You gotta know when to fold ’em

It would be a moot point for me to tell you that I haven’t written anything in awhile. Most of you have probably forgotten about me, given up on me, or have been reading my old blogs repeatedly while you waited for me to get off my lazy ass and put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, if you will.

Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to write because…well, my mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. And I have been a wretched bitch with an acid tongue and a shitty attitude to boot. So I felt it was easier to obey mama’s rules.

But today, I am going to lay all of cards on the table in the hopes that by going all in, and letting you know the good, the bad and the flabby of my last 6 months, that I will allow myself a clean slate so I can go back to the ridiculous, unfiltered and happier posts that you all seem to love so much.

So, incase you were living under a rock or you were too busy watching a fucking DOG win America’s Got Talent, you probably know I lost a little weight. And that I became obsessive about gaining it back. And that I exercise like a hamster on crack. Just in case you had forgot.

Well here we are, two and a half years and about 180 pounds later and there are days that I feel fatter than I did the day I couldn’t buckle my seat belt on an airplane. Ridiculous, right? I mean, if I can be vain for like half a second, I’m not hard on the eyes. Not skinny, but certainly not fat. My face is holding it down despite 37 rough years on earth. Mind you, I have enough extra skin to make an entirely new human, but despite that I don’t look bad in a pair of jeans.

Most days, I am proud of myself. I accept the extra skin and the stretch marks as parts of my journey. They remind me of where I came from, and where I never want to be again. For awhile I was obsessively thin. Everyone had an opinion.

“You’re too skinny”

“Where did your boobs go?”

“Did you forget to eat today?”

I know people thought they were being funny, but seriously, fuck you. And I say that with love because that’s just how me and the people I love most talk to each other. So I say again, fuck you. Of course I looked too skinny compared to looking like a sweaty sumo wrestler trying to wiggle himself into a clown car.

Then things started to….how shall I say this? Settle? My body reached it’s plateau and just kind of “sank” into place. My weight stayed the same but my hips widened a little and I started to get soft around the middle again. So I kicked up the workouts. Gained a little weight thanks to some late night Barefoot Muscato. Put a little junk in my trunk and some oomph in my twin set up front thanks to running and yoga. Finally, I felt good. Finally, I felt at peace with myself. Sure, I realized I no longer looked like I was one carrot stick from becoming emaciated. Sure, my cheek bones weren’t as prominent and I had to trade in my Junior’s size jeans for real women’s jeans (at 37 should I really be wearing juniors clothes of any sort anyway?). But I could finally look in the mirror, see past my kangaroo pouch of a stomach and my flabby legs, and think, “Damn girl, you look good.”

One day that all changed and I’m not sure why. One day I walked outside and felt the eyes of the world on me. Judging me. Whispering about me.

“Did you see Lisa? She put some weight back on, huh?”

“So much for gastric bypass. I guess she should have kept her fat clothes a little bit longer.”

“Is that her ass or two pigs fighting for the last piece of grub?”

Ok, no one was really saying that, but the fucked up little voice in the back of my head made me believe they might be. And it is making me nuts. Because, I know how hard I continue to work. And truth be told, I have a good handle on food and how to enjoy things in moderation. And I would rather be a comfortable size 8/10 and be able to enjoy a glass of wine or a handful of chips once in awhile, than to live on protein based foods and exercise myself to death trying to be what no one else but me really expects me to be.

I did this so I could live a real life. And now I am and I can. And I have done it because I have an amazing support team. So many people have listened to my bitching and moaning about my insecurities and how “fat” I am, and how they haven’t all lynched me, strung me up by my short and curly’s and poked me with rusty needles to shut me the fuck up, is beyond me. But I love them for loving me enough to wait for me to love myself. Wow, that’s a lot of love.

So, now that I have come clean about all my dirty secrets and darkest thoughts, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually enjoy just being me. Whatever size that might be.


Shopping Ain’t for Sissies

Anyone who knows me, knows I like to shop.

A lot.

Like my credit card is on fire and needs to be extinguished with a shiny new credit card, a lot.

And I like anything on sale, ½ price, clearance and shiny.

And shoes.

Lots and lots of shoes.

Most with 4”-5” heels that make me feel like a Victoria’s Secret model walking the runway, when in actuality I look like a 5’4″ mom shopping at Target trying to look like I am 5’10” and not sleep deprived.

And all women know that you can’t shop with just anyone.  We all have that one special girlfriend who gets why shopping is not a spectator sport.

Unless you are planning to window shop using the overdraft protection on your bank card and have a salad for lunch, you better put on a comfy (but cute!) outfit and a pair of sneakers, because shit gets ugly when women venture out with a free Saturday afternoon and some spending money in their purse!

You need to tackle these adventures with someone who truly gets why  you have to have that purse, or why you can’t leave the store without the ½ price shiny hoops for your ears.  It’s never fun to shop with your husband or your lesbian cousin who only wears bandanas, men’s jeans and flannel shirts.

Too many times I find myself lost in the clearance section at Target, scouring for a deal that will make me cream myself, when I come across something that makes me happy dance, and then I turn around to see my husband standing there staring at the exit, with a lost look on his face and his “I just farted” look in his eyes.

My shopping whore lives in Vermont now.  That’s like a 7 hour drive, or a plane ride next to a bald, sweaty guy, away.  So, since we can’t always shop together, we talk about shopping together.  And have conversations like this:

Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent

Because she gets me and I love her for it.

Through the eyes of a child…


Growing up, I always pictured my “hero” would be someone older, and distinguished looking, with grey hair and a slew of lifetime accomplishments under their belt.  Someone like Maya Angelou,

or Morgan Freeman….

or Angela Lansbury.

Don’t hate.  Murder She Wrote was the CSI of the 80’s, ya’ll.

I never knew that a child, or should I say two children, would be the people who would give me the perspective I need to see the world as it truly is: full of possibility.

I mean once you get past the eyerolling, the sighs, the dirty laundry, the smelly shoes, and the conversations you have that they ignore while texting LOL, LMAO, and OMG to their friends, my kids are pretty cool.

And they teach me to be present.  And in the moment.  Even if they are assholes teenagers.

I mean, who isn’t inspired towards greatness after seeing this:

And you can’t help but to forget everything and just smile at this:

Those are my heros.  Those are the little people I figuratively look up to.  They are my joy, my pain, my pride, my mentors, my view of a world I never knew existed.

And, even if they never cure cancer or win a Super Bowl, they will always be my one true contribution to this crazy, screwed up world.  I will always know I made this life just a little bit better by making them a part of it.

Beverly Hills, 9021-Whoa.

Dear Mr Plastic Surgeon Genius (who is obviously mistakingly reading my blog but is super generous and philanthropic),

I need a tummy tuck.  Badly.  Like almost as badly as that annoying Gosselin lady after she popped out like a bajillion kids.  Or that crazy Octo-Mom bitch who obviously has issues and probably has excess stomach skin hanging to her knees by now (we all know they only look good thanx to Spanx and trick photography, right?  RIGHT?!?).

You probably didn’t accidentally stumble across my other blog: so I can’t expect you to know that I lost 185 pounds.  Stop laughing, I am serious.  I know, impressive and gross all at the same time.  The funny thing about gastric bypass is that all you are focused on is losing weight.  Not so much on what will happen when your flat ass deflates like a Macy’s day float on Black Friday.

I don’t have any money to pay for the surgery and I have shitty insurance but I am a really good hugger and I will post really nice things on this poorly made and virtually unknown blog for free.  How can you pass up that offer, right?

In case those aren’t good enough reasons to perform this totally necessary (if not completely vain) surgery, let me give you some other super awesome reasons as to why you should donate your time:

1)      I will clean your house for like….ever.  Everyday.  Even the corners.  And that would be way cheaper than paying your housekeeper, although I am sure Esmeralda will be very upset and her 70-jillion kids will starve and will all stand outside your house screaming obscenities at me in Spanish.  I figure at the rate of minimum wage, I should be paid off in the year 2025.  No biggie.

2)      If house cleaning isn’t your deal, I am really good kisser.  And when I get drunk I kiss EVERYONE.  So I can repay you in kisses.  Don’t worry about my husband, I am sure he will be in if it means him not listening to me whine about my “jowls of a dog” or begging him for $5000 anymore.

3)      I am funny and I like to make up songs about my dog based on current pop music.  I know this doesn’t seem like a worthwhile detail, but I could provide free entertainment to your clientele while they sit in the waiting room anticipating their collegin injections or breast implants or whatever it is that you do, aside from giving away free tummy tucks.  I know some of them won’t be able to laugh because of all the Botox, but I assure you they will think I am funny.

4)      I am nice.  Most of the time.  When people are watching mostly, but still…nice.  And you would look super nice for doing something really nice for a nice person.  The universe will surely repay you in good Karma.  And your wife will give you blow jobs.  I mean, she didn’t say she would, but I can only assume that is what wives of fancy plastic surgeons do to keep a fancy plastic surgeon husband around.

5)      I will go all Kirstie Alley on the the web and video tape myself strutting around the house in a bikini with index cards that say “Body by Dr. (insert name here)”.  Again, free advertising yo!

6)      Because I am begging you.  Please fix me.  Please make me feel pretty again.  Please take away this constant reminder of the abuse I have put my body through so I can, in turn, stop abusing myself.  Did I say please?

7)      As a last resort, I will leave you alone.  After the tummy tuck, of course.  I’m a stalker, but I’m not stupid.  You fix me, I stop standing outside of your house with my hand in my pants.  Deal?

So, in conclusion, these are all very valid and super awesome reasons for you to give me a free tummy tuck.  Consider yourself welcomed.  It’s the least I can do since you are giving me a $5000 makeover.  I will await the call from your receptionist to set up our appointment.  Thursdays work for me.

Love and Tummy Tucks,


The bitch smells like vagina.

See this face:

She’s cute as hell, but she smells like vagina.

No joke.  The bitch straight up smells like day old vaj and it’s not cute.

No amount of doggy baths or sprays makes her smell any different.

How is she going to get a man smelling like that?  As a two legged bitch, I have never been at a bar and had a man walk by and say “Dayum girl, you smell like yesterdays vagina and it’s turning me on!  Can I get yo’ digits?”

You would be the girl that everyone whispered and pointed at in the corner of the bar.  And no one would sit on the toilet seat you used in the ladies room for fear that the smell was the result of some STD or unknown vaginal discharge.

I don’t want my dog to be the dog all the other bitches talk about.  She’s way too pretty to be “that dog”.

Hopefully getting her spade will mysteriously rid her of her feminine hygiene issue.  Otherwise, she better start wearing rainbow colored collars and hoping for that one butch dog that enjoys the pungent aroma of her lady parts.

Warning: Contents under pressure may explode and high five you IN THE FACE.

I realize that by putting my blog out there for all of the world to see, it makes me accountable for the shit that comes out of my mouth.

I also realize not everyone will like what I have to say or how I choose to say it.

To which I say:

Because this is MINE.  And I choose to share it with YOU.  But, if you don’t like what I have to say, you can make the choice not to read it.

I will not stop swearing.  It’s therapeutic for me and it sets the tone for how I am feeling and the way I would like to express it.

If you don’t want your kids to see it, don’t let them read my blog.  Have them de-friend me on Facebook.  I promise, my day won’t be ruined because I wasn’t alerted by social media about their exploits at open skate with their BFF’s or why their pimple faced boyfriend likes the school skank.

If you are offended by what I write you may either

A)     Not read my blog

B)      Grow a thicker skin

C)      Gain a sense of humor and stop taking life so seriously

D)     Fuck off

That last one was a little harsh, but if you were hurt by it feel free to exercise your right to options A, B or C.

I use my blog to vent.  About morons, kids, ex-husbands and everyday bullshit that annoys me, amuses me, or gives me pause.

I have verbal diarrhea.  And a broken internal filter.  So when I blog about shitting my pants, or hating the People of Walmart, take it with a grain of salt, and just fucking laugh.

Life isn’t meant to be taken so seriously.  No one makes it out alive anyway.

Warning: Depression Hurts.

I am going to take a minute to write something extremely personal and incredibly sensitive.  I am going to take a break from my self deprecating, self effacing humor to talk about a real part of who I am.  Because I write these blogs to be brutally honest in the hopes that my missteps will help others to be ok with who they are in their imperfect everyday lives.

I have depression and anxiety.

I have been struggling with it for 15 years on and off.

One thing I learn everyday is that a brave face only masks a hurt heart.  Let your pain be the face you wear.  It is stronger to show weakness than to pretend it doesn’t exist.  I know from experience.

I have lots of friends that take anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication to manage their everyday lives.  And whenever one of us talks to another we always start the conversation the same way:

….please don’t tell anyone I am telling you this….


….I don’t know what to do, or where to go with this…..

Because for some reason we have been taught that depression is self induced and therefore, easily treated by simply pulling our ungrateful-for-life heads out of our asses.  And maybe in some instances this is true, but in most, it’s not that simple.

Whether it’s the stress of everyday life, the loss of a loved one, a bad marriage, a financial crisis, menopause, post partum, caring for a sick friend/relative, or a traumatic event that has affected you, depression is no fucking joke.  Sometimes, we feel it just becauseMaybe you can’t find the match to your favorite socks.  Maybe you burned dinner because you were on the couch, curled in the fetal position, crying uncontrollably.  Maybe you dropped your keys and just lost your damn mind over it.

Because, that’s how it works.  It doesn’t always make sense.  Sometimes, depression just is.

And it’s a dirty little secret shared only between people facing the same demon, a patient and her therapist or a woman and her doctor.

Sometimes, when you’re like me, you get lucky.  You can be sitting in a doctor’s office complaining of headaches, and he starts asking questions, and you just start crying.  And he asks if you do this a lot.  And he hands you’re a tissue and puts his gentle, old hand over yours, and asks if you have dealt with depression before.  Then he asks how old my kids are and makes a joke about how having teenagers is enough to cause even the sanest person to have depression and anxiety.

And then, he takes out this little piece of paper and his fine tip BIC pen, and gives you your life back.  He writes some words on paper that may as well translate to say:

CautionContents of prescription should never cause you shame or embarrassment.

Side effects include: laughing with your children again, loving yourself again, waking up with a renewed zest for life, and a calmer sleep because your brain is ok once again.  Take with a grain of salt and dose of humility.

Educate yourself.  Know the signs and symptoms.  Don’t brush it off assuming you don’t have time to get help.  You don’t have time to not get help.

I would rather feel like a total schlep and the world’s biggest douchebag for asking for a tiny pill that will make me feel less like jumping off the roof of my house, then to be too proud to be the kind of person that my children need me to be.

I know what my skeletons are.  I know exactly where they are in my closet and I deal with them daily.  I will probably continue to do this until the day I die, but it’s ok.  Because that which has yet to kill me, has only made me stronger.

Face your demons, because they will eventually confront you head on.  Depression is nothing to be ashamed of.  Not recognizing it and depriving yourself of a life, is.

Consider this my PSA for 2012 and give me my damn Lorazapam!