April 30, 2012
It is a magnificent confluence of anniversaries and birthdays today. I sometimes forget that it was probably beyond rude and inconsiderate for Sarge and I to have married on my AND his brothers' birthdays. Yep, tis true. Sarge's brother, Brian. And my brother, Mike. Both of their birthdays are today. I am pretty sure neither of them read my sorry little blog, but just in case. Happy birthday, guys! The Army didn't give us much of a choice, or it would have been on the 17th ;-)
And again. Yes. Today is our 18th anniversary. Sarge and mine. 18 years. Is a long fucking time. And I am just as hot as the day he met me. Wait. No. I mean, he's just as hot as the day I met him. Yeah.
Today is also the 4th anniversary of THIS BLOG! Woooohoooo! Now THAT is a reason to party! Aside from the fact that I started this blog on our 14th anniversary because Sarge was in the Philippines and I was pathetically sad and lonely. But still. I'm awesome. No. He's awesome. Shit. Anyway.
And on top of THAT.... my little bloggy thing here just hit 40,002 page views! Which probably sucks balls for a 4-year-old blog.... but whatev. Shut up. It's my blog, so all y'all can suck it. All y'all. *giggle*
Today is ALSO..... you ready for it? Yeah? Here it comes...... TWO WEEKS SINCE I HAVE HAD A CIGARETTE! Fuck, yes. YES. Did you hear that? Two weeks. Cold turkey. Straight up sexy willpower. I fucking ROCK.
Annnnnnnd..... one more thing......
it's pretttttty awwwwweeesommmmeee.....
here it comes......
Today is also the day.....
Before.....
MY PAP SMEAR!!!
So. This is what we're going to do. And everyone has to play, okay? So. Tomorrow morning. At 8:50 am Eastern Time. Everyone, ALLLL of you. Are going to stop what you are doing. For a moment of silence for ONE WHOLE MINUTE out of respect for me and my poor, violated uterus. Got it? Everyone on board?
Eggggsellent......
Happy Day For Me and JUNK!!!!
AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!
April 30, 2012
April 29, 2012
Sunday Morning Suck
April 29, 2012
It's fantastic, isn't it? Waking up in the morning, sun streaming through the blinds. Stretching your bones, sliding into your wicked awesome barefoot shoes. The first step onto the asphalt. The first notes of the first song. Deep breath. Wind on your face.
You feel good.
No. You feel GREAT.
And you think to yourself, "I could run to the moon this morning. No, I could run to the sun!"
Hmph.
Spontaneous long runs. Without the proper forethought or planning.
SUCK
MONKEY
BALLS.
The first 3 or 4 miles are nothing, really. You run that almost every day. By the end of mile 4, your confidence still soars. You think to yourself, "Hey! This would be the perfect morning to see if I could try a half marathon! Fuck YES! Thirteen-point-one HERE I COME!
Mile 5. Bring it on!
Mile 5.5. You know. I probably could have worn one of my better sports bras.
Mile 5.75. A car approaches at an intersection and you pray the driver doesn't wave you by.
Mile 5.95. Is that my hamstring? I wonder if that's my hamstring. I mean, it sorta feels tight, maybe. A little. I dunno.
Mile 6. Shit. Me and Jake have a 5K coming up this weekend. If I fuck myself up the ONE time my kid actually WANTS to run with me, I will never forgive myself.
Mile 6.3. Why the FUCK did I decide to run past the Goodyear plant where they never mow the weeds?! Now I've got weeds stuck between the toes of my Vibrams! Goddamnitalltohell.....
Mile 6.5. Oh my fucking christ... does the grass ever END??!! I'm pretty sure I'd rather run in the road and get hit by a car at this point. Damn it. Just my luck. No fucking cars.
Mile 6.8. I cannot fucking believe I really thought I was going to run 13.1 miles. I'll be lucky if I make it to 7. Shit and fuck. And damn. My feet hurt. My back hurts. This bra sucks. My panties are so far up my crack I'll need a fucking entrenching tool to dig them suckers out. Entrenching tool. Holy shit. I know Sarge has been in the Army too damn long when that's the first thing I think of.
Mile 7.0. I can't believe I'm almost home. Oh my god. Who decides how long miles are supposed to be anyfuckingway? This is ridiculous. Oh shit. Here comes a car. I need to look like I'm not tired so they won't think I'm a pussy. There ya go. Shoulders up. Smile. Back straight. Move that ass, bitch. It ain't that bad!
Mile 7.2. OH. MY. GOD. It's totally that bad. My tits will never be the same. And women think breastfeeding fucks you up. HA!
Mile 7.4. Oh shit. HEAVE. Oh shit. HEAVE. Oh shit. WHEEZE. Oh shit. COUGH. Oh shit. SPUTTER......
Mile 7.5. OH HELL YES! I'm the fucking WOMAN! All y'all motherfuckers betta RECOGNIZE!
(Yeah, but you said you were gonna run 13.1 miles, didn't you?) Oh bitch, you better shut your filthy mouth fore I fuck you up! (yes ma'am).
It's fantastic, isn't it? Waking up in the morning, sun streaming through the blinds. Stretching your bones, sliding into your wicked awesome barefoot shoes. The first step onto the asphalt. The first notes of the first song. Deep breath. Wind on your face.
You feel good.
No. You feel GREAT.
And you think to yourself, "I could run to the moon this morning. No, I could run to the sun!"
Hmph.
Spontaneous long runs. Without the proper forethought or planning.
SUCK
MONKEY
BALLS.
The first 3 or 4 miles are nothing, really. You run that almost every day. By the end of mile 4, your confidence still soars. You think to yourself, "Hey! This would be the perfect morning to see if I could try a half marathon! Fuck YES! Thirteen-point-one HERE I COME!
Mile 5. Bring it on!
Mile 5.5. You know. I probably could have worn one of my better sports bras.
Mile 5.75. A car approaches at an intersection and you pray the driver doesn't wave you by.
Mile 5.95. Is that my hamstring? I wonder if that's my hamstring. I mean, it sorta feels tight, maybe. A little. I dunno.
Mile 6. Shit. Me and Jake have a 5K coming up this weekend. If I fuck myself up the ONE time my kid actually WANTS to run with me, I will never forgive myself.
Mile 6.3. Why the FUCK did I decide to run past the Goodyear plant where they never mow the weeds?! Now I've got weeds stuck between the toes of my Vibrams! Goddamnitalltohell.....
Mile 6.5. Oh my fucking christ... does the grass ever END??!! I'm pretty sure I'd rather run in the road and get hit by a car at this point. Damn it. Just my luck. No fucking cars.
Mile 6.8. I cannot fucking believe I really thought I was going to run 13.1 miles. I'll be lucky if I make it to 7. Shit and fuck. And damn. My feet hurt. My back hurts. This bra sucks. My panties are so far up my crack I'll need a fucking entrenching tool to dig them suckers out. Entrenching tool. Holy shit. I know Sarge has been in the Army too damn long when that's the first thing I think of.
Mile 7.0. I can't believe I'm almost home. Oh my god. Who decides how long miles are supposed to be anyfuckingway? This is ridiculous. Oh shit. Here comes a car. I need to look like I'm not tired so they won't think I'm a pussy. There ya go. Shoulders up. Smile. Back straight. Move that ass, bitch. It ain't that bad!
Mile 7.2. OH. MY. GOD. It's totally that bad. My tits will never be the same. And women think breastfeeding fucks you up. HA!
Mile 7.4. Oh shit. HEAVE. Oh shit. HEAVE. Oh shit. WHEEZE. Oh shit. COUGH. Oh shit. SPUTTER......
Mile 7.5. OH HELL YES! I'm the fucking WOMAN! All y'all motherfuckers betta RECOGNIZE!
(Yeah, but you said you were gonna run 13.1 miles, didn't you?) Oh bitch, you better shut your filthy mouth fore I fuck you up! (yes ma'am).
April 27, 2012
Marriage, Toes, and Fruit Kabobs
April 27, 2012
Today is not Sarge and my 18th anniversary. That would be this Monday, April 30. At 6:30 p.m. to be exact. I even have a leftover wedding invitation to prove it. However. We are celebrating this weekend. Well, because our anniversary is on a Monday. And everyone knows. Monday's are dumb.
We went to the Virgin Islands for 10 days for our 15th. We're going to Amsterdam and a nude beach somewhere in Greece for our 20th. Although Sarge doesn't know about the nude beach thing yet.
This year, we're just kickin' it old school. Sorta.
Actually, we went to a "day spa" for a "couples massage."
I put those things in quotes because it implies that I am trivializing them and looking down on people who enjoy those kinds of things.
It's a common literary device used by such masters as the North Korean propaganda machine, the very same who roll off with gems like "spate of vituperation" and "Rats can make only squeaking sound" in their 7:00 nightly news.
Oh, how ignorant I was. Back then. In my past, pre-massage life. You know. At 2:30 this afternoon.
First, let me make a bit of an admission. This whole brilliant scheme was my idea. Yeah. It was. Because I know Sarge likes those things. Or, at least the 300 peso Filipino massages that come with a buck-and-a-quarter happy ending. Okay, that was just fucked up. My husband does not get hand jobs by Filipino masseuses. Well. Not that I know of. But who am I to judge?
Anyway. So, I made the appointment. For today at 3:00. For a $170 "couples massage" at the Renaissance European Day Spa. Clearly, they are using the word "Renaissance" for its Americanized stereotyped notions of wonderful things like dick statues and Michelangelo. And clearly, they are using the word "European" for its Americanized stereotyped notions of fish and chips and Simon Cowell. Wait. That doesn't seem right.
Regardless.
No shit, there I was. Walking in to this super fancy-pants place, right? Me and Sarge. Yeah. I'm picking my nose and he's grabbing my ass making some sort of "my woman" comment with a super redneck accent. You know how we do.
Okay, we really didn't do any of that. Except the walking into the fancy-pants place part. We did that.
Then we got nekkid and had a smoothie. Mine was a chocolate peanut butter smoothie. There were squishy chairs and fancy sconces and FRUIT TRAYS! Lemme tell ya bout the FRUIT TRAYS!
Okay, they were just fruit trays.
So there I was, no shit. Nekkid with a chocolate peanut butter smoothie. Well, there were robes involved. Certainly. I think there might be a rule about walking around in public flashing your junk while drinking smoothies. I could be wrong.
I spent the better part of my smoothie-sipping time people watching. Of course. Mostly middle-aged women with their "coach bags" and layers of makeup talking about their asses and their coach bags.
Sarge was the only man. And, hands down, the most excited. Nary a coach bag to his name, yet there he sat with his peach smoothie and fruit kabob. Winking at me from his squishy chair.
And then he says, "What are you thinking about?"
And I said, "I'm trying to remember everything so I can blog about it later."
And he rolled his eyes and ate his fruit kabob.
Then they called our name. Or she called our name. Or whatever.
We walked back into this room that looked absolutely nothing like the Moonlight Bunny Ranch. I was a bit disappointed. No titty tassels. No thongs with bows or electric wieners. My day was looking grim.
But then we sat down in the chairs. And out came the rose petals. I shit you not. Fucking rose petals. And they washed our feet with them. And then our legs. I expressed my relief that I'd shaved this morning. And then shifted forward in my chair when I realized that, unsurprisingly, my legs had trouble reaching the bowl of hot water on the floor.
I was then overcome by a strange feeling in response to a middle-aged woman sitting on her knees in front of me washing my feet with rose petals. I really couldn't place it. This feeling I was having. It was as though I wanted to stand up suddenly, toss off the robe, and jump around the room hollering, "Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!!" And then stick out my tongue while I held my boobs down so they wouldn't hurt while I was jumping.
Strange.
Sarge didn't get a middle-aged woman. He got a hottie. I think his reaction to the situation was a bit less perplexing. He was just trying not to fart and get a boner.
I started the dangerous giggling then. It's what I do in uncomfortable situations. Which are usually also situations that are absolutely and totally inappropriate for a grown woman to be giggling.
Fortunately, my attention was then diverted to the massage table. That's when I got really nekkid. Well, except for my neon green-trimmed panties with tiny black scottie dogs on them. Clearly, I did not plan ahead.
The next hour and a half changed my life forever. This woman. Sweet little middle-aged aunt Betty type. And her hands. OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD. This sweet little thing started at my ears. MY EARS. Went all the way to my TOES. The massage table was HEATED. There were hot towels and heating pads and huge heated bolsters and more hot towels and her hands with the lotion and the hot stones and the hamstrings and my poor, poor, chronically sore runner's calves, and every single vertebrae in my entire cervical, thoracic, and lumbar spine..... OH MY! Holy Mary mother of Zombie Jesus!! And then. AND THEN. Once she got to my TOES. You wanna know what she did when she got to my toes??
Yeah.
She flipped my diva princess ass over and did it all over again.
Straight up.
NO.
FUCKING.
SHIT.
All of my goals in life vanished in that hour and a half. All of my dreams and aspirations. My passions and love. All of it. GONE. Completely GONE.
My only motivation from this point forward is exactly how much I will have to earn to be able to do this at least once a week. AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK.
Oh, wait. WAIT a fucking minute! Did I forget to tell you about the chocolate-dipped strawberries and cream with the bottle of wine in the fancy-pants ice bucket?
Teen marriage, crossing oceans, life-altering pregnancy, two beautiful boy children, combat deployments, multiple sclerosis, impending retirement.... all of it.... every bit of it has now been rendered obsolete and irrelevant.
The only thing that matters is WHEN THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO THIS AGAIN??!!
But seriously.
All joking aside.
Sarge and I would just like to say, from our hearts to yours, all of you wonderful friends and family who were at our wedding 18 years ago and ran bets under the table on how many months we'd last, the two of us would just like to say
FUCK. YOU.
*SMILES!*
Today is not Sarge and my 18th anniversary. That would be this Monday, April 30. At 6:30 p.m. to be exact. I even have a leftover wedding invitation to prove it. However. We are celebrating this weekend. Well, because our anniversary is on a Monday. And everyone knows. Monday's are dumb.
We went to the Virgin Islands for 10 days for our 15th. We're going to Amsterdam and a nude beach somewhere in Greece for our 20th. Although Sarge doesn't know about the nude beach thing yet.
This year, we're just kickin' it old school. Sorta.
Actually, we went to a "day spa" for a "couples massage."
I put those things in quotes because it implies that I am trivializing them and looking down on people who enjoy those kinds of things.
It's a common literary device used by such masters as the North Korean propaganda machine, the very same who roll off with gems like "spate of vituperation" and "Rats can make only squeaking sound" in their 7:00 nightly news.
Oh, how ignorant I was. Back then. In my past, pre-massage life. You know. At 2:30 this afternoon.
First, let me make a bit of an admission. This whole brilliant scheme was my idea. Yeah. It was. Because I know Sarge likes those things. Or, at least the 300 peso Filipino massages that come with a buck-and-a-quarter happy ending. Okay, that was just fucked up. My husband does not get hand jobs by Filipino masseuses. Well. Not that I know of. But who am I to judge?
Anyway. So, I made the appointment. For today at 3:00. For a $170 "couples massage" at the Renaissance European Day Spa. Clearly, they are using the word "Renaissance" for its Americanized stereotyped notions of wonderful things like dick statues and Michelangelo. And clearly, they are using the word "European" for its Americanized stereotyped notions of fish and chips and Simon Cowell. Wait. That doesn't seem right.
Regardless.
No shit, there I was. Walking in to this super fancy-pants place, right? Me and Sarge. Yeah. I'm picking my nose and he's grabbing my ass making some sort of "my woman" comment with a super redneck accent. You know how we do.
Okay, we really didn't do any of that. Except the walking into the fancy-pants place part. We did that.
Then we got nekkid and had a smoothie. Mine was a chocolate peanut butter smoothie. There were squishy chairs and fancy sconces and FRUIT TRAYS! Lemme tell ya bout the FRUIT TRAYS!
Okay, they were just fruit trays.
So there I was, no shit. Nekkid with a chocolate peanut butter smoothie. Well, there were robes involved. Certainly. I think there might be a rule about walking around in public flashing your junk while drinking smoothies. I could be wrong.
I spent the better part of my smoothie-sipping time people watching. Of course. Mostly middle-aged women with their "coach bags" and layers of makeup talking about their asses and their coach bags.
Sarge was the only man. And, hands down, the most excited. Nary a coach bag to his name, yet there he sat with his peach smoothie and fruit kabob. Winking at me from his squishy chair.
And then he says, "What are you thinking about?"
And I said, "I'm trying to remember everything so I can blog about it later."
And he rolled his eyes and ate his fruit kabob.
Then they called our name. Or she called our name. Or whatever.
We walked back into this room that looked absolutely nothing like the Moonlight Bunny Ranch. I was a bit disappointed. No titty tassels. No thongs with bows or electric wieners. My day was looking grim.
But then we sat down in the chairs. And out came the rose petals. I shit you not. Fucking rose petals. And they washed our feet with them. And then our legs. I expressed my relief that I'd shaved this morning. And then shifted forward in my chair when I realized that, unsurprisingly, my legs had trouble reaching the bowl of hot water on the floor.
I was then overcome by a strange feeling in response to a middle-aged woman sitting on her knees in front of me washing my feet with rose petals. I really couldn't place it. This feeling I was having. It was as though I wanted to stand up suddenly, toss off the robe, and jump around the room hollering, "Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!!" And then stick out my tongue while I held my boobs down so they wouldn't hurt while I was jumping.
Strange.
Sarge didn't get a middle-aged woman. He got a hottie. I think his reaction to the situation was a bit less perplexing. He was just trying not to fart and get a boner.
I started the dangerous giggling then. It's what I do in uncomfortable situations. Which are usually also situations that are absolutely and totally inappropriate for a grown woman to be giggling.
Fortunately, my attention was then diverted to the massage table. That's when I got really nekkid. Well, except for my neon green-trimmed panties with tiny black scottie dogs on them. Clearly, I did not plan ahead.
The next hour and a half changed my life forever. This woman. Sweet little middle-aged aunt Betty type. And her hands. OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD. This sweet little thing started at my ears. MY EARS. Went all the way to my TOES. The massage table was HEATED. There were hot towels and heating pads and huge heated bolsters and more hot towels and her hands with the lotion and the hot stones and the hamstrings and my poor, poor, chronically sore runner's calves, and every single vertebrae in my entire cervical, thoracic, and lumbar spine..... OH MY! Holy Mary mother of Zombie Jesus!! And then. AND THEN. Once she got to my TOES. You wanna know what she did when she got to my toes??
Yeah.
She flipped my diva princess ass over and did it all over again.
Straight up.
NO.
FUCKING.
SHIT.
All of my goals in life vanished in that hour and a half. All of my dreams and aspirations. My passions and love. All of it. GONE. Completely GONE.
My only motivation from this point forward is exactly how much I will have to earn to be able to do this at least once a week. AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK.
Oh, wait. WAIT a fucking minute! Did I forget to tell you about the chocolate-dipped strawberries and cream with the bottle of wine in the fancy-pants ice bucket?
Teen marriage, crossing oceans, life-altering pregnancy, two beautiful boy children, combat deployments, multiple sclerosis, impending retirement.... all of it.... every bit of it has now been rendered obsolete and irrelevant.
The only thing that matters is WHEN THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO THIS AGAIN??!!
But seriously.
All joking aside.
Sarge and I would just like to say, from our hearts to yours, all of you wonderful friends and family who were at our wedding 18 years ago and ran bets under the table on how many months we'd last, the two of us would just like to say
FUCK. YOU.
*SMILES!*
April 26, 2012
The Pair In The West
 |
| Moon & Venus - 04/25/2012 @ 8:00 pm "if you’ll look west after sunset, you’ll find the moon and Venus near each other – dazzlingly bright. The planet Venus is the third-brightest heavenly body to light up the sky, after the sun and moon. And Venus is nearly at its brightest now for this evening's apparition." ~Earthsky.org |
"Look for the pair in the west after sunset,
telling stories beneath a sweet gum tree.
Her hair catches wind as he spins his vignette,
his hand over hers, and hers on his knee." ~ Me
I like mine better ;-)
telling stories beneath a sweet gum tree.
Her hair catches wind as he spins his vignette,
his hand over hers, and hers on his knee." ~ Me
I like mine better ;-)
April 25, 2012
Oxygen Meet Brain
April 25, 2012
Nine days. A week and two days. I am just mildly annoyed now. I only really think about it a couple times a day, at most. I had a weird dream this morning. You know when you wake up super early and then go back to bed? That is the awesome, sweaty kind of sleep then. I sleep harder in those couple of hours than I do all night long. I also dream weirder. This morning's dream had something to do with college kids renting some sort of detached garage apartment from me. I liked to run around my house naked, though. With my windows uncovered. And, shockingly (I know!), the college kids were none too happy about it. After that, all I remember is something about strands of Christmas lights strung inside a house, a squeaky screen door with the old push-down lever from when I was a kid, and running around some dusty old mansion, still naked of course, with the ghost of some woman chasing me, who looked like Louise Fletcher's character 'The Grandmother' in the movie adaptation of Flowers In The Attic. I woke up dripping with sweat, sitting up, and gasping for air. It wasn't even really a bad dream. Just weird. And exhausting.
Perhaps it is the rushing river of thought suddenly set loose from the blunted dullness of 20 years of oxygen deprivation.
So anyway. It's kind of rainy/sunny today. A blah/shiny day, I think. Or just blah so far. I'm sure I could sparkle it up real quick. Maybe run around the house naked with my blinds raised.
I really shouldn't give my kids any more reasons to have me involuntarily committed, though.
The calendar next to my desk says "Look for the pair in the west after sunset" in the little block for April 25. It's a solar system calendar, so I am certain it is probably alluding to some kind of planetary alignment or stars or some such thing. But I thought it sounded kind of poetic. Don't you?
Look for the pair in the west after sunset,
telling stories beneath a sweet gum tree.
Her hair catches wind as he spins his vignette,
his hand over hers, and hers on his knee.
Or some such nonsense.
EarthSky.org begs to differ-
"Once again, if you’ll look west after sunset, you’ll find the moon and Venus near each other – dazzlingly bright. The planet Venus is the third-brightest heavenly body to light up the sky, after the sun and moon. And Venus is nearly at its brightest now for this evening's apparition."
So it is Moon and Venus telling stories, after all. How beautifully apt.
I am a nonsmoker, by the way. For a week and two days. By the naked skin of raw fucking willpower. My teenage self renting my detached garage apartment can kiss my naked ass.
Nine days. A week and two days. I am just mildly annoyed now. I only really think about it a couple times a day, at most. I had a weird dream this morning. You know when you wake up super early and then go back to bed? That is the awesome, sweaty kind of sleep then. I sleep harder in those couple of hours than I do all night long. I also dream weirder. This morning's dream had something to do with college kids renting some sort of detached garage apartment from me. I liked to run around my house naked, though. With my windows uncovered. And, shockingly (I know!), the college kids were none too happy about it. After that, all I remember is something about strands of Christmas lights strung inside a house, a squeaky screen door with the old push-down lever from when I was a kid, and running around some dusty old mansion, still naked of course, with the ghost of some woman chasing me, who looked like Louise Fletcher's character 'The Grandmother' in the movie adaptation of Flowers In The Attic. I woke up dripping with sweat, sitting up, and gasping for air. It wasn't even really a bad dream. Just weird. And exhausting.
Perhaps it is the rushing river of thought suddenly set loose from the blunted dullness of 20 years of oxygen deprivation.
So anyway. It's kind of rainy/sunny today. A blah/shiny day, I think. Or just blah so far. I'm sure I could sparkle it up real quick. Maybe run around the house naked with my blinds raised.
I really shouldn't give my kids any more reasons to have me involuntarily committed, though.
The calendar next to my desk says "Look for the pair in the west after sunset" in the little block for April 25. It's a solar system calendar, so I am certain it is probably alluding to some kind of planetary alignment or stars or some such thing. But I thought it sounded kind of poetic. Don't you?
Look for the pair in the west after sunset,
telling stories beneath a sweet gum tree.
Her hair catches wind as he spins his vignette,
his hand over hers, and hers on his knee.
Or some such nonsense.
EarthSky.org begs to differ-
"Once again, if you’ll look west after sunset, you’ll find the moon and Venus near each other – dazzlingly bright. The planet Venus is the third-brightest heavenly body to light up the sky, after the sun and moon. And Venus is nearly at its brightest now for this evening's apparition."
So it is Moon and Venus telling stories, after all. How beautifully apt.
I am a nonsmoker, by the way. For a week and two days. By the naked skin of raw fucking willpower. My teenage self renting my detached garage apartment can kiss my naked ass.
April 22, 2012
Drugs er Bad, Mkay?
So. I have been a nonsmoker for six days. Of course, that makes me an expert. Nevermind that I quit smoking for both my pregnancies and breastfeeding and for 2 random years somewhere in there. I've never been a chain smoker. Probably a pack a week. And never in the house. But I have been smoking since I was 15 years old.
Yep. Six whole days. I'm pretty sure you guys are just chomping at the bit to get some sage advice from the guru, yes?
First thing you should know about quitting. From the expert who has been a nonsmoker for six whole days. The physical nicotine withdrawal is fucking miserable. Straight up. Miserable. It sucks balls. Like you would not believe.
But. It only lasts 3 or 4 days at the most. Don't use pills. Don't use gum. Don't use patches. You're only prolonging the inevitable. Just do it. Just throw the rest of your pack in the trash, put on your big girl panties, and suck it up. It will end.
The psychological dependence is another thing entirely. It doesn't suck, really. It's not physically miserable, truly. But it's that thing that fills the gaps in between your conscious thoughts. Out of nowhere, you think "back porch time!" And then you remember.
It's that friend whose feelings are now hurt because you won't be his friend anymore. You are going to miss him. You are going to feel sad that you will never see him again for the rest of your whole life.
You will find that your brain will try to convince you that you are bored and lonely. You think that you must find something to replace your "break time." You remember that article you read that says women, on average, gain 8 pounds while quitting. So eating to fill the gap is out of the question.
That's when you start updating your blog on a daily basis. Desperately trying to find clever and useful things to say in order to reconfigure your misfiring neurons. But you wind up only sounding like a huge fucking tool. But at least your mind is occupied.
I've read all sorts of great things. Like taking a walk or going on a run whenever you get a hankerin'. Jesus monkeyfuckers! If I do any more running, my hamstring is gonna wind up popping me in the face like one of those denigrated rubber bands you find in a box in the attic that was last discovered in the 1970s.
Hmm... snack on healthy things! You can only eat so many 'healthy things' until you hit that wall that says "calories are calories despite from whence they come!" Which adds more ass to my fat.
Or, I could chew gum. Which is exactly what I do when I smoke. You wanna know WHY? Because I hate the way cigarettes taste. Yeah. How screwed up is that? That I have been smoking for 20 years but hate the way it tastes so much that I cannot smoke without chewing gum. Yeah.
Thinking and writing and reading are really the only things I've found that truly work to hold my attention. I am totally caught up on my Earthly current events. I've watched a couple movies. Almost finished chapter 2, although all of this "thinking" bullshit is threatening to take my story in an entirely different direction.
Yoga helps. It really does. Surprisingly so. But I can't sit around in lotus practicing nostril breathing all damn day, as enlightening as that might be. So, once again, I'm back to the big girl panties and sucking it up thing.
The suck will end, I am sure of it. My neurons will reconfigure themselves. My attention will refocus and all of those good and wonderful things.
In a way, I kind of wish it had affected my health a lot more than it did (at least recognizably), because it would really give me a confidence boost to see how much better I feel. But the truth is, I've not felt that. I haven't had any magical runs that magically make me feel magical. I feel the same. Never had any trouble breathing during runs before. I've never had frequent colds or a smoker's cough. My times haven't increased by some magical number. Maybe I need to be patient for those things. Perhaps. Maybe not.
I am grateful for my job, though. In the medical field. Listening to medical histories and courses of illnesses and treatments and followups. The health effects, for me at least, are not some untouchable propaganda or something I can brush off out of convenience so that I can continue smoking, having convinced myself that it's "not as bad as people say it is." That shit is all up in my face every day. Smoking is bad. It is as bad as people say it is. It kills people. Much earlier and in much more painful and scary and devastating ways than life simply having run its course.
"We're going to die anyway."
"Life is a terminal condition."
"We're dying from the day we are born."
To the smokers who say those things to lull themselves into a sense of comfort, I ask you right now to go throw yourselves in front of a speeding 18-wheeler while listening to the song "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker."
You're dying anyway, right? No big deal.
(That's me being annoyingly self-righteous for a nonsmoker of 6 whole days, by the way).
Yep. Six whole days. I'm pretty sure you guys are just chomping at the bit to get some sage advice from the guru, yes?
First thing you should know about quitting. From the expert who has been a nonsmoker for six whole days. The physical nicotine withdrawal is fucking miserable. Straight up. Miserable. It sucks balls. Like you would not believe.
But. It only lasts 3 or 4 days at the most. Don't use pills. Don't use gum. Don't use patches. You're only prolonging the inevitable. Just do it. Just throw the rest of your pack in the trash, put on your big girl panties, and suck it up. It will end.
The psychological dependence is another thing entirely. It doesn't suck, really. It's not physically miserable, truly. But it's that thing that fills the gaps in between your conscious thoughts. Out of nowhere, you think "back porch time!" And then you remember.
It's that friend whose feelings are now hurt because you won't be his friend anymore. You are going to miss him. You are going to feel sad that you will never see him again for the rest of your whole life.
You will find that your brain will try to convince you that you are bored and lonely. You think that you must find something to replace your "break time." You remember that article you read that says women, on average, gain 8 pounds while quitting. So eating to fill the gap is out of the question.
That's when you start updating your blog on a daily basis. Desperately trying to find clever and useful things to say in order to reconfigure your misfiring neurons. But you wind up only sounding like a huge fucking tool. But at least your mind is occupied.
I've read all sorts of great things. Like taking a walk or going on a run whenever you get a hankerin'. Jesus monkeyfuckers! If I do any more running, my hamstring is gonna wind up popping me in the face like one of those denigrated rubber bands you find in a box in the attic that was last discovered in the 1970s.
Hmm... snack on healthy things! You can only eat so many 'healthy things' until you hit that wall that says "calories are calories despite from whence they come!" Which adds more ass to my fat.
Or, I could chew gum. Which is exactly what I do when I smoke. You wanna know WHY? Because I hate the way cigarettes taste. Yeah. How screwed up is that? That I have been smoking for 20 years but hate the way it tastes so much that I cannot smoke without chewing gum. Yeah.
Thinking and writing and reading are really the only things I've found that truly work to hold my attention. I am totally caught up on my Earthly current events. I've watched a couple movies. Almost finished chapter 2, although all of this "thinking" bullshit is threatening to take my story in an entirely different direction.
Yoga helps. It really does. Surprisingly so. But I can't sit around in lotus practicing nostril breathing all damn day, as enlightening as that might be. So, once again, I'm back to the big girl panties and sucking it up thing.
The suck will end, I am sure of it. My neurons will reconfigure themselves. My attention will refocus and all of those good and wonderful things.
In a way, I kind of wish it had affected my health a lot more than it did (at least recognizably), because it would really give me a confidence boost to see how much better I feel. But the truth is, I've not felt that. I haven't had any magical runs that magically make me feel magical. I feel the same. Never had any trouble breathing during runs before. I've never had frequent colds or a smoker's cough. My times haven't increased by some magical number. Maybe I need to be patient for those things. Perhaps. Maybe not.
I am grateful for my job, though. In the medical field. Listening to medical histories and courses of illnesses and treatments and followups. The health effects, for me at least, are not some untouchable propaganda or something I can brush off out of convenience so that I can continue smoking, having convinced myself that it's "not as bad as people say it is." That shit is all up in my face every day. Smoking is bad. It is as bad as people say it is. It kills people. Much earlier and in much more painful and scary and devastating ways than life simply having run its course.
"We're going to die anyway."
"Life is a terminal condition."
"We're dying from the day we are born."
To the smokers who say those things to lull themselves into a sense of comfort, I ask you right now to go throw yourselves in front of a speeding 18-wheeler while listening to the song "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker."
You're dying anyway, right? No big deal.
(That's me being annoyingly self-righteous for a nonsmoker of 6 whole days, by the way).
April 20, 2012
Sarcasticus jestii
April 20, 2012
People say I am funny. But without fail, every time I actually try to be funny, I wind up getting blank stares. I guess one has to know me well to be able to discern my brand of dark humor and ruefully politically incorrect Sarcasticus jestii. Apparently, I'm a carrier.
Be that as it might, try, try, I shall. I thought to myself, 'how can I pull the string on your laugh box without it snapping back and smacking you in the face?"
A ha! I shall figuratively slip on a metaphorical banana peel and awkwardly flounder upon my maladroit feet until I inevitably fall with slapstick grace into a boiling pot of ridiculous adjectives, if nothing else causing you pleasure from my pain. A pity laugh, as it were.
Honestly, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm just sitting here smelling my banana bread in the oven gazing off into space until.... I.... think... of.... another.... word.... to.... type. Gimme a fucking break, it's Friday. I'm not required to think on Fridays.
I gotta tell ya, I've been on an alliteration kick the past couple weeks. Just let me get it out of my system and I swear I shall cease soaking your senses with my stream of psychotic syllabic sludgery. Ha HA! You like what I did with 'cease' and 'psychotic' don't ya? Don't fucking lie. I'm a genius.
I bet you didn't think I baked banana bread, didya? Yeah, I do. And sweetly prance across my pretty green grass to offer half of it to my neighbor. While smiling, hair blowing behind me in the spring afternoon breeze. I know, right? It's so fucked up and twisted you can't even imagine it.
I pose and smile at myself when I walk past a mirror. Like, seriously pose. Sometimes, I stick my tongue out at myself. Or I'll sling my head down and shake out my hair so when I stand up, it has that 'messy chic' catwalk look. And then maybe I will wink at myself. Really, really, really.
I have a blankie. Well, the one I have now is my second blankie. My first blankie I had from around age 6-7 up until a couple years after I got married. When I was wee little, I called it my "cold blankie." It was a quilt, see. By the time I allowed it to retire, I called it my "green blankie," because all the batting and stitching had come apart and all that remained was the green backing material. It's in a box on the top shelf of my closet. My current blankie I have had since green blankie retired. It's still holding together pretty well, although it does have holes. My blankie goes everywhere. To the beach, in the car on long rides. When I get up in the morning, it goes with me and gets tossed on the couch. Every once in a while I will grab it and rub it on my face. When I go to bed, I drag it behind me to the bedroom like Linus. But I swear I don't suck my thumb.
I ran "the guilt run" this morning. You know what I'm sayin'. The Guilt Run. The awful thing you put your body through after taking a day off from running. My guilt run was a sweet 8 miles. Although I did stop at around mile 5 to chat with some biker guys. They were pretty hot. How is it not cute when monstrous, scruffy biker guys in head-to-toe leather smile and wave at you? I mean, c'mon. You almost feel like you HAVE to stop and do a full cavity search for the puppies and rainbows they might be hiding.
You'll notice my mood is a bit less dire than yesterday. Although I did threaten to take my child's life mercilessly in the frozen foods section of the grocery store today. He proceeded to write dirty things with his finger in the frost on the doors.
He tried his best to help me put the groceries in the truck. But he got yelled at.
Jake- "What do you mean, 'the other side' ?"
Me- "I MEAN TAKE THE FUCKING CART TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING TRUCK AND PUT THE REST OF THE GODDAMN GROCERIES ON THAT SIDE BECAUSE THERE IS NO MORE FUCKING ROOM ON THIS GODDAMN SIDE!"
Jake- "Dude. You need to start smoking. I heard all the cool kids are doing it."
People say I am funny. But without fail, every time I actually try to be funny, I wind up getting blank stares. I guess one has to know me well to be able to discern my brand of dark humor and ruefully politically incorrect Sarcasticus jestii. Apparently, I'm a carrier.
Be that as it might, try, try, I shall. I thought to myself, 'how can I pull the string on your laugh box without it snapping back and smacking you in the face?"
A ha! I shall figuratively slip on a metaphorical banana peel and awkwardly flounder upon my maladroit feet until I inevitably fall with slapstick grace into a boiling pot of ridiculous adjectives, if nothing else causing you pleasure from my pain. A pity laugh, as it were.
Honestly, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm just sitting here smelling my banana bread in the oven gazing off into space until.... I.... think... of.... another.... word.... to.... type. Gimme a fucking break, it's Friday. I'm not required to think on Fridays.
I gotta tell ya, I've been on an alliteration kick the past couple weeks. Just let me get it out of my system and I swear I shall cease soaking your senses with my stream of psychotic syllabic sludgery. Ha HA! You like what I did with 'cease' and 'psychotic' don't ya? Don't fucking lie. I'm a genius.
I bet you didn't think I baked banana bread, didya? Yeah, I do. And sweetly prance across my pretty green grass to offer half of it to my neighbor. While smiling, hair blowing behind me in the spring afternoon breeze. I know, right? It's so fucked up and twisted you can't even imagine it.
I pose and smile at myself when I walk past a mirror. Like, seriously pose. Sometimes, I stick my tongue out at myself. Or I'll sling my head down and shake out my hair so when I stand up, it has that 'messy chic' catwalk look. And then maybe I will wink at myself. Really, really, really.
I have a blankie. Well, the one I have now is my second blankie. My first blankie I had from around age 6-7 up until a couple years after I got married. When I was wee little, I called it my "cold blankie." It was a quilt, see. By the time I allowed it to retire, I called it my "green blankie," because all the batting and stitching had come apart and all that remained was the green backing material. It's in a box on the top shelf of my closet. My current blankie I have had since green blankie retired. It's still holding together pretty well, although it does have holes. My blankie goes everywhere. To the beach, in the car on long rides. When I get up in the morning, it goes with me and gets tossed on the couch. Every once in a while I will grab it and rub it on my face. When I go to bed, I drag it behind me to the bedroom like Linus. But I swear I don't suck my thumb.
I ran "the guilt run" this morning. You know what I'm sayin'. The Guilt Run. The awful thing you put your body through after taking a day off from running. My guilt run was a sweet 8 miles. Although I did stop at around mile 5 to chat with some biker guys. They were pretty hot. How is it not cute when monstrous, scruffy biker guys in head-to-toe leather smile and wave at you? I mean, c'mon. You almost feel like you HAVE to stop and do a full cavity search for the puppies and rainbows they might be hiding.
You'll notice my mood is a bit less dire than yesterday. Although I did threaten to take my child's life mercilessly in the frozen foods section of the grocery store today. He proceeded to write dirty things with his finger in the frost on the doors.
He tried his best to help me put the groceries in the truck. But he got yelled at.
Jake- "What do you mean, 'the other side' ?"
Me- "I MEAN TAKE THE FUCKING CART TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING TRUCK AND PUT THE REST OF THE GODDAMN GROCERIES ON THAT SIDE BECAUSE THERE IS NO MORE FUCKING ROOM ON THIS GODDAMN SIDE!"
Jake- "Dude. You need to start smoking. I heard all the cool kids are doing it."
April 19, 2012
JUST. DIE.
April 19, 2012
I'm pretty sure the world can still go to Hell. If I piss and moan any more than I have the past 4 days, I will probably mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night. I'm just letting you all know in advance that if that happens, it's the dog's fault. That little bitch ass old lady has been looking to get rid of me for a couple years now.
Didn't work out today. No running. No yoga. No nothing. Really. Nothing. As a matter of shameful fact, I went back to bed at 10:00 this morning. Dead. Fucking. Serious.
I totally don't care about stuff anymore. Just. Don't. Care. People suck. Food sucks. Being awake sucks. Sleeping sucks. The TV sucks. My job sucks. My ceiling fan sucks. (looking around the living room for other stuff that sucks)..... the Star Wars coffee mug with leftover candy canes from Christmas that lives in perpetuity on the end table next to the couch... SUCKS.
FEEL. MY. PAIN.
OH! And you know what's even worse?
Dude.
Get this.
I get a phone call this afternoon from some bitch ass receptionist at my doctor's office, right. And she says,
"Hi Mrs. Davis! This is (bitch ass receptionist) at Clark Clinic and our records show that you are due for a pap smear. Can we go ahead and schedule that for you today?"
OH. MY. SWEET. BABY. JESUS.
Of course. I wish I could say I said some wicked awesome shit that sent her running home to cry into her pillow. But alas, no. All I said was, "Yeah May 1 is fine, whatever. Yeah. 8:50 am is fine, whatever."
And then Jake goes, "what's a pap smear?"
And I go, "it's a coochie exam. Where the doctor cranks your coochie open with a coochie cranker and fishes around in there and stuff."
And Jake's all, "Grooooosssss!!!!"
So anyway. Yeah. Such is my day. Day 4. Without nicotine. I woke up this morning choking on a phlegm ball. Seriously. It was a huge wad of phlegm sitting in the back of my throat. I hacked it up and almost fell off the bed. All the websites and junk say it's my body "cleaning out the toxins."
Fuck my body. Fuck the toxins.
I'm pretty sure the world can still go to Hell. If I piss and moan any more than I have the past 4 days, I will probably mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night. I'm just letting you all know in advance that if that happens, it's the dog's fault. That little bitch ass old lady has been looking to get rid of me for a couple years now.
Didn't work out today. No running. No yoga. No nothing. Really. Nothing. As a matter of shameful fact, I went back to bed at 10:00 this morning. Dead. Fucking. Serious.
I totally don't care about stuff anymore. Just. Don't. Care. People suck. Food sucks. Being awake sucks. Sleeping sucks. The TV sucks. My job sucks. My ceiling fan sucks. (looking around the living room for other stuff that sucks)..... the Star Wars coffee mug with leftover candy canes from Christmas that lives in perpetuity on the end table next to the couch... SUCKS.
FEEL. MY. PAIN.
OH! And you know what's even worse?
Dude.
Get this.
I get a phone call this afternoon from some bitch ass receptionist at my doctor's office, right. And she says,
"Hi Mrs. Davis! This is (bitch ass receptionist) at Clark Clinic and our records show that you are due for a pap smear. Can we go ahead and schedule that for you today?"
OH. MY. SWEET. BABY. JESUS.
Of course. I wish I could say I said some wicked awesome shit that sent her running home to cry into her pillow. But alas, no. All I said was, "Yeah May 1 is fine, whatever. Yeah. 8:50 am is fine, whatever."
And then Jake goes, "what's a pap smear?"
And I go, "it's a coochie exam. Where the doctor cranks your coochie open with a coochie cranker and fishes around in there and stuff."
And Jake's all, "Grooooosssss!!!!"
So anyway. Yeah. Such is my day. Day 4. Without nicotine. I woke up this morning choking on a phlegm ball. Seriously. It was a huge wad of phlegm sitting in the back of my throat. I hacked it up and almost fell off the bed. All the websites and junk say it's my body "cleaning out the toxins."
Fuck my body. Fuck the toxins.
April 18, 2012
Clorox Nightcap
April 18, 2012
Blah.
Quitting smoking is shit. Utter shit. It isn't fun. It sucks. I hate it.
And I actually feel better than I did yesterday. Yesterday was like an hours-long panic attack. Sweaty palms and head buzzing and my heart going nuts in my chest.
Today, it just feels like a monstrous bitch of a hangover. And I can't stop sneezing. I can't pay attention to anything. And I just really don't care. I've been awake since 5:00 this morning. Ran, but I did sprints. Sometimes a girl just needs to throw it down like her momma's behind her with the paddle. Then I got on the elliptical and put on some Stevie Nicks. Sweet.
But I still don't care about anything. I'm pretty sure everything is stupid. You know when you get in a mood where all you want to do is stomp your feet and holler "EVERYTHING IS BAD! BAAAAAD! EVERYTHING! IS BAD!!!" That's what I want to do.
And why is it when you live in a house full of dicks and testosterone, the first and only thing anyone ever says when you're in a pissy mood is "Oh shit. Mom's on her period again."
Fuck.
Is nothing fucking sacred anymore?
So anyway. I quit counting hours and shit. I quit Monday morning, that's all I know. I don't even fucking know what day it is right now.
I'm pretty sure drinking bleach would be better than quitting smoking.
Why the hell am I doing this, again? I know it had something to do with lungs and cancer and formaldehyde and whatnot.....
EVERYTHING.
IS.
BAD!
Blah.
Quitting smoking is shit. Utter shit. It isn't fun. It sucks. I hate it.
And I actually feel better than I did yesterday. Yesterday was like an hours-long panic attack. Sweaty palms and head buzzing and my heart going nuts in my chest.
Today, it just feels like a monstrous bitch of a hangover. And I can't stop sneezing. I can't pay attention to anything. And I just really don't care. I've been awake since 5:00 this morning. Ran, but I did sprints. Sometimes a girl just needs to throw it down like her momma's behind her with the paddle. Then I got on the elliptical and put on some Stevie Nicks. Sweet.
But I still don't care about anything. I'm pretty sure everything is stupid. You know when you get in a mood where all you want to do is stomp your feet and holler "EVERYTHING IS BAD! BAAAAAD! EVERYTHING! IS BAD!!!" That's what I want to do.
And why is it when you live in a house full of dicks and testosterone, the first and only thing anyone ever says when you're in a pissy mood is "Oh shit. Mom's on her period again."
Fuck.
Is nothing fucking sacred anymore?
So anyway. I quit counting hours and shit. I quit Monday morning, that's all I know. I don't even fucking know what day it is right now.
I'm pretty sure drinking bleach would be better than quitting smoking.
Why the hell am I doing this, again? I know it had something to do with lungs and cancer and formaldehyde and whatnot.....
EVERYTHING.
IS.
BAD!
April 17, 2012
Breeeeeaathe......
April 17, 2012
Here's the deal. I quit smoking 36 hours ago. Cold turkey. I'm pissed the fuck off right now. My kid is on some kind of bender watching every fucking episode of Weeds ever made while lying on the couch playing his guitar at the same fucking time.
I feel fat. I'm hungry. I want chocolate.
I made this kickass P.F. Chang's copycat Mongolian beef recipe for dinner. And when I say kickass, I mean this shit will make you slap yer momma.
Did I just fucking say that?
Oh God.
I ran like a fucking maniac this morning, trying to lose some of my nervous energy. I've been awake since 6:45 this morning. No where near tired. I ditched the stupid nicotine patch thingy yesterday, so I am full-on cold turkey right now. There is no fucking way I am taking a pill with a side effect of "suicidal thoughts." I'd rather smoke. And there is no point in weaning anything, just prolongs the inevitable. I'm 35 years old. It's fucking time to grow up. Wait. No. I don't mean that. It's fucking time to catch my lungs up with the rest of myobsessive health consciousness.
That was truly the nidus, too. Actually, I think that word barely fits this definition, but I'll leave it. Nidus, that is. But whatever, I forgot what I was talking about.
Oh yeah, health consciousness and blah, blah, blah. So yeah. Yesterday morning I was, you know, getting all in touch with myself and shit and doing my morning yoga (My Yoga Online is the bomb, by the way). And no, I don't get paid to say that. It really is. So anyway. The chick in the video said, "every breath is another chance for joy."
And then I quit smoking.
I swore I wasn't going to say anything, sure as hell wasn't going to plaster it all over my blog. So I'll just cover all my bases here and say that this little fucked up idea of mine can crash and burn at any moment.
I'm pissed. I'm prattling. Wait, let me make sure that's right... Okay, yep. I'm prattling alright. My fucking head hurts. I'm tired. Wait. Didn't I just say I'm not tired?
Okay, so I'm not tired, then.
But I'm still pissed. I think I've said that 3 or 4 times already.
Did I tell you about that Mongolian beef recipe I made for dinner? I think I did. It's here if you want it P.F. Chang's Mongolian Beef . You know my anima is fucked six ways from Sunday if I am actually posting recipes on my blog. Lord help all of you if I start talking about birth stories and gardening.
You know what's funny? I have one cigarette left in my last pack and it's been sitting on my kitchen counter since yesterday morning. It's still there right now.
Excuse me while I throw it away.
You know something else that's funny? In the time it took you to read this, you've already had an average of 20 chances for joy.
I'm just sayin'.
Here's the deal. I quit smoking 36 hours ago. Cold turkey. I'm pissed the fuck off right now. My kid is on some kind of bender watching every fucking episode of Weeds ever made while lying on the couch playing his guitar at the same fucking time.
(One Freebird away from having his face slammed on the hot stove.)
I feel fat. I'm hungry. I want chocolate.
I made this kickass P.F. Chang's copycat Mongolian beef recipe for dinner. And when I say kickass, I mean this shit will make you slap yer momma.
Did I just fucking say that?
Oh God.
I ran like a fucking maniac this morning, trying to lose some of my nervous energy. I've been awake since 6:45 this morning. No where near tired. I ditched the stupid nicotine patch thingy yesterday, so I am full-on cold turkey right now. There is no fucking way I am taking a pill with a side effect of "suicidal thoughts." I'd rather smoke. And there is no point in weaning anything, just prolongs the inevitable. I'm 35 years old. It's fucking time to grow up. Wait. No. I don't mean that. It's fucking time to catch my lungs up with the rest of my
That was truly the nidus, too. Actually, I think that word barely fits this definition, but I'll leave it. Nidus, that is. But whatever, I forgot what I was talking about.
Oh yeah, health consciousness and blah, blah, blah. So yeah. Yesterday morning I was, you know, getting all in touch with myself and shit and doing my morning yoga (My Yoga Online is the bomb, by the way). And no, I don't get paid to say that. It really is. So anyway. The chick in the video said, "every breath is another chance for joy."
And then I quit smoking.
I swore I wasn't going to say anything, sure as hell wasn't going to plaster it all over my blog. So I'll just cover all my bases here and say that this little fucked up idea of mine can crash and burn at any moment.
I'm pissed. I'm prattling. Wait, let me make sure that's right... Okay, yep. I'm prattling alright. My fucking head hurts. I'm tired. Wait. Didn't I just say I'm not tired?
Okay, so I'm not tired, then.
But I'm still pissed. I think I've said that 3 or 4 times already.
Did I tell you about that Mongolian beef recipe I made for dinner? I think I did. It's here if you want it P.F. Chang's Mongolian Beef . You know my anima is fucked six ways from Sunday if I am actually posting recipes on my blog. Lord help all of you if I start talking about birth stories and gardening.
You know what's funny? I have one cigarette left in my last pack and it's been sitting on my kitchen counter since yesterday morning. It's still there right now.
Excuse me while I throw it away.
You know something else that's funny? In the time it took you to read this, you've already had an average of 20 chances for joy.
I'm just sayin'.
April 12, 2012
I Digress, Like A Boss!
April 5, 2012
I have this really annoying fear of being lazy. It causes me to run myself ragged sometimes.
I remember when my kids were little, doing the stay-at-home-mom gig. I constantly felt lazy. I never felt like the weary, exhausted momma elbow-deep in diapers and tiny socks and public meltdowns. Yeah, I experienced all that, but for some reason I was convinced that it wasn't enough to qualify me as respectably busy. It was my own neurosis, I assure you. I have always felt that way. If I am not single-handedly moving mountains, then I am lazy.
I can chill on the weekends. Strangely enough, I can chill on rainy days, though I don't know why. I can chill if we have company, surprisingly. Before company, I go completely schizophrenic. Cleaning, bitching if what I previously cleaned gets messed up, bitching if I delegate jobs that get the half-ass treatment by poor, confused men who flinch at my unreachable standard. But after the company is here? I'm a lump.
On the weekdays, though. Different story. I don't have little ones to wake me up, yet I still obsessively set my alarm. Sometimes, my sleep cycle gets so screwed up that I will wake up with the alarm, stay up for about half an hour, and then collapse on the couch for another hour or so. That's when I start mentally beating myself up until I am finally able to pry my eyes open and stay awake. Sometimes, I go through a week or so of waking up every two hours on the dot all night long. Sometimes, Sarge or the kids will tell me they saw me asleep on the couch at 2 or 3 in the morning, sitting straight up, eyes half closed. Sarge woke up a few days ago at around 4 or so; I wasn't in the bed. He didn't know where I was. He woke up again at 6:30 and I was magically in the bed again. Of course, I don't remember this.
I think I am afraid I'm going to miss something while I am asleep. Because, you know, the middle of the night is when all the cool stuff happens.
Once I am finally awake, though, my head is a perpetual steam engine. Move, move, move. I do yoga. Run. If I don't feel like I've done enough, I'll hop on the elliptical until I am satisfied. Shower. Move, move, move. I know something has to be cleaned. I will find something. No dirty laundry? I'll start taking sheets off the bed. Vacuuming curtains. Baseboards behind the furniture. I start dinner around noon. I shit you not. It's sort of justified considering I work from 2 to 10pm. I can stop intermittently to stick something in the oven or check a boiling pot, but not long enough to cook a whole meal, so I try to get the bulk of it done before work. The boys help a lot. They have their own things they do. Andrew is my dish boy. Jake has the trash. He's supposed to do his bathroom, too, but he slacks on it. (For SHAME! I know you're reading this, dirtbag. Last I checked, there wasn't even any toilet paper in there. Dirtbag.)
You know, it's funny. My kids would do so much more if I asked them. Not only would they do it, they'd do it without batting an eye. And most of the time, they'll do it the minute I ask them. No complaining, no sighs of inconvenience. Nope, none of it. It's funny. I think that's why I don't. Ask them to, that is.
Well, and because Jake does a kickass impression of me. Sometimes, I am a miniature tyrannosaurus rex. He emphasizes the tiny arms and rage. And sometimes, I am a WWF pro wrestler, fearlessly throwing down the gauntlet to anyone who dares challenge my authority. And sometimes, he just puts shoes on his knees and walks around the living room barking orders.
Andrew has perfected the stare. That kid is beanpole, see. As tall as his Dad, easy. If I'm standing right next to him, I have to crank my neck all the way back just to look at him. And he stares directly down at me. With his goofy ass smile. And his little sunshine baby hazel eyes. I used to fall asleep on the couch singing "You Are My Sunshine" with that little monster sleeping on my chest and his thumb popped in his mouth. I used to dance around the living room with him giggling while I sang "Dance, Dance, Dance" from the Steve Miller Band. And now he's looking down at me? What does this have to do with this blog post? I swear I had a point. Damn it.
Oh right, I think it had something to do with me being a far too indulgent momma, with a propensity to still see my babies as babies.... until they pick me up, or get a crick in their neck from looking down at me, or tell me to get out of the way before I hurt myself when trying to reach stuff on the top shelf.
I think that was it. Yes. I'm sure of it.
I swear I don't cut their meat. Or wipe the boogies off their noses. I do straighten the decorative towels in their bathroom, though. That's how I noticed there isn't any toilet paper in their bathroom. I am now waiting to see how long it takes them to notice.
So, yeah.
I'm fucking tired.
TIRED.
I'm gonna get a video of Jake's impressions of me. It'll totally go viral. He'll be a star. He'll be on Tosh.0. Someone will see him on TV and he'll be offered a starring role in Transformers 14. Then he can buy me and Sarge a house. He'll probably have to go to the Betty Ford Clinic because he got hooked on blow. But when he's out, he'll be a motivational speaker, so it will all work out in the end. Until he gets 10 years in the slammer for tax evasion. Then Sarge and I will have to sell our house to pay his court costs. That little dirtbag! He is soooo grounded......
I have this really annoying fear of being lazy. It causes me to run myself ragged sometimes.
I remember when my kids were little, doing the stay-at-home-mom gig. I constantly felt lazy. I never felt like the weary, exhausted momma elbow-deep in diapers and tiny socks and public meltdowns. Yeah, I experienced all that, but for some reason I was convinced that it wasn't enough to qualify me as respectably busy. It was my own neurosis, I assure you. I have always felt that way. If I am not single-handedly moving mountains, then I am lazy.
I can chill on the weekends. Strangely enough, I can chill on rainy days, though I don't know why. I can chill if we have company, surprisingly. Before company, I go completely schizophrenic. Cleaning, bitching if what I previously cleaned gets messed up, bitching if I delegate jobs that get the half-ass treatment by poor, confused men who flinch at my unreachable standard. But after the company is here? I'm a lump.
On the weekdays, though. Different story. I don't have little ones to wake me up, yet I still obsessively set my alarm. Sometimes, my sleep cycle gets so screwed up that I will wake up with the alarm, stay up for about half an hour, and then collapse on the couch for another hour or so. That's when I start mentally beating myself up until I am finally able to pry my eyes open and stay awake. Sometimes, I go through a week or so of waking up every two hours on the dot all night long. Sometimes, Sarge or the kids will tell me they saw me asleep on the couch at 2 or 3 in the morning, sitting straight up, eyes half closed. Sarge woke up a few days ago at around 4 or so; I wasn't in the bed. He didn't know where I was. He woke up again at 6:30 and I was magically in the bed again. Of course, I don't remember this.
I think I am afraid I'm going to miss something while I am asleep. Because, you know, the middle of the night is when all the cool stuff happens.
Once I am finally awake, though, my head is a perpetual steam engine. Move, move, move. I do yoga. Run. If I don't feel like I've done enough, I'll hop on the elliptical until I am satisfied. Shower. Move, move, move. I know something has to be cleaned. I will find something. No dirty laundry? I'll start taking sheets off the bed. Vacuuming curtains. Baseboards behind the furniture. I start dinner around noon. I shit you not. It's sort of justified considering I work from 2 to 10pm. I can stop intermittently to stick something in the oven or check a boiling pot, but not long enough to cook a whole meal, so I try to get the bulk of it done before work. The boys help a lot. They have their own things they do. Andrew is my dish boy. Jake has the trash. He's supposed to do his bathroom, too, but he slacks on it. (For SHAME! I know you're reading this, dirtbag. Last I checked, there wasn't even any toilet paper in there. Dirtbag.)
You know, it's funny. My kids would do so much more if I asked them. Not only would they do it, they'd do it without batting an eye. And most of the time, they'll do it the minute I ask them. No complaining, no sighs of inconvenience. Nope, none of it. It's funny. I think that's why I don't. Ask them to, that is.
Well, and because Jake does a kickass impression of me. Sometimes, I am a miniature tyrannosaurus rex. He emphasizes the tiny arms and rage. And sometimes, I am a WWF pro wrestler, fearlessly throwing down the gauntlet to anyone who dares challenge my authority. And sometimes, he just puts shoes on his knees and walks around the living room barking orders.
Andrew has perfected the stare. That kid is beanpole, see. As tall as his Dad, easy. If I'm standing right next to him, I have to crank my neck all the way back just to look at him. And he stares directly down at me. With his goofy ass smile. And his little sunshine baby hazel eyes. I used to fall asleep on the couch singing "You Are My Sunshine" with that little monster sleeping on my chest and his thumb popped in his mouth. I used to dance around the living room with him giggling while I sang "Dance, Dance, Dance" from the Steve Miller Band. And now he's looking down at me? What does this have to do with this blog post? I swear I had a point. Damn it.
Oh right, I think it had something to do with me being a far too indulgent momma, with a propensity to still see my babies as babies.... until they pick me up, or get a crick in their neck from looking down at me, or tell me to get out of the way before I hurt myself when trying to reach stuff on the top shelf.
I think that was it. Yes. I'm sure of it.
I swear I don't cut their meat. Or wipe the boogies off their noses. I do straighten the decorative towels in their bathroom, though. That's how I noticed there isn't any toilet paper in their bathroom. I am now waiting to see how long it takes them to notice.
So, yeah.
I'm fucking tired.
TIRED.
I'm gonna get a video of Jake's impressions of me. It'll totally go viral. He'll be a star. He'll be on Tosh.0. Someone will see him on TV and he'll be offered a starring role in Transformers 14. Then he can buy me and Sarge a house. He'll probably have to go to the Betty Ford Clinic because he got hooked on blow. But when he's out, he'll be a motivational speaker, so it will all work out in the end. Until he gets 10 years in the slammer for tax evasion. Then Sarge and I will have to sell our house to pay his court costs. That little dirtbag! He is soooo grounded......
April 6, 2012
Duchenne Would Agree
April 6, 2012
I've been blogging for a while now. Since 2008. That's a pretty long time for a blogger. I've also read plenty of blogs. Funny ones, useless ones, personal ones, topic-specific ones, mommy and daddy ones, lots and lots and lots.
I've gone through periods when I had lots of readers and lots of comments. Times when I had none. It's never been important to me.
One thing you begin to notice, though, from being part of the "blogosphere" (as much as I hate that word) is that a few themes will begin to stand out.
There are the mommy bloggers who think they're rebels because they eschew play groups or baby Einstein, or because they say "crap" or drink a glass of wine in the evening.
Stay-at-home-daddy bloggers who are trying to find themselves in such a female-dominated world.
Comment and/or attention whores- Their main purpose in life is to have hundreds and hundreds of readers and commenters. Kinda sad, really.
Folks who think they are quirky or weird or different or crazy for the exact same reasons everyone thinks they are. All humans try to be different, but we're all just dancing for food in the same menagerie. You can quote me on that.
There are plenty of others. PLENTY of others. Mostly useless. Much the same as my blog, yes? Because the truth is, no one thinks their thoughts are useless or unimportant. And if you do, you are more than likely in therapy because of it.
The bloggers I'm talking about here are the sad bloggers. The ones who are perpetually trying to "find themselves." The ones who lament not having lived to their full potential. The ones who talk often about all the things they could have or should have been or done. There is a constant hashing and rehashing of worry and nostalgia and pessimism and self-loathing.
Everyone goes through things. Everyone has their time. Or times. When they are down or kicking themselves. When they are utterly engulfed in loss or self-hatred or hurt. The range of human emotions is rather shocking, actually. All the way from simply having an itch you can't scratch to dysfunctionally suicidal. Some people experience all of it during a lifetime. Others not. Some struggle eternally. Others rarely, if ever.
And bloggers create and belong to a world where these emotions and thoughts and feelings are surrounding and pervasive and perpetually on display.
I write about it sometimes. But unfailingly, my writing usually ends with the realization that whatever pissed me off was my fault to begin with. Or it ends with a dirty joke. I wind up laughing in spite of myself. And get on with it. I think, search, write, close it out, and put it away. Writing should never be purposeless. If it were, I'd already have an entire leather-bound anthology with my name on it called "Grocery Lists."
And so I wonder to myself sometimes, when I read these kinds of blogs, if the people writing them enjoy living in this place of grayness and discomfort. Because in my mind, if you don't like feeling something, make it stop. Fix it. Make it go away. Now. I know it's much more complicated than that. Believe me. Oh yeah. I know. I really, really do.
And it is because I really, really do that I also know a few other things. Happiness isn't something you are going to find. Ever. Because it's not lost. You can look and search and pay hundreds of dollars for therapy. You can lose weight or pile thousands of dollars into your bank accounts. You can have a fancy house or send your kids to the swankiest schools. You can have huge circles of friends and places to go every weekend. You can take 'round-the-world vacations or run marathons or write a novel. If you are not happy, you won't find it in a bucket list or a midlife crisis or a tangible object.
It starts with something so, so, so much more simple than all of that. Happiness starts with liking yourself. That's it. Liking what you see when you look in the mirror. Liking the skin you're in and the brain in your skull.
Does it sound a bit narcissistic? It might, but it really isn't. How can you expect others to like you if even you don't think you are likeable? How can you be better if you don't believe you are worthy?
Being proud of who you are right now and what you've already accomplished builds a bridge that will lift you far above those things that were pulling you down.
Bloggers use their writing to vent. I get it. They use this rectangular white space to sort things out, organize their feelings, writing their way to clarity or catharsis or resolution.
It's a kind of therapy.
But I think some folks get themselves stuck in a rut. Spinning their wheels of repetition, writing and writing and writing but never really coming to any insightful conclusions.
I don't have any answers. I'm just another random blogger who likes to hear herself talk.
But I think I can toss you a little tip. From another writer, a learner, a living soul, breathing and laughing and full of faults. Another human. A girl who's been there and done that. Who's lived it, walked it, dreamed it, grabbed it, and let it go.
Be kind to yourself. Smile randomly, and smile with your eyes.
It won't fix you.
But at least you'll be smiling.
I've been blogging for a while now. Since 2008. That's a pretty long time for a blogger. I've also read plenty of blogs. Funny ones, useless ones, personal ones, topic-specific ones, mommy and daddy ones, lots and lots and lots.
I've gone through periods when I had lots of readers and lots of comments. Times when I had none. It's never been important to me.
One thing you begin to notice, though, from being part of the "blogosphere" (as much as I hate that word) is that a few themes will begin to stand out.
There are the mommy bloggers who think they're rebels because they eschew play groups or baby Einstein, or because they say "crap" or drink a glass of wine in the evening.
Stay-at-home-daddy bloggers who are trying to find themselves in such a female-dominated world.
Comment and/or attention whores- Their main purpose in life is to have hundreds and hundreds of readers and commenters. Kinda sad, really.
Folks who think they are quirky or weird or different or crazy for the exact same reasons everyone thinks they are. All humans try to be different, but we're all just dancing for food in the same menagerie. You can quote me on that.
There are plenty of others. PLENTY of others. Mostly useless. Much the same as my blog, yes? Because the truth is, no one thinks their thoughts are useless or unimportant. And if you do, you are more than likely in therapy because of it.
The bloggers I'm talking about here are the sad bloggers. The ones who are perpetually trying to "find themselves." The ones who lament not having lived to their full potential. The ones who talk often about all the things they could have or should have been or done. There is a constant hashing and rehashing of worry and nostalgia and pessimism and self-loathing.
Everyone goes through things. Everyone has their time. Or times. When they are down or kicking themselves. When they are utterly engulfed in loss or self-hatred or hurt. The range of human emotions is rather shocking, actually. All the way from simply having an itch you can't scratch to dysfunctionally suicidal. Some people experience all of it during a lifetime. Others not. Some struggle eternally. Others rarely, if ever.
And bloggers create and belong to a world where these emotions and thoughts and feelings are surrounding and pervasive and perpetually on display.
I write about it sometimes. But unfailingly, my writing usually ends with the realization that whatever pissed me off was my fault to begin with. Or it ends with a dirty joke. I wind up laughing in spite of myself. And get on with it. I think, search, write, close it out, and put it away. Writing should never be purposeless. If it were, I'd already have an entire leather-bound anthology with my name on it called "Grocery Lists."
And so I wonder to myself sometimes, when I read these kinds of blogs, if the people writing them enjoy living in this place of grayness and discomfort. Because in my mind, if you don't like feeling something, make it stop. Fix it. Make it go away. Now. I know it's much more complicated than that. Believe me. Oh yeah. I know. I really, really do.
And it is because I really, really do that I also know a few other things. Happiness isn't something you are going to find. Ever. Because it's not lost. You can look and search and pay hundreds of dollars for therapy. You can lose weight or pile thousands of dollars into your bank accounts. You can have a fancy house or send your kids to the swankiest schools. You can have huge circles of friends and places to go every weekend. You can take 'round-the-world vacations or run marathons or write a novel. If you are not happy, you won't find it in a bucket list or a midlife crisis or a tangible object.
It starts with something so, so, so much more simple than all of that. Happiness starts with liking yourself. That's it. Liking what you see when you look in the mirror. Liking the skin you're in and the brain in your skull.
Does it sound a bit narcissistic? It might, but it really isn't. How can you expect others to like you if even you don't think you are likeable? How can you be better if you don't believe you are worthy?
Being proud of who you are right now and what you've already accomplished builds a bridge that will lift you far above those things that were pulling you down.
Bloggers use their writing to vent. I get it. They use this rectangular white space to sort things out, organize their feelings, writing their way to clarity or catharsis or resolution.
It's a kind of therapy.
But I think some folks get themselves stuck in a rut. Spinning their wheels of repetition, writing and writing and writing but never really coming to any insightful conclusions.
I don't have any answers. I'm just another random blogger who likes to hear herself talk.
But I think I can toss you a little tip. From another writer, a learner, a living soul, breathing and laughing and full of faults. Another human. A girl who's been there and done that. Who's lived it, walked it, dreamed it, grabbed it, and let it go.
Be kind to yourself. Smile randomly, and smile with your eyes.
It won't fix you.
But at least you'll be smiling.
April 2, 2012
Nidgery and Badinage
April 2, 2012
I think I have officially restored my honor by running a 5K in the rain on Saturday morning, or at least partially so. It stopped raining about halfway through, but everyone was certainly dripping with a bit o' liquid shine by the end of it. It was great. It was wet. And sunny all at the same time. The azaleas were blooming in so many different colors. The uphills were maddening. The downhills were intoxicating. Sarge cheered for me when I finished. Which, curiously enough, makes me deliriously happy.
Kinda like when he lies and tells me my dry pork tenderloin tastes marvelous.
Holy shit-flinging monkeys, I love that man.
But then I looked at the race results. Didn't bother with it after my 10K, but the link was sitting there on my Facebook news feed, so I figured what the hell, right?
Ok, honestly I don't really care and I'm not sad in the least. But yeah, with a time of 34:23, I came in 182nd. Out of 232. And I came in 19th in my division, which I am assuming is gender/age related. But hey! At least I wasn't last! And I ran the whole thing without stopping! Don't know if that makes it better or worse, though. I'm sure that's what I get for living in a town stuffed to the gills with soldiers in better shape than I will ever be.
I love seeing the itty bitty chirrins out there running with Mom or Dad. With their itty bitty legs and grins, running without concern for times or splits or competition. The itty bitties run for the simple joy of running, letting go, blazing wild down the street in the rain, unconcerned with their pace or their breathing or passing or being passed. The itty bitties are doing it right.
Now you can see why I have such a raging Napoleon complex. Can you believe two of those monsters were actually in my uterus once? It makes me grateful that my scar doesn't go from my head to my junk.
Speaking of itty bitties. My oldest punk, The Jake, will be running the Cinco de Mayo 5K with me on.... Well. Cinco de Mayo.
And 20 days after that, Sarge and I are totally official for the Warrior Dash. It's gonna be dirty. There is going to be mud and fire involved. I am going to have to use a shit ton of upper body strength that I do not currently possess. We are going to laugh. Sarge will probably curse the day I was born several times before it's all over. But that is okay. It won't be the first time I've had a boy chasing me saying "Please!"
Hey, you remember the Divinyls? You know, that little hottie in thigh-highs rolling all over a bed singing "I touch myself?" Only one of the greatest songs about self-pleasure ever written, second only to Blister In The Sun. Either way, I heard today that the hottie in thigh-highs has MS. Upon hearing this, Sarge replies "She probably touches herself 'cuz she can't feel her legs anymore." HAHAHA! Get it? Get it? Cuz she has MS?
Nevermind.
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