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.

You gotta know when to fold 'em....

It would be a moot point for me to tell you that I haven’t written anything in awhile. Most of you have probably forgotten about me, given up on me, or have been reading my old blogs repeatedly while you waited for me to get off my lazy ass and put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, if you will.


Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to write because…well, my mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. And I have been a wretched bitch with an acid tongue and a shitty attitude to boot. So I felt it was easier to obey mama’s rules.

But today, I am going to lay all of the cards on the table in the hopes that by going all in, and letting you know the good, the bad and the flabby of my last 6 months, that I will allow myself a clean slate so I can go back to the ridiculous, unfiltered and happier posts that you all seem to love so much.

So, incase you were living under a rock or you were too busy watching a fucking DOG win America’s Got Talent, you probably know I lost a little weight. And that I became obsessive about gaining it back. And that I exercise like a hamster on crack. Just in case you had forgot.

Well here we are, two and a half years and about 180 pounds later and there are days that I feel fatter than I did the day I couldn’t buckle my seat belt on an airplane. Ridiculous, right? I mean, if I can be vain for like half a second, I’m not hard on the eyes. Not skinny, but certainly not fat. My face is holding it down despite 37 rough years on earth. Mind you, I have enough extra skin to make an entirely new human, but despite that I don’t look bad in a pair of jeans.

Most days, I am proud of myself. I accept the extra skin and the stretch marks as parts of my journey. They remind me of where I came from, and where I never want to be again. For awhile I was obsessively thin. Everyone had an opinion.

“You’re too skinny”

“Where did your boobs go?”

“Did you forget to eat today?”

I know people thought they were being funny, but seriously, fuck you. And I say that with love because that’s just how me and the people I love most talk to each other. So I say again, fuck you. Of course I looked too skinny compared to looking like a sweaty sumo wrestler trying to wiggle himself into a clown car.

Then things started to….how shall I say this? Settle? My body reached it’s plateau and just kind of “sank” into place. My weight stayed the same but my hips widened a little and I started to get soft around the middle again. So I kicked up the workouts. Gained a little weight thanks to some late night Barefoot Muscato. Put a little junk in my trunk and some oomph in my twin set up front thanks to running and yoga. Finally, I felt good. Finally, I felt at peace with myself. Sure, I realized I no longer looked like I was one carrot stick from becoming emaciated. Sure, my cheek bones weren’t as prominent and I had to trade in my Junior’s size jeans for real women’s jeans (at 37 should I really be wearing juniors clothes of any sort anyway?). But I could finally look in the mirror, see past my kangaroo pouch of a stomach and my flabby legs, and think, “Damn girl, you look good.”

One day that all changed and I’m not sure why. One day I walked outside and felt the eyes of the world on me. Judging me. Whispering about me.

“Did you see Lisa? She put some weight back on, huh?”

"So much for gastric bypass. I guess she should have kept her fat clothes a little bit longer.”

“Is that her ass or two pigs fighting for the last piece of grub?”

Ok, no one was really saying that, but the fucked up little voice in the back of my head made me believe they might be. And it is making me nuts. Because, I know how hard I continue to work. And truth be told, I have a good handle on food and how to enjoy things in moderation. And I would rather be a comfortable size 8/10 and be able to enjoy a glass of wine or a handful of chips once in awhile, than to live on protein based foods and exercise myself to death trying to be what no one else but me really expects me to be.

I did this so I could live a real life. And now I am and I can. And I have done it because I have an amazing support team. So many people have listened to my bitching and moaning about my insecurities and how “fat” I am.  And how they haven’t all lynched me, strung me up by my short and curly’s and poked me with rusty needles to shut me the fuck up, is beyond me. But I love them for loving me enough to wait for me to love myself. Wow, that’s a lot of love.

So, now that I have come clean about all my dirty secrets and darkest thoughts, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually enjoy just being me. Whatever size that might be.

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.