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.

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!

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.

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.

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.