Let them eat cake!

I have always been the type of person who judged her value and worth by how many friends, loved ones and Facebook acquaintances remembered my birthday. I wanted birthday gif’s, eCard emails, flowers, cards and presents. Lots and lots of presents. And I had a mental checklist of who remembered and who forgot. I never called out the people who forgot to wish me Happy Birthday, but I compartmentalized it to use at a later date.


This year is different. Both because I dyed my hair blonde:

And, because I feel content with myself for the first time, well…ever. I don’t need the accolades (although they are GREATLY appreciated), and I don’t need a cake full of candles (do we really need to have that fire hazard??), nor do I need a mantle full of cards, flowers or expensive gifts.

WAIT, if anyone is reading and you want to send me an expensive gift, I guarantee I won’t say no.

I just feel like the mere fact that I am here is celebration enough. My life is as perfect a life as one could ask for. I have an amazing family, supportive friends, smart and healthy children, a good job that helps support my shopping habits, a nice home, my health, a body full of tattoos and a clear conscience. How many people get all of these things at once? I have blessings in spades, and I don’t take a single one of them for granted.

My cousin posted on my Facebook that 38 is the new 28. To that I say, AMEN. I would never want to be 28 again. That was not my finest hour. But 38….that’s a whole different story. At 38 I am finally starting to feel like I really have my shit together. I feel…grown up. But in a good way.

People try to placate me by telling me that I don’t look my age, and that’s all fine and good, but if I wore every wrinkle and laugh line and butt dimple of my 38 years, that would be ok too. Because it’s all a part of my story, and it’s a story I am proud to tell.

Does it freak me out that I am inching closer to 40? It should. I should be having a pre-midlife crisis and wearing mini skirts and listening to boy bands and trying to recapture my youth. But I don’t feel the need because I am happy to be moving forward on my journey. With age comes wisdom and experience. It also comes with spider veins, crow’s feet, a bigger ass and a slower metabolism, but those are all small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

So bring on 38, 39, 40…hell, bring on the golden years. I will relish in and enjoy every single one of them. And just for today, I will forget the size of my jeans, my incessant need to go to the gym and the guilt I feel if I allow myself to enjoy a cookie or a glass wine. Today I will indulge in life’s simple treats. I will drink wine and the cookie cake my co-worker brought in. I will have a delicious dinner with my family and not count the calories or the carbs.

And in the words of Queen Marie Antoinette, “Let them eat cake”. And eat cake I shall.

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.