Two weeks ago, I threw one of the Greatest Tantrums Ever.
I had been running every day. RUNNING, people. I hate to run. I despise to run. Always have. And I hate it more now then I have ever have in my life because I am 190 pounds and I’m pretty sure more than half of that 190 is boob and ass weight and boobs and ass HURT when you run. But I was like “Screw it, I’m going to run! Because I want to be thin and healthy again! And I want to push myself to do something I normally wouldn’t do! Yeehaw!”
When I first started, I could only run a short distance. But everyday, I’d push myself a little farther. I’d find “marks” and try to push myself past a new mark everyday. “Just go to that light post and then stop!” I’d tell myself, but when I’d get to that light post, I’d see a tree “You can make it to the tree, then you can stop!” Then I’d pass the tree and see a crack in the sidewalk “You can make it to that crack, then stop!” And everyday, I’d go a little farther. Eventually, I was able to run the entire trail and yes, I was so proud of myself.
But, guess what? The scale WOULD NOT MOVE. I’ve been battling the 190’s for MONTHS NOW. What in the hell is wrong with my body that it refuses to STOP WEIGHING 190 POUNDS?
So, it broke me and I quit! QUIT! But not without throwing The Tantrum.
And guess who got to witness The Tantrum? And try to talk me down from The Tantrum?
That’s right, the man I fart on during sex!
First, the tears, then, the screaming and carrying on “I’m so SICK OF THIS! I CAN’T GET OUT OF THE 190’S AND I DON’T UNDERSTAND! I run every fucking night, and I’m eating healthy and yet, my body doesn’t want to give it up, man. I can’t do it anymore. I hate running, DESPISE IT, but I’m doing it to try to lose weight and it’s not working, so WHY IN THE HELL AM I DOING IT? I mean, if I’m going to stay fat, even though I’m running every damn night, what’s the point? I’ll just sit at home and lay on the couch and weigh 190! THAT’S WHAT I’M GOING TO DO! Screw running! Screw my body! I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”
And, so, I stopped running. And guess what? I gained 4 pounds! And that pissed me off. REALLY BADLY. So, I took it out on those 4 pounds and went to the gym. And this morning, I decided to weight myself again to see “What’s up”. I braced myself for the worst. But guess what? The worst did not happen! THE BEST HAPPENED! Because…lOOK!
(and you will shut it about how FILTHY my scale is because, its’ just a scale and I have enough shit to clean around here so that’s the last thing I’m worried about, but damn, it really IS filthy, huh?)
ONE. EIGHTY. NINE (point 5, but still, NOT ONE NINETY!)
You have no idea how exciting this is for me. It’s been YEARS since I’ve seen the 80’s and I finally feel like the curse of the 90’s is broken and there is no looking back because I will never, EVER be that weight again (ha! ha! watch, next week I’ll be crying about how I’m 190 again because I ate so much Boo-fay at Vegas!).
But for now, I will celebrate! Good bye 190’s! You were an asshole and I have always hated you and I will not miss you at all, you stubborn bitch!
Today’s title is a “sound effect” and it goes a little something like this “pffffffthfrmptfffffrrrrrtta”
I once had a friend who SWORE that she had never farted in front of her husband.
They had been married for 14 years at the time she told me that.
I told her that I thought she was lying. I mean, it’s a FART, for cryin’ out loud. It’s a natural bodily function. How in the HELL does on supress farts for 14 years STRAIGHT and not let one accidentally slip out?
She stuck to her story that her husband has never, EVER heard her rip one.
Whatever. I couldn’t even deal with a marriage where a “fart” is a big deal. I mean, last night? And this is a true story, people, TRUE STORY. Last night, Tony wanted to have Sessual Relations with me, and I was like “fine, but my stomach hurts and I’m pretty sure it’s gas”.
Do you think that stopped him? Of course it didn’t! And half way through The Deed, I could feel one coming on. Did I panic? No! I did not! Because, I can fart during sex and IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL. We laugh about it and then we “move on”.
I’ll admit, I think it’s DISGUSTING when my parents fart in front of each other. It was especially gross when we were all little because they acted like it was SO CUTE when one of them farted.
My mom would rip one and my dad would smile, SMILE! And say all flirty like “who farted? Did mommy fart?” and my mom would giggle like a little girl and I would throw up inside.
But, it’s not gross when me and Tony do it because we’re not all “Awww, how cute, you farted, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH” about it. We’re more like “Sick, you pig, that smelled like my grandpa’s fart, nasty” about it. Or sometimes, maybe we’re like “Good one, just like a machine gun!”
Some people (and by some people, I mean “my BOYS”) think I’ve taken this whole “farting is natural thing” too far because I’ve trained my daughter to “fart on command.” It seriously is the most awesome baby girl trick ever and I made sure to show it off at Thanksgiving. “Farted Gabby!” I said as the family watched. And my beautiful, precious, petite little girl stuck her butt out, pushed and grunted until her face turned red and tried to push one out. My boys were furious. “Mom! That’s not a good thing to teach a little girl! What happens when she goes to school and she thinks it’s funny to fart in class?” (Yeah, the same boys who make up jokes about hairy balls and sharting.) I suppose they have a point, but, again, it’s a fart, lighten up people!
I understand that some people are shy about bodily functions in front of strangers, or “the general public”, it’s not like I am a pig who will just fart anytime anywhere, I have manners, dammit! But I’m talking about being “free” in your own home. I mean, I can understand how a person would feel uncomfortable taking a leak while the door is open, (even though, I am not one of those people) and I supposed I can understand feeling slightly embarassed to fart in front of the man you have sex with. WHEN YOU FIRST MEET. But 15 years later? SERIOUSLY? (And? I suppose I can understand how some people might be SLIGHTLY MORTIFIED that I am writing an entire post about “farts.”)
And it doesn’t bother Tony either because I asked him, straight up last night. I said “Babe, does it bother you that I’m not very ‘feminine’ and that I fart freely in front of you?” and you know what he said?
“Not at all babe, it’s natural, I love you just how you are.”
And that’s how it should be, because I’ll be damned if I ever had to “hold one in” for a man.
The 10 year old me would have been MORTIFIED
As a young girl, I had this fantasy about having my very own “Signiture Scent.”
My dream was this (and yes, I actually remember saying these words outloud) “I want my very own smell, one that people know me by, so that when I walk by when they have their eyes closed, they’ll know it was me just by the smell of the air as I pass by.”
Oh, The Dramatics. I think I was about 8 when I said that and man, I meant it.
I would spend hours in the bathroom mixing powders with water and lotions, trying to create my very own scent, but, I quickly learned that powder+water= paste and NOT perfume, so I was forced to chose a scent that was already in existence and make it my own.
Unfortuntely for everyone in my life, especially those who had to sit next to me for an entire church service, I decided that my “Signiture Scent was TEA ROSE!”
But that only lasted for a little while, because, one day, whilst cruising the isles of Kmart, I discovered “Wild Musk” by Coty.
UPGRADE!
That “Signiture Scent” only lasted a few weeks, because one day whilst looking for a new flavored lip gloss at Kmart (or Ha! HA! “Came Apart” as my husband, the Really Funny Guy, likes to call it because, GET IT? K-mart, came apart?), I discovered “Sand and Sable”.
Helloooo, coconut beach in a bottle on my body!
I realize now how incredibly confusing this must have been to The People, because, the whole idea of a “Signture Scent” is that when people are praying and I walk by they know it’s me by “my smell” but I was changing smells every other week, so, HOW COULD THEY KNOW IT WAS ME?
I have no idea why the “scent” thing was such a big deal to me, but it was. I was obsessed with the idea of being recognized by a particular scent. As I grew up, I realized that this idea was ridiculous because MAN, there were a lot of beautiful scents out there and I could not limit myself to one.
Many of my “pre-kids” shopping days were spent in the beauty department at Macy’s and I always got the “new” scents as soon as they came out. I developed the incredible skill of being able to guess what perfume a women was wearing at any given moment.
“Is that ‘Pleasures’ your wearing?” I’d ask the random stranger at the market.
And I’d always be right.
I never imagined a day would come where I’d no longer recognize the latest “scents” from Macy’s because I’d not be able to afford the “good perfumes” and I’d be forced to douse myself in cheap body sprays from Target and Bath and Body works.
And THE LORD KNOWS I never saw the day coming in which my “Signiture Scent” would be “Tittymilk mixed with a lil’ funky arm pit with a just a hint of bad breath”.
Pictures (Say CHEESE)
The past couple of days have not been good days for me. I feel sad and lonely.
There are two things I do when I feel this way. I eat. A lot. And? I go through old pictures.
The eating thing is totally unhealthy and part of the reason I’m still fat, but, when I get this way, it feels as though food is the only friend I have who’s not pissed off at me, so, a stuffin’ my face I go.
Digging through old photographs does not make me fat. It has zero calories! It’s very therapeutic for me. It makes me happy, to see my boys when they were little, or makes me giggle to see pictures of my really bad hair cuts. Sometimes, (but not usually) it makes me feel worse because, did you know I used to be skinny? Because I used to be skinny. (AND have FABULOUS skin. And hair.)
Also, did you know I used to WEAR A COWBOY HAT AND TSHIRTS WITH COWBOYS ON THEM?
In public?
In all fairness to me (and my sister, whom I cut out) we WERE at a “Country Starfest” (which was a big event in which you could meet your favorite country star, line dance, drink beer and attend concerts) so it’s not like I dressed like that to go to a restaurant.
But still.
A cowboy hat. In public. In California.
Classic.
Also, did you know that when I was 25 years old, I did my hair and dressed in a way to appear to be a woman nearing her 40’s? (Which is hilarious now that I actually AM a woman nearing her 40’s and wouldn’t be caught dead in that dress/hair combo)
And, apparently, I was “against” showing cleavage, or any skin that wasn’t my face or hands for that matter. Thank God Tony was still into glasses the size of God because it feels good to not be alone in the Unstylishness.
As I browse through the hundreds upon hundreds of photos stuffed in boxes, I’m reminded that no matter how bad I feel at any given moment, there were, (and always will be) wonderful times in my life. I can look back and remember the times in my life in which I was truly happy, the times that are easily forgotten when I slip into these moments of sadness. The times where I everything in my life was exactly the way it was supposed to be…
That was minutes before I walked out of the hospital, less than 24 hours after giving birth to my second baby, a son. How happy I felt, how complete my life was, how lucky I felt to have another baby boy to love and care for. A brother for the most perfect son a mother could have asked for.
God. I remember that moment, (and, Lord have mercy, I remember those pajamas) with my boys. As I watched the only son I’d known for 4 years holding his baby brother, as I watched them together, the fear that I had throughout my entire pregnancy with Ethan, that I’d not be able to find enough love in my heart to for TWO children, was erased in that instant because, right there, on that ugly couch, in those hideous pajamas, I found myself overwhelmed with Love Love Love for both of those boys.
I had no idea that, seven years later, I’d watch those two precious, incredible little boys of mine holding my daughter, their baby sister in their arms, looking happier than I’ve ever seen them.
Funny how life doesn’t always happen the way you plan it. And especially funny how the unexpected turns, or, in my case, pregnancies can end up being the greatest thing you never thought would happen to you.
In the same way it’s funny how images from the past can snap me out of my pity party and make me realize that no matter how any one else in this world feels about me, those three beautiful children love me. Unconditionally, even if I’m no longer that thin woman with flawless skin or if I did used to sport a Stetson cowboy hat in public.
Feel free to tell me that this “anniversary edition” post sucks the really Big One, because I didn’t put any thought or time into it, other than to use the words “really big” a lot, because THIS IS A REALLY BIG DAY OF SUCK
I had planned on writing a Cheese Filled post about what today means to me, but today has been THE WORST MORNING OF MY ENTIRE LIFE. And when I say “worst” you have to trust me. It involves people falling out of bed and scratching chunks out of their back, PUKE, sleeping in late, dropping the bottle of pedialyte and busting it open, having to tell my dad, who was calling FROM AFRICA, “sorry we can not talk to you because we are running late and if Andrew gets one more referrel he will be on the ineligiblity list and PLEASE DON’T CRY DAD” and so on and so forth.
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!@1!!
What a day, man. And today is a special day, a very special day because F-I-F-T-E-E-N Y-E-A-R-S ago, on this very day, I wore a really big veil on top of my really big bangs and said “I do” to a man with really BIG glasses and when my dad said “you may kiss the bride” and we leaned in for that kiss, my really big veil got tangled up in his really big glasses (HA!HA!HA!)and all the guests laughed a really big laugh and then we got in a really big limo and proceeded to a really big gym where would eat a piece of our really big cake and then go home to our apartment and have really big sex.
And, fifteen years later, we’ve become two REALLY BIG DORKS
Who rip really big farts in front of each other
And give each other really big kisses whilst laughing about the really big farts we blew
Because, again? Dorks.
Dorks who still love to boink, and that’s all that matters.
Take your pink and SHOVE IT
My daughter is an extremely happy child. She is also a child who is easily pissed off. Basically, she is a Drama Queen, prone to The Dramatics all day long about everything and anything.
“Hmmm, I wonder where she gets it from?”
That’s what my husband (AND HIS MOTHER) love to say at every chance they get.
Seriously. According to my mother in law, every “bad” trait my children have, comes from me. (pissy, moody, stubborn, irresponsible) Every wonderful and great trait comes from her perfect son. And in all fairness, it is not just my mother in law who thinks this way (and says it, OUTLOUD). My own MOTHER believes it.
Because Tony is “Perfect” and I’m “lucky he’s put up with me for all of these years.”
But, that’s not really what this is about.
This is about my DramaQueen daughter and The Pink Boots I thought she would LOVE!
Having believed I’d never have a daughter, that I’d only be the mother to boys, imagine the excitement I felt when I saw a pair of pink boots at Mervyns, in my daughter’s size, ON CLEARANCE.
“She will love these!” I thought. “And she will squeel with excitment as I zip them on her precious feet, and I will pick her up, twirl her around and sing a song about her pretty she looks in her pink boots and then, she will proudly walk around the house, showing them off to everyone!”
Um. Yeah. Riiiiiiight.
I put them on. She tried to stand up, but didn’t like the way they felt on her feet. I think the little heel bugged her. SO, she stood there in a “I am taking a dump” position and REFUSED to move.
I begged her to move. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go show daddy how pretty you look!”
She got on her hands and knees and crawled underneath the sofa table and once again, refused to move.
At this point, I realized my “Pink Boot Fantasy” had just went to hell and there would be no squeels of joy, there would be no twirling around the house nor would there be songs of pretty boots.
Instead, there would be DRAMATICS
AND CRYING
AND ATTEMPTED SCRATCHING OF FACES
Totally not what I had thought her First Pink Boot experience would be like, but, with her temper and tendancy towards making a HUGE ASS DEAL OUT OF EVERYTHING (Again, I wonder where she gets THAT from?), I should have known it would turn out that way.
God, I love her. And, I love those pink boots that will never be worn again. Ever.
We’ve already decided they’re going in a “shadow box” along with those pictures and will be put proudly on display in her bedroom. And it will be titled “Shattered dreams.”
This is what you get when I try to write while The Girl is awake.
Ethan is home sick today.
He got food poisoning from the poison that is “school lunch”. I freaked out (like I always do when my children get sick) and made Tony take him to urgent care last night. The boy was YELLOW and sweaty and seriously? I’ve never seen a human being puke as much as he did.
I thought perhaps they could give him a shot to make him stop puking. They gave me a shot to stop the puking when I had food poisoning when I was SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT with Gabby.
BOBS
The thing about judging other people for choices they make that are not like choices YOU make is this…
You never know when you might end up making that same choice, the one you SWORE YOU WOULD NEVER MAKE because you’re so great and superior.
Let me give you an example.
I had a friend who had a baby 3 months before I had my first. We both breastfed our babies, but I had to stop breastfeeding my baby at around 6 months because I developed a kidney infection and had to go on strong medications.
My friend continued to breastfeed her baby throughout her first year, then into the second year. I went to visit her one afternoon and the baby was now “2”. As we sat on the couch talking, her daughter crawled up onto her lap, lifted up her shirt and said “I WANT EAT…NOW!”
Whoa. I was all “you’re STILL breastfeeding? The HELL?” She seemed somewhat ashamed and said “I don’t know how to stop. She cries so hard, so I give in.”
“Well, I’ll NEVER let my children breastfeed to the point that they are asking for it by name! NEVAH!”
I meant it at the time, man.
Let’s talk about what just happened in my house 15 minutes ago.
My 15 month old daughter sits on my lap, pulls up my shirt and says “BOBS BOBS BOBS BOBS.”
And I give her The Bobs.
If I had never judged my friend (or my cousin, because, when I found out she was still breastfeeding her two year old, I said “she’s doing it FOR HER! BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T WANT TO GIVE IT UP! She’s not doing it for the baby, she’s DOING IT FOR HHHHHERRRRRRRSELFFFF.”) then I wouldn’t be so ashamed to admit that “I have a 15 month old daughter who crawls on my lap and asks for The Bobs and who still gets The Bobs when she asks for it.”
People aren’t happy that I still breastfeed Gabby. In the past week I’ve had THREE people tell me that I need to “Stop. Now. COLD TURKEY. JUST STOP IT ALREADY.” I hang my head in shame and nod in agreement. “I know, I know…” (because, remember, those people sound JUST LIKE I DID before I become one of “those mothers”.)
I want to tell these people to mind their own damn business, I want to tell them things like “DON’T JUDGE ME.” Or “But, she’s my last baby and it’s really hard on me emotionally and I’m not sure I’m ready to give it up yet.”
But how can I say those things when I WAS one of those people? When I have judged people for doing the same thing I am doing?
I’m feeling very conflicted about this issue now. How old IS too old to breastfeed? And what if your motives for continuing to do it are because of YOUR feelings? Does that make it “wrong” or “inappropriate”? Does that mean I should “Put that tit away NOW?”
Everytime someone finds out that I’m still breastfeeding, I feel like I have to justify it. “Well, I only nurse her in the morning and at night. It’s not like she’s downing the tittymilk all the time.”
The truth is, I’m still breastfeeding her partly out of laziness. Do you know how awesome it is for me to have that option available when The Girl wakes up at 4am? I can whip out The Bobs, lay her next to me and go back to sleep! I’m not ready to give that up yet. Also? I love that time with her and knowing she’s my last baby, I’m having a hard time “letting go”.
What I really want to know though is THIS…
Why is it ANYONE’S BUSINESS how long a woman breastfeeds her baby?
Why did I think it was ok to tell my friend to knock that shit off already? Why did my neighbor think it was ok to tell me that I needed to “Just stop cold turkey NOW.”? I could understand if Gabby was 5 and I was stopping by school on her lunch hour at kindergarten to let her partake of some “Bob” goodness, but she’s NOT EVEN TWO YET.
I wish I had never judged my friend, or my cousin for their choice to breastfeed for longer than a year. Or, at least, I wish I would have kept those judgements to myself. Because now, a decision that should be totally personal and without regard to what ANYONE ELSE THINKS is tainted with feelings of guilt and shame.
(edited to add: I do not feel shame about the fact that I’m still breastfeeding, but because it’s hard for me to tell people to SUCK IT when they get in my face about it because of the fact I had been judgemental of other women in the past. Live and learn, people.)
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE IF YOU ARE DARK SIDED, BUT IF YOU BELIEVE IN JESUS YOU CAN STAY!!” (because who said titles must be relevant to the actual post?)
I’ve been contemplating buying a new camera. Ok. I’ve actually been obsessing about getting a new camera. (I even started a “new camera fund” which had $5.00, until this morning, when I decided that I’ll start a new fund next week because…I drove by a Starbucks)
I love my camera. It takes great pictures and it’s very easy to use. However, I want a camera that gives me more control and allows me to manipulate a shot.
While researching cameras, I decided to read up a little bit on the one I own. And, um, wow, that “owner’s manual” would have been a great thing to read when I bought it over 2 years ago because, DID YOU KNOW IT CAN SHOOT IN BLACK AND WHITE? Neither did I! But, in that “owner’s manual” that’s been collecting dust under my bed, it said that ,and it even showed me how to do it.
(and for the record, THAT one is titled “When Evil Babies Attack..in black and white“)
I’ve posted black and whites before, but they were edited to be that way. I can actually “shoot” in black and white, and this makes me so excited that my mouth is actually watering.
(The smile on my face is 25% “I love my daughter” and 75% “OMG! I’M SHOOTING IN BLACK AND WHITE. YEEHAAAW!”)
But, not only can I shoot in black and white. I can also shoot in sepia and “black board” and “White board” and OMG! I CAN DO TWO PICTURES IN ONE!
Tony’s been asking me to read that damn manual for the past 2 years and I’ve not done it because “I KNOW HOW TO USE IT I DON’T NEED TO READ IT! I AM “GOD’S WARRIOR”! (Sorry, I had to work that into this post somehow because…It was only the greatest moment in the history of television!)
I think I’ll still start saving for a new camera (d-slr), but now that I know these totally awesome settings exist on my camera, I’m not feeling so obsess-ish about it, because, you know, TWO PICTURES IN ONE!
You can view the rest of the “black and white” photos HERE.
Because of that picture, I can finally forgive my mom for not coming through on Crazy Hat Day.
I’ve always been somewhat jealous of “creative” type people.
Especially Creative Moms.
I’m talking about the mom’s who can make their children halloween costumes, the kind moms who can decorate their children’s rooms and make them look like something out of a magazine. The moms who take unique, beautiful photographs of their children.
The kind of mom I certainly am NOT.
Not for lack of trying. Lord knows I try. But, I am just not a creative, artistic type person.
Of course, this is my mother’s fault.
My mother, Bless her fart. She, like me, did try. But the woman didn’t have a creative or artistic bone in her body. One look at the way she decorates her house and it’s obvious the women is creatively challenged. I always dreaded the “special event days” at school because I knew whatever it was, I would SUCK because my mom wouldn’t have a clue on how to help me.
I’ll never forget “Crazy Hat Day” in the 6th grade. All of my friends talked about how Wild n Kahraaaazzy their hats were going to be. Surely, I could out do them! Me and my mother would think of something that would make their hats cry.
Um, WRONG.
The morning OF Crazy Hat Day. My mom still had not come up with any ideas for my hat. In an act of desperation, she ran out to the front yard. “I know!” she said. “We’ll pick some ivy and wrap it all around the hat with some sticks! That’s CRAAZZZZZY.”
I started to cry. “That’s not crazy! That’s dumb! I’m not wearing Ivy on my head!”
But that was all she could think of. In her totally uncreative mind, Ivy + Sticks = CRAAAZY.
Needless to day, I didn’t participate in Crazy Hat Day. Instead, I moped around all day, envious of all the other children and their Crazy Hats.
Had I known I would grow up to be JUST LIKE MY MOTHER, I wouldn’t have been such an ass about her inability to be creative.
How was I to know that I would one day think “My baby boy is going to be a clown for Halloween and I will paint his face just like a real clown and he will be so cute and everyone will love him because he will look just like a real clown because I know how to paint clown faces!” And then, years later, find the picture and realize that “OH MY GOD. THAT IS NOT WHAT A CLOWN FACE LOOKS LIKE! My poor child, I took him out in public like that and I bet the people were laughing at me because…. HAHAAAAAAAAAAA. It doesn’t look like a clown face at all, but, like, he tried to eat my lipstick and HOLY CRIZAP, I am my mother!”