The moves will live on. Oh yes, they will.

I was getting ready for Aerobic Dance class when a little voice reminded me of the sign I saw the last time that I was at the gym. The sign said “There will be a new class schedule as of June 1.” I thought I should call the gym to make sure they hadn’t gone and messed with the time of MY Class.
“Hi, this is The Greatest Aerobic Dancer your gym has ever known and I’m just calling to make sure that Aerobic Dance is still at 6:00.”
As she was giving me the answer to my question, the room started to spin, I felt dizzy.
“Anna… Russia… all summer… kickboxing instead…”
The room started spinning. I felt weak and dizzy. What? Huh? After a few minutes, the reality of what she had just said started to soak in.
OH MY GOD! MY AEROBIC DANCE INSTRUCTOR WENT TO RUSSIA! FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER! WHICH MEANS NO MORE AEROBIC DANCE CLASS!
I know you probably think I’m being overly dramatic, but people! I live for The Aerobic Dance. The Aerobic Dance Floor is the one place in my life that I completely confident. And even when I’ve made mistakes, (which was HARDLY EVER) there’s no denying that was still pretty much the Greatest AD to have ever danced aerobicly.
And thanks to my instructor who just HAD to go “visit her son”(which, whatever lady.) THAT HAS ALL BEEN RIPPED AWAY FROM ME.
I guess deep down I always knew it wouldn’t last forever, I certainly didn’t expect for it to be taken away so soon, so suddenly. I’m going to need a few days to let the enormity of this continue to soak in.
Goodbye Aerobic Dance Class. How I’ve loved you. How I’ll miss you. Oh, dear GOD IN HEAVEN, how I’ll miss you. But! I will never forget you. I will always remember. ALWAYS.
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Long live The Monkey!

Wean THIS!

I love my mom but I hate the camera

Hi. My name is G-Unit and I’m mad at my mommy right now. That is why she does not have time to write today, because she is too busy dealing with my anger. You see, my mommy decided to take The Bobs away from me FOR GOOD. I was wondering what was up because everytime I’d lift her shirt up and ask for “Boobies” she’d say “No, boobies are sleeping.”
I didn’t like it, but thought, “Fine! When they wake up, they’re ALL MINE!”
But, that was 4 days ago. Four.Flippin.Days. I may not even be two yet, but I know that Boobs don’t sleep that long. This morning, I lifted her shirt and demanded that she give me some boobie and she said “All gone.”
All gone? What? WHAT? It was then that I realized she was trying to take them away from me forever and it was then that I got very mad. I screamed. I hit. I said “ONE MORE!” I cried. Oh, how I cried. Mommy started crying too. Why is SHE crying? IT’S NOT LIKE ANYONE TOOK ANYTHING AWAY FROM HER! How can she do this to me? My Bobs. I love My Bobs.
I WANT THE BOBS BACK AND I’M NOT GOING TO LET MY MOM ENJOY HER LIFE UNTIL SHE GIVES THEM BACK TO ME.

Let the Deflating began!

I just returned home from watching my son “Represent” his class at the 3rd grade spelling bee.
As I walked into the room and saw him sitting at the front of the room, with his little “participant” ribbon amongst his Fellow Spellers, my heart exploded with pride. “That’s my boy! My amazing, unique, wonderful little boy.” I wanted to shout it out for all of the 3rd graders, parents and teacher to hear. Instead, I stood in the back quietly, giving him the “thumbs up” and blowing him kisses.
He was the last of the 10 kids to go and his word was “equipment.” He had a pad of paper and pencil and ONE MINUTE to spell the word. I thought he’d pass through to the next round without any problems. However, his nerves had taken over and instead of taking his time and getting it right, he blurted the word out as fast as he could.
“Equipment. E-Q-U-I-M-E-N-T. Equipment.”
AH! He was disqualified in the first round.
I could see the look of disappointment on his face, he was on the verge of tears. So, instead of scolding him for not taking his time and using the pen and paper to spell it out first, I walked over to him and said “I’m so proud of you, you have NOTHING to feel bad about. Out of all the kids sitting in this room, you made the top 10. Hold your head high and be proud of that.”
(Honest! I said all of that! The only thing missing from that Awesome Parental Speech was the cheesy soap opera background music.)
I meant what I said. However, I’m an extremely competitive person who has a hard time accepting defeat and since my son doesn’t read this, I’m going to go ahead and vent here real quick.
OMG! WHY DIDN’T HE USE THE PAPER? WHY DID HE RUSH? OMG! THERE WAS NO NEED TO RUSH. AAAAHHH. AND AHHH! HIS COUSIN MOVED ON TO THE NEXT ROUND AND NOW I’LL HAVE TO HEAR THE BRAGGING FROM MY SISTER AND MOTHER IN LAW AND AAAAHHHH! WHHHYYYYYY?
The truth is, I’m proud of that kid for making it as far as he did. He’s an incredibly smart boy and I don’t know that he’ll ever truly understand how proud he makes me on a daily basis.
But next time, use the pad of paper, kid.
Ha! I kid! I’m TOTALLY OVER IT.
Yesterday, I did not chicken out and I did go to see my doctor. The weight gain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Five pounds. But still, five freaking pounds. But! [weight watcher leader mode] I’m not going to obsess over it! Because today, it’s all about being positive! And “looking at the bright side!” Because being negative breeds more negativity! DOWN WITH THE NEGATIVITY! Hey! at least it wasn’t 10 pounds! Positivity. P-O-S-I-T-I-V-I-T-Y. Positivity! [/weight watcher leader mode]
Excuse me for a minute. I just threw up in my mouth a lot.
My Doc ordered a buttload of tests, which I have yet to go have because I had G-Unit with me and I didn’t feel like trying to pee in a cup with her standing in between my legs giggling at my “Pachina.” I can’t remember all of the tests that he ordered (I’m not exaggerating when I said “Buttload.”) but I do know that he’s checking my thyroid and having x-rays done on my lower back. He also gave me a shot of B-12 and prescribed muscle relaxers because “my back is tight and full of knots.”
When he prescribed the muscle relaxers, he was all “You’re not still breastfeeding, are you?”
And I was all “Ummm. Yes! I am still producing and distrubiting the Tittymilk!” And he was all “well, you can’t take these pills then and you really need to be taking these pills” and I was all “Ok! I’ll stop today! No! Really! I will! Because Girlfriend kinda thinks she owns them and ha! ha! GET THIS! She acts like a dirty old man when she sees them. She giggles and wraps them in her arms and says “Oh boobies. Niiiiiiice boobies. Oh Boobies.” so, it’s time to stop anyway because SHE DOES NOT OWN THEM.” And he was all “Right, you tell her that they belong to Daddy.” And I was all “Uhhhh…um, hahaha, uh, yeah, daddy wants his titties back. hahah Um..I shaved my vagina for you today. hahah. Um, Hellooooo akwardness! CAN I GO NOW HAHA?”
(Word to my doctor: Having you talk about my boobs in “non clinical terms kinda makes me feel all weird inside so please don’t ever do it again because I don’t like feeling akward when you’re standing next to me.)
I’m happy (and yet very, very sad and conflicted because oh my GOD, this part of my life is coming to an end and my heart? It’s kind of hurting.) to report that my daughter did not partake of THE BOBS at all yesterday and has not partaken of them today either. She only asked for them once, but has since seemed to have forgotten about them (Except for when I was changing and she saw them and said “Ha! Ha! Boooobs. HI BOOBS!”) I expected it to be much harder on her than it’s actually turning out to be. It is I who is the one having a hard time with this. I’m sitting here feeling rejected, sad and as if I NO LONGER HAVE A PURPOSE IN LIFE.
So, it’s official. Operation “Let The Tittymilk DRY UP” is in full effect and I am no longer a “Breastfeeding Mother.”
*Sobs*

I think I’m going to hide now.

Weight loss is not going well.
I have no idea how much I’ve gained, but I know I’ve gained. I can tell by the way my clothes are fitting me.
I’ve not talked a lot about my “health” because, well, you know how I can be a little dramatic and how I always think I’m dying?
Yeah. That.
But, I’ve not been feeling well. Still tired all of the time, my hair is falling out (AWESOME!) I can’t sleep at night because my right leg falls asleep, my hands go numb and swell up. (Which explains why I feel tired all of the time, I’m up half the night beating the shit out of my leg trying to get the blood circulating in it.)
The lack of sleep has made me too exhausted to go to the gym as often as I need to go to continue with the weight loss. (Which is at LEAST 5 days a week.) I went on Friday night and left in tears because I didn’t even have the energy to do 30 minutes on the eliptical.
I am feeling like a huge failure these days. I’m very ashamed of myself and my inability to lose these last 40-ish pounds. So ashamed, I’m so ashamed of myself that I’ve actually avoided going to my doctor because I don’t want him to know I’ve gained weight. Tony’s been on my case for weeks to see my doctor, and I keep making up excuses. If he knew the real reason that I haven’t gone to see him , he’d KICK MY ASS.
Something that I never told you people is that a few months back, my doctor offered to put me on weight loss pills. We were talking about how hard it’s been for me to lose weight, about how long it’s taking me, about how far I’ve come, but yet, how far I still have to go.
The next day, he called to tell me that he was willing to do something for me that he does for very few patients.
“Y, I’m willing to put you on weight loss pills. I know you’ve worked hard, and I’m willing to give you something to help get you to your goal. You’ll have to have blood work done every 30 days and be monitored closely, but I’m willing to do that for you.”
I’m not going to lie. I was tempted. So very, very tempted. After all of these months, after all of the hours spent in the gym, after all of the obsessing over how many “points” each damn piece of food I put into my mouth was, I was so ready to just “pop a pill” and watch the fat melt off.
Oh yes, I was THIS CLOSE to taking the easy way out of my Fat Problems.
After much thought (about possibly getting greasy, explosive ass syndrome, or you know, causing liver damage) I decided to NOT take him up on his offer to take the pills. “I can do this myself!” I said proudly. “Thank you, but no thank you, I can do this!”
Ha! I lied! I’ve not done what I swore I could do without the pills. How embarrassing. And that is why I’ve not been to see my doctor, because I feel like a giant jackass.
I’ve put all of my feelings of shame and embarrassment about my weight aside and have made an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Not sure I’m going to actually KEEP the appointment, but hey, at least I made the effort to actually make an appointment.

I can’t believe I just wrote a post about “my hair.”

Today, I have an appointment to get my haircut. I haven’t had my haircut since November. That’s craziness for a woman who used to get her hair cut and colored every 6 weeks.
Funny how life changes after you quit your job to take care of your three (THREE!) children. No more money for things like “haircuts” or “dye jobs.”
I had long hair for most of my life. But that all changed a few months after I got married and decided that I wanted a perm.
Not just any perm. A spiral perm.
Do y’all remember the Spiral Perm? It was all the rage in the early 90’s. Kinda like how the ““Merm was all the rage in the 80’s.


Oh! The Merm! How I still long to have Perm Sex everytime I see that picture. Look at me, getting all distracted by my husband’s Merm. This post isn’t even about him! But MY GOD. The Merm.
Ahem. Back to MY Perm.
My mom’s very best friend was a hairdresser and agreed to give me A Spiral Perm. I trusted her completely, which turned out to be a very bad mistake. The Perm didn’t take because my hair was so long and thick, that it was too much for the perm to handle and it refused to hold the curl.
“You need layers.” She tells me AFTER having spent hours in a chair with horrid smelling chemicals burning the shit out of my scalp.
A couple of weeks later, I agreed to have layers cut and redo the perm. Oh my God. I hated it. It was horrible. So, later that night, I decided to go buy a chemical straightner and rid myself of The Perm Head.
My poor, sweet virgin hair. What was once a shiny, split end free head of hair was now a burnt, crisp mess. I’ll never forget standing in front of the bathroom mirror sobbing my eyes over the damage I had caused to my precious hair.
The next day I went to a professional hair dresser who was NOT my mother’s best friend and had my hair chopped off. And for the first time in my adult life, I had short hair.
I hated it at first, but eventually I grew to love it. It was easy to take care of, it was bouncy and “fun.”
Who knew! Hair could be fun!
I never was able to grow it long after that. I loved the short hair too much. And man, the compliments I would get about how “short hair really framed my face” made me love it even more. I did grow it out a few times for certain events (like my sister’s wedding) but for the most part, short hair was My Thang.
When I went through my depression, I gained a lot of weight. Especially after I started taking the anti depressant drugs. I started to let my hair grow because my face was too fat for short hair.
What hair has to do with weight, I do not know, but I do know that I feel like I’m “too fat” for short hair. I feel like if I cut it off, my face will look ENORMOUS. There’s a “security” I feel in having hair that covers my fat arms and hides my double chin.
My hair is longer now than it’s been in 12 years and I WANT to cut it off, because, um, I think that I am going bald but shhhhhh because people will think I’m crazy, because I also think that I have tumors and various other diseases that the doctors just can’t seem to find. But, HELLO? Why is my right leg going numb every night? summer is coming and I’d love to not have to deal with all of this hair hanging everywhere, but, I don’t know that I’m ready to let it go yet.
It’s just hair! Get over it! It will grow back!
I know, right? And yet, I sit here with knots in my stomach and kind of wanting to puke at the thought of letting someone chop it off.

My heart. It hurts.

For the past few days, everytime I look at my oldest son, I cry.
I cry because I can no longer pick him up, hold him in my lap and bite his little cheeks.
I cry because the adorable little toddler who used to stand no taller than my knees and who would raise his hands high in the air so that I could pick him up, is now as tall as I am.
I cry because the precious little boy who used to be so proud to have his mommy walk him to class everyday is now a pimply faced teenager who doesn’t even want me to get out of the car when I take him to school.
I cry because as of last month, I have to buy his shoes from the “mens” department.
I cry because he no longer thinks girls have cooties, but watches them with a curious eye when they walk by.
I cry because the little boy who used to walk around in a Ninja Turle Jumpsuit doing kicks and turns now walks around with a walkman singing rock songs and bobbing his head to the music.
I cry because the little boy who wanted nothing more than for his mommy to read him a story or play catch out in the front yard is now to busy hanging out with friends to give his mommy the time of day.
I cry because the first child I concieved, the beautiful little baby boy who made me a mother, my little “Nunu” is growing into a young man right before my eyes and as proud as I am of the man he’s becoming, my heart wishes I could stop time, rewind it and let him be my little boy for just a little while longer.

And so began a lifelong pattern of making “bad choices” with scissors.

There was a period of time where the church I grew up in went all “Cult.” They started preaching crazy things from the pulpit. Things like “Christian women didn’t wear makeup, because that made them Jezebel whores” or “Women had to wear dresses because ONLY MEN CAN WEAR PANTS.”
Also? Women had to have long hair. Pretty long hair.
As a young girl, I wanted nothing more than to have bangs. You see, I had this crazy widows peak and when I’d wear my hair back, people would make fun of me. On more than one occassion, I was called “Squiggy” (from Happy Days.) Kids are so cruel! I asked my parents if I could cut bangs, but the answer was always “Absolutely not!”
One night, whilst in the bathroom, I started playing with my hair to see what I would look like with bangs. I pulled some hair to my forehead and held it there. It was in that moment I came up with a brilliant idea. I thought “if I cut a little piece of bang, no one will ever notice and I can get a better idea of what I would look like with bangs!”
I got the scissors, took a chunk of hair from my widows peak and chopped it off.
There, in the middle of my forehead, layed one piece of bang. The minute I saw it, I panicked. How in the world could I hide that chunk of bang from my parents?
But then, I had another brilliant idea! I would shave it! Shave the piece of hair and Ha! Haaaaa! No one would ever know what I had done.
Um, except the very next day in Sunday School, the Sunday School teacher was all “What’s wrong with your head, Y? Is that a bruise?”
(Because, you know how when you shave a patch of hair and there is stubble left, it kinda looks purple?)
I wanted to lie, but I was in The House of The Lord, so, I told her the truth of what I had done. After she finished laughing hysterically, she asked if my mom knew about it. Of course my mom didn’t know about it! But Sunday School teacher made sure that she knew about it. (Just like the time she “made sure” that my mom knew that I had thought it was be HILARIOUS to change the first line of the hymn “The Old Rugged Cross” to “On a hill far away, where we all used to play, :insert something funny about a boy seeing my underwear:” Man, I got whipped GOOD for that one.)
My mom was P.O’d. And as punishment, she REFUSED to allow me to cut bangs, meaning I’d have to suffer the “grow out” in humiliating fashion.
Oh, The teasing I had to endure! Especially once it started growing in and got all spiky and shit.
“PORCIPINE!”

Here is the only photographic evidence I have of the actual growing in of the bangs. Thank GOD I was such a “looker” who did not need makeup to look all hot, because, MAN, life would have really sucked if I was akward looking in addition to having a protruding patch of bangs sticking out of the middle of my forehead.
(I wanted to bad to make a “She thinks my tractor’s sexy” joke, but FOR THE LIFE OF ME could not think of one that was actually funny, but look! I found a way to bring up the tractor without it having to actually be funny because ha! ha! ha! ha! I’M LEANING ON A TRACTOR.)