Do you feel the burn?

When sloth and apathy has set in for months, it’s hard to get your ass moving again.  And even once you’ve passed the hurdle of actually making yourself START moving with effort once more, you face that initial battle of trying to stop screaming out in pain and agony at every little leg lift find your strength again.

Exercise takes strength.  And strength is built via exercise.  Chicken. Egg.  Circle, circle, circle.

So when you’re trying to get back on track with a healthy lifestyle, you have to force yourself through that beginning time, when the shit is HARD.  And you have to keep going until you can hack it.

And sometimes it’s hard, in the middle of a workout, to feel confident that you can do that.  Especially when all you want to do is power jumps on the instructor’s face.  What?  I am NOT full of anger and bitterness, and if you even hint that I am, I will eat your face. (I’m sure it’s full of lean protein.)

What I really love is when a workout instructor is saying some shit to me like, “You should be feeling some heat in your thighs now… almost a little burn!“  right around the time when I’m looking down in bewilderment because my left thigh literally just exploded and peppered the wall next to me with clots of flesh and my right thigh currently has a 4 foot flame shooting from it.  And my ass just sent me a memo that said, “Really?  You’re serious?  Just checking.  Because… really???”

Yeah.  Almost a little burn.

Whore.

Look, lady… did you forget what it was like when you were fat?  Before you became this little waif of a thing that is now cheerfully telling me to, “see if you can push it just a little bit deeper each time!”

Oh, I am, cutie-pie, I am.  I’m pushing the imaginary knife blade just a little bit deeper into your upper torso (can you feel the BURN!?) every time I stab you with it inside my head.

Maybe she was never fat.  Maybe she has always been so skinny that her nipples existed on her chest completely independent of the titty base they are generally known to reside on in females. (And no, I have nothing against boobies of any size, but just let me rant here, ok?)

I’m sorry, I just can’t not see them.  In that tight-ass yoga top they are like little rocket missiles under a tight stretched tarp and I’m hearing the countdown in my head at full volume.  They are moments from firing and I don’t want to get hit, okay?  Someone needs to deactivate the launch sequence.  Who readies missiles that are still in storage anyway?

Where the hell is Jack Bauer when you really need him?

Clearly, she is excited about the burn.

I’m excited about making it through this without dying.  Which I’m not entirely sure yet is going to be happening, but I like to delude myself like that.

Wait.  What did she just say to me?  “Really challenge yourself.”  Were you not here just now when I said I was going to try to make it through this alive, woman? Clearly you do not understand that is a challenge in and of itself.

Shit, it is a challenge for me not to come over and take a bite out of your ass cheek.  I haven’t had a burger in weeks.

And if she says, “for an extra challenge…” one more time, I think I might just choke on all the cuss words that want to fly out of my mouth because YEAH.  Really, trust me, I don’t need anything extra at this point.

Unless it’s pickles.  On the ass burger I’m about to take from you.

And still, I’m doing this.  And I want to do this (hahaha) and I am going to do it again.  Because I know that over time it will get easier and I will hate her less and less.

Wait, she just said, “I don’t know about you but I’m really starting to feel my legs!”

*insert mental image of me SHITTING MYSELF I’M LAUGHING SO HARD*

If I could FEEL them anymore, I’d actually be able to “control it” like you keep telling me to do and then I wouldn’t be shaking, and tripping over my own two feet every five seconds, woman.  But thanks for letting me know that YOU can feel YOUR legs.  I am so proud of you.  You are doing great!  Soon you’ll be even MORE sexy and attractive than you already are!  And then there can be an even greater, more stark contrast between the two of us.

Really, the hilt of the knife couldn’t go any deeper.  I need to invest in an imaginary pitch fork or something.  Axe?  Hm.

And if you’re disturbed by this?  Me having immature, malicious thoughts towards my workout instructors is really nothing new.  See here.  While this makes things no less disturbing, at least you can see that I am consistently whacked out.

Oh, but now she’s saying something that makes me love her.  A lot.  (And it wasn’t, “Would you like ab fries with that ass burger?”)

“Last one.”

Okay, Miss Itty Bitty Everything.  I think I can forgive you.

But right now I need to go see what I can do about my right eyebrow.  That four foot flame really took me by surprise.

Cramming nuts and wieners in my mouth. Oh yeah. I said it.

So, I recently made you read about how my mouth stinks and my pits are a sweaty mess of BO pretty regularly lately, but that it’s just a mild distraction from the nest of greasy hair in knots all around my face and the bags of fat hanging off my waist and ass.

Er, or maybe I just said I’ve stopped having good hygiene and I’ve gained weight. Hm. Words words words.

Well, I’m trying to smell less like ass and stop being a jiggly mass of cellulite speckled, moving J-E-L-L-O (Pit Sweat Flavor), and I figured that since I let you in on that, I’d go ahead and offer an update on “How this stupid shit is going so far.”

Did I just call my Unfattening and Destanking “stupid shit?” Why, I did, didn’t I? I must be bitter about the whole thing.

You already know that I wandered into the kitchen at 3am one night and crammed my mouth full of sticky smashed peanuts. Mmmm, peanut porn.

Well, every damn night I’ve been telling myself once I look up and see it’s about 9:30 or so, “Okay, Lotus. NOT GOING TO EAT ANYTHING ELSE TONIGHT.”

And then around 10:30 I look at myself and I’m all, “So, what are we gonna eat!? Pretzels? Beer? Oh, hell yah.”

And, ok. So, I’d call that mild failure so far.

But what’s NOT mild failure? Well, that would be GIANT FAILURE.

Did you think the peanut butter at 3am was bad? (No? WTF is wrong with you? That is ridiculous. You should NOT be eating a spoonful of nut (hehehehehehehehe) at 3am.)

I can top it.

Wiener.

That’s right.

That’s what I woke up cramming into my mouth the other night.

*pause*

And I’m not talking about a fun-time wiener, I’m talking about a cylinder of smashed pork lips and penises.

Oh baby, now THAT’S sexy.

That’s how I want you all to think of me.

Yes. I’m the chick standing in her kitchen at around 3am wearing underwear and a wife beater with peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and a hot dog dangling from her lips.

And I am probably scratching my ass.

Or farting.

Ok, both.

It takes effort to be THIS SEXY.

Oh, but I’ve lost 5 lbs so far.

And if you even try to patent the peanut butter and wieners diet before I can get to the patent office, I swear I will hurt you with knives.

Mmmmm.  Peanut Butter Wieners.

Next time, I’ll aim for the pickles and tuna.

I am seriously in need of a super large mug of coffee right now.

This morning I woke up on the couch (I am completely unable to sleep in my bed when John is gone) and my brain was talking to me. In blogpostese.

It was composing a blog post.

Which, you know, my brain really hasn’t done of its own volition in a long, long time. I mean, it used to do that all.the.time. So I don’t know if this is a sign that my muse is actually back this time and I’ll be posting a lot more often again, or if it’s just a sign that I really shouldn’t have gotten up at 3am and eaten that spoon full of creamy peanut butter with my eyes half open.

Does anyone else do that shit when they’re trying to lose weight?! I think something is wrong with me. Waking in the night to sabotage your own weight-loss efforts in order to damage that bitch’s self-esteem is probably not a sign of excellent mental health. Just sayin.

So, anyway, last night I totally dreamt of this guy from back when I was in school. Remember school?

And by school, I don’t mean all those losery years you spent actually working your ass off in college/grad school.

And don’t even tell me that you spent all those years partying, getting drunk and drugged off your ass and being a total whore with anyone who would hang around while you dropped trou. Because I KNOW that those years are for serious academic pursuit and the preparation for your successful adult life. Besides. I did all that other stuff in high school already.

What I mean is the grade school years. Dig in and pull up all your “Stand By Me” memories, folks. This is what I’m referring to presently.

His name is Kenneth, and I always found him to be sort of quirky and really nice. And we shared the exact same birthday, which I thought was the coolest thing since crotchless underwear. (None of your business, it was a weird 4th grade year.)*

Kenneth is literally the only person I have ever met that has the same birthday as I. And really, I always thought that was some special kind of groovy. I kind of always figured him for my super secret long-lost twin.

In addition to that being totally crazy and interesting, it means that my real dad, out there somewhere, is African American. Which really kind of makes this super pale skin and my complete lack of dancing groove a total embarrassment to the other side of my family. And for that reason, I can understand why they have kind of pretended I don’t exist this whole time. And I can forgive.

But I digress.

In my dream, Kenneth was in this convention area thingy or something (back off, it was a dream) and he was standing behind a podium when I walked by and noticed him there. Of course, I totally stopped walking to where I was currently going, and went over to talk to him (super secret twin importantness, duh).

He was set with a large audience of people who were filing in, and was about to sing the entire last chapter of some religious book in another language. No, I don’t remember what book or what language, or even why in the damn hell he would have been doing that (dream, remember?) but I do remember one thing. I was HELLA impressed. And also really bummed, because I totally had to go to this other thing, so I couldn’t attend.

I told him I had to go to a jazz concert instead.

WTFH? Who goes to a jazz concert instead of watching their super secret twin friend from grade school sing the entire last chapter of some crazy religious book in another language? That’s the kind of shit you get a super footlong hotdog and a big gulp for and you watch that with bursting excitement and pride.

But, no. Jazz concert.

And then, you know what I did? I didn’t even go to a jazz concert. I went to some random classroom where, apparently, I was the guest of honor, because they made me sit up front next to the teacher and everyone clapped. And then she made me say something about myself.

I did. It was incredibly intelligent and intensely hilarious. Everyone clapped and laughed and there was much carrying on.

But I don’t remember what I said.

Which is really pissing me off, since I’m absolutely positive it contained the key to happiness for my entire life, and if I just knew what it was, all my problems would cease to exist. Of course, my own brain is still in on the whole “sabotaging my happiness” thing, and it refuses to retrieve this information for me.

Douche.

So then, after that class thing was over, I exited the building and noticed that all sorts of hell was breaking loose over by the convention area thingy. Every manner of emergency vehicle was all over the place and the atmosphere in general was grey and ominous.

I ran over to find out what the hell was going on, and some official person told me that Kenneth had been murdered while he was singing his religious thing.

Apparently some crazy ass terrorist type person ran up and shot him, and then jumped on him until he went through the floor and into a large vat below the podium, which was full of some type of liquid that dissolved Kenneth.

Uh. Don’t even ask me. I have no idea.

So, Kenneth was dead, and he never even got to finish singing his religious-in-a-different-language-thing and I was supposed to be there for my super secret twin friend from grade school, but I wasn’t.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I woke up in the middle of the night last night (different time than the peanut butter sabotage event), and an ominous voice inside my head said, “The end of the world is not far off. You have had your time with your son. You will not see your husband again.” And then I fell asleep again.

Which is all pretty much making me lean towards the whole “don’t freaking eat a big spoonful of peanut butter in the middle of the night” thing.

I hope you are alright, Kenneth.

*No. I did not actually have any experiences with crotchless underwear as a child. I was actually not into that kind of thing at all. Studded leather was more my style.

I ate snot. I win.

Being sick in Spring is not fun, wonderful, or delightful.

Being sick in Spring while your toddler is also ragingly sick? Well, that’s about as fun as being a balloon animal at a drunk porcupine convention.

And let me add, you have really not LIVED until you have been force-fed a handful of Honey Nut Scooters (generic brand of Cheerios, for you rich assholes) coated in toddler snot. Until you experience this, your soul just has.not.awakened.

I could be wrong though, since my brain is stuck in this mucky haze which is part “I WANT TO KILL YOU ALL RIGHT NOW WITH MY BARE HANDS” (menstrual hag) and part “OMG I AM DYING, I KNOW IT” (pathetic, whiny, sick douche).

I just… well… he has been SO miserable and sad lately. And his nose has been steadily and continuously leaking sick toddler snot in copious amounts. I try to keep up with it, but most of the time he beats me to it. That little hand just darts up and swipes it away.

And while, yes, this is gross, it’s not nearly as disgusting as that tendency some kids have to try mimicking a cow by sticking their tongues on up into the Snot Fest. So, I’m thanking my stars, here, that my kid hasn’t thought of that yet. (We’ll talk about how he licked snot off his fingers another day, okay?)

Anyway, today, he ran into the living room from the kitchen with a handful of his cereal. He made a bee-line for me on the couch, and since I was kind of slumped over towards the floor (yeah, I’m that pathetic) he had full access to my face. Which delighted him, and he just started shoving the cereal into my face.

He had this sparkle in his eyes as he crammed every last piece in my mouth.  Delight was painted across every inch of his face.  There was absolutely no way in the world I could bring myself to stop him.

His little fingers kept going in with the cereal.  I could detect the flavor of sweet, delicious cereal.

As well as the lovely sensation of cold, sticky, wet sick toddler snot.

And I just kept repeating in my head, “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay, just don’t think about it, don’t think about it, it’s going to be okay….”

I ate snot for my kid today.  WHAT DID YOU DO FOR YOUR KID?

When your uterus threatens to take hostages, things are clearly out of control. Menstruation Rules!

Dear Internet:

My muse wanted me to tell you that she’s been rockin’ and rollin’ pretty heartily recently. She has knocked back some stiff drinks, tickled my brain with the naughty feather, and laughed in my ear. I have grinned, typed, and clickity clacked away at my keyboard, happily.

She also wants you to know that tonight, she’d love to help me out and provide some great content for you, however, she’s been struggling to keep her head above the muck inside the swirling vat of menstrual hormones that is MY ENTIRE BEING right now. Earlier, she was doing the drowning sign and gasping for air. I gave her the finger and told her to “fend, bitch” because I have my own shit to deal with, okay?

She is currently fleeing from my angry, rampaging uterus, which is running at her full force, prepared to bludgeon her to death with an engorged tampon. It has already threatened to create a hostage situation with a list of demands if it can capture her. That ho bettah run, because here at Casa SarcMom we do NOT negotiate with Effing Terrorists. Or Asshole Uteri.

In defense of the out-of-control uterus, it feels like a damn badger is gnawing on it, and just in case you’re wondering? NO. THAT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD. It feels… how do they say it? AbsofackinlutelyCraptastic.

So that great content? Uh… yeah.

Also? Who the hell authorized there being NO WINE IN MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW?

I might have to burn it down just to make a point.

I’m going to go punch myself in the uterus really hard (knock that damn badger loose) and then look for the matches.

Someone send booze.

Lazy Douche Enablers: Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad

Lazy Douche Enablers write posts for me every other Tuesday. That way, I can be a much better… you guessed it: Lazy Douche. Today’s Enabler is Sarah, of Sarah and the Goon Squad.

That Sarah, She’s a Classy Gal

When Lotus asked me to guest post I immediately said yes.

And then I remembered that I am not a very good writer. And right after that I remembered that I had completely run out of things to write about on my own blog. And then I felt stupid.

Not that feeling like an idiot is a new emotion for me by any stretch of the imagination.

Oh! That gives me an idea. I could tell you my fart story. This seems like an appropriate venue for a good fart story. Wouldn’t you agree? Here goes nothing.

One time my husband and I were in Orlando for homecoming (I went to The University of Central Florida, and yes actually Daunte Culpepper was a Freshman when I was a Senior.) and we had been drinking like crazy all weekend and eating total garbage. It was after the football game and the plan was that we would all go to our rooms and get cleaned up for dinner. My stomach was a mess. I’d been drinking Miller Light in plastic bottles all day. You know what that can do to a person.

Our good friends Tammy and Ritch were staying two doors down the hall from us and we were going to just meet them in the hall and go down to the lobby to meet the rest of the gang. Gabe opened up the door to our hotel room and I said “Are they out there yet?” He said “No” and then I let out the loudest, raunchiest fart of all time. Then Gabe closed the door.

He said “No, Tammy and Ritch aren’t out there, but other people are. Apparently these “other people” all turned to look at him when the event occurred.

This is one of those things that when it happened I was so glad that it was only me and the person that already promised to spend the rest of his life with me that witnessed the event. (Well, and the others, I suppose but unless they are reading this right now they have no idea it was me.) Of course 40 seconds later when Tammy and Ritch actually came out of their room I immediately blabbed the entire story.

Then I told the internet.

I have no shame.

______________________________________________________

If Sarah entertained you today, feel free to check her other stuff out at Sarah and the Goon Squad, Loser Moms, Draft Day Suit, BlogHer, MamaPop… she pretty much writes everywhere.

Mommy, where do testicles come from?

Alternate title: This Tree’s Got Balls, Man.

Awaiting that PLOP of fabulosity.

Elmo, Big Bird, & Cookie Monster are my latest allies in The Great Potty Training Challenge.

Braden is so good at peeing on the toilet when he’s naked. I mean, seriously, I never thought I’d be writing these words about anyone, but:

I am SO proud of the way he hops on that pot and pees!

I’ve watched him progress from a potty in the living room to the toilet that’s off the kitchen near the garage. He’ll stop playing (!!!) hold it while he runs all the way there, move a stool over, put the potty ring on the toilet, climb up, hop on & slide back, and then let the stream go.

It is the best hissing sound I’ve ever heard (so far).

We’re working very carefully right now at getting him to be just as good at it when he’s wearing pants.

Some days are good. Other days? We’re swimmin’ in Peed Up Pants, Yo.

And, just in case you were wondering?

Good Things To Swim In:

• Water
• Beer
• Wine
• The Ocean
• Money (A La Scrooge McDuck)

I was going to say Jello, but enough to swim in would be enough to drown in. Yeah.

Note To Self: Save the Jello for the super awesome, fun Naked Wrestling with girlfriends at our slumber parties.

Bad Things To Swim In:

• Vomit
• Unpaid Bills (Speaking from experience here)
• Booger Pies
• Warm Spit
• Peed Up Pants, Yo

We are making strides, but it is bumpy and sometimes ugly. It is as if having anything on his butt is a signal to him that it’s okay to let’er rip.

We have been calmly and lovingly letting him know that we have other expectations, and encouraging small steps towards the final, desired behavior at all times.

Simultaneously, we’ve been talking to him about how FREAKING AWESOME WONDERFUL GREAT AND FABULO-TASTICAL it is to “put your Poo-Poo in the toilet!!!!!!!!1″.

And can I just say, that on the day that he pulls down those pants and drops a log into the porcelain throne, it will be the most FABULOUS PLOP I have ever heard.

I think I might cry a tear when it happens.

Or do some Naked Jello Wrestling.