
Guess who went to a wedding, drank a little too much wine, and began to dance sexily, aerobicly and YES, Wormily on the wedding dance floor?
Yeah. More to come later because I think whoever that was is quite possibly still drunk.
Are you crying? There’s no crying in the fitting rooms!
I really DO love you guys. Honestly, I do. You have no idea how much your encouragement and support means to me. I mean, HELLO? I posted pictures of my stomach yesterday and you all said nice things–REALLY nice things.
I have to admit, I was shocked (SHOCKED!) at the comments about my stomach. People used words like “Toned” and “ABS” and “muscles” to describe my stomach. What?
WHAT?!
I’ll admit, it sure felt good to hear that. I mean, who doesn’t want to hear nice things about their body? But! The longer the day went on, the more it bothered me because, well, I can not let people think that I have muscular abs when I do not. Because “Oh my God! What if someone asks to see my toned abs at BlogHer?
Everyone knows I hate my body, err, um, I used to hate my body but am working on loving it. The thing I hate the most about my body is my stomach.
It’s stretched out. It’s fat. It’s flabby. It’s lumpy. There are fat rolls (ok, one giant roll that hangs) It’s covered in stretch marks. My belly button is stretched out and deformed (but, I have to say, it makes a really good “puppet”, which is kind of awesome. I like to open and close it whilst talking in a funny voice and say things like “Can you please check me for lint?”)
I often think, “God, my life would be so much better if it weren’t for my disgusting belly.”
Before I get too sad and depressed about my belly, I should mention that my belly does have a few redeeming qualities and we do have our moments of happiness together. Like, when we’re shopping together, or when we’re making sweet belly music on the couch late at night.
I can understand the compliments and comments about my “Toned” “abs” because they did look quite nice in those pictures, but there are reasons for that.
a)I’m standing far away from the mirror.
b) I was sucking my stomach in as hard as I could. (And please, do not judge me for that, who DOESN’T hold their stomach in when people are looking at it?)
c) Bad lighting.
(Look at me! Iβm trying to talk you out of thinking that I have “toned” “abs.” What the hell is wrong with me?)
I know, and I try and my GOD, I appreciate the compliments. But there are people who are irritated with me because “how dare I call myself fat when I have such toned, muscular abs.” Because, you know, I’m not really fat at all and just want people to tell me how great I look!
Um, yeah. Except, not really.
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My belly button is all “You know you want to pet me and sing songs to me and, perhaps, frolic with me in the hills of fatty goodness that is Y’s belly. Admit it, you do.”
Ha! Ha! Come on. It’s funny, people. Ok, maybe you have to hear it in my belly button voice. If you’re nice and don’t scold me about being “nicer to my toned abs.” then maybe I will make a .wav file for you.
Now that we’ve cleared THAT up, letβs move on, shall we?
I’m convinced that the dressing room lighting/mirrors are designed to make you feel bad about yourself. That is why I NEVER try clothes on at the store. I will buy a butt load of clothes, come home, try them on and return the ones that don’t fit. Today, I thought I’d go ahead and try the clothes on there in the fitting room so I didn’t have to listen to PigHunter go on and on about how annoying it is that I don’t try clothes on and blahblahblah “don’t lose the reciept, woman!”
I never feel like taking a giant ax and chopping limbs off of my body when I try clothes on at home. I may say things like “Nah, this doesn’t fit.” Or “Damn, my ass is too lumpy in this skirt” But not ONCE have I cried and said things like “Oh my GOD! I HATE MYSELF AND HOW DO PEOPLE NOT PUKE WHEN THEY LOOK IN MY GENERAL DIRECTION?”
(That is what I actually said to myself whilst CRYING at a Kohlβs dressing room.)
(What am I shopping for? Oh, a little thing called AN OUTFIT FOR A WEDDING THAT IS TOMORROW that I have been avoiding for months because I was in denial that I would be a size 10 by now and ha! Ha! Ha! NOT.)
It’s not just my weight that looks bad in the dressing room mirrors either. It’s my skin, my hair, my face, my toes, my teeth, my ears, my anus.
Everything.
I swear, I feel like everyone in my life would be better off without me in their lives every time I come out of The Fitting Room.
The HELL is up with that?
I don’t think you’re ready for this belly.
It wasn’t easy for me to post the pictures of my body yesterday. I actually cried when I saw them, because, well, I’m truly ashamed of my body.
But this IS my body. I’m trying desperately to learn how to love and accept it. I’m trying to remain honest and open about it here on my blog, for personal reasons and also for the people who have written to me, telling me that my honesty has encouraged them to lose weight.
Yesterday, I thought it was time to get real and come clean with my weight gain. Not that I’ve been dishonest about it, because I haven’t, but I thought since I posted weight loss pictures all of the damn time, it was time to post a “what an 8 pound gain looks like” photo.
I was shocked (SHOCKED!) at the comments about my stomach. People using words like “Toned” and “ABS” and “muscles”. What? WHAT?
I’ll admit, it sounded good to hear. I mean, who doesn’t want to hear nice things about their body? But! the longer the day went on, the more it bothered me because, well, I can not let people think that I have muscular abs when I do not. Because “OMG! What if someone asks to see my toned abs at BlogHer?!”
Here’s the thing. Everyone knows I hate my body, err, um, I used to hate my body but am working on loving it. The thing I hate the most is my stomach.
It’s stretched out. It’s fat. It’s flabby. It’s lumpy. It has rolls. It’s covered in stretch marks. My belly button is stretched out and deformed (but, I have to say, it makes a really good “puppet.” I like to open and close it whilst talking in a funny voice and say things like “Can you please check me for lint?”)
My stomach is the reason I refuse to go to the beach. My stomach is the reason I will not take a shower with my husband. My stomach is the reason I cry when I look in the mirror.
I hate it more than anything else on my body. It’s repulsive and I often think “If only my belly were normal, my life would be so much better.”
Don’t get too sad for me and my belly. It’s not “all hate all of the time.” We have our moments of happiness. Like, when we’re shopping together, or when we’re making sweet bellay music on the couch late at night.
I realize it’s more toned than it’s been, but, people, I do not have a muscular, toned stomach and I can not let you go on thinking that I do.
There are reasons that my stomach looked tone in those pictures.
a)I’m standing far away from the mirror.
b) I was sucking my stomach in as hard as I could. (And please, do not judge me for that, who DOESN’T hold their stomach in when people are looking at it?)
c) Bad lighting.
I can hear people now. “Just take a compliment, woman.”
I know, and I try and my GOD, I appreciate the compliments. But there are people who are irritated with me because “how dare I call myself fat when I have such toned, muscular abs.” Because, you know, I’m not really fat at all and just want people to tell me how great I look!
Um, yeah. Except, not really.
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The Truth.
My belly button is all “You know you want to pet me and sing songs to me and, perhaps, frolic with me in the hills of fatty goodness that is Y’s belly. Admit it, you do.”
Ha! Ha! Come on. It’s funny, people. Ok, maybe you have to hear it in my belly button voice. If you’re nice and don’t scold me about being “nicer to my toned abs.” then maybe I will make a .wav file for you.
Because I love you that much (And NOT because I freaking LOVE to make .wav files.)
(P.S. I really DO love you guys. Honestly. You have no idea how much your encouragement and support means to me. I mean, HELLO? You told me that I have toned abs. How could I NOT love you?)
Ladies Love The Protector of Girls.
A girl named “Aspen” just called to talk to Ethan.
Aspen has a friend over and they called to tell Ethan that they want to kiss him and they want him to choose which girl he’s going to kiss first.
Ethan is 9 years old. So are the girls.
My son responded with these exact words (said with a BRIGHT RED FACE) “I don’t know, I’ll make the decision when I’m older and more mature.”
For a brief moment, my heart swelled with pride for the dignified manner in which my son handled the situation.
Then he screamed like a little sissy girl and told them to SHUTUP..
I don’t blame him, the kid is only 9, I’ve not yet taught him how to properly deal with Little Hussies.
Respect…. My Strum
After enduring an hour of mocking and verbal abuse whilst playing Guitar Hero, I thought “Hey! Why not subject yourself to some more abuse and humilation and let the boys write a story about you?” (Thanks to Theresa for the idea.)
They were MORE THAN HAPPY to honor my request. (Little snots.) Prepare yourself, for my children do not hold back. Oh no they do not .
My mom looks like an idiot when she plays guitar hero, but she thinks she looks cool. She doesn’t even know how to play.
A lot of times, she thinks the game is broken, but the problem is that she isn’t strumming the guitar, which makes her kind of dumb when it comes to the game.
If it gets accidently paused, she asks the person to restart it because she’s a drama queen about it and acts like a baby when she plays it.
My mom’s a pretty nice person when it comes to anything else, but when it comes to guitar hero, she’s a game hog and she has no manners.
WhatEVAH. Obviously, they’re just jealous and can’t deal with the fact that I have killer Aerobic Dance Moves to accompany my sucky guitar playing.
Do NOT read this entry if you are easily offended by The Sex and or giant pink dongs
On Saturday, I co-hosted a Party for Vaginas. I was so excited about it because Ben Wah Balls and also Nubby G.
This was the 3rd Passion Party I had attended, but the first one that I hosted. I can tell you without any hesitation that they NEVER get boring. Infact, this one was by far the craziest one I’ve ever been to.
First of all, there were drunk men at this one. Only one of them actually had the balls (ha! ha!) to join in on the party fun and by “join in” I mean “stand in the back of the room and say things like ‘that’s hot’ and ‘I like your technique’ when we were playing ‘pass the Pink Peeny.'”
(What? You want pictures of The Pass The Peeny game? Well, of COURSE!!)
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The game was just like musical chairs, only instead of walking around waiting for the music to stop so you could grab a seat, you would pass a giant pink rubber penis around with your knees and the person left with the pink rubber penis in between their legs (ha! ha!) when the music stopped was OUT. I almost bought that rubby penis just so I could play that game at every party I ever attend! Things get boring at a birthday party? “Hey! I know a game!” I start feeling insecure and uncomfortable at Blogher? “Hey, wimmins! Let’s play musical dick!”
That would be so awesome.
But seriously, folks. You’ve not lived until you’ve played musical (rubber) dick.
The second greatest moment of the night had to be when The Hostess whipped out the Numbit.
The NumbWHAT? You ask. The butthole. That’s what.
At least that’s what The Consultant said with a totally serious face, all matter of fact like as she held the bottle of Numbit up in the air. Unfortunetly, I didn’t take a picture of her actually HOLDING the bottle of Numbit, but lucky all of YOU! I did take a picture of myself holding the bottle of Numbit.
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In case you’re thinking that you would NEVER buy a cream that is specifically made to numb your butt, I should inform you that it is multifunctional for The Numbit can also be used to soothe the gums of teething babies. You heard that right. “Numbit, not just for numbing buttholes.”
I was so happy that Joelle made the very long drive to be there with me. Not just because she had the pleasure of experiencing the stuff you “put down there” that sets your croch on fire. But in a good way. I wish I had video of her jumping up and down in the kitchen after having applied it to her hahaha you know hahaha in the bathroom. I’ve never felt closer to her. As she was leaving, I shouted “Thanks for coming.” And oh, how I laughed and laughed because GET IT?
HardyHar.
I walked away from The Vagina Party with new found sexual knowledge (Did you know that when you have sex, the inside of your nose swells up? Neither did I!), a new love for certain products that require batteries and most importantly, a new nickname.
That’s right, after 34 years on this earth, I finally have a nickname and it is…
Nubby G.
If you’ve never attended a Passion Party, I suggest you find a consultant near you and BOOK THEE A PARTY.
(omg! She’s writing about not being able to write!)
I’m currently suffering from Severe WannaBe Writers Block.
I sat down at least 5 times yesterday to write about such things as “my husband taking the coaching of city basketball WAY too seriously.”
“The planning of The Passion Party and how my friend suggested we should serve “Weenies and beans” and how she was completely serious and not even aware of how HILARIOUS it was that she suggested “WEENIES” for a party about and for weenies.”
“me getting served at the gym last night when a little old lady put me to shame by lifting 10 pound weights with ease while I struggled with my 5 pounders and how I kinda wanted to kick her where babies come out for making me feel bad about myself even though she was just doin’ her thang.”
“Connie Chung. (Ok, and also Maury Povich.”)
“when I told a certain comedian friend of mine who shall remain nameless that I put a little weight back on, his response was “Lose the weight. No excuses. Not fucking one. Lose the weight” and how I wigged the HELL out and went all “typical woman” on him and started to cry because how dare he not comfort me and offer me a virtual (*(*(*(*HUG*)*)*)*)”
And I sat here for hours, unable to put any of those things into a coherent post. And then I lost my shit, said a lot of “F” words and called my computer a bitch. I felt so bad because, seriously, is it the computers fault? IS IT? Of course it isn’t, so I apologized and we both cried a little because it’s not anyone’s fault.
WannaBe Writers Block happens, man. It just happens.
Fun Flickr Fact

Today was Ethan’s 9th birthday, so I find it highly amusing that a photo that I took of him yesterday made the front page of Explore and to #1 on interestingness.
Titles are for people who are not pissed off.
A few weeks ago, I had blood tests done and also had x-rays taken of my lower back.
(Oh my God. I’m writing about blood tests. How lame! And boring!)
I hadn’t heard anything from my doctor, so I called last week and left several messages for him. He never did call me back, but on Saturday, there was an envelope in the mail from my doctor that contained the results of my blood work.
Sibling Love
Excuse me for bragging, but my youngest son kicked ass at the End of the Year School Awards ceremony.
My GOD. I’m so proud to be his mother.
He recieved a “Citizenship” award, a “Recognition with HONORS” award, a “Service” award for outstanding service as a student council Representive (one of only TWO for the entire 3rd grade class, thank you very much) and (this one is my most favorite for obvious reasons) “The School District Writing Celebration, Young Authors” ribbon for excellence in writing. His was one of only THREE stories chosen to be displayed at the district office as being one of the “best written stories” of 2006.
Hello, Future Blogger of America! (I know, poor kid, I should lower my expectations.)
As he stood up there, with all of his awards in hand and a huge smile across his face, my heart was bursting with pride and I had to hold back from standing on my chair and screaming out “LOOK AT THE KID! HE’S AWESOME! AND I’M HIS MOTHER!”
I am pretty sure that the fact that my son kicks so much acedemic ass makes me a “good breeder.”
He’s such an awesome kid and seriously? One of the funniest human beings I’ve ever known. He’s also fiercly loyal, protective and affectionate.
Oh, and? He loves The Ladies.
He once deemed himself “The Protector of Girls.” And man, he takes his self given title seriously.
Like the one time some boy was picking on a girl at a party, my son got right in the kids face and said “DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A HAPPY FACE, DUDE?”
What makes that so funny is that the kid was about 10 years old and Ethan was 6. He didn’t care, he was just “doing his job.”
One of the greatest joys of my life has been watching him with my daughter. He’s incredibly loving with her, sensitive to her feelings, and extremely protective of her.
((OMG! The Cheese&trade, it has returned!)
Every once in a while, he’ll stand in her bedroom and stare at her baby pictures. He’ll start to cry and say things like “This picture just makes me cry mom, because she’s growing up so fast, I can’t believe that’s the little baby I held in my arms at the hospital.”
The other day, I asked him what it felt like when he held her for the first time.
“Mom, it was like, the greatest moment of my life. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. I loved her right away.”
He loves her deeply and she loves him right back. Her face lights up when she sees him in the morning and when he leaves for school, she hugs him, kisses him and says “Bye Boo.”
The most exciting part of her day is when she hears his bus come roaring down the street. She literally freaks the hell out. She jumps up and down, squeels, laughs. I try to make sure we’re outside everyday so that she can be there to see him when he gets off the bus because what happens when he steps off of the bus is honestly one of the most precious things that I have ever witnessed as a mother.
She watches intently as the kids start filing out of the bus, waiting for the moment that her Brubber appears. The minute she sees him step out, she takes off running towards him. And then he runs towards her. And they run and run until the finally meet and he sweeps her off of her tiny little feet, and they hug and giggle.
And I cry. Every single time. Corny? Yes! But maybe if you saw it yourself, you’d understand how it could make a mother cry.


