ishly

new year’s eve

(don’t act like you don’t kick off the new year by taking inappropriate love pictures of yourself with meat.)

And then.

I wanted to lose weight starting Januaryishly.

And not because of some dumbass resolution that I felt compelled to make as I jumped off the cliff with all the other lemmings just because of the scribbled marks of letter and number on a calendar that tells us what we are supposed to call this time in space that we are all sitting in.

Yeah, it was January.  A new year happened. (you can hear the whoopty-frickin-doo in this, right?)

Contrary to my having been “2009′s Anxious Mistress,” nothing magical happened when the clock struck midnight and 2009 rose in all its glory.

My ass stayed fat, my heart stayed broken, my mind stayed confuzzled, and there was no effing prince charming standing here waiting to cram a glass shoe on my foot and tell me how DAMN GORGEOUS I AM.

Which makes him a big, fat doodiehead jerk, because it would have been nice to go to the ball.  Or live happily ever after.

AHAHAHAHA.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Because, BLAH.  And also?  GAG.

Resolution Schmesolution, in other words.

But I did want to lose the weight.  The weight that I had ALREADY lost through a lot of hard work and will power (no, I have no idea where the hell I got it from, so I have no secrets for you) Augustishly 2008.

You know, back when I was bragging about being able to pull my pants down without opening them, and being such a womping moron that I posted a video of it online.

And that was the 10lb mark, and I lost at least 5 more lbs after that and I was feeling really great.

But shit, man, sometimes it just seems like life hates it when things are going well.  (I’m so optimistic, it’s disgusting.)

So I got pregnant, and got fat way too fast, because that’s also what life likes for me.  Pregnant = sick-novomit-butlotsoffat.

So 3 months in I got all the fat and none of the baby.  And then the none of the baby part made me do what?  Sit on my ass and eat.  And drink.

Because cookiescakeburgerschocolatewinepeanutbutterpizza = happiness, right? (RIGHT!?)

No.  But still.  This is my reaction.

Yeah, when the worst of the shit of life smears itself across my upper lip, forcing me to think the world smells like an asshole, I can think of nothing to do but cram food into my facehole.

And all that weight I lost Julyishly and gained back Novemberishly got added to, even, Decemberishly.

Causing me to feel quite lardishly.

And so? The desire to lose weight Januaryishly 2009.

And now it’s Februarishly.  And I’ve really lost no significant weight.  My body is still lumpy and plumpy and the fat pants are tight.  Oh, woe is me when the FAT pants get tight.

Why, oh why are the fat pants tight?

It MIGHT be because I haven’t tried in any remotely small way to exercise or get back on my old healthy diet.

YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T GET MAGICALLY UNFAT JUST BECAUSE YOU WANT TO?

Oh.  Yeah. Ok.  But there’s one problem I’m having.

I can’t find the motivation.

Honestly, most of the time all I want to do is sleep.  Just wanna curl on up into a big, fat-roll adorned, snoring, furry (shaving? hah!) ball and EFFING SLEEP.

It’s called HIBERNATING.  And bears get to do it.  Yeah, they are allowed to do this.  They’re allowed to eat like total jerks until they’re fat and gross (and furry, them bitches don’t shave, yo) and then they sleeeeeeeep. And what do the damn bears do that’s so great that they deserve this? Hmm?  What do they do that makes them soooo great?

Nothing. That’s right.  I am giving the bears EXACTLY ZERO PROPS.

I want to hibernate.  And God Help Anyone who tries to wake me.

That’s what the CLAWS are for.

Repeat after me:  “Lotus is sleeping.  We shall not wake her.  We shall make pies for when she awakes. But we shall not wake her.  All hail The Fat, Furry, Sleeping Bitch.”

Tell me when it’s Spring.

Maybe then I’ll feel motivationishly again.

Dancing to the beat of my own piercing.

HappyCampers:
“When did you get your nose pierced? Did it hurt a lot?”

Tracy D:
“Does Braden ever try to pull your nose ring out? (Mine does)”

Amy:
“This may have come before me but I want to know the story of the nose piercing. Why? How bad did it hurt? How long do you plan to have it? Is it a problem when you’re sick and all boogery and blowing?”

When I moved to Texas because of a certain person in 2002, I was planning on finding a job working in mental health, or some such job that would allow me to use my psychology degree.  A teaching job at a University or Community College would have been really nice, but that was what we like to call a “fat effin chance.”  Which, by the way, really doesn’t make sense when you think about it.  Because it should be a “skinny chance,” as in slim, as in very little chance. Now I’m annoyed by that phrase.  Great.  Anyway.  There were no new “Soft Sciences” teaching positions being created (and don’t even get me started on how that term irritates the shit out of me) because even way back then, the economy was already heading shit-face first into the fan.

I actually had a job offer at a community college back in NC, but I had to turn it down when I didn’t finish my degree on schedule.  And that?  Sucked.  But it doesn’t pay to keep being upset about it now, so lets move on. (I’ll save it for a day when I’m feeling more bitter and looking for something to bitch about.)

For a couple of months I was just a total, mooching bum.  And I think John was really excited to, you know, have brought the cow home to his pasture without buying it.  So he didn’t really mind putting up with my unemployed ass.  I lived with him and he totally supported me, financially and otherwise.  And from July through October, I was just floating along from day to day, just kind of existing.  I looked into this and that, but nothing good was coming my way.  By October, this and that lookering was getting old.  I was starting to feel a little too much like, what is it they call it? Oh, yeah.

A TOTAL, ASSBAG LOSER.

So I sucked it up and filled out an application at a mall retail store with a referral from a good friend.

Part-Time, Temporary Holiday help, my friends.  That’s what you earn a BA and MA to do.

Riiiight.

By the new year, as I had impressed my boss enough with my immense intelligence and hardworking attitude (or maybe she was just really desperate), I was offered a regular position.

And because I so enjoyed the life of a “mall worker” (John referred to me as such ONCE and ONLY ONCE because he likes his testicles and prefers walking without a limp) I worked diligently and flashed my winning smile at everyone who would look my way.

And when they weren’t looking I ripped and tore at my face, made demonic sounds, and banged my head against the wall in the back room. (If you have ever worked retail, you know that it will drive you to such behavior.)

Long story a little less long, within a couple of years time I moved through the ranks… Part-Time Temporary Seasonal Associate, Part-Time Regular Sales Associate, Second Assistant Manager, Assistant Manager, Store Manager.  (The word “ass” was in a lot of the positions I held.  Mere coincidence.)

During this entire time I had normal, long, brown hair.  Never, you know, purple like it had been years before, or anything like that.  And the thought of a facial piercing or visible tattoo?  A POX ON THAT!  I’d have lost my job.

For almost four years, my appearance was restricted to what my employers felt was acceptable.  And while it didn’t bother me all the time, it nagged just below the surface.  I’d always liked the idea of dying my hair funky colors or someday getting some type of facial piercing.  On top of that, right around the time I started working there, I suddenly developed a piercing allergy in my ears.  I’d been wearing cheap earrings in my ears since I’d had them pierced at age 11. One day when I was 26 my ear-holes started burning, bleeding, and crusted over.  I can’t put anything but real gold there now.  Frankly, I don’t make it a habit to purchase tiny, excessively expensive things.  It’s like BEGGING the universe to just swallow my money whole and then blow a big, juicy STINK BURP in my face. So no more earrings for me.

And I guess you could say the desire to wear a nose gem was intensified by my inability to wear my earrings any longer.

When I found out I was pregnant in February (which would mean leaving work at some point), and shorty after that learned that John was changing jobs and we were moving to another state? (Translation: I was losing my job.) I took it as my chance to FINALLY RELAX.

One of my friends/employees made my hair lovely for me.

First it was orange and red.  Eventually it looked like this, and I maintained it myself.

And then she did the proverbial Hand-Hold-Go-Along trip with me to The Nostril Stabber.

Because I wanted to have a huge, sharp, metal stick jabbed into my face.  I am nothing if not mentally STABLE. But at least I was a little scared of it, so I brought her with me.

Oh, did I mention I was pregnant?  Yeah, I’m not endorsing doing stupid things to your body when you’re pregnant.  (Lecture me about it, though, and I’m going to show you one of my favorite 2 fingers.)

I sat on the edge of a cold metal table; Tasha stood next to me, kind of smirking.  The Nose Stabber positioned himself in front of me, made a mark where I said I wanted the piercing, and then raised a huge sharp stabbing tool at my face.

[Totally sexy, right?  You want one right now.  I can sense it.  Yeah, baby.]

There was a pricking sensation and a bit of pressure.  I waited for the real pain, ready to hold my breath until it was over.

The Nose Stabber stared at me. I looked at him.  I looked at Tasha.

TNS told me it was done.  Huh?

That’s right.  There’s a quick pricking sensation, a bit of pressure, and then it’s over.  And you have a gem in your nose.  And your nose is super sexy and wonderful.

You take care of that bitch with EXTREME CAUTION for the next couple of years because if you don’t, it will hurt like hell.  You AVOID AT ALL COSTS ripping it out of your face with: your shirt, your sunglasses, or your own stupid, flailing hands.

Heh.

You clean it, bathe it with warm salt water, and whisper sweet nothings to it every night at bedtime.  In the morning, you awake and smile at it prettily in the mirror.

And if your husband hates it?  You say, “TOUGH SHIT, BUDDY, THIS IS THE ONE THING YOU MAY NOT HAVE DOMINION OVER.” (Okay, one OF the things.)  And he will get over it.

(And even when he says all wonderful and gushy things like how beautiful your face is without it, you just roll your eyes and tell him that’s great, then, the tiny little gem will not mar your INCREDIBLE BEAUTY AND CLASS.)

The inside of it is a little twirl, like a curved L.  That keeps it in with minimal nostril blockage.  But yes, boogers do sometimes get crusted onto it.  And no, it’s not really all that gross.  You get very used to blowing your nose and cleaning it while it’s in.  I’ve had trouble putting it back in on occasion, but all things in life that are worth it usually require a little extra effort, right?  I sort of believe that nothing worth it is ever easy all the time.

Braden has never snatched at it.  Since he was a little baby I told him what it was, and to be gentle and not pull it, and I let him touch it whenever he wanted.  He often touches it very delicately and says, “Nose tud!” (stud)

One day not long ago, he touched it carefully, and said “Dwum.”  Kids notice the most amazing things.  It does, literally, look like a tiny drum.

And this tiny drum has become as much a part of my face now, to me, as my eyelashes or my freckles.

It’s a little glimmer on the side of my nose that shines even on a day when I feel dull.

It winks in the light even if I’m not smiling.

It’s there every day, unchanging.  Always a source of happiness for me.

Sometimes, that kind of rhythm is better than any beat you can tap out.

Singin’ the loose stool blues… oohhhhh, yeahhhh….

Thanks to everyone for not virtually slapping me for being such a whine-bag yesterday. And really, apologies if I offended anyone.

In other news, there is no post of any relevance today, as I’ve been crapping my guts out for the past 24 hours with some kind of Super Evil Intestinal Bug.

Maybe I should try to be all happy and positive and call it An All Natural, Surprise Body Cleanse!

Yeah, after this much explosive diarrhea, I’m having a hard time being happy & positive, so I’ll leave the positivity to you lovely and enlightened readers for today.

Because, really? It would not be too far from real to imagine brown waterfalls coming out of my ass.

My friends as of late:

Here’s hoping your week is going far more fabulously.

New Name for Your Fun-Time Box

Lotus has done it. (Hello, Kevin & Leroy!)

Avitable has done it. (Hello, Hairy McButtcrack!)

Many more of you have done it.

I’ve even done it.

We talk about our bodies.

But I don’t think you’ve ever talked about your body the way I’m gonna embarrass talk about myself.

I’m shamelessly talking about that extra padding.
That extra layer of softness.
Protection from the elements that keeps my down there area safe.

My gunt.

My gut cunt.

*gasp* The c-word!

Don’t be afraid of the c-word. Take it. Keep it. Love it. Make it your own.
It’s yours now – put it in your pocket and use it at least one time today.

Back to my gunt.

How did it get there? Did the magic Pussy Fairy drop it in my lap, push it on down, and have it settle right under my pubes?

No, I ate too much Taco Bell, birthed two girls in 18 months, and sat on my lazy ass for the last umpteen years.

Do that, and you, too, can have your own gunt!

Call it what you will: fat pad, lower belly, upper pussy – you now have a new name for the top of your fun-time box.

____________________________________________________

Angie is the rockin’ author of A Whole Lot of Nothing, a blog about everything. Quite the enigma, she classifies herself as a lazy perfectionist, yet she started an awesome online store, a personal blog, and a review blog all while staying home with her two young girls. She’s now adding masochist to her descriptors as well as failed housewife. Angie wrote this herself because writing in the 3rd person is SO self-absorbed, and she’s all about herself and shamelss self-promotion. Now leave a comment for her fragile self-worth – validation is important to women.

thepenismightier

The red phone rings.

You do know the red phone, right? It’s the one that all of us A-List rock star bloggers have that automatically connects us with each other.

“This is Avitable.”

“Hi, it’s Lotus.”

“What’s today’s password?”

“Heather sticks her tongue in men’s assholes.”

“Correct. So, what’s up?”

“I need a guest post.”

“I knew you’d call in that favor sometime. I guess I owe you for getting rid of that dead hooker for me.”

“Too bad for you that you didn’t know anyone else with lots of lyme and a chainsaw.”

“True, true. Are there any parameters to this guest post? Restrictions? Demands?”

“Just no full frontal nudity. Everything else is okay with me.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“Damn straight you will. *click*”

************

I’ve racked my brain. How do I, of all people, appeal to an audience that reads a blog like this one? She used to have a picture of a fucking pacifier in the header and has a kid and talks about being a mom and baby poop and pregnancy and topics like that. This is all emotional shit here – how can a childless man even understand or empathize? I hear stuff like “You don’t have kids, so you wouldn’t understand” or “You’re just a man, you wouldn’t understand” all of the time. And it’s probably true. I don’t understand babies or the love of them. I don’t understand why people continue to procreate. I don’t understand why children aren’t locked up until they’re 10.

But I’m still a sensitive, emotional guy. I use Aveda moisturizing face wash and I love the Gilmore Girls. I can talk on the phone for hours and think most men have a short circuit in their brains. I notice when my wife gets her hair cut or wears a new outfit. So I know I have it in me to convince you, dear reader of Sarcastic Mom, that I am one of you.

Then it hit me. Last year, to show solidarity for all of the women who wrote letters to their bodies as part of that BlogHer initiative, I wrote my own. What better way to show my sensitive side, to fit in with the Sarcastic Mom readers, than to repost it here?

Dear Body,

I love you.

I knew that a steady diet of cheeseburgers, french fries, pizza, and butter would make you into an object of desire and affection.

I love that you can displace all of the water in a pool with one cannonball.
I love that your pants would feed a largish village in Africa.
I love that I get to use a mirror to see my penis and feet, since that lets me just gaze at myself.

Your breasts started out firm, but after having many Baby Ruths, they have become a bit saggy, but that’s okay. I’d never be able to lick my own nipples otherwise.

Your stomach, pregnant with many, many food babies, has expanded, but that’s okay. It’s a good place to sit a book or balance a tray.

Your thighs, once glistening pillars of steel, now brush together, but that’s okay. If I get trapped out in the wilderness, I can just wear corduroy and walk around to start a small fire.

Your penis, a mighty warrior of slightly above average size, has now hidden itself among your girth, but that’s okay. The smaller size makes it easier for smaller hands, say that of a high school aged girl.

Your butt, once shapely and taut, has become completely flat, but that’s okay. Now I can drop my pants easily without worrying about snags.

Your hair still covers every inch of you, except on the top of your head, but that’s okay. I enjoy being able to explore fashion trends with different types of hats.

Being the size of six normal people just means that you are six times as awesome! Being able to ride in solace in an elevator because you meet the weight limit alone is gratifying. Bringing your own titanium chair to restaurants allows you to protect the environment, and buying four seats on an airplane before you board gives you the comfort that none of those other passengers will ever experience.

Body, you’ll never understand how important I feel when the people at the Burger King drive-through know me by name. And that’s all thanks to you. And having the city of Altamonte Springs offer me my own roving zip code – that just warmed the cockles of my heart. When cars move out of the way as I cross the street because they don’t want to hit the large zoo animal who has clearly escaped, I always nod my head and secretly thank you. For I truly am special.

I love you, Body.

_____________________________________________________________________
When Avitable’s not busy smearing his asscrack across other people’s websites, he welcomes you to his with the flick of his bird. If you, too, believe that “tact is for pussies,” you’ll be kicking yourself in your own mightypenis if you don’t head over. *snicker*

Thoughts From The Abyss

Late at night on Sunday, December 7th, I wrote this article, for Deep South Moms Blog, about what it feels like to face the holiday season with the first instance of the due date of my miscarried baby looming. When I miscarried back in April, I knew Christmas Eve would never be the same. That is when that first lost baby was due.

As I wrote the piece, I was reflecting on how far I’ve come since those first few days after losing the baby back in April. The utter hopelessness. The anger. The confusion and pain. I realized that the pain is so deep, it’s as if it will never go away completely… but over time, it somehow becomes easier to live with, and serves to remind me to be more thankful of the loved ones I still have in my life.

It has been almost 8 months since that first miscarriage, and I was just feeling like I had come out on the other side of the deepest of the immediate grief. And I knew that it was in part due to the passage of time, and the love and kindness of family and friends. In part it has been due to my being lucky enough to be able to write about my feelings and emotions here, and receive support from all of you. (Have I said thank you? Really. Thank you so much.)

I was feeling something I haven’t felt for awhile.

Hope.

But what’s really bitter now is that a large part of my renewed hope came from the fact that I had a new life within me. A life that was crossing into the second trimester of a pregnancy that I had not even expected, but that I was starting to believe was meant to help me heal.

I spent weeks upon weeks feeling tense. I spent almost 3 months checking my underwear multiple times a day, and staring at the toilet paper every single time I wiped.

Slowly, so so slowly, the tension had just started to recede.

I had seen and heard his tiny heart beating, quickly, with vigor. He was healthy, and moving. He was ALIVE. He was going to make it, damnit. He really was.

Surely, so so surely, the tension has just started to recede.

I found myself leaving the restroom and realizing, after the fact, that I hadn’t looked at my underwear. I hadn’t checked my toilet paper.

I believed. I wasn’t just saying I believed. I really did.

It felt so good.

And then on Tuesday morning, December 9th, everything fell apart around me (us).

It was as if I’d been walking carefully on a thin sheet of glass suspended over a black abyss for months, but somehow, I’d just started to believe it was cement, and I started tap-dancing. The bottom fell out – the floor exploded, and all I had to grab for as I fell were shards of glass that cut my hands as I dropped into the abyss.

No heartbeat on the fetal doppler for us to hear.

No little, pulsing muscle in his tiny chest for me to see on mini-ultrasound.

My lovely doctor trying so hard over and over to find it. My lovely doctor getting visibly frustrated, upset, but still trying and trying. My lovely doctor giving up and telling me she was so so sorry.

Ohhh, my inability to believe this was happening… and ohhhh, my immense guilt over believing for so long that it would end this way, anyway.

And Oh, my Anger that it actually did.

My hope? Gone.

No heartbeat on a full blown ultrasound.

I stared at the screen, at his tiny body inside of me.

People, he looked beautiful and perfect on that high-tech ultrasound screen. I saw his little body facing me, as if he was looking at me to say goodbye. His tiny little arms and legs were there, framing the perfect little body in the middle.

Framing the perfect, little, middle part, where everything was silent and still.

Not really so perfect at all.

Every night since then, I’ve stayed up late, so late, doing ridiculous things like working on my website redesign. Things that I can blur my mind with. I’ve stayed up until my eyes just couldn’t see straight anymore, until I just couldn’t hold them open anymore, so that when I did lay down in bed, I’d fall right asleep.

I’m not ready for the thoughts that will come in the quiet darkness.

Every morning when I’ve awoken, I’ve had that horrible moment when I realize that, Yes, this reality is my reality. There is still a dead baby in my womb.

And when they take him from me on this Tuesday morning, I don’t know what I’ll have left to do but start to move on.

And that is the saddest thing of all.

And again, I force you to board the bumpy ride with me.

And I’m sorry about that.

No heartbeat at yesterday’s prenatal appointment.

Based on size, Fuzzball made it to 11 weeks, 4 days.

In a sense, there’s nothing more to say.

And still, there’s so much more to say.

So little desire.

For now.

More Questions, With Answers! Woohoo!

Going to be doing some stuff and thingies this week, in different places and locations. Heh.
So, busy busy busy, go go go, this that and the other = I’ll be Away From Keyboard a LOT.

To keep all of You Wonderful People entertained and amused, I’ll be slinking a little away from Lazy Douchedom again this week by FINALLY answering more of the questions you asked forever ago!

Then, later, I’ll also be asking YOU some questions. So get ready, my pretties.

Previous Posts Containing Answers:
Answers to “food-based” questions
Second installment of answers

Today’s Installment:

Dawn asked: “If you could snap your fingers and change one part of your body, what would it be?”

Well, if you had asked me that as a child, my IMMEDIATE response would have been,”My ears.”  I got made fun of A LOT for my ears.

Being called “Dumbo” was not unheard of.

Bastards.

A year ago, I’d have asked for someone to zap my Muffin-op away.

But bah.  I’m pregnant now, so the Muffin-Top is just providing the rounded-out icing on top of my bulbous cake of a belly.  Yay and shi.

What I’d really like is thinner, smoother thighs.  The junk in my trunk I can handle, but I HATES DEM OLE JELLY LEGS.

******

Kat asked: “What do you want to be when you grow up (you know, figuratively speaking, who wants to grow up anyway!)”

When I was a little kid (yes, I’m going to start off that way again) I wanted to be an astronaut.  AND a ballerina.  Yes, at the same time.  And, uh, I TOTALLY could have done either or both, but I changed my mind.  So there.

Years ago, I thought I wanted to be a research psychologist and professor.  I burned out on that idea in Grad School.  Oh, Grad School, how I look back at you with much fear and loathing.

Nowadays, I’m focusing more on how I can make today and tomorrow better for my family and myself, and less on “when I’m all grown up.”  And busy learning that might be the best thing for me mentally.  And maybe partly because of my tendency to be in denial about my aging in the first place.

******

Katie Ann asked: “What made you choose a chihuahua?”

Honestly?  I HAVE NO IDEA.  I have always thought Chihuahuas are HORRIBLE little pests of dogs!  That they are annoying and really begging to be kicked across the room at any given moment.

And you know what?  I WAS RIGHT.

Heh.  Okay, the little jerk IS cute.  And sometimes he doesn’t suck.

******

Veronica asked: “When are you going to fly over and visit me?”

Tomorrow, Honey.  Better get your ass to the airport and pick me up. With chocolates in hand.

I WISH!  *muah*

******

Marylin asked: “Hmm, where and what would you do in your dream holiday?”

Anywhere I can Sleep.  Sleep.  Sleeeeep.  SleeeeeEEEP.  SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

And have wine.  Chocolate.  Cheese.

Then more sleep.

See?  I’m easy.

******

That’s it for today!  Stay tuned for more… and be ready to answer my questions, too.