Monday, January 30, 2012

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….


….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.

Monday, January 23, 2012

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!

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

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.

Monday, January 16, 2012

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.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

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.

Monday, January 9, 2012

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?

Friday, January 6, 2012

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.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

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?”


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:


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!


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 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.