Friday, August 17, 2018

Cheer, Bitches.

While it has my unique pleasure to amuse and sometimes offend you with my off brand sense of humor, I have decided to end this blog and begin a new one.

I started this blog with the intention of journaling my weight loss journey and I feel that after eight years, I have beaten that poor horse into submission.  While I may not be an everyday success story, I believe I am an overall one, and I choose to focus on what really matters - my mind.

I'm not sure if this is good or bad for the world because it means more brutal honesty, more crass humor and more unadulterated ME.

So, if you'd like to partake in the next chapter with me, head on over to and join in on the mayhem.  I'd love to see you!

Monday, September 11, 2017

Don't Call It A Comeback....

I'm not myself anymore, yet I am unlike any version of "me" that I have ever come across before.  I have always ebbed and flowed through stages of happiness and depression in various stages of my life, but this weird SyFy version of myself where I lie on the couch watching endless Netflix series, drinking way too much wine, missing endless weeks of work, closing out my family and loved ones, and shutting down the mental capacity to deal with any of it, is something I have never encountered before.  They say admitting that you have a problem is the first step to finding a solution.  I have admitted that I have a problem before, only for the problem to get worse.  Mostly because I was only admitting it to get the people around me to leave me the fuck alone so I could get on with the business of ignoring life.  But here I am, admitting my problem to the world so it can no longer be ignored, and I am scared to death.  I would pretty much rather stab myself in the eyeballs with sewing needles while listening to the Backstreet Boys on repeat in a room full of clowns.  That is how ready I am to get on with the business of living again.

So, here you go world.  I am a fucking mess.

I don't know when or why I disappeared, or why I am so afraid of feelings, and reality, and being happy.  I have been doing a lot of self reflection (in between all of the self-medicating), and there are so many things that swirl in this wine filled, pill fogged brain of mine.  Here are some realistic, selfish and probably deluded theories:

  1. Once the kids got older and I didn't have a reason to run around and have other people to care for, I stopped caring for myself.
  2. Once I was properly diagnosed with lupus, and things started hurting more, starting becoming more real, and I couldn't just "do" what I wanted to do all the time, reality became too much and I checked out of it earlier than I needed to.
  3. In light of certain life events over the last year, the depression that I have kept so closely to the vest, has leaked out like a shitty diaper and stinks up the air around me until neither I, nor the people around can breathe anymore.
  4. My fear of getting fat again has in turn actually had this strange obsessive hold over me that has adversely actually allowed me to gain weight which has then plummeted my already blossoming depression into a deeper hole of despair that just circle jerks itself into a spiral of unending insanity.
  5. Wine is good.
Excuses aside, I have been an asshole.  A weak, whiny, excuse hurdling asshole too afraid to take on her own demons, her own mortality and her own life.   Aside from cancelling my Netflix subscription for awhile, avoiding the liquor store, and getting my ass off the couch once in awhile, I don't know where to begin when it comes to getting myself back.  Maybe I will never be who I was again.  Maybe I can be better.  I guess the only way I can find out is to take the first gut wrenching step forward.  

Here goes nothing, right?

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Ella estaba sorprendida!! (She was surprised)

Normally, I am NOT good at keeping secrets.  I get super excited about the idea of keeping them and seeing the look on people's faces when they are revealed,  but then I see that person and I just want to tell them instantly.  I look like the cat that ate the canary with my big stupid grin and my face is a dead giveaway.

But with the help of one of my very best friends, I finally did it.  I kept a secret from my sister for months.  And it SUCKED.  It was harder than trying to strap your baby to your chest with one of those granola mom loving baby harnesses that have no buckles and the only way to get your child from face planting to the ground is by knowing origami and having a roll of duct tape.  Yeah, it was that kind of hard.

For months, we texted and called and Amazon Prime ordered and Etsy'd our asses off planning for this party.  It was going to the be the best fake bridal shower planning, Surprise 40th Birthday Party anyone had ever pulled out of their asses.  It was complete with gold glitter cat decorations for my cat loving sister, pink and gold glitter e'rthing, booze that would rival a Jay-Z backstage after party and enough food to put you into Weight Watchers meetings for a year.

But when her car pulled up and everyone got into position, the tension was palpable.  I could literally feel the heartbeat of every person there pounding in my chest.  I don't think I remembered to breathe for a solid five minutes.  As she came up the side of the house, our friend Melissa signaled for her son to start playing "Go shorty, it's your birthday", we all jumped out and yelled SURPRISE, she had an aneurysm and everyone went home.


She was carrying arms full of baskets for the shower she was supposed to be planning, along with wine and other shower-like goodies that she almost threw on the ground, and I am pretty sure I saw a trickle of pee come down her leg when we scared her half to death and she instantly started crying.  Mission accomplished.  I believe her exact words as she rounded the corner were "What the hell is wrong with all of you?  That is terrible!"  Aw, sweeter words have never been spoken 💖

Head over to my Instagram to check it out:

I have to say, I haven't seen my sister smile so big, or be as happy as I had seen her that night in a long time.  She was glowing, she was dancing, she was hugging, she was being hugged, she was genuinely realizing just how far the people that love her would go to let her know how incredibly special and important she is to them.

And just when she thought it just couldn't possibly get any better than that she started opening up a gift that was signed from a group of us who had donated towards it and came in eight sections.  Each piece - things like sunscreen, maracas, a margarita glass with tequila, a Daddy Daycare DVD, a tank top that said This Senorita Needs a Margarita, a calendar and finally - a signed card - told her that she has an all expense paid trip girls trip to Mexico next spring!

BOOM!  NAILED IT!  As much as we looked forward to it, and enjoyed it, I had never been so happy for something to be over.  Surprise parties are stressful and I am glad she doesn't turn 50 for another 10 years.  

Also, I have a sprained wrist.  Long story short, gravity and alcohol (and walls) are not my friend and if I want to sit on the ground after I fall I am pretty intent on doing just that, until I'm not, at which point I will sprint into the house, and into a wall.  Good times, good times.

I am available for your Sweet 16's, Quinceanera's, Dirty 30's, Lordy Lordy 40's and Bachelorette Parties for a reasonable fee.  Just don't let me drink Fireball on an empty stomach.  You've been warned.

Friday, July 28, 2017

Thigh Gaps and Knee Slaps

So, what's the deal with "thigh gaps"?  I mean, I don't think I ever had one.  Not even as an infant.  Or a fetus.  When I was a kid that was just never a thing.  Girls didn't aspire to be anorexics or Victoria Secret models.  We aspired to have enough Rave hairspray to get us through a weekend of rollerskating and drinking beer on the railroad tracks.  We wanted to make sure that we we had enough safety pins for our bleached out jeans and enough batteries for our walkmans.  I have always had stumpy limbs and I ain't mad about it because it's not only true that "thick thighs save lives", they also save cell phones from falling in the toilet when you're playing Candy Crush in the morning.  They save that last crispy piece of pepperoni from falling on the floor.  They bounce babies which create giggles, which is the best sound in the whole world.  And they look hella good in a pair of skinny jeans.  We, as women, are not meant to look like the 12 year old versions of ourselves.  We are meant to look like humans who have birthed other humans.  Like women who have loved and lost, and drank dranks, and laughed and cried and lived a thousand lifetimes.  So all you skinny bitches eating air and drinking your flat tummy teas for the sake of a "thigh gap", have at it.  I will keep saving lives with these thick thighs, and the occasional cell phone.

Another phrase that cracks me is being someone's "ride or die".  Like, where are we riding and why do we have to die?  It seems really aggressive and extreme.  Can I just be someone's "cruise and live"?  I mean in the end, I'll still be there for you, and in the meantime we can eat pizza and drink whiskey and take the back roads home, and when we get home we can watch some Netflix and fall asleep on the couch and no one has to give up their life.  I say that sounds way better than riding and dying.

I feel like the older I get, the older I realize I am.  I am always using the phrase "when I was a kid", or "kids these days".  The next thing you know I will be telling my kids I had to walk to school in the snow with no shoes, uphill, both ways while carrying my siblings on my back.  Speaking of my poor aching back....

Ok, that's it.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

I'm back, Bitches.

Ok, so it's been a hot minute....or a long year since I have last posted.  To be honest, although I have a lot to say, I haven't had the words in me to say them.  I'm not even the same person I was last year, or even last month or last week for that matter, so it's hard to know where to begin when starting over.  They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.  So here I am, taking that first step - or as it were that initial thud back into real life.  Because the place where I have been stuck - in my head, on my couch, in Season 5 of Pretty Little Liars, in my sweatpants - isn't the place I want to be anymore.  It isn't the place I can afford to be anymore.  My mental health, my marriage, my family, and the button on every pair of pants I own counts on me becoming a better version of who I currently am.  And I think the reason I am ready to become whoever she is, is because I have stopped comparing myself to everyone else, and to the person I once was, and realized that the only real competition I have is with myself.

So here I stand, a little more wrinkled around the edges, a little harder, a little heavier around the middle, and a little too knowledgeable about four teenage girls on the run from other teenagers without parents and with unlimited resources and hacking skills.

So, today it's raining, and the air is cool (which means my hair is cooperating and I don't look like a human troll doll), and my eyebrows are extremely "on fleek" for the second day in a row, and I am sitting here with my pants unbuttoned (at work - oh please, like you've never done it), and I have made the decision to let Hanna, Spencer, Aria, Emily and Alison figure out who "A" is for themselves for awhile while I get back to the art of yoga, being less of an oompaloompa and reclaiming my life.  After all, being lapped in the mall by a 65 year old woman with pink hair, wearing Lululemon's and rocking out to 21 Pilot's is all the shame this 42 year needs, thank you very much.

I refuse to go back to the me from 7 years ago, regardless of how "cute" or "sexy" people still tell me I was.  Being 317 pounds and barely squeezing into a size 26 jeans, and asking for seatbelt extenders on airplanes is not the life I will ever return to.  I may never be able to run again, but that won't stop me from sweating it out and building up some bangin' biceps in downward dog, or lapping the old lazy me by walking a few miles after work.

Watch out world, I'm back and I'm taking no prisoners.  Unless those prisoners are a size 10 peep-toe booties with a 5" heel in nude suede.  Then, you can consider me -A.  And if you don't get that reference after reading this, we can't be friends.


Thursday, February 25, 2016

I'm Bi-polar. And so aren't I.

I have decided that I am bi-polar.  I haven't been officially diagnosed by a doctor or a therapist or anything but one Friday night while partaking in a glass (or three) of pinot I extensively googled my symptoms and bookmarked some very pertinent pages on WedMD so I'm pretty sure I self diagnosed myself accurately.  Who needs this ObamaCare bullshit and co-pays when you have the internet and a ton of neurosis to entertain yourself with, right?

Why do I think I am bi-polar, you ask?  I'll tell you.  Or maybe I won't.  Get it?  Because I'm bi-polar.  I crack me up.  Anyway....

After a very long winter filled with lupus flares and migraines and rashes and basically wishing I was a bear that could just find a nice pot of honey and a cave to hibernate in until it was all over, I started to see the light at the end of a very long autoimmune filled tunnel.  I was finding my energy again.  The rashes were subsiding.  I didn't feel like throat punching someone every time they told me I "looked tired" or want to rip my ears off at the sound of even the slightest hint of human movement because of my migraines.  I was starting to feel less Charles Manson-ish and more like my usual smart ass, hyper, OCD self.

But then.....the body, self love, bi-polar thing started happening out of nowhere.  Because for all of these months that I couldn't work out I wasn't gaining weight, but I was obviously losing muscle and strength because I wasn't able to work out and I spent much of my time on the couch, in my sweats, taking my meds and watching the days roll by hoping that the next one would be the day that I didn't hate my body and the world.  The only marathons I was a part of were the Netflix marathons where I watched all four seasons of Girls in three days or where me and my daughter watched Mad Dogs in one sitting on a gloomy, shitty, pain killer filled day when I was questioning my life and whether it was worth living it (but that's a story for another day).

So, when I was able to put down the Amazon Fire Stick, take off the sweatpants, put on my big girl pants and start living life again, I had mixed feelings about the person that remained after what I considered to be the lowest point of my life - including that time I went through the Big C.  (Hey, remember when I went through cancer for 12 years and I was all fat and in a bad marriage and then had all my lady parts ripped out and had radiation and met my now husband and got my shit together and lost 160 pounds and got all healthy only to find out I had FUCKING LUPUS and fibromyalgia and hypoglycemia and they wanted to take out my pancreas too basically rendering me a fucking diabetic because HEY WHY NOT TAKE ANOTHER BODY PART YOU ASSHOLES and then I throat punched all the cunts that were pissing me and THE END).


Back to my story.

Somedays I feel beautiful and amazing.  I am grateful for this body and happy that six years later I have managed to keep the weight off despite all of the crap that has happened.  I have battled my depression and anxiety in silence and still not turned to food or alcohol or drugs as a comfort.  I have held steadfast to the goals I set for myself and remained in control like a FUCKING ROCKSTAR (cue self back patting).  I can get dressed and make it through the day living all 41 years of my life on earth like a beautiful, valuable human being.

But then here come those self diagnosed, WebMD, googled bi-polar days where I literally feel like the StayPuff marshmellow man in the Ghostbusters movie waddling in slow motion through the streets of Manhattan knocking over towers and buildings, eating everything in sight.  I feel like a round, blimpyity, sludge filled, disgusting, saggy, fat piece of dog shit.  I want to give up and become one of the People of Walmart wearing flesh colored leggings and Winnie the Pooh t-shirts with my Crocs and my trucker hat.  Fuck it all and pass me the Twinkies.

But instead, I went out and bought an elliptical.  And started my 30 day yoga challenge again.  And stopped leaving candy in my desk drawer.  And took yogurt to work instead of going to Tim Horton's everyday for the broccoli cheddar soup (YUM).  Some days it makes me feel like a total bad ass.  Some days I hate it, but I do it anyway because I know that in the end I will thank myself for it.  I look back at the old pictures of when I got down to my lowest weight and I just want to get there again SO BADLY, but it seems like a million elliptical miles away.  However, the saying goes that the journey of a million miles starts with a single elliptical step.  Or some stupid shit like that.

I guess the long and the short of it is that it's time to shut down the laptop and get off Google and WebMD and get my fat ass into gear instead of complaining about the things that can only be changed by actually doing the things that need to be done to change them.   I still think I rock at this self diagnosing thing though.

Friday, October 2, 2015

The Bittersweet Homecoming

I haven't had the motivation to write in a long time.  Sure, I've had ideas pop into my head.  I've even given thought to a post or two, but nothing has inspired me to write.  Until today.  Because today my mom moves home.


And you're right.  To have my mother right where I can reach her is a blessing 7 years in the making.  To not have to wait months on end, put a countdown planner on my phone, count my sleeps, or wait for a windfall to afford a trip to go see her is something that I can't put a price on.  To be able to hug her, laugh with her, have dinner with her, see her facial expressions when we have a conversation is something I never knew I would miss until she was 2,000 miles away.

But all this joy comes with a great price.  All this magnificent, overwhelming, heart bursting happiness also comes with an extreme sadness.  Because her reasons for coming back are because someone we love isn't where she was to be with her anymore.  The place she called home for seven years doesn't feel like her home without him anymore, so she is coming back to the only place that ever did without him.  And the thought of sharing all this joy without him is sad.

We would be remiss to let this day, and this happiness, go by without letting him know that we are thinking of him.  That there hasn't been a day in the last three months that we don't think about him, laugh with him, cry over him, share our anger because of him, or miss him with every fiber of our being.  There hasn't been a moment that so many lives haven't been affected by his absence.

Pieces of him never left.  Pieces of him will never return.  And with the return of my mother a new journey in her life will begin and we will all take it with her.  We will hold her hand, hug her shoulders, cry her tears, walk her footsteps, make new memories, share old stories -  but we can never take away her pain.  We can never replace him no matter how many miles distance you put between her and the place they made a home.

My mom comes home today.  Whatever "home" is or will be.  I am happy and sad and angry and feeling all the same emotions I felt the day he died, so I can only imagine that as she packs up her things and turns around one last time to say goodbye to the home they shared, closes the door and walks out, she is feeling so much more, and I only wish I were there to help her say those goodbyes.

I sit here pissed off that he is making me cry at work.  That he keeps popping into my head at the most inopportune moments.  Like when driving in my car and a song comes on the radio that reminds me of him.  Or when I randomly flip through Facebook and see his granddaughter, who is his spitting image and will never get to know him.  Or when I talk to my mom and I can hear the pain and the exhaustion in her voice.  I am angry that this is one thing in my family I cannot step in to fix.  I can be strong for myself and my family when it comes to my illness, but I can only be so strong for her and what she is feeling and it makes me hate him sometimes.

And I hate that I hate him sometimes, because I love him so much.  And sometimes....I hate that I love him so much.  Because if I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't have to feel all of these emotions.  And if I didn't feel all of these emotions, I wouldn't spend so much time thinking about how everyone else must be feeling at the same time.

Have I mentioned my mom is coming home today?  Because she is.  And I think we are all ready to put the worst of this pain behind us and move forward into the healing part that everyone keeps talking about.  The part where "they" say it "gets easier".  I hope "they" are right.  Because if they aren't I will hunt them down and cut a bitch.  For real.

Hurry home mom.  Your family is waiting with open arms.  It's been a long time coming.