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.