Does this blog make me look fat?

Usually I am right on board with the rest of the delusional idiots who vow to work out more and eat better in the new year. I am normally right there with the rest of “them”, hogging treadmills and grunting while I use the free weights. I endure the nasty glares from the regular gym junkies for the whole two weeks that I stick to my new years resolutions. This year, I am not going to vow those things. I am going to vow to continue to live my life just the way it is - with a healthy balance of family, friends, fitness and happiness. And in doing so, this is the only “resolution” I am making this year:


I am resolving to allow myself to be more than a number, whether it be the number on the scale, on the tag of my jeans or the label inside my shirt because, I deserve to stop beating the hell out of my ego and self esteem. For three years I have been my harshest critic. I have never stood back and just allowed myself to really see how far I have come. I have been lost in my own head, and most of the time, my head has been trapped up my own ass.

Whether I am an 8 or a 10 or a 12, I am still better than I was when I was stuffing my Ben and Jerry’s eating ass into a size 28. I have to stop with the self deprecating jokes about my “fat ass”. I have to stop hating the person I see in the mirror. I have to learn to be more gracious when I receive compliments. I have to love myself more and stop believing that I am in competition with everyone else. When I look in the mirror and feel even the slightest bit of pride in what I have accomplished, I have to stop thinking that I don’t deserve to feel that way.

I want to try to see myself the way others see me. I want to borrow the eyes of the people who love me most, and see myself the way they see me. It doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be a flab free size 6, but I need to work with what I got, ya know?

I need to do these things for several reasons:

• I want to give my children a healthy perspective on their bodies. My son battles with his weight on and off, and I feel like sometimes my insecurities and my issues have affected his self image. My daughter is naturally thin and strong, but struggles with the fear of getting fat when she gets older. I want them to work hard, and enjoy their childhood in a healthy, nondestructive way.  I want them to love their bodies in a way that I have never been able to.

• I will never have a healthy relationship if I don’t stop being a whining, sniveling control freak who doesn’t want to get undressed with the lights on, or who spends every second wondering if I look “fat”. If he is with me, says he loves me, and brags about me to his friends then I need to believe in what he says. If he tells me I’m hot, I don’t have to believe it, but I have to believe that he believes it.

• I don’t want to be burned at the stake like Joan of Ark by my family and loved ones for going on for one more second about my flabby skin, my gut, my ass or my deflated arms. No one cares. Except me. And I shouldn’t.

• And mainly, because I need to preserve my sanity. I have two teenage children who like to test my patience and their boundaries, and I need to have my wits sharp and undeterred. Rather than worrying about how to remove the excess skin with a rusty scalpel and some Tylenol, I need to have laser focus on things like teenage boys who want to touch my teenage daughter, or my teenage son who has already *gasp* kissed a girl. Probably with tongue. And how to prevent my babies from making babies, smoking pot, snorting Smarties (yes, this is a real thing), or sneaking out late at night. And while I am keenly aware that most of these things will eventually happen anyway, I at least want to be fast enough and alert enough to chase after them once I have caught them doing it. And while “happy pills” do indeed make you less psychotic, I would rather have a little rage that will instill some fear into their tiny teenage hearts.

So in short, in 2013 I will make a steadfast attempt to be less of an asshole. I can’t make any guarantees, but I will try. Now, I am going to get my fat ass off of this computer and get to the gym! Hey, it’s still 2012.

Haters Gonna Hate, Ya'll

I am pigeonholed into a conundrum that doesn't allow people to quite understand my daily dilemma.  No, I am not as stick skinny as you would expect me to be considering you always see me with a banana, or yogurt or veggies being shoveled into my pie slot.  I am not a size 4.  I do not have exposed ribs or pelvic bones.  I have an ass.  I have a womans rack (and a nice one, if I do say so myself!), rather than the flat chest of a 12 year old girl.  I have curves and wrinkles of skin and flabby knees.  And yet, I workout 5-6 days a week.  I run, I kettlebell like a mother fucker, I yoga like a true yogi, I elliptical and treadmill and circuit train with the best of them.  So, clearly I am a conundrum and people don't know how to interpret me.  I am not what you expect me to be, and that is ok. 

And to those people I say:

I'm sorry I am no longer your fat friend.  I'm sorry that I can't make you feel better about drowning your sorrows in an entire peanut butter pie by joining you.  I'm sorry that I would rather go to the gym than hang out on your couch eating Doritos and drinking vodka/tea's.  I'm sorry that you don't understand why I won't have "just one cookie" or why I choose to take the bread off of my sandwich and just eat the protein filled turkey and cheese that is actually good for me.  I'm sorry that I made a vow to change my life and I tricked you all by sticking to it.  I'm sorry that when you look at me waiting for me to gain my weight back, instead I work harder and build more muscle.  I'm sorry that we can't share clothes anymore.  I'm sorry that you couldn't be a real friend who was truly happy for me.  I'm sorry that I stopped feeling sorry for myself, and started valuing my life and all that it had to offer. 

I'm sorry you don't take the time to see inside my soul.  I'm sorry that you are missing out on someone who is worth more now because she isn't ashamed to leave the house, or try to buckle herself into your car, or eat in a restaurant without thinking she is being criticized.  I'm sorry that you are missing out on someone who is stronger, happier and healthier.  I'm sorry that you are to small minded to see past my outsides, and realize I am the same funny, loud, loving, big hearted person that I was when I was just...well, a big person.  I'm sorry that you don't take the time to recognize that I work hard to be a  better person for the people that truly support me.  My mother, my father, my sisters, my true family, my husband, my children.  The people who really matter.  I'm sorry you will miss out on all of that.  I'm sorry that you neglect to remember all the years I hated myself.  How quickly you forget all the times I cried on your shoulder, telling you I would rather be dead than fat.  How easy it was for you to erase the memories of me being too embarassed to enter a store that wasn't "fat people friendly" for fear of being judged.  I guess it was easier to love me when there was, literally, more of me to love.  Shame on you for such conditional acceptance.

But on the flip side, thank you.  Thank you for not believing in me.  Thank you for doubting me.  Thank you for showing me your true colors.  Thank you for being jealous and envious and bitter and mean.  Because you are the reason I put down the cookies and pick up the free weights every, single day.  You are the reason I may not be a size 4, but I will never be a size 24 again.  You are the reason I make myself go to the gym or roll out the yoga mat when I would rather sit on the couch, watching reruns of Full House.  You are the reason I now know the people I can really trust.  Thank you for being the reason I wake up everyday sure of knowing who I can turn to, who really supports me, and who loves me just the way I am.  Thank you for allowing me to look myself in the mirror and love me in spite of my flaws.

To all the people who don't know where I belong, it's probably because I don't belong in your life.  But, thank you for being part of my journey, because all of the stumbles and falls of yesterday have led me to walk stronger and taller today.  And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I will run.  But you won't be there to see it, and that is ok, because you don't deserve to be a part of my joy, anymore than I deserve to be a part of your self hatred.

A case of the Gimme Gimme's

There are a lot of things I want an explantion for.  I want things, and I want to know why I either can't understand them, or can't have them happen.  For example:

I want a small ass. This will never happen. I’m just not built to be “small”.

I want a smaller forehead.  Because bangs to cover it up on a hot day is not a good look for anyone.

I want the black studded-red-bottomed-rock-my-world-and-create-spontaneous-orgasms Christian Laboutins. I will shower, run, sleep and work in them. For real.

I want a tummy tuck. Without having to spend the $5,000.

I want to own a mirror that allows me to look into it and see no flaws.

I want to own a haute couture dress that costs an obscene amount of money. Because if I can own something like this, it pretty much means I can afford to pay my cable bill BEFORE the shut off notice comes.

I want chocolate and wine to be fat and calorie free. And while we are at it, those two things alone should be able to cure cancer, middle age acne and cellulite.

But most importantly, I NEED to know why in the name of all that is holy does this monster called Black Friday exist?

I don't get the reasoning behind ditching your family in the middle of the night to freeze your ass off waiting for a store to open to buy things you probably wouldn't buy if it wasn't on sale on this wretched, God forsaken day.  Is it really worth getting up at 2am to wait in line for a toy that you saved $5 on, and that your kid will probably play with for 10 minute before he ditches it to play in the box it came in?

And that giant TV you just had to buy because it was sale?  Jokes on you, cause that bitch will still be on sale tomorrow.  And the day after that.  And next Black Friday.  Just because it's on sale today, doesn't make it special.

It's like retailers are screwing with you making you think you're getting a sale when all you're really getting is frostbite and a nasty cold.

I can tell you from 20 years of Christmas shopping experience that I have never been willing to be trampled on at a Super Wal-Mart at 4am because my kid wanted some annoying Elmo doll that was only going to piss me off and make me hide it, and then blame my kid for losing it.  If I can't order it online, or find it when I have the time to go to the store without fear of being attached by some psycho mom who needs that toy more than I do, then guess what kid?  You ain't getting it.

And seriously, just because you get up at the ass crack of dawn, doesn't mean you have the right to show up wearing the pajama pants you slept in and funky morning breath.  Take a shower and brush your teeth, or stay home and shop Cyber Monday like all the other lazy assholes (like me!).

Oh, and if someone could also make me look as sexy as I think I do after a few glasses of wine, rather than the sweaty, eyeliner running, spitting when I talk mess that I actually am, that would be great too!

I am a mom.Therefore, I know NOTHING.

I have two teenage children. They are both walking stereotypes. My son is the handsome football/basketball player and my daughter is the super girly, hyperactive, boy-crazy cheerleader.

In short, these things equate to me, a 37 year old mother who was once a teenager so many moons ago, to knowing NOTHING in my children’s opinions.

I struggle daily with allowing my children enough room to learn to make their own decisions (good and bad) and having to step in to put them back in check and remind them that I am the adult in this house, and therefore I get the last word.

For instance, my daughter has…shall we say, blossomed…over the past year. Which means I am constantly scanning her Facebook page to make sure that her goodies are properly contained within the confines of her Aeropostale t-shirt. So, you can imagine my horror when we started looking for a semi-formal dress for her school dance and she kept pointing out strapless, teeny tiny gowns. After politely telling her a multitude of times that a strapless dress just isn’t appropriate for a 14 year old girl, I finally had to go into bitchy mom mode and break it down.

Until you are old enough to pay for anything that might come out of your vagina, I own it. The whole shootin’ barrel. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out, no one sees it, touches it or ponders invading it. Which means no dresses that run the potential for you a) bending over and risking your tiny little ass or your tiny little boobs falling out or b) running the risk of your vagina coming out ala Britney Spears style. I promise that if you decide to go all Teen Mom up in this bitch, I will retaliate by going all Mommy Dearest on your ass.

I don’t want my teenage daughter being gawked at by some pimple faced boy with a perpetual boner, just hoping she will bend over so  he can oogle at her teenage boobies as they come out of her strapless dress.

Nuh huh, ain’t gonna happen.

And as exhausting as this argument has been, I am keenly aware of the fact that this is the smallest of all the battles that are yet to come. And that exhausts me even further.

I don’t even want to think about the stains on my son’s sheets, or the two LONG showers he takes every day. I cringe every time we are watching The Voice and he repeatedly feels the need to tell me that Christina Aguilera is “hot”. Cue vomiting noises.

This chapter was definitely not in “What To Expect When You Are Expecting” and I want a fucking refund.

50 Shades of Cray Cray

Most people take getting to know someone WAY too seriously. I don’t care how good you are at balancing a checkbook or how quickly you can type a letter for your boss. I want to know the fun stuff. I want to know things about you that you are afraid to say out loud. We need to have a little less shame and humility about the random things that make us each unique.

I’ll go first. Feel free to follow suit.

50 things about me that you never knew (and probably could have lived life without knowing):

1) I secretly fear everything. Car accidents, plane crashes, the roof of my house caving in on my skull while I am quietly drinking wine and watching Full House. I can pretty much guess that when I die, it will be a total WTF moment. “How did your wife die?” “She was doing a backbend during yoga when her spine split in half, causing her body to collapse onto a rusty nail, which punctured a vital artery and she bled out all over the new rug. She would have lived had a plane flying over head not flown too low, taking off the roof of our house and sucking her up into a super human vacuum, flinging her lifeless body across the street into a shallow creek where she drowned because she landed face down and couldn’t crawl to safety on account of her busted spine.”

2) Christmas decorating in my house can not happen unless NKOTB is busting out Merry, Merry Christmas on my CD player. My A Christmas Story leg lamp must also be lit and I must have ample room to spread out all 6 bins of all the Christmas crap I own so I can plot and analyze the placement of it all. It’s a variable slew of circumstances that have to happen or the universe will slide off it’s axis and Santa’s sleigh will not fly. If you are shaking your head in amazement, you probably didn’t read random fact #1.

3) As far as I am concerned, the Running Man is still the coolest dance move ever.

4) I love the sound of horses clip-clopping down the road

5) If I have to get dressed for anything other than lying on the couch watching Lifetime movies on a Sunday, it starts the new week off on a very bad note for me.

6) Nothing makes me happier than making someone else laugh.

7) I have a third nipple on my back. Kind of like Chandler Bing’s “nubbin” on Friends. I don’t know when it got there or what caused it, but it’s a raised piece of flesh that looks like a colorless nipple. And no, it doesn’t turn me on if you touch it.

8) The sound of anyone but me chewing food makes me want to stab myself in the ears with a rusty pair of scissors.

9) I truly believe in love at first sight and happily ever afters.

10) I think boobs are the best thing ever created. I am obsessed with them. And if you have a great pair, and I have had a glass of wine, I will ask to touch them.

11) The sound of a baby laughing is hands down, the best sound in the world. I am convinced that if we could bottle it, it would cure cancer and create world peace.

12) I love my body, my curves and all my flaws, until I have to show it to someone else.

13) I really, really like the “aaahhhhh” feeling after I have picked a really good booger.

14) When I was younger I used to eat said boogers.

15) I also used to bite my own toenails.

16) There is literally NOTHING I would change about my life. The good, the bad and the ugly is what makes my story mine, and I am never ashamed to tell it.

17) I may lie about my weight and my pant size, but never about my age. Because I think I totally rock 37.

18) I wish I could go back to my 18 year old body that I thought was so “fat”. And tell her to shut the fuck up, use cocoa butter on your stretch marks while pregnant, and enjoy wearing a bikini while it lasts.

19) While I would like my 18 year old body back, I would never go back to being 18. I truly believe I have gotten better and wiser with age. Plus I couldn’t legally drink wine at 18. And I like wine. A lot.

20) It makes me cringe to think that “artists” like Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj are going to be “classic music” to our children when they are adults.

21) I could type partial sentences into Google to see what it suggests for hours without getting bored.

22) I do not have the patience to follow any recipe that calls for me chopping more than two ingredients or has more than 10 steps.

23) I could never be a lesbian because I always envision that a woman’s nether regions taste like day old crab cakes.

24) I want to know who the first woman was that thought it would be “fun” to suck a dick. Then I want to beat her over the head. With a dick.

25) Every piece of women’s clothing should automatically be made with Spanx built in.

26) I love to say vagina. I don’t know why and I don’t care. It just makes me happy.

27) When I was younger, I could make out with a guy for hours. While I still love a good kiss, I have other things to do now that doesn’t involve swallowing someone else’s spit for an hour. Make it good, hard and fast and let’s call it a day.

28) The most romantic thing a guy can do, in my eyes, is hold my hand when I least expect him to.

29) I fight dirty. I’m not proud of it, and I am working on it, but I will work my hardest to make you feel like shit if you piss me off. And then I will apologize later.

30) I constantly make plans that sound really good in the moment, and then often cancel because it involves a shower and the wearing of pants.

31) I will never stop trying to make my tongue touch the tip of my nose.

32) Sometimes I stand in the mirror and make a “butt” with my stomach. It should upset me that I have enough stomach to do this, but honestly it just makes me laugh.

33) Nothing makes my day like a good poop.

34) I am not a lazy person, but I really hate having to shower everyday. I blow dry and straighten my hair and put on makeup just to have to do it all over again the next day? That’s a lot of work.

35) I can count to 20 in French and Spanish.

36) Sky diving and bungee jumping are on my bucket list, but I am afraid to do either, because I am a nervous pee’er and I don’t need to add that to my shame list.

37) When someone yells at me, I cry.

38) When I was heavier, people always told me I looked like Ricki Lake.

39) I am really good at taking a song and making it about something funny. It’s a Weird Al Yankovic talent that I should have capitalized on when I was younger and full of ambition.

40) I love the smell of Sharpie markers, gasoline and crayons. 37 years of sniffing these things might explain a lot about me.

41) Even though I love being a mom, I still think a human being coming out of my hoo-ha is icky.

42) I am horrible about saving money. If I have it, I have a million things I want to spend it on. My kids better either be geniuses and get scholarships, be really good at sports, be really pretty or know how to work a pole. I self medicate with material things and I’m not proud of it.

43) I can sing like the Lollipop kids from the Wizard of Oz.

44) I currently have 30+ tattoos and YES, I plan on getting more. They are my form of self expression and I am proud to show each and every one of them.

45) When I was a kid, we had to go downstairs at night to use the bathroom. At the top of the stairs was a railing with a space behind it that went to the attic. I would always run up the stairs and past that area because I was sure that Freddy Krueger was lying in wait.

46) The first time I got stung by a bee I was 12. It stung me in the ass. And got stuck in my pants.

47) I won our 8th grade talent show wearing a one sleeved unitard while doing flips and dancing to Pretty Poison’s song Catch Me I’m Falling.

48) My favorite “meal” is tomato soup and grilled cheese.

49) I never tried drugs until I smoked my first joint at age 25. And I ate an entire pan of brownies.

50) My blood type is A+. Just incase you ever need me to loan you some.

I feel A) accomplished for being able to come up with 50 random facts about myself, and B) a little insecure about just how random I am.  Either way, this is me.

Who are you?  What are your 50 shades of cray cray?

Hunger Games

There is a fine line between listening to what your body is telling you, and brainwashing your body into feeling something you want it to feel. As children, we are taught to clean our plates. Don’t be wasteful. After all, there are starving children in Africa. As we get older, we continue the practice. All too often it’s to the point of gluttony and we spend most of our adult life trying to change those habits.


My lesson for the week: it’s ok to feel hungry. You don’t have to indulge every hunger pain with food. Sometimes you may just be thirsty, bored or you want a reason to nibble on that Snickers bar that you shamefully keep hidden behind the bananas in your drawer.

I have always used the “hungry response” excuse to eat. Even now I do it, and I definitely know better.

Me: I’m hungry.

My Body: No you’re not.

Me: No really, I feel the rumblies in my tumbly and only a large caramel macchiato and a chocolate chip cookie will make me feel better.

My Body: Don’t you have banana in your purse?

Me: Maybe……

My Body: Do you plan on running a marathon today?

Me: Um, no.

My Body: Put the cookie down. Back away from the caramel macchiato. Slowly, and no one will get hurt.

Me: But…..

My Body: Exactly, your BUTT will be the one paying for your mid day tryst with carbs and sugar.

Me: But, I’m hungry.

My Body: Eat the fucking banana, asshole.

Sometimes, we have to allow ourselves to be a little uncomfortable. Not every impulse needs an immediate response. Sometimes we have to throw the snickers bar in the garbage, cover it up with ketchup and dog shit, make ourselves a nice cup of tea and wait 30 minutes. If you’re still hungry after your “waiting” period, have some fruit. Have some oatmeal. Have anything but that Snickers bar.

You’ll thank me later. So will your ass. You’re welcome.

You gotta know when to fold 'em....

It would be a moot point for me to tell you that I haven’t written anything in awhile. Most of you have probably forgotten about me, given up on me, or have been reading my old blogs repeatedly while you waited for me to get off my lazy ass and put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, if you will.


Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to write because…well, my mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. And I have been a wretched bitch with an acid tongue and a shitty attitude to boot. So I felt it was easier to obey mama’s rules.

But today, I am going to lay all of the cards on the table in the hopes that by going all in, and letting you know the good, the bad and the flabby of my last 6 months, that I will allow myself a clean slate so I can go back to the ridiculous, unfiltered and happier posts that you all seem to love so much.

So, incase you were living under a rock or you were too busy watching a fucking DOG win America’s Got Talent, you probably know I lost a little weight. And that I became obsessive about gaining it back. And that I exercise like a hamster on crack. Just in case you had forgot.

Well here we are, two and a half years and about 180 pounds later and there are days that I feel fatter than I did the day I couldn’t buckle my seat belt on an airplane. Ridiculous, right? I mean, if I can be vain for like half a second, I’m not hard on the eyes. Not skinny, but certainly not fat. My face is holding it down despite 37 rough years on earth. Mind you, I have enough extra skin to make an entirely new human, but despite that I don’t look bad in a pair of jeans.

Most days, I am proud of myself. I accept the extra skin and the stretch marks as parts of my journey. They remind me of where I came from, and where I never want to be again. For awhile I was obsessively thin. Everyone had an opinion.

“You’re too skinny”

“Where did your boobs go?”

“Did you forget to eat today?”

I know people thought they were being funny, but seriously, fuck you. And I say that with love because that’s just how me and the people I love most talk to each other. So I say again, fuck you. Of course I looked too skinny compared to looking like a sweaty sumo wrestler trying to wiggle himself into a clown car.

Then things started to….how shall I say this? Settle? My body reached it’s plateau and just kind of “sank” into place. My weight stayed the same but my hips widened a little and I started to get soft around the middle again. So I kicked up the workouts. Gained a little weight thanks to some late night Barefoot Muscato. Put a little junk in my trunk and some oomph in my twin set up front thanks to running and yoga. Finally, I felt good. Finally, I felt at peace with myself. Sure, I realized I no longer looked like I was one carrot stick from becoming emaciated. Sure, my cheek bones weren’t as prominent and I had to trade in my Junior’s size jeans for real women’s jeans (at 37 should I really be wearing juniors clothes of any sort anyway?). But I could finally look in the mirror, see past my kangaroo pouch of a stomach and my flabby legs, and think, “Damn girl, you look good.”

One day that all changed and I’m not sure why. One day I walked outside and felt the eyes of the world on me. Judging me. Whispering about me.

“Did you see Lisa? She put some weight back on, huh?”

"So much for gastric bypass. I guess she should have kept her fat clothes a little bit longer.”

“Is that her ass or two pigs fighting for the last piece of grub?”

Ok, no one was really saying that, but the fucked up little voice in the back of my head made me believe they might be. And it is making me nuts. Because, I know how hard I continue to work. And truth be told, I have a good handle on food and how to enjoy things in moderation. And I would rather be a comfortable size 8/10 and be able to enjoy a glass of wine or a handful of chips once in awhile, than to live on protein based foods and exercise myself to death trying to be what no one else but me really expects me to be.

I did this so I could live a real life. And now I am and I can. And I have done it because I have an amazing support team. So many people have listened to my bitching and moaning about my insecurities and how “fat” I am.  And how they haven’t all lynched me, strung me up by my short and curly’s and poked me with rusty needles to shut me the fuck up, is beyond me. But I love them for loving me enough to wait for me to love myself. Wow, that’s a lot of love.

So, now that I have come clean about all my dirty secrets and darkest thoughts, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually enjoy just being me. Whatever size that might be.

Through The Eyes Of A Child

Growing up, I always pictured my “hero” would be someone older, and distinguished looking, with grey hair and a slew of lifetime accomplishments under their belt. Someone like Maya Angelou,




or Morgan Freeman….



or Angela Lansbury.



Don’t hate. Murder She Wrote was the CSI of the 80′s, ya’ll.

I never knew that a child, or should I say two children, would be the people who would give me the perspective I need to see the world as it truly is: full of possibility.

I mean once you get past the eyerolling, the sighs, the dirty laundry, the smelly shoes, and the conversations you have that they ignore while texting LOL, LMAO, and OMG to their friends, my kids are pretty cool.

And they teach me to be present. And in the moment. Even if they are assholes teenagers.

I mean, who isn’t inspired towards greatness after seeing this:



And you can’t help but to forget everything and just smile at this:



Those are my heros. Those are the little people I figuratively look up to. They are my joy, my pain, my pride, my mentors, my view of a world I never knew existed.

And, even if they never cure cancer or win a Super Bowl, they will always be my one true contribution to this crazy, screwed up world. I will always know I made this life just a little bit better by making them a part of it.

Beverly Hills, 9021...Whoa!

Dear Mr Plastic Surgeon Genius (who is obviously mistakingly reading my blog but is super generous and philanthropic),

I need a tummy tuck. Badly. Like almost as badly as that annoying Gosselin lady after she popped out like a bajillion kids. Or that crazy Octo-Mom bitch who obviously has issues and probably has excess stomach skin hanging to her knees by now (we all know they only look good thanx to Spanx and trick photography, right? RIGHT?!?).

You probably didn’t accidentally stumble across my other blog: http://flabninja.blogspot.com/ so I can’t expect you to know that I lost 185 pounds. Stop laughing, I am serious. I know, impressive and gross all at the same time. The funny thing about gastric bypass is that all you are focused on is losing weight. Not so much on what will happen when your flat ass deflates like a Macy’s day float on Black Friday.

I don’t have any money to pay for the surgery and I have shitty insurance but I am a really good hugger and I will post really nice things on this poorly made and virtually unknown blog for free.

How can you pass up that offer, right?

In case those aren’t good enough reasons to perform this totally necessary (if not completely vain) surgery, let me give you some other super awesome reasons as to why you should donate your time:

1) I will clean your house for like….ever. Everyday. Even the corners. And that would be way cheaper than paying your housekeeper, although I am sure Esmeralda will be very upset and her 70-jillion kids will starve and will all stand outside your house screaming obscenities at me in Spanish. I figure at the rate of minimum wage, I should be paid off in the year 2025. No biggie.

2) If house cleaning isn’t your deal, I am really good kisser. And when I get drunk I kiss EVERYONE. So I can repay you in kisses. Don’t worry about my husband, I am sure he will be in if it means him not listening to me whine about my “jowls of a dog” or begging him for $5000 anymore.

3) I am funny and I like to make up songs about my dog based on current pop music. I know this doesn’t seem like a worthwhile detail, but I could provide free entertainment to your clientele while they sit in the waiting room anticipating their collegin injections or breast implants or whatever it is that you do, aside from giving away free tummy tucks. I know some of them won’t be able to laugh because of all the Botox, but I assure you they will think I am funny.

4) I am nice. Most of the time. When people are watching mostly, but still…nice. And you would look super nice for doing something really nice for a nice person. The universe will surely repay you in good Karma. And your wife will give you blow jobs. I mean, she didn’t say she would, but I can only assume that is what wives of fancy plastic surgeons do to keep a fancy plastic surgeon husband around.

5) I will go all Kirstie Alley on the the web and video tape myself strutting around the house in a bikini with index cards that say “Body by Dr. (insert name here)”. Again, free advertising yo!

6) Because I am begging you. Please fix me. Please make me feel pretty again. Please take away this constant reminder of the abuse I have put my body through so I can, in turn, stop abusing myself. Did I say please?

7) As a last resort, I will leave you alone. After the tummy tuck, of course. I’m a stalker, but I’m not stupid. You fix me, I stop standing outside of your house with my hand in my pants. Deal?

So, in conclusion, these are all very valid and super awesome reasons for you to give me a free tummy tuck. Consider yourself welcomed. It’s the least I can do since you are giving me a $5000 makeover. I will await the call from your receptionist to set up our appointment. Thursdays work for me.

Love and Tummy Tucks,
Lisa

Two years and 190 pounds ago....

Time flies when you're becoming less fat, I guess.  Saturday will mark two years since my gastric bypass surgery.  It hardly seems possible that two years ago I was 317 pounds and waiting for my life to start.  It's been so crazy that I can hardly wrap my head around it.

So, how did I get this fabulously fit (yet flabby) body?  I mean, aside from surgically altering my entire physiology and putting my nutritional absorption abilities at risk?  Well, I run and do yoga.  A lot.  And not always because I want to.  As a matter of fact, I would much rather be sitting at home drinking wine, eating Cheetos and watching the Investigation Discovery channel plotting the untraceable death of my enemies. 

I mean running is dangerous, and not because I could wear out my knees, give myself heart failure, or fall on my face ruining my money maker either.  I watch all the crime shows.  I see it all the time.

“Mother of three abducted while on morning run.  No suspects have been found.  Her body was found in a bush near her house, with strangulation marks from her sneaker laces around her neck and an empty Mountain Dew bottle shoved in her vagina.”

 It happens.  Just ask Dateline.  Running mothers are a target, for real.  And I don’t even like Mountain Dew.

But I run and risk my life for the sake of a tighter ass, and the ability to wear my Victoria’s Secret push up sports bra.  I mean, it’s black and hot pink and makes me look like a buxom woman, rather than the B cup wonder I have become.

The past two years have been a roller coaster.  And I love rollercoasters because I think of:

A)    The fact that I can now lower the “safety” bar down without my stomach preventing it from clicking into place so I don’t go through a loop-de-loop and plunge to my death

 And

B)     I love anything that I am afraid of.  The adrenaline and the “I did it” moment that comes at the end is better than an orgasm.  Well, unless the orgasm is followed up with diamonds.  Then I take the actual orgasm over the rush, duh.

But this rollercoaster has had lots of unexpected turns and twists.  Some days the line to the coaster is short, you get to ride more than once, and when the secret camera snaps a picture of you to buy for a gazillion dollars at the end of the ride, you look like a goddess with the wind sweeping through your hair, rather than a stroke victim stuck in a vacuum tube.

Some days, there are nothing but road blocks.  Some days, you wait in line for hours, hoping you don’t fart after eating too many jalapeno nacho burritos because there is a hot guy standing behind you. 

Some days, the fucking coaster cars get stuck half way up the first really steep hill and you sit there like a moron, getting a neck cramp, while the hairy, bald guy with a wonky eye and no teeth fixes it, all the while smelling like the worlds biggest pot plant.  When the ride gets moving, you get motion sickness and vertigo and throw up the chili dog, cheese fries and chocolate shake you ate just before deciding that the rollercoaster was a good idea…..

And you throw up, both on yourself and onto the hot guy you spent two hours flirting with while in line.  Yeah, some days are just like that.

But in the end, I am embracing the choices I have made.  I am embracing my new life, the ability to run, the pride I see on my children’s faces, and the road blocks that will never stop me.

The bitch smells like vagina.

See this face:




She's cute as hell, but she smells like vagina.

No joke. The bitch straight up smells like day old vaj and it's not cute.

No amount of doggy baths or sprays makes her smell any different.

How is she going to get a man smelling like that? As a two legged bitch, I have never been at a bar and had a man walk by and say "Dayum girl, you smell like yesterdays vagina and it's turning me on! Can I get yo' digits?"

You would be the girl that everyone whispered and pointed at in the corner of the bar. And no one would sit on the toilet seat you used in the ladies room for fear that the smell was the result of some STD or unknown vaginal discharge.

I don't want my dog to be the dog all the other bitches talk about. She's way too pretty to be "that dog".

Hopefully getting her spade will mysteriously rid her of her feminine hygiene issue. Otherwise, she better start wearing rainbow colored collars and hoping for that one butch dog that enjoys the pungent aroma of her lady parts.

Warning: Contents under pressure may explode and high five you IN THE FACE.

I realize that by putting my blog out there for all of the world to see, it makes me accountable for the shit that comes out of my mouth.

I also realize not everyone will like what I have to say or how I choose to say it.

To which I say:



Because this is MINE. And I choose to share it with YOU. But, if you don’t like what I have to say, you can make the choice not to read it.

I will not stop swearing. It’s therapeutic for me and it sets the tone for how I am feeling and the way I would like to express it.

If you don’t want your kids to see it, don’t let them read my blog. Have them de-friend me on Facebook. I promise, my day won’t be ruined because I wasn’t alerted by social media about their exploits at open skate with their BFF’s or why their pimple faced boyfriend likes the school skank.

If you are offended by what I write you may either

A) Not read my blog

B) Grow a thicker skin

C) Gain a sense of humor and stop taking life so seriously

D) Fuck off

That last one was a little harsh, but if you were hurt by it feel free to exercise your right to options A, B or C.

I use my blog to vent. About morons, kids, ex-husbands and everyday bullshit that annoys me, amuses me, or gives me pause.

I have verbal diarrhea. And a broken internal filter. So when I blog about shitting my pants, or hating the People of Walmart, take it with a grain of salt, and just fucking laugh.

Life isn’t meant to be taken so seriously. No one makes it out alive anyway.

Warning: Depression Hurts.

I am going to take a minute to write something extremely personal and incredibly sensitive. I am going to take a break from my self deprecating, self effacing humor to talk about a real part of who I am. Because I write these blogs to be brutally honest in the hopes that my missteps will help others to be ok with who they are in their imperfect everyday lives.

I have depression and anxiety.

I have been struggling with it for 15 years on and off.

One thing I learn everyday is that a brave face only masks a hurt heart. Let your pain be the face you wear. It is stronger to show weakness than to pretend it doesn’t exist. I know from experience.

I have lots of friends that take anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication to manage their everyday lives. And whenever one of us talks to another we always start the conversation the same way:

….please don’t tell anyone I am telling you this….

Or

….I don’t know what to do, or where to go with this…..

Because for some reason we have been taught that depression is self induced and therefore, easily treated by simply pulling our ungrateful-for-life heads out of our asses. And maybe in some instances this is true, but in most, it’s not that simple.

Whether it’s the stress of everyday life, the loss of a loved one, a bad marriage, a financial crisis, menopause, post partum, caring for a sick friend/relative, or a traumatic event that has affected you, depression is no fucking joke. Sometimes, we feel it just because. Maybe you can’t find the match to your favorite socks. Maybe you burned dinner because you were on the couch, curled in the fetal position, crying uncontrollably. Maybe you dropped your keys and just lost your damn mind over it.

Because, that’s how it works. It doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes, depression just is.
And it’s a dirty little secret shared only between people facing the same demon, a patient and her therapist or a woman and her doctor.

Sometimes, when you’re like me, you get lucky. You can be sitting in a doctor’s office complaining of headaches, and he starts asking questions, and you just start crying. And he asks if you do this a lot. And he hands you’re a tissue and puts his gentle, old hand over yours, and asks if you have dealt with depression before. Then he asks how old my kids are and makes a joke about how having teenagers is enough to cause even the sanest person to have depression and anxiety.

And then, he takes out this little piece of paper and his fine tip BIC pen, and gives you your life back. He writes some words on paper that may as well translate to say:

Caution: Contents of prescription should never cause you shame or embarrassment.

Side effects include: laughing with your children again, loving yourself again, waking up with a renewed zest for life, and a calmer sleep because your brain is ok once again. Take with a grain of salt and dose of humility.

Educate yourself. Know the signs and symptoms. Don’t brush it off assuming you don’t have time to get help. You don’t have time to not get help.

I would rather feel like a total schlep and the world’s biggest douchebag for asking for a tiny pill that will make me feel less like jumping off the roof of my house, then to be too proud to be the kind of person that my children need me to be.

I know what my skeletons are. I know exactly where they are in my closet and I deal with them daily. I will probably continue to do this until the day I die, but it’s ok. Because that which has yet to kill me, has only made me stronger.

Face your demons, because they will eventually confront you head on. Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. Not recognizing it and depriving yourself of a life, is.

Consider this my PSA for 2012 and give me my damn Lorazapam!

You mean Pavlov's dogs liked chocolate too?

I admit, I am guilty of finding any reason to "reward" myself with treats.

What's that? I ran across the street to avoid being hit by the car that I didn't see because I was distracted by Words With Friends on my cell phone? Damn those 54 point words. I deserve a cookie!

I just had to get off the couch, AGAIN, because I lost the remote under the blankets I was napping under? That totally calls for a miniature chocolate. Or six.

Say what? I just did a "I-tripped-but-made-it-look-like-I-was-breaking-into-a-run-on-purpose" in my 5" heels? Starbucks frappe it is!

But truth be told....we should all remember this:




Although, I am pretty sure Pavlov's dogs liked chocolate too, and would have rewarded themselves for all the running they had to do when that damn bell rang.

The fact remains that a reward is something earned. And the last I checked, the 300-400 calories I burn daily on the elliptical don't earn me any rewards. Especially on days where I am on carb overload. Just cause it says multi-grain, whole wheat or organic doesn't mean you can inhale the entire box/package/bag. The scale makes that VERY clear.

So, instead of rewarding myself with candy or sweets, how about I reward myself by being able to fit into my pants. Everyday. Not just on the days following the stomach bug or a cleanse. Sounds awesome, right?

Because (and yes, I hate this bitch and totally want to knuckle punch her in the ovaries):



Or spend half your pay every year investing in Spanx and control top pantyhose.

Now, I'm off to run or purge or whatever it is that she does to have abs I can grate cheese on.

I'm Martha Fucking Stewart, Bitch!

For realz, my new addiction is Pinterest. I can’t get anything else accomplished. I have barely made it through the Food section without creaming my pants, going blind and gaining 20 pounds just by looking at all the deliciousness.

Then there is the Poster Art section, which has super awesome pictures that MUST be posted on Facebook, on the regular, so people will think I am all super witty and funny. On someone else’s dime, of course.

I know there is more. I can see it. I am itching to look at it ALL. My Kindle is going to explode, my husband and kids will have to turn their underwear inside out because laundry won’t get done, and sandwiches may be on the dinner menu for the next month or so.

My "Favorites" tab is jam packed with new websites. My e-mail is blowing up with all the new blogs I have subscribed to. I have my laptop, my Kindle and my cellphone going simultaneously. It's a sickness. And I hope I never find the cure.

And did I mention you have to be invited to be a part of Pinterest. Oh yeah, I got invited. That’s how I roll. I’m all exclusive and “have you been invited” egotistical about it. Even if it only takes knowing one person who will e-vite you to join. Still, I was invited ya’ll. Suck on those cheddar bay biscuits.

I am going to start painting upholstery (‘cuz Pinterest told me I could with some Benjamin Moore, some fabric doo-hickey stuff, a paint brush, and zero talent), and then I am going to make clipboards out of old shutters and clothes pins, and keep the kids report cards and recipes on it so I look all earthy and cool.

I am going to garage sale hunt like a rabid dog looking for flesh so I can find an old, antique picture frame that I will paint within an inch of its life, and then I will attach plywood covered in chalkboard paint and hang that up so I can put grocery lists and dinner menus on it. Oh yeah, it’s on, bitches.

I’m going all Martha Stewart on this bitch and there is nothing you can do about it.



Except join me.

You know you want to.

All the cool kids are doing it.

Then we can be addicted together.

Because nothing says addiction like a co-dependent crafter.

Email me in the comments section for an invite. Let’s get our crafting on!

This what 37 looks like...

This is what 37 looks like:


I’m still deciding if that’s good or bad.

Either way, at least I am still here and can celebrate another year.

And wear these bad ass shoes


And get presents.

Hell, sometimes I think I stay alive just for the presents.

I think I’m holding my own for the most part in the aging department. Oh sure, lines and wrinkles are starting to make their appearance but I’m fighting it. Mostly because the only needles I like touching my body, carry ink and leave pretty tattoos, so I can’t get Botox.

I mean, a needle to the face? I don’t know ya’ll. Let’s revisit this conversation next year. Or when I have permanent frown lines. After all, I like when people can tell the difference between my I-don’t-give-a-shit face, my OH-Face, and my don’t-fuck-with-me face.

I can’t really tell if gravity is to blame for my deflated tits and my saggy ass, or if it’s the 185 pounds I lost so we will let that one go.

Either way, as long as I can still rock 5” heels, be considered the “cool mom” who my kids friends think is so young, and I can manage not to piss my pants everytime my bladder is full (sharting clearly doesn’t count), I am ok with being 37.

Now, 38….that one I’m gonna fight. For the next 364 days.

I may not be a "DreamGirl" J-Hud...but I can still kick your ass. Maybe.

I swear, if I have to watch Jennifer Hudson and her creepy, skinny face stand next to her 'circa American Idol' chubbier self, singing, I Believe, one more time, I BELIEVE I may punch her in the kidney. Repeatedly.

We get it. Weight Watchers worked for you. You're a size 6. And an inspiration. You used to be kind of fat. Whatevs.

Truth is, there are a lot of us that "believed" and lost weight, and maybe we get so lost in the success of our weight loss, no matter how we achieved that goal, that we forget that, we too, may be just as annoying as this bitch.

So for every "hey-look-how-less-fat-I-am" picture I posted almost daily in my first year of weight loss,

Yeah, this isn't douchey AT ALL!

for every "my-duck-face-looks-super-sexy-and-not-at-all-douchey" picture I posted after too many glasses of wine,

See, duck faces and wine don't mix!

and for every conversation that inadvertently turned to me and how much weight I lost because I still have insecurity about how I look, I believe I am sorry.

My "J-Hud" dayz...for real.

There is a fine line between pride and arrogance, and I never want to cross it. I never want to be a poster child or a spokesperson. I wouldn't mind being an inspiration, but on a less Jennifer Hudson level.

Cause that bitch has a bangin' body now, but her face creeps me the fuck out and there is no way she isn't wearing Spanx. Quit frontin' Jenn, we got you on this one.

Now I believe I will go delete some pictures off of Facebook, have a glass of wine, and throw away my camera.

You're welcome.

Wait, so my vagine is like the ocean?

I am pretty sure there are few things funnier than the conversations I often have with my girlfriends. Something as innocuous as saying that I am hungry because all I ate today was a furry granola bar I found in the bottom of my purse and half a bag of LemonHeads turned into this:





You can see how hunger and a vagina that sounds like the soothing tides of an ocean sweeping the shore can go together, right?!? Makes sense to me.

Driving in a Winter Wonderland....blows.

To say that I am not good under pressure is the understatement of the year. Chaos, I can handle. I can multitask like a mother f**ker. But stress? Stress is my nemesis.

It turns me into a swearing, twitching, name calling, foam-coming-out-of-my-mouth, maniac! In a public setting, people would feel bad for me and buy me a milkshake because I would be the sad woman in the corner with Tourettes.

Driving is my very least favorite thing to do. Driving in snow is the equivalent of stringing me up by my short and curlies while ramming a baseball bat up my ass while plucking out my eyelashes one at a time.

Yes, it's that bad.

Everyone is basically an asshole, a c**t (my favorite driving swear word), a fucktard, an ass monkey or an "if-you-don't-know-how-to-drive-in-the-fucking-snow-get-the-hell-off-the-road-you-jackhammer!!" moron.



I swear a world wide text message goes out to every old, senile, half blind, handicapped ass nugget out there to inform them that I will be on the road, and they should join me and piss me off. In these moments, I am pretty sure that the only handicap some people have that allows them that annoying blue placard that hangs on their rearview, is their inability to properly operate a vehicle.

Driving down the interstate the other day with my daughter to go to the dentist, there was a guy doing 40mph (in a 65mph zone!) with his dogs head hanging out the window. Did I mention is was raining/snowing and 23 degrees? See, ass monkeys, all of them.

When I slide in the snow I can see the world coming to the end. I see me lying on the side of the road, missing a limb, bleeding, wearing dirty underwear, one sock, and a crooked smile. I forget everything I was ever taught about not turning the wheel in the other direction or jacking on the breaks and do just that. I hear my husbands annoying voice in my ear telling me three months before the snow hit that I needed new tires.

I panic, close my eyes, and go all Carrie Underwood, "Jesus Take The Wheel" on that bitch and hope for the best.

Did I mention I don't do well with stress?

What stresses you out?

New Years Resolutions are SHITTY.

As I am sure is true with most women, the amount of junk, sugar and wine that I consume in any given week is directly proportionate to the amount of elastic in my pants. Usually a one day bender results in yoga pants. A weekend bender may result in leggings. A week results in my husbands sweatpants.

To say that I am at the "pretty-soon-I-won't-fit-into-a-Hefty-bag" stage is like saying a baby won't piss all over himself the minute you put him in a tub of clean water.

I haven't gained any weight, but I am pretty sure it's because the fat has sucked all of the muscle out of me.

But my body feels every Skittle, Lemonhead, Tootsie Roll, and glass of Barefoot Sweet Red I have ingested this week, let me tell you.

So, I am going to be like every other resolution making asshole out there, and say that with the new year will come new goals.

Like wearing pants again. That button.

I know, it's a lofty goal. Call me an overachiever.

Before we moved to our new house this past summer, and before all the weddings, showers, bachelorettes, and holiday parties distracted me, I was a 5-6 day a week work out machine.

Now, lifting the laundry basket is considered my Monday workout.

While I know that I may not get back to a 6 day a week regimen because my kids play every sport under the sun and I have that annoying little thing called a JOB, it is my mission to take a little more time to work out so I feel better.

Because sugar tastes oh-so-yummy going into my tummy, but pretty much sucks ass on the way down.

Further evidence that sugar makes you feel like shit? Last week I spent a whole day on a sugar/carb diet. Tootsie Rolls, hot chocolate ($3.25 at McDonalds? What the what?!?!), sugar cookies, a Kashi granola bar, spaghetti with parmesan cheese and caramel popcorn for dessert were on the menu.

So, needless to say, I was a farting MACHINE. I was the old lady I always get stuck behind at Wal-Mart who shuffle farts in front of me when I have nowhere else to go.

And I would be lying if I said I didn't love a good fart.

It makes me giggle the way your stomach deflates a little everytime you let one rip.

So, anyway...

I was upstairs folding laundry in my new 5" heels (because I like to feel fancy when being forceably domestic) when I felt the rumblies. My brain told me to hold me it in, but my ass jumped the gun and....

You guessed it...

I sharted.

Not awesome.

So, there I was, stripping down naked and running "no mas pantalones" down the hall, hoping my kids stayed glued to the Xbox 360 or YouTube or whatever crack they were addicted to at that moment, so I wouldn't have to explain

a) why mommy was butt ass naked wearing a button down shirt and a face of horror

b) why I was carrying my underwear like they were a nuclear bomb made of shit.

Lesson learned. No more sugar diet. I should have a good 30 or 40 years before I start shitting my pants and forcing my kids to clean me up.

So elliptical machine, yoga mat and Total Gym, get ready, because I am gonna make you my bitch again. And I promise to cut down on the sugar so I don't shit all over you.

I Resolve not to Resolute...or something like that.

I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t make New Years resolutions anymore. They inevitably only set you up to fail. It’s hard enough starting out a new year and expecting it to be better than the last one. Adding the pressure of losing weight/quitting smoking/not doing crack is just ludicrous.

So, my resolution is to not resolve to do anything but live. Everyday will be like New Years and I will try to better myself in some small way.

Like, by not calling the moron who cuts me off in traffic a scum sucking, ass licking, douchebag.

Or by not cheating in the middle of my yoga DVD and resting in child’s pose for an extra count, only to find myself in the fetal position an hour later, sucking my thumb.

Or by not inhaling half of bag of Hershey’s kisses and then blaming middle age bloating on my pants not fitting.

I will call my mother more often.

I will hug my kids more often. Even when they don’t want me to.

I will stop feeling bad about my body. By buying more Spanx.

I will drink less wine.

I will stop lying about drinking less wine.

I will stop giggling when I fart.

Wait, no I won’t. Scratch that. Farts are funny.

I will simply face this year like I do every other. With gratitude and with personal resolve that has nothing to do with finally losing weight or quitting smoking or some other vice that I have no intent of giving up.

And in turn, that will save me a $50/month gym membership.

It will also save me from doing 25 to life for murdering some fat, chain smoking housewife who is going through withdrawals while hogging my treadmill.

Happy New Year everyone! What is your resolution?

We Wish You a Merry Eff'ing Christmas. And a saner New Year.

My Christmas wasn’t that much different than that of most people. I spent too much, ate too much, slept too little, made lists, checked them twice, stressed about getting it all done on time, and cursed out every moronic driver and shopper who got in my way, all in the name of the Christmas spirit.

I spent countless hours wrapping, taping and tagging. I stole money from the electric and gas bill fund, just so I could give all of the credit to a morbidly obese old man who breaks into your house and steals your cookies.

Did I mention that fat bastard isn’t even real? Sorry kids. The jig is up.

Now, as I sit here at work after a 5 day “break” all I can think of is, how will I pay for next Christmas? Because every year becomes more expensive than the last. I think I liked it better when I could buy the kid’s presents from the Dollar store and they would be happy just to play in the boxes and chew on the wrapping paper.

Now, the assholes kids want Aeropostale this, and Hollister that, and make my xbox LIVE for the low, low price of 1 bajillion dollars, and please buy me Guitar Hero Edition 9,755 and makeup from Sephora and don’t forget the gift cards. We NEED the gift cards.

What happened to tube socks, pajamas and oranges in our stockings?

I am exhausted. I am holiday party’d, Christmas ham’d, pass-the-mashed-potatoes-and-open-another-bottle-of-wine’d the fuck out. I need a Valium, some comfy pajamas, my couch and an all day Jersey Shore marathon to chill me out.

And of course, the minute the kids get a gift card or cash, they already have it spent. And you have to rush them to the store “right fucking now, MOM!!!” before their heads implode and every Xbox game and pair of skinny jeans is SOLD OUT.

No lie, my son asked me to take him to Game Stop to buy Modern Warfare 3 for his Xbox. On Christmas Day. Seriously, kid? He’s lucky I was all doped up on lack of sleep and Christmas spirit or I would have knuckle punched him in the baby maker.

My daughter is easy. She took her makeup and her hair straightener and clothes and books and hid out in her room. No fuss, no muss. She threw out all of her garbage, put her new clothes away and was content.

My son? He’s a unicorn of a different species. He had to have everything opened IMMEDIATELY.

It was a tsunami of ripped boxes, plastic ties that held in toys as if packaged by homeland security, wrapping paper, and instruction manuals. We barely made it out alive. All I heard all day was:

“Mom, how do you get this to work?”

“Moooommmm, this is BROKEN! Why did you buy me a broken toy??” (PS…NOT broken, but installed incorrectly by an impatient preteen with an attitude).

“MOM, do we have 17 C batteries, a USB cable, a magic wand and some duct tape?”

“MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!”

“These pants are too long! How tall do you think I am?”

“The drums that came with my Guitar Hero don’t work! This is stupid!”

“I can’t get on YouTube and Facebook because my Xbox Live is stupid!”

And then, folks……I lost it.

I made him gather up every toy that “Santa” brought him, bring it downstairs and put it back under the tree because “There are kids all over the world that would be happy to have ONE pant leg of your too long pajamas, and who would shit themselves and break out in hives if they got ANY video game at all much less the $60 Madden 12 game you got and I swear to God, if you bitch about one more thing I bought you, you better have CPS on speed dial, because I swear on all that is Holy you will need protective services when I am done with your ungrateful ass!”

And then my heart, which was now officially two sizes too small after yelling at my kid on Christmas, broke and I cried. On Christmas.

After standing my ground for a little while (because he really WAS being kind of a douche), I let him take his things back. After talking about appreciation and patience. And then I drank wine. By the gallon. I may have even licked inside the box. I can’t remember.

But despite all of this, when anyone asks me, “How was your Christmas?”, I always reply, “It was beautiful!”. Because it was. Because I have a family. And a home. And I am loved. And I am grateful everyday that I am still here to yell at my kids. And that they are still here doing things that teenagers do to be yelled at for.

How was your Christmas?

LOL and other annoying teenage things....

While attending my teenage daughters Christmas concert, I found a brand new hatred for annoying teenage girls. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have one and I think she is pretty awesome, but for the most part teenage girls are NOT awesome. They are basically tiny little assholes with cellulite free asses and better hair.

Let’s consider this a PSA for impending adulthood, yougins. Here are some life choices you may want to start reconsidering now - from an “old” person’s point of view:

1. I do not want to read your ass while you walk away. No matter how “Pink”, “Juicy”, “Precious” or “Cute” Victoria tells you it is, all I am imagining is how fat and wide your ass will grow in the next ten years, and it makes me happy. And we won’t even get into what the boys are thinking. Because, the only thing more disgusting than the VS sweats that you wear day in and day out with your salt covered Uggs, is teenage boys. And I don’t have the energy to write that post.
2. A high school Christmas concert that your parents and grandparents will be attending is not a reason to dress like you are getting laid for the first time at your Senior prom. Thigh high, skin tight dresses, button down shirts that are ten sizes too small and make your little girl boobies pop out, and 5 inch glittery stripper heels make you look ridiculous. Stick to black dress pants and a nice white sweater and leave the tramp clothes for your pimple faced boyfriend. You’ll have plenty of time to rock those heels in a few years when you are rocking the pole for dollas. Holla!
3. Speaking of hooker heels….please stop wandering across the stage in them looking like a baby doe taking its first steps. I will admit that sometimes I am coveting your sparkly treasures, but mostly I am just waiting for you to fall. And I will laugh. And then I will be all like “LOL, did u c that grl fall? LMAO”. I will twitter a pic of you lying face down on stage for all my friends to laugh at with me. For realz.
4. Stop taking pictures with the cell phone that your mom pays for in the girls bathroom. It’s played out and your duck face makes you look like someone just shit in the stall next to you. Nothing says sexy like your overdone face and wet toilet paper on the floor behind you.
5. Lastly, be a kid. I know teenagers think they know everything and they can’t wait to grow up. But some day you will be grown up, and I promise you, it will suck. Because it is highly overrated, your ass won’t defy gravity like that forever, and you will get bunions.

You’re welcome.

Maestro, please.

We attended my daughters Jr High/Sr High Christmas Concert the other night. The high school seniors had THE most animated band director I have ever seen. This guy came in a tuxedo, my friends. With tails. No joke. He was sporting a bow tie and shiny shoes and he was AWESOME. And yet all I could think of when I watched his hands flail about, his tails shaking to and fro and his stick thingy waving frantically was the movie The Money Pit and this guy:



               Max

Only he was doing something like this:


        No lie, this guy was DIRECTING some shit!

And it made me laugh. Constantly. To the point that I was getting the stink eye from other parents. But I didn’t care, because OMG it made me forget the sound of 50 uninterested teenagers making sounds with their instruments that would awaken the deaf.

Merry Christmas!

Get off my Lawn....and other things old people (like me!) say...

In exactly 34 days I will be (gulp!) 37. Yup, that is 37 whole years that I have managed not to die. It's no record, but it will be the longest I have ever lived.

And in achieving that record, I am realizing I am becoming, well....older. Because I say things like,

Do not make me come up there, I swear to God!

or,

Because I am the mom, and I said so!

and worse, I actually heard myself yell once,

You damn kids! Get off my lawn or so help me God!

Getting old? Not fun. Not fun at all.

I also find myself comparing things I do as I creep ever so closer to...dare I say it....4-0 to the things I did when in my 20's. Things like this....

20-something: Dude, turn that UP! If I can hear you talking, it isn't loud enough!
30-something: Why is that so LOUD? Is this a fucking movie theater? I don't think so!

20-something: I'll meet you at the club at 11:00!!
30-something: If I am not home, in my PJ's watching the news by 11:00 I will never be able to get up with my kids and go to church.

20-something: Last call? Dude, not cool. Let's get a garbage plate!! Who cares if we have to be to work in 3 hours!!
30-something: How did I get here? Why is there sauagage, egg, green pepper, cheese and a chocolate chip cookie in my hair? Get me some Tums and call me in sick to work. Forever.

20-something: Did you see that total fucking skank in the mini skirt and tube top checking out my boyfriend? I will wreck that home wrecking whore!
30-something: I can't believe that girls mother let her out of the house like that. Poor kid. I should give her my jacket to wear before she catches a cold!

20-something: By the time I am 25 I will be married and having babies with a rich and sexy man and I will be living in the suburbs in a four bedroom colonial with a swimming pool.
30-something: I can't believe I am married with 2 kids, an ex husband, an overdue mortgage and a flooded basement. FML.

Not that adulthood has been a total wash. There may have been more moments of stress and sadness than happiness at times, but the fact that I am here to celebrate another birthday is a pretty cool thing.

I am surrounded by assholes people I love, I have a job I don't have to medicate myself to deal with, I can always afford the big bottle of wine, and my kids are old enough to do chores which allows me more time for the important things....like watching re-runs of Jersey Shore and Housewives of Every-County-Ever-Known-To-Man-Even-If-They-Aren't-Really-Housewives-At-All-But-Instead-Are-Spoiled-Rich-Bitches-With-Sugar-Daddy's-Or-Really-Ugly-Husbands, and paint my nails.

Now get me a heating pad because my back is killing me.

And where is that damn TV Guide??

And does there have to be so much nudity on TV? What happened to the good old shows like Cosby and Full House?

I need some warm milk to settle my stomach before bed. And an Alka Seltzer.

See, getting old...not so bad.