I would like to take an informal survey.

Don’t worry, I know your time is valuable, but I assure you, this is a very important matter.

Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.

Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.

Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?

If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?

I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?

You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.

This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.

Thank you for your time.

Happy New Year, Beeshes.

It is the end of a decade full of a swirling mix of highs and lows – events, emotions, memories – for all of us, as is customary.  We are humans; this is our experience.  Thank you for letting me share pieces of myself with you, for supporting me in all the times when I came here and needed something, and for giving me insight into your lives and thoughts as well.  Humanity is alive and well, whether the world knows it or not.  I do.

May you all have the desires of your hearts this coming year, and in the new decade.

Love, Lotus

Running from my problems. Literally.

Some of you may remember the post waaaaay earlier this year where I admitted to you something that really was no surprise, considering I have mentioned how gross and lazy I have been on a regular basis.  Yeah, I’m talking about the one where I basically said, “I smell like forty ripe asses rotting in the sun.  Oh, and I have fat rolls that have fat rolls and their fat rolls are bigger than their fat rolls’ fat rolls.”  I’m not sure if that even makes any sense, but I wrote it out anyway, because I like the way it sounds.  You do too, you just don’t know it.

The point is that I had gained quite a bit of weight (enough to aggravate my joints and make my fat pants tight on me) and I wasn’t caring enough about myself to bathe regularly.  Unless you’d say once every week or two is regularly.  I guess it is, since I regularly waited that long to scrape the accumulated layers of sediment off of my body. (I swear I found a tiny, fossilized animal in one of the layers once. It was from the Cretaceous Time Period. I’d be rich if I hadn’t dropped it down the drain.)

By May, I was carrying a good amount of weight…

By the end of May, I was sick of myself.  I made a lot of changes (that really needed to be made) and turned my life onto a healthier track again.  Instead of drinking the local liquor store and grocery beer aisles dry practically every other day, I stopped drinking entirely for a whole month.

I hated every fucking one of you bitches that talked about drinking on Twitter during that time.  I wanted to stab you in the face.

Hahaha, just kidding!

No, really.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, in all honesty.  And during that month, I dropped junk food and excessive carbs, as well as late night eating.  You know what else?  I started moving.  And I had some support: people who motivated me by talking to me about what they were doing, listening to what I was doing, and just being there.  They lifted me up when I was dragging, and they celebrated my successes with me when I was floating.  That kind of support from friends is instrumental for me.  Thank you so much Leslie, Haley, & Karen.   I got my ass in gear and I started doing The Shred – downloaded it right to my computer and did it almost every day.  I added in some Yoga, too.

And the real killer for me?  I went to bed at a decent hour more often than not.  It was like a sign of the Apocalypse.  Or flying pigs.  Or that monkeys streaming out of your butt thing.

But mostly, it was a whole heap of positive change in my life that both cleared my head and dropped pounds of fat off of my body.

I lost 15 lbs in just a couple of months.

Then I started traveling.  Oy!  Chicago first, then NC, and before I knew it I was drinking and eating excessively again, and not exercising.  And sleeping? Hah, what was that?  I was up into the wee hours again.  For some reason, I love the wee hours.

I was still making half-assed efforts to exercise once I got back home, but it wasn’t adding up because I was being really inconsistent, and the other bad habits were still hanging on, blossoming even.

By mid-September, I was saying, “hello again!” to the last 8lbs I had dropped.  (And by “hello again” I mean, “awwww, shit, you again? Damn.”)

But I was in a funk.  The sloth in me was in charge.

By mid-October I had reached a point again where I realized this crappy way of whipping myself back and forth has got to stop.

I called on the cavalry again:  I’ve got Haley, Leslie, and now Mishi motivating me in a Skype chat regularly (thank you, ladies! I love you.).  And I’m trying this novel concept: moderation!

I cut way back on drinking, but I still have one drink most nights.  Junk food is out again, and healthy food is in.  But “cheats?”  Oh yeah, they’re around about once a week.

I’m *trying* to go to bed at a decent hour (most nights, and sometimes I’m actually successful) and I’m moving again.  I’ve been doing different things to keep it fresh -  Shred, Yoga, Dance, Walking.  I’ve lost that ugly 8 I gained back, and then some.  I’m feeling better again… lighter, smoother, and quicker.

Just this week, I started pushing myself to jog and run.

And then a little birdie named Leslie got on my proverbial shoulder and whispered in my Skype Chat ear: “Fiiiiive Kaaaaaay?”

And I said, “What, me? Surely not.”

But later in the day I said, “Why not? I can do that.  I am *going* to do that.”

And that’s where I am right now.  In total, I’m down 21lbs (and counting!) from my May 09 top weight, and I’ve built some muscle.  It’s time to tone, train, and build endurance.  I have a plan, some tools, and at least one friend to do this with.  I’m about to bust crazy and go for something I’ve never attempted before.

And I’m not talking about going one whole day without saying, “fuckbuckles!” (What, you don’t say that every day?)

It’s time to train for a 5K, my friends.

I plan on leaving a little piece of my funk behind me with every step.

My resolve doesn’t celebrate The New Year.

Do you make New Year’s Resolutions? I don’t. I never have. I have always seen making them as this thing that other people do, like buying lottery tickets or having sex on airplanes. I don’t do it. I think it must be great fun considering all the hype, but I’ve never felt the particular need to do so myself. Besides, I can think of good reasons not to buy a lottery ticket (I also don’t burn money or throw it in the trash), and who wants to try that hard for an orgasm with the airplane sink faucet up their ass? Those bathrooms are seriously cramped. Count me out.

When I was 24 I had the realization that I had tried my first cigarette at 12, and technically, I’d been smoking for half my life. Whoa.

For half of my life, I’d been working on an addiction that held no positives for me or anyone around me, and something about that made me realize what a hold those damn things had on me. It was the disgusting and shocking realization I needed to be completely ready to give up the dangerous habit for good. I was successful. I have never looked back, and my only regret is that I ever picked up that first cigarette.

I had attempted quitting two previous times. I can’t remember specifically why I embarked on the effort the times that I failed. When I try, I draw up vague ghosts of reasons like, “smoking is bad, m’kay” “smokers smell even worse than patchoulied up hippies, man,” and “that shit is expensive, yo!”

None of those reasons was the right one for me. Yes, of course, not killing myself and polluting the environment SHOULD have been good enough reasons, I know. Chalk that up to Me = Assholeface. For whatever reason, I didn’t have true resolve. I wasn’t ready then. When I was, however, I was passionate and serious. Something inside of me would not let me fail.

I think this encapsulates the reasons why I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. It feels like a faddy waste of time – if I’m ready to make an important change in my life before the New Year, I see no reason to wait. If I’m not ready at the New Year, I see no reason to force a change that is so much more likely to end in failure.

Will you be ready to stop smoking/lose weight/quit being a nagging bitch of a wife in 2010?

If so, will you be ready because it’s the right time, the reason is pressing, and you feel passionate about it? Or will it just be because the page on you calendar flipped over and you feel trapped by tradition? If you fail, will you get back on the horse, so to speak, and kick that thing’s ass? Or will you give up because “it’s just a NY resolution” ?

All of that being said, I feel the need to make the point (lest you hurl rotten tomatoes and used tampons at me) that I DO think it’s AWESOME to make healthy and positive changes in your life, no matter what time of year it is.  If The New Year is your time, go for it.  If you like to make a New Year’s Resolution, I do hope you’re successful. And if you’re not, there’s always 2011, right? *wink*

As for me? I resolve to stay up too late and drink too much on New Year’s Eve.  That’s about as far as I can go.  Baby steps.  I think I’ll wait until at least when pigs fly out of my anus 2020 to even think about hitting that ‘nagging bitch of a wife’ one. I can’t imagine being anywhere near ready for that ever anytime soon.

Today’s post is my answer to The Resolution, a writing challenge at {W}rite-of-Passage.

The following people took the challenge, too.

The Talk. No, not *that* one.

I think I screwed up on “The Spider Talk.”

Recently, Braden and I were sitting at the table eating dinner when he started talking about a spider while staring the Big Eye Stare at the floor to his right.  I looked, and yes, there was a wolf spider near the baseboard a few feet away from him.

I had actually seen the spider run in the door when I was letting the dog out to pee, minutes before we sat down to eat.

“That’s a spider, Mommy, a spider. That’s right, Mommy, THAT’S A SPIDER!”

“Yes, that’s a spider, Braden. It’s okay. The spider came inside because it is very cold outside and he wanted to warm up.”

“Spider came inside because it’s cooooooooold, Mommy.”

“Yes, he did. But if you leave him alone you will be fine.”

“Leave the spider alone!”

“That’s right, leave the spider alone, because if you bother the spider he will bite you.”

His head whipped around so fast it almost flew right off his neck and he stared at me. He took a very serious tone.

“He will bite you?”

“Yes, spiders can bite and it hurts very much.  If you bother the spider, he will bite you and that hurts. So just leave the spider alone, okay?”

He paused, staring at me with a great deal of concern.  Then, he got a bit excited.

“The spider will bite you and it hurts. It weally WEALLY WEALLY HURTS!”

I was starting to worry that maybe I should have just left the whole biting issue alone.

“Uh… um, yes. It might bite you if you mess with it.  And it really hurts.  So leave the spider alone.”

“THE SPIDER WILL BITE YOU AND IT WEALLY HUUUUUURRRTS!”

“Hey, why don’t you eat some more of your fish?”

During the rest of dinner, he kept looking over at the spider, who was still just sitting in his same spot.  He was probably thinking weird stalker spider thoughts.  I have to admit, it was kind of creepy the way he was just chilling there, seeming to stare at Braden.  Maybe wolf spiders like fish.  Maybe they like cute little boys.

I forgot about it and after dinner Braden was in the living room playing and I was in the kitchen making apple cider.

Suddenly he started making a ruckus and ran up to me and started tugging my pants leg frantically, making anxious breathing sounds as he jitterbugged in place.

“Mommy, hold me. Pick me up. Up. Up. Mommy hold me! Mommy, hold me!”

While it’s not unheard of for him to want me to hold him, he is generally not frantic like this about it.

“Why? Mommy is making cider, Braden.  What’s wrong?”

“MOH.MEE.HOLD.BRA.DEN.”

“Why?”

“The spider is RUNNING!!!!” (I could almost hear the implied, “you stupid bitch!” at the end.)

AWESOME. I did NOT instill Spider Awareness and Caution.  Instead I planted SPIDER FEAR ZOMG!

I really don’t want him to be afraid of spiders, just careful.  Then again, I know some parents who can tell you spider fear is probably better than the opposite side of the spectrum.  My parents would likely tell you it’s way better than having a kid who tried to keep a black widow spider as a pet and then let it loose in the house.

And a grade school teacher of mine will probably let you know that it’s totally uncool when a little girl brings said black widow spider to school for show and tell.

But as for Braden’s possible burgeoning spider fear?  If he does decide to go the route of Those Who Fear Arachnids, I may be unable to relate to him, but you need not worry about him feeling alone.  You see, there’s a club around here for Spider Scaredy-Cats.

Previously, there has only been one member.  I might be the only one around here with a real, working vagina, but sometimes you’d wonder.

Maybe they can perfect their girlish shrieks together as a bonding exercise.

I know I’m supposed to publish a post about cheesy things I’m thankful for, but instead, you get penis train tracks. You’re welcome.

Why I should not be allowed to play with children’s toys in the presence of actual children:

I’ll have you know that I used every single piece of track that we have to build this masterpiece.  And yes. I’M PROUD.

I like to call it Thomas’s Hard Day or Where Thomas Gets Off.

Oh, shut up. It’s funny, and you know it.

And the truth is, while I’d like to say I did this on purpose, it was actually a happy (?) accident. I noticed it when I stepped back later.

Suck on that, Freud.

(Hahaha, I said SUCK, get it? Oh yeah.)

*******

PS: I’m thankful for a LOT. Like them, and us, and you.

And bewbs.

And schlongs. (you knew it was coming back again, right?)

Happy Thanksgiving, you crazy kids.

Reason number 39756385 why renting a house blows.

And when I say “blows” I am not thinking about bubbles or dandelions.

Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.

I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.

I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:

“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”

When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF.  So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.

When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself.  Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”

I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.

But I digress.

So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things.  Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.

Wait, no.  I wrote that incorrectly.

They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.

Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable.  That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”

And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”

This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me.  Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs.  We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”

And:

1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th.  I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.

After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.

BAHAHAHAHAHA!

“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.”  Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.”  I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.

A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:

A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.

They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.

He is such a pussy.

So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.

(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes.  I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)

On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.

He told me it was broken.

I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”

But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it.  Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”

It’s Wednesday.  I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.

I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.

Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.

****

UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed.  I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working.  Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.

Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet.  Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.

Duh, Braden, DUH.

Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman.  Braden said so.  Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig.  I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements.  It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command.  I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry.  Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.

I’m telling.

PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.

Probably.

Reusable totes are awesome. When you don’t suck, and actually bring them.

The second Monday of the month sometimes (when I pull my head out of my ass) means I’ll post a piece about the things that John and I do to help lift a little burden off of Mother Earth’s shoulders. It’s this thing I started doing after I was completely disgusted on a walk almost 2 years ago (wow, it’s been that long?). I was appalled at how much trash people just throw on the ground, basically.

Back then, I realized I was pretty disgusted with a lot of things I was (or wasn’t) doing, too. No, not the Asian Porn fetish or even the Kitten Juggling. That stuff is fun! I’m talking about the stuff that’s not so good for the environment (like the Aqua Net huffing problem I had).

So we started changing little things in our life for the better, to help the earth, its inhabitants, and ourselves. And I started a project – PSBN – and began posting about those things here, to share with and inspire you. (So consider yourself shared with. And inspired.) It was a whole Happy Happy Love Love Green Living Be Awesome To The Earth I Believe That Children Are The Future Teach Them Well And Let Them Lead The Way kind of thing.

Did you see what I did there? Ahhh, yeah. You liked it, didn’t you?

Anyway.

I’ve gotten really lazy about putting up these posts. I have to be honest with you – I know that some of you have been supportive about them and enjoyed them, but they generally don’t seem to draw must interest and like anyone, that kind of makes it harder for me to work up the energy to make an effort and put them together. That assholishness apathy on my part as well as being lazy as hell just not creating as much time for posts anymore overall means I’ve skipped several of these “second Mondays” without publishing anything for PSBN.

I know. I’m a shitbrain.

This, by the way, happens to be something I abhor about myself – I get really into something, but then I get lazy and I don’t maintain my momentum. I forget, or I find other things to amuse me, and I lag off. (Hahaha, you thought I was going to say jack off. Yes you did. Liar. Ok, I thought I was going to say it.)

This *might* be why Dana called me a lazy douche last year, and why I’ve run with that whole “I’m a Lazy Douche!” gag for this whole time. Because it’s really the truth! (I still haven’t answered all those questions, Dana. You were so right! Isn’t that awesome?)

LAZY DOUCHE, FTW.

And that really actually segues well into today’s PSBN topic, which is Reusable Totes for shopping.

I loved the shit out of the idea of reusable totes. In fact, I took that idea and I bought it a nice steak dinner. I bought it many, many glasses of fine wine. I told it how sexy hot it was and then? I took it home with me, full of unclean intentions. I rubbed that freaking reusable totes idea up against my trembling body until… uh. Um. *clears throat* I think I’m getting carried away. What were we talking about again?

Oh. Yeah. I was in love with the idea of using some bags over and over again.

Don’t Waste – Reuse, beeshes.

So.  I totally freaking bought them and started using them every time I got groceries.

And IT.WAS.AWESOME.

I was totally single-handedly saving the world.

SUPER HEROIN IN THE HOUSE, BEESHES.

Wait. Wait. That makes it sound like I was shooting some kind of incredibly refined drugs into my veins in my domicile. And while that might be true, it wasn’t what I was trying to say.

But basically,

I AM AWESOME. You can say thank you any time. (For saving Earth, and all. You’re welcome.)

So yeah to recap: I was using the bags and it was awesome (like shooting up drugs).

But then I would forget them at home.

And (like shooting drugs) it started happening more and more. (It’s either premature aging, excessive alcohol consumption, or all those times I’ve slammed my head into the wall.)

(On purpose.)

So yeah. I would forget them constantly… and I would berate myself.

Me in the parking lot of the grocery store:

“You stupid, stupid bitch! You forgot the fucking bags AGAIN!”

“Well you could just drive home and get them before you shop.”

(Yes, I talk back to myself. DON’T ACT LIKE YOU DON’T. Also, if you don’t… just, you know, pretend like you do and lets move on so I can protect the fragile shell of my imagined sanity.)

“DRIVE HOME AND GET THEM? ARE YOU A MORON?”

“Uh. Uh. No?”

“Well, see… CLEARLY YOU ARE. If we drive home and get them we’ll be POLLUTING MORE and, also? WASTING GAS. Do you even have two brain cells left to rub up against one other? I swear I hate that I’m you.” *spits in own face*

(That is a talent of amazing proportions. I can sense your jealousy.)

“But, but…” *sobbing*

“You make me SICK. Pathetic. Why don’t you just grab a broom handle and stick it up Mother Earth’s ass and call it a day, okay?”

*continued sobbing*

“I am going to strangle you with the plastic grocery bags when we get home.”

It’s really embarrassing, by the way, to have this kind of argument with yourself in a public place. I mean, usually this kind of thing happens only at home…

“You stupid whore, did you forget to take meat out to thaw for dinner AGAIN!??? Come here so I can SLAP YOU WITH THE HAND OF RIGHTEOUS FURY.”

…and at least there’s no one to gasp or scurry away blatantly. And no parents telling their kids, “Honey, don’t look, just keep walking. Hurry. She might hurt us.”

I guess what I’m saying is that employing the use of those Reusable Grocery Totes is REALLY REALLY AWESOME and can help us SAVE OUR PLANET if we actually remember to bring them with us to the store.

And what I’m asking, no, *begging* you to tell me is, What the hell do you awesome people who use them every time do to REMEMBER TO ACTUALLY BRING THOSE SHITS WITH YOU?

Please help me. Please.

Omg, I was going to end the post there, but then I just totally had an idea for making them into underwear so you’d always have one with you. No, wait. That would be gross, wouldn’t it?

Darn.

Oh, and while you’re sitting there trying to figure out exactly how to make me start taking meds, please link up any posts you’ve written recently that discuss “green” topics. Thanks!