I swear to tell my warped version of the truth for your entertainment

Where were you last night?
I was home. I have an alibi I swear.
Whatever it was, and whoever did it, it wasn't me

What is today's date?
I don't have a date today. I am married.

Who was the last person to call you baby/babe?
My mommy cause she loves me

When you're at the grocery store do you use the self checkout?
I used to but it makes me mad when light items don't register and then I throw stuff

Anyone crushing on you?
The bowl of chocolate eggs across the room is giving me a come hither look.

What is your relationship status?
Married and wondering why.
LOL

Has anyone ever sang to you?
A bum sang to me once as I was going into school. It was the downtown version of Homeless American Idol. Awesome.

Has anyone ever given you roses?
You don't bring me roses anymoooorreee....(ya know, the song?)

If you were abandoned in the wilderness, would you survive?
Not unless I was Tom Hanks and had a cool volleyball to keep me company

Who do you text the most?
The FBI to tell them where my sisters are cause those crazy girls have GOT TO BE Americas Most Wanted

How do you make your money?
I would tell you but I don't want to spend another night in the clink

First person to text today?
1-800-Fast-Cash asking if I needed an emergency loan.
I said yes, and then they told me I would have to pay it back! Bastards!!

What is your favorite color?
Blood Red

What color are your eyes?
Depends on my mood.
Sometimes brownish, green when I cry and yellow when I'm lying

What is a compliment you receive often?
Nice rack

How tall are you?
5'4"

Do you like your parents?
More than the Menendez brothers.
LOL

Do you secretly like someone?
I secretly like my husband but don't tell him

Why did your last relationship end?
Because he was a dirty little whore

Who was the last person you said you loved on the phone?
A bill collector

Where is the furthest place you've traveled?
To hell and back.

Which do you prefer, to eat or sleep?
I like to eat in my sleep

Do you look more like your mom or your dad?
I look like the mailman

How long does it take you to shower?
depends on if I use soap

Can you do splits?
Only banana ones

Are you flexible?
I bend like a crazy straw. Thats why Tim married me.

What did you do on New Years Eve?
Your mom.

Was your mom there?
Read the above question

Can you speak any other language than English?
I speak evil

What is the last letter of your middle name?
E

How many hours of sleep did you get last night?
8 wonderful pain pill induced coma hours

Do you wear your seatbelt in the car?
I still sit in a booster seat

Are you scared of flying?
I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky.

What do you sleep in?
My bed

Do you like funny people or serious people?
Seriously funny people

What are you listening to?
The Circus music in my head

What jewelry do you wear all the time?
my cock ring

What do you have planned for tonight?
I am going to romance myself and then take advantage of myself

Is the last person you kissed older than you?
I don't kiss and tell. My husband gets jealous.

Do you prefer myspace or socialsplash?
Facebook. Oh, and Socialsplash sounds like something I might need antibiotics for later.

Do you have a favorite item of clothing?
My pink sparkly thong that glows in the dark.

Do you like messages or comments better?
I like when people comment on messages

Last movie you saw in theaters?
I haven't been in a theater since the uncomfortable incident where me and pee Wee Herman were in the same row.

Last thing you ate?
A pain pill

What was last thing you drank?
My last victims blood

Are you happy right now?
duh, i took a pain pill

If you could have one thing right now what would it be?
My body at 18

Who makes you happiest right now?
Me having surgery means I get to spend time with my family

What were you doing at midnight last night?
i thought I told you I had an alibi!!!

Are you left handed?
Only when I kill my victims

What was for dinner tonight?
Liver and cauliflower stew

What is the last thing you thought about?
Why I ate liver and cauliflower soup

When is your birthday?
Everyday is my birthday.
Buy me something!

Do you want to get married & have children one day?
I just say No

Enjoy the Peep Show

Today is Easter, and this is usually a joyous day for me, not so much because of the religious implications, but because this is where my true ninja skillz come into play as I partake in the stealing of my kids chocolates and sweets. I revel in the sugary, marshmellowy goodness of a headless Peep as I make its beheaded body dance across my leg just before I inhale it. I long for the chocolately smooth goodness of a Reese’s peanut butter egg or the succulent sweetness of a handful of red jelly beans.

Instead I am reduced to eating a single piece of geriatric chocolate to fill the urge a couple of times a week. I am hooked on Russell Stover’s sugar free mint patties. I want to sit here and eat them like it’s my full time job, and I want to eat so many, so fast that I get a promotion for it.

The baskets sit on the table and the stupid little bunny rabbit faces on the front of the baskets leer at me, almost saying “neener, neener, neener, you can’t have this you stupid, fat, surgery having moron” and I want to take their cute, fuzzy little ears, and rip them off and shove them down the garbage disposal. What can I say? I’m in the holiday spirit.

I am constantly being reminded of how drastically my life is changing. With every passing birthday, holiday, special event and with the roaming smells of people BBQ’ing outside, I get a little more accustomed to dealing with the fact that things are just different now, and maybe this change isn’t such a bad thing. I am resigning myself to the idea that I have to find new ways to fill the voids in my life than with candy and food and alcohol. I’m really starting to like walking, I find myself rarely turning on the TV anymore so I can read or write, and my body feels better than it has in 10 years.

I feel young again. I don’t feel burdened by cancer and depression and constant weight gain. I don’t self loathe anymore or spend days on the couch waiting for the world to change and bend to my will. Instead I use the frustration and turn it into positive energy and I get my fat ass off the couch and do something other than whine about things I can no longer change. Life is too short to waste it wishing on shooting stars or planning it according to online horoscopes. I will determine my own fate, make my own destiny and plot my own journey.

I take inventory of my life up till now and I am shocked by what a sweets whore I had become. I was ruled and controlled by late night binges on tiny, lovely Butterfingers and pints of chocolately ice cream. I was dancing the tango with macadamia/chocolate chip cookies and falling into bed with bags of miniature candy bars. It was dirty and degrading, and although I loved the way it made me feel at the time, now I realize our rendezvous were tainted with cellulite and love handles. It makes me feel a little used and I am a jilted lover, but as they say, time heals all wounds. And stretch marks.

And if I can’t partake in chocolate love making or sugary orgasms anymore, then it is the price I will just have to pay in order to fit into smaller jeans that will make my husband sing “Oooohh baby I love your ways, everyday”.

Happy Easter Everybunny! Hope all my "Peeps" have a Hip Hoppity kind of day :)

Till Death (or Justified Homicide) Do Us Part

My husband and I have made a pact. He is not allowed to die until we are old and bored with each other. There are two reasons behind this pact: 1) First, dying sucks. It’s a messy business that I have no time for. C) Second, I don’t ever want to date again. The second reason alone is enough to make me burn any DNR proxy he might fancy himself. Let me tell you why.

First, I have no social filter anymore. That little swinging door between your brain and your mouth that filters out the garbage broke a long time ago. Random thoughts and words flow freely from my mouth like a rusty spigot. And I don’t care. Because if the truth hurts, and you can’t handle it, then maybe, just maybe it’s time for you to grow a pair and man up. I believe life is too short for misguided truths and polite white lies. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Dirty jokes, random racist/socialist remarks, and the occasional limerick have all been known to spew forth like an oil leak in my brain. Because I am old enough and I have dealt with enough crap in my life to warrant a little idon’tgiveafuck-edness.

Second, grooming. Need I say more? Don’t get me wrong, I am a hygienically conscious person. I don’t leave the house in sweats with two day old greasy hair. I brush my teeth a few times a day, and shower on a regular basis. I am talking about the waxing-shaving-plucking-curling and straightening of it all. If I had to go back to making sure to shave my legs and my lady space every single day on the off chance that I might have sex or that some random man might decide this was a Lady Bic commercial and run his hand up my thigh….well, let’s just say I would rather shoot myself in the face with a flare gun. Twice. I have nightmares of having to run to the grocery store in full makeup, wearing 6” stilettos in the hopes that I will meet Mr. Man while feeling up a cantaloupe. I just don’t have time for that anymore. Give me boring married sex on the couch at 2 in the afternoon while the kids are outside playing so can go to sleep whether or not I shaved anyday of the week.

Plus, there is all the meeting of the family and friends and putting on your happy, smiley, look how perfect I am, face and that is just plain exhausting. And retarded. Because eventually they are going to figure out I am an ADD, rambling, happy drunk who spends too much money on shoes and occasionally farts in public. That’s just me.

So, it is written that my husband is not allowed to die until I say so. Because we are married and that is a law I am allowed to create if he ever wants to see me naked or have me touch his manhood ever again. That’s not to say justified homicide or divorce are out of the question, but both of those things would happen on my own terms and that is a story for another day.

Thigh miss you so much

A miraculous thing is transforming and I must say, it makes me smile a little wider today. Despite my hatred for all things treadmill, my thighs are getting smaller. The odd thing, I wasn't the first to notice it. I sauntered down the stairs in a pair of jeans that were too small on me this time last year, only to have my hubby say, I can tell your legs are getting smaller. If we didn't have somewhere to go right at that moment, those sexy jeans might have come off. But I digress.

I have noticed that my thighs don't overlap one another when walking anymore. They stroll together nicely, side by side, touching gently like two strangers passing in the night. It's a beautiful love story. As time goes by they will grow distant and will hopefully never touch again, but the memory of their past closeness will forever remain in their memories. Ahhhhh love......

A couple of nights ago my husband agreed to accompany myself and the dogs on a neighborhood journey. Being the overly ambitious person I am lately, I pushed myself hard and realized a very important thing - maybe the treadmill isn't so bad after all. It's steady and easy to pace, there are no broken sidewalks or tree roots to jump out and attack you, and when I get tired or get a muscle cramp, I can turn it off and I am already home. Oh, and the couch is much closer when I don't want to walk anymore. 'Cause if you lie on someone elses lawn to take a nap, they tend to not like that.

So, while I am over obsessing on other disturbing areas of my body, and fidgeting on the scale everyday frustrated that the weight hasn't all fallen off yet and that I don't look like Pam Anderson running the beaches of Baywatch, at least my thighs are cooperating.

Random Thoughts Thursday

Why do my dogs lick each others eyeballs? Is this where their sex glands are located? Is it some perverted form of doggy foreplay? I don’t know, but it creeps me out because everytime I look over and see one of them licking the eyeball of the other, I picture my own eyeball being licked, and that does not turn me on. If Tim every licked my eyeball in some weird form of ancient Chinese foreplay, I would stick a pen in his eye. And rotate it.

If you have a 10 year old son who still hasn’t mastered the art of putting the toilet seat up, flushing when he is done, and washing his hands, is that considered a handicap? And if so, can I get one of those nifty blue placards to hang in the window of my van? I mean really, why is this a lesson I have to teach more than a dozen times? I do not appreciate the smell of pungent first pee of the morning urine stewing in my pot when I go to brush my teeth. It is not pleasing to my nose and it pretty much screws with the rest of my day.

Can you sue a flat chested woman for false advertising if she is a Victoria-Secret-super-push-up-bra-accompanied-by-chicken-cutlets-under-the-boobs wearing woman that you take home and realize upon nakedness has the chest of a 12 year old boy? I think you should be able to. I mean, I don’t go out wearing a super slimming Spanx girdle that makes me look like I’m a size 8, only to get me home and have me explode onto your mattress like day old yeast. It’s only fair.

How do we live in a place called “the land of the free” when we have the highest rate of incarceration than anywhere else in the world? Should we re-label it “land of the free as long as you don’t rape, murder, maim, rip off or piss off anyone”?

Transvestites. Why is it ok for you to dress up in an obscene amount of makeup and wear hot pink wigs and sparkly dresses and yet when I do it, people assume I need mental assistance? You dressed up in drag = Fabulosity. Me dressed up in drag = the crazy cat lady. It’s just not fair. You get to belt out Liza Minelli and get paid for it. I dress up like that and they offer me money for something completely different.

Last and most important random thought for the day: Why, oh why, have they not made my life a reality show? We will sit and watch trailer trash 16 year old girls and their baby daddy drama, or 20 something’s with too much money from mommy and daddy who spend a half hour shopping and saying “like” and “totally”, but we won’t watch a 35 year old mom of two whose ex-husband left her to be with her cousin, and had a baby? My life is reality. Follow me around in my sweats as I spend my days making meals I don’t want to eat, deal with an ADHD son with no common sense, an 11 year Diva who thinks she is 25, a husband who stares at me like a three headed goat when I yell, and enough crazy relatives and friends to fill an episode of Hee Haw. That’s reality.

What's your random thought for the day?