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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck folks, I’m going in.

Hello Kitty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who wears short shorts?

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

pack it into an SUV instead of a Geo Metro.

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



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

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

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

Ninja Sarah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet another mind blowing rendition of.....

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

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

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

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

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

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