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.

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.

The post where I admit that I may have branded myself stupidly. But not really. I’m just being sarcastic. Get it? Ahahahaha. Ha.

Because there have been, and will continue to be, plenty of times when my posts and thoughts do not reflect the name of this website at all. And me?  I couldn’t care less.  But every now and again someone mentions to me that I’m not being sarcastic or whatever, and then I think about it.  And I’m all anxious and nervous for a little bit, thinking OMG IT IS FINALLY OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT I AM A FAILURE IN ALL THAT I DO.  And then it kicks in: the not giving a shitness, but rather being annoyed at having it pointed out to me. (Because I am nothing if not a sensitive jerkface douche who can’t handle a little bit of criticism without blowing things all out of proportion. I rule.)

My real name is Lotus and I can assure you I do not smell flowery all the time.   I am also not an expensive, fast sports car.  I am more of a rusted pinto with a rotten fish in the back seat.  Mmmm, rotten fish.  Sexy.

So yeah, when I started this blog, I was in a hurry to get the show on the road, and I was sitting here going, “What should I call this thing?”

Ideas I Had:

1. Call it the secret name that you have for your vagina.
2. Use a couple of words that best describe who you are right now.
3. Steal the name of a popular blog and then pretend you didn’t know it existed.
4. Pay a hilarious and witty celebrity to name it for you.
5. Call it Tit Fingers.

Outcomes:

1. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Especially to myself. Since my vagina hasn’t even told me its secret name yet. We have trust issues. That’s an entirely different story.  Anyway, a no-go.
2. Seemed good.  I asked myself, “Who am I right now?”
   SAHM who interacts with son & husband more than anyone else.
   Interaction with son: Mom
   Interaction with husband: Sarcastic Bitch (Loving Wife would be nice, but I suck.)

   Example Situation: I am standing at the stove with a spatula hovering over a pancake. John comes walking into the room, says, “Oooh, are you making pancakes?” I look at him in bewildered disgust and reply, “Hell no, I’m not making pancakes. I was just minding my own business when this flapjack jumped through the window, and then tried to escape through the back door. I am aware that this flapjack is harboring secrets against our government, however, and am currently administering heat torture to force him to speak. The spatula is just to keep him at bay. Damn communist flapjack. I tell you, I won’t have it. And you? You think this is just a pancake I’m making. You are a prime example of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket. Pancakes indeed.  I may have to kill you tonight.”

   I find myself incapable of giving him a straight answer. “Ooh, are you making pancakes?” “Yes, dear, I am.” WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

   So, it appeared I was: a) A Mom and b) An incurable sarcastic bitch in my daily life.

   Sarcastic Mom

3. The story I came up with to cover why I would call my blog Dooce was all about how I am obsessed with poop (Who does number two work for!?), but don’t spell well in French. Both of those things are actually true, so it’s this really awesome lie of a story made up of totally true elements. Which meant I might really even be able to pass a lie detector test and everything. Except for the part when they’d ask me if I knew that there already was a Dooce website. That and the thing about how Heather Armstrong would totally kick my ass stopped this plan dead in its tracks.
4. I was really keen on this but Conan O’Brien not only started refusing my phone calls, but informed me that used tin foil, dryer lint, and desperate sexual acts are not acceptable payment and that furthermore, he’s married, wasn’t interested, and I’m stupid and ugly. Then he requested a restraining order against me. It’s okay, I know it’s all a front to keep his wife in the dark about our secret love. Which is so secret that even he is not aware of it. But it kind of made me have to go with one of the other plans again.
5. This is totally still my backup blog name. I just checked; it’s available. Can you believe no one has snatched up TitFingers.com??? If this website ever disappears, and you want to find me, look that name up.

I have to warn. I might not always talk about tits. Or fingers. Or touching breasts with phalanges. You know, just FYI.

Oh, by the way, on the occasions where I say or write something that’s not sarcastic, please forget to inform me of this grave error.  I know it is highly unacceptable for a person to ever say or write anything that does not perfectly reflect their moniker or website name.  And yet?  Look how much I care.

I really should have my ass kicked for that.

Just pretend that my not being sarcastic is just me being really sarcastic about being sarcastic.

Yeah.  Stuff that in your pipe.

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.

Googleballsuckery. Yep.

A week ago I
noticed that Feedburner was
consumed by Google.

Google purchased them
quite some time ago, yes, but
now they’re moving feeds.

Feedburner clients
must move all feeds to Google
lest they be destroyed.

Everyone’s all,
“O-M-G! I’m so scared! Don’t
want to move my feed!”

I was hesitant
but the threat of losing it
all drove me to act.

Know what Google is?
An Internet Overlord.
Better watch my back.

Speak of them poorly
and they might wipe me off the
Internet for good!

Screw it. I’m talkin.
Yesterday they totally
assed up my blog feed.

They dumped all my links
from Del.icio.us on it,
without my say so!

Readers were confused.
Probably a bit annoyed.
And me? Well I was

just really happy
that I keep all my Asian
porn on Digg instead.

(between you and me?
this Googleballsuckery
is pissing me off.)

Life Lessons: Chapstick

Alternate title: “My lips hurt real bad!”

(for the Napoleon Dynamite fans.)

I don’t know why this video makes me so happy, but it does. There is something about the way he applies it, so freaking seriously. Having kids makes you think stupid things are cute. But, yeah.

Incidentally, Vimeo wanted to make me wait 85 freaking minutes before my video was ready for viewing.  In fact, Vimeo actually said to me, “Due to a high number of uploads, this video will be converted in approximately 85 minutes. You may now leave this page and we will email you when this video is finished converting.”  Really, Vimeo?  I have your permission to leave this page?  Thank you so much.  How gracious of you, Vimeo.

And along with that information, they taunted me with the knowledge that “Vimeo Plus” Members are moved to the front of the line for video converting.  Click and you’ll be greeted with, “Buy now for $59.95 a year!”

The hell?

Yeah.  I think I’ll pass.  Oh look, there’s a YouTube button on my toolbar!

So, thanks, Vimeo, but no thanks. By the way, Youtube was willing to convert my video right away (I timed it: 3 minutes.) For free. Stick that up your “Vimeo Plus” and spin on it.

Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be as cute as my kid applying chapstick. Just a guess.

Pajama People

Thankfully y’all are online and not in person and can’t see me sweating in my Hello Kitty pajamas (yes, sincerely) while I hammer out a guest post on a BIG blog like over here where dear Lotus has approximately 20 million subscribers (roughly the same as the population of Shanghai, you know, over in China and where their city with the most peeps happens to be).

I’ve got some stage fright going, but this is something that must be said. A public service good doing of sorts. And I’m helpful like that.

I don’t know when I was first witness to this exactly, but I’m sure my mouth dropped open while I stood staring (apparently I do that a lot, I’m told, but probably by liars) at the first all growed up adult person dressed in pajamas out in public, and now there are just so many more instances so much of the time. No, I don’t mean just while he wanders to his mailbox for a sec or when she pops out super quick just to get her newspaper (whatever old fangled bit of nostalgia an actual newspaper is – if it isn’t in my reader, it ain’t news or didn’t happen) – if it’s your driveway, it’s your ball of beeswax.

No, see, I mean that there are Pajama People in the grocery store dairy aisle. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? Or in produce over by the cabbage. Toy section and whatnot. Or over in the damn apparel section for crissake where they sell clothing that’s specifically NOT intended for those 7-8 hours that big folks are supposed to sleep (hmm, maybe that’s why I’m such a cranky puss? pass the coffee, wouldja? thanks, bitch.). The damn apparel section where they instead sell clothing for things like leaving your home and going public with your grown up self. All over the place anymore damn kids these days, I tell ya it seems there are Pajama People out and about, shopping like it ain’t no thing a’tall to be wearing fleece Snoopy pants, plus or minus the equivalent of Garfield slippers (not that there is any real equivalent).

I also don’t know exactly what the age limit should be on when you are too old to dress like a toddler in public, but I would assume it ends roughly somewhere around the age when toddlerhood ends. (And technically, most toddlers I see have moved beyond PJ’s, but we’ll go with it.) All you mamas help me out here – when does that toddler bit end? Whatever age that is, that’s what I pick. Everyone else in comfy J’s in public? In violation of a whole list of things sacred, like dignity or respect for self and others and a whole bunch of other… just other sacred things, okay?

Are we really that lazy as a society (here I mean any society using bedware as a weapon) that not all of us can bring ourselves to throw on some damn pants when we go out of the home? I’m not even asking that everyone brush his or her hairy-assed teeth (unless there is going to be smiling or talking close to my nose involved). No need to comb your sometimes sexy (but mysteriously sometimes not so very sexy) tousled bedhead hair on my account. If you don’t smell too very much like last night’s ass or like the 5th day armpit, it’s really not any of my business whether you bothered to put your funk in the tub, or did or didn’t do so with or without soap, but for the love of non-lazy-douchery (that’s for my girl, Lotus, who may or may not be a lazy douche but who is well loved by bunches and shouldn’t be called names), can you please just put on some daytime clothes?

It’s bad enough when it’s the women folk, but we are kind of cute enough sometimes to get away with a whole lot of silliness related to pajamas (ask my dear Tom), but when it’s the men wearing PJ’s at the store, it’s that much more ridiculous, even in the middle of the night at the 24 hour Super Target. Call me sexy or sexist or whatever sex word you want, but I’m a little old school on men acting a bit more like men than like girls. Think post-caveman beating women with clubs or whatever they did with those things, but pre-”way to damn sensitive and turned into some tough woman’s little bitch” and just somewhere in between all that mess of extremes. The grown men in pajamas in public thing kind of shreds any of the aura of “man,” or even just “adult” or of “someone who can be taken at all seriously.” It’s just really not a good thing, for anyone and especially for men.

Not that any of this is really my business, of course, because generally I really do believe in people doing what the hell they want without interference from my whiny assed opinions, even when I think it’s stupid and as long as it doesn’t harm me or mine, but I got nervous at what the future could hold when I saw this statistic:

A survey recently revealed that 25 percent of the population had family members who regularly wore nightclothes in public.

WTF? Seriously? 25%? Oh. My. We are all going to some kind of hell on a road paved with plaid flannel and Sponge Bob stretchy pants. Well, except that it was for Shanghai, you know, the one mentioned above with 20 million people, that Shanghai? Things are a little different there:

Because many homes do not have indoor plumbing, the daily walk to the bathhouse with a towel and a toothbrush in PJ’s is as much about comfort as it [is] about necessity.

They. Have. An. Ex. Cuse. (!) theyhaveanexcuse.

So, if you are whatever age the moms I’ve asked above decide still includes the range of “toddler age” or are in a situation where you do your bathing publicly and outside of the home (which I’m betting all of it on red – because I do love me some Roulette – that this is not the case with the folks I’m seeing over by the canned chili), then fine, you folks carry on with your fuzzy-slippered and pajama-bottomed selves, and I’ll smile and nod politely while you make your way to the bathhouse or wherever the hell to go hose off your stink, as long as you don’t go through the grocery store to get there. It’s all good. We’re cool.

The rest of you just puzzle the stuffing out of me, but it’s kind of nice to have an entertaining distraction at the store (especially since I always manage to pick the slowest line) by getting to see people look completely ridiculous, so, um, thanks for making life a little more fun? Rock on, Pajama People, you suck, and I love to not love you.

_______________________________________________________________________________________
When Maggie’s not scratching her head at people’s bedchamber clothing indiscretions, she writes at her website, Maggie’s Mind. Hop inside her head and look around… she’ll share her life, “piece by piece” and she might just let you stay for dinner. Lucky you.

Dear Hasbro, Disney, Mattell, et. al

In the spirit of calling Lotus’ missing mojo back from it’s prolonged vacation, here’s a rant I’ve been brewing since Christmas day. This may not actually call that spoiled mojoho back all on it’s own–it’s hard to top foot rubs and chocolates, but I’ll do my best to contribute to the siren song.

*Ahem*

Dear Revered Big-Brand Toymakers,

Beloved gods of toys, who bring joy to millions of children, I am but a humble mother of one who extends these unworthy suggestions for your gracious and almighty reflection:

• If you are going to rate something 3+, then please make the fracking little pulls and knobs actually operable by 3 year-old fingers. If my kid can’t open Wall-E’s trash compartment and shove the little plastic pieces of trash in there on his own, then take that mofo off the shelf and back to the drawing board. “Maaaaaaaama! Waaaaaaalllllleeeeeee!” has been the theme song of my day, and I’m beginning to fantasize about telling my kid that his Wall-E died and throwing it in the trash. Any future therapy bills will be sent your way.

• Make your trains so that my 3 year-old can put them back on the tracks all by himself. Believe it or not, I don’t want to stop what I’m doing every 90 seconds all day long, to keep a train going ’round and ’round on a little plastic track. Hard to believe, I know.

• Make knobs for twisting easily twist-able. My kid did not train for Christmas with a Grip Master. He does not have miniature He-man fingers. I do not want to wind up that stupid toy even one more time, as long as I live.

• Make on/off switches larger than the head of a pin. And while you’re at it, don’t hide them underneath fur and up the ass of the toy! Okay? Really. Why is that necessary?

All I ask is that you make some small modifications to these toys so that your intended customer can use the damned things without constant parental assistance. I like playing with my kid, I really do. But I don’t live in your fantasy world, where I hover in the background wearing an excited smile, just waiting to be needed while made-in-China character toys break down.

Thank you for your prompt consideration.

Sincerely,
Kat
A Loyal Customer

___________________________________________________________________________

When she’s not busy ripping the toy industry a new one or dying her hair pink, Kat blogs at Just Kat Stuff about a little of everything.  She claims to defy description.  Go over and see if you can sum her up.