Enough is Enough

The last ten years has brought me many things. A marriage, children, a change in career focus, educational fails and redirects, new friends, and many, many hard lessons. It's also brought me over 100 lbs. 

While I haven't always struggled with my weight (only my self-esteem, ha), the last decade has been a constant battle of emotional eating (sad, happy, excited, bored, depressed... no emotions are left out here), and a myriad of failed diet attempts. I weighed around 175, which my then-doctor informed me was "excessive for my height and age" even though it's probably the best I've ever felt in my life. I had society telling me I needed to lose weight. Every time I went up a pant or shirt size I would get more and more depressed. I tried everything.... veganism, low-carb, dairy-free, Paleo, LA Weightloss, The Zone, SlimFast, Weight Watchers (x4), meal planning, sugar-free, and (medically supervised) appetite suppressants and calorie counting. I managed to lose 40 lbs with those last two, but I stopped taking the pills because they made my anxiety go through the roof, and then I gained back those 40 pounds I had lost, plus 20 more. After a lot of research and soul searching, I had topped out at 292 pounds and decided to pursue bariatric surgery. 

I had initially gone to an information seminar for lap-bad surgery in 2009, but I decided it wasn't right for me. I went back to the same surgeon after doing some more research, and after another seminar and a consult, I settled on Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy. My pre-surgery process started in January of 2017. The projected time to complete all my requirements (chest X-ray, lab work, psych eval, EKG and a nutritional counseling session) was three months. Well, due to some very annoying circumstances including my insurance company adding a requirement for 3 months of extra appointments with a nutritionist, I FINALLY was approved for surgery a mere 8.5 months after starting the process. I am scheduled for September 18th, just over a week before my 33rd birthday. 

Look, I know there are a lot of opinions swirling around about bariatric surgery. 

It's dangerous (all surgery is)

It's a life-long commitment (as it should be)

It's not a cure (no, it's a highly effective tool)

It's irreversible (in a manner of speaking, yes)

It's drastic (so is morbid obesity and diabetes)

It gives you saggy skin (better than heart disease)

It doesn't mean you can stop exercising (no shit)

It's cheating (uh, are you keeping score or something?)

I KNOW ALL OF THESE OPINIONS AND I DON'T CARE.

I LOVE that my friends and family may feel concerned about me. I really do. I know they come from a place of love. I know surgery scares a lot of people, and it seems like I should be able to just lose the weight by following a diet. But here's the thing.... I've tried. I've legitimately tried, and tried, and tried. I know more about calorie content and nutrition than the average person. That's not the problem. The problem is two-fold.

1. I NEVER feel full unless I've eaten so much that I nearly puke. I can eat and eat and eat and never get that "comfortably satisfied" feeling my former nutritionist told me to look for. Do you know how easy it is to gain weight when your body has been programmed to over-eat every single time you have a meal or a snack? 

2. There is nothing to REALLY hold me accountable for my choices. I have a handsome husband who loves me no matter what I look like. I have two little girls that love me no matter how squishy I am. I can still (barely) fit in airplane seats. I can still exercise and walk and live a normal daily life. I can still find stylish clothes to fit me that make me feel beautiful. My friends still talk to me no matter how much of our shared appetizer I may shovel in my face. My health is still pretty good--normal blood pressure, fairly normal cholesterol and blood sugars, no knee or hip problems. I don't have diabetes. I don't have heart disease. I don't have anything that is keeping me from living anything more than an occasionally embarrassing or inconvenient lifestyle as an obese person.... yet. 

Is there anything wrong with being fat? Of course not. Just like I tell my kids, being fat doesn't make me a bad person, it doesn't make me ugly or stupid or cruel. My reasons for pursuing this route are purely personal... I see this weight as a result of years of bad choices, of eating because I was lonely or sad, of not exercising because I was too depressed to get out of bed or off the couch. I have hormone level issues because of my weight and that has not been a walk in the park. I want to feel good about myself because I like what I see in the mirror as well as who I am inside. 

I might not have major health issues yet but I still believe losing weight will help my general quality of life. And I just don't happen to believe that doing Crossfit or drinking shakes or wrapping plastic around my stomach three times a week is sufficient for what I have been through and where I am in my life. So while I know these suggestions from people are kindly meant, please don't bother. I have researched this. I have talked to many other people who have done this. I chose a surgeon who learned the surgical technique from the man who created it. My family and friends who I have chosen to share this with are all on board, and my husband is my biggest cheerleader right now (and my cutest). So, I'm seriously looking forward to what the future holds me for me, including but definitely not limited to these things:

Being able to tie my shoes without getting out of breath

NOT looking like the perfect Mrs. Claus (though I love portraying her dearly)

Shopping for jeans and shirts that don't cost $50 - $80 due to extra fabric

Feeling full

Using weight equipment at the gym without giving a shit about the high school bros who are judging me

Completing a Tough Mudder with my husband

Having enough room on my lap for my girls to sit there

Have questions? Feel free to ask them. But please don't preach, because I'm already converted to the church of VSG. 

Past Dairy Offenses

Facebook has this recent feature where they select old posts, comments, or photos from a year ago or longer and you can choose to share them again if you wish. It's a feature I usually enjoy, as there's nothing I love more than re-reading the witty things I said three years ago and wondering why it didn't receive more likes or comments, leaving me feeling like the under-appreciated comedic genius of my generation.

Today in my memories there was a blog post that I wrote and shared three years ago, called "My 260 pound life. Ok, 262." You can read it if you'd like, but it's basically just a post about a little boy who asked me if I was pregnant while I was buying ice cream, and how that completely destroyed me for the rest of the day. This was not an isolated incident, being asked if I was pregnant when I wasn't or being completely decimated by the hurtful things people say or ask overweight people. I have spent a lot of my life being overweight and the entirety being completely unhappy with the way I look, and I have pretty much experienced every high or low you could think of. Those who follow me on Facebook will know that I've been on a weight loss and health journey the last two months and I have been in a really good place in my life. So naturally there is no better time to discuss when I wasn't.

I was never plagued by childhood obesity. My parents didn't put Coca Cola in my bottle as a toddler or placate me with candy or anything like that. I was a healthy and extremely active kid. That didn't stop people from being cruel, as evidence by some asshole in my 2nd grade class who said I should read the book "Flubber" because it was obviously about me. I told him that I think he meant to say "blubber" and acted like it didn't bother me. I did start gaining weight when I was about 9, and by 5th grade I was in a fully prepubescent chubby phase. It didn't last long, only about two years, and then I started thinning out and was left with bigger boobs than any of my friends and became the unsubstantiated crush of many a young man (including my husband, but that's a story for another time). When people suddenly start getting attention they aren't used to and don't understand, they can either become egotistical or completely self-conscious. I took the latter route.

Pretty much my entire junior high and high school experience involved me hating my body. Even though I was consistently a healthy weight, I was friends with a lot of dancers, many of whom were naturally petite and slender in addition to being very active and in shape. I always felt huge in comparison so I just started to default to that mindset, even though most of high school I was less than 130 pounds and wore a size 7. That followed me into adulthood and basically I just perpetuated an unhealthy cycle of eating my feelings and never addressing a problem as long as there was at least one guy who was attracted to me (seriously, I should start a support group for women whose self-worth has hung in the balance of validation by men gawking at them). And then my early 20s involved more alcohol than food, and that was followed by really, really bad depression. I was dating a guy who was a collegiate gymnast. He was great, he thought I was great, but he got embarrassed when I went to one of his meets and he didn't really talk to me afterward. He later told me that he was uncomfortable because he had never dated a girl who wasn't a gymnast or cheerleader, and therefore had never dated a girl who didn't LOOK like a gymnast or a cheerleader. I was 23 and weighed 185 pounds. Sure, that's technically overweight for my height, but I was all Marilyn Monroe and curvy as shit. I got cat calls from strangers on the street. I had cute clothes. I felt pretty good about myself. And yet...his criticism destroyed me.

Since then I have steadily gained weight, at least 10 pounds a year and usually closer to 20. I have tried every diet plan.... Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, The Zone, Dr. OZ, smoothies, juices, low-carb, high-carb, paleo, vegan, and I was never able to maintain any of it. I would get about two weeks in, lose 5 or 10 pounds and then celebrate with a cheeseburger or a milkshake and never go back. It was incredibly unhealthy and it made me hate myself a little more every time but I felt like I couldn't help it. After many therapy sessions I've come to the conclusion that I have serious issues with instant gratification and control, and I think it's as simple as: if I don't see results right away, I don't want to do it, and I'd rather be happy and eat whatever I want.

I've told myself many things about being obese. That is easier to be fat because I hate dieting. That it's no big deal to be invisible. That I don't mind paying $65 for a shirt from Lane Bryant because it's actually really cute. That I don't want to be around people who are shallow enough to judge me for being fat. That I'm actually healthy (which according to a lot of very expensive medical testing, I am, in many ways). That I'm not a rabbit and don't like salad.

I've said it all. And there are some truths in there. My weight does not dictate my happiness. I know this because I spent my thinnest years hating my body. It's a mental illness, and I know that it's not my fault. I'm under no illusion that being thin will automatically make me happy.

I do think that food is a form of love. I really like cooking and sharing delicious things with people I love, at parties or at home. There is something very social and familiar about food, about people coming together over a dinner table or a tray of appetizers, that has always been a big part of who I am, and I don't think that has to change.

Being fat doesn't mean you hate yourself. I am kind of an awesome person in a lot of ways, and I know none of this is enhanced or effected by my weight.

People will be mean no matter what. I mentioned it in my previous post, but I have been the target of many cruel words. I'm not lying or exaggerating when I say that, on numerous occasions, complete strangers have walked past me on the street and spat the words "Ugly bitch" or "dumb cunt" at me while making direct eye contact. Other women have laughed in my face, mocked my appearance, called me disgusting. Men have called me a DUFF so many times it's laughable. I'm no stranger to cruelty and I've experienced it at every.single.size.

The reason I went to my doctor and asked for help losing weight has very little to do with me and my wish to be thin. Do I want to have the body to be one of those women who walks around the gym in nothing but booty shorts and a sports bra? Hell yes, but mostly because I envy their confidence more than anything. And their abs. Let's be real. But basically I woke up and realized I'm 30 and still using food as a reward system for myself. And that's the last thing I want for my two, beautiful and perfect little girls. I don't want them learning poor self-esteem and bad health habits from me. The rest of the world is going to try its hardest to fuck their lives up when they're older, so they need me to be an advocate and an amazing teacher to them, so that's what I'm trying to do.

I went to my doctor on April 11th, 2015, weighing 284 pounds. That's the biggest I've ever been in my life. It's been almost two months and I've been dieting and exercising, though not as regularly as I should or would like. Routine is still something I struggle with and am working on. I just weighed myself this morning and in less than two months I've lost over 27 pounds. I still have about a hundred pounds to go before I hit my "goal weight" but I can honestly say that every workout I finish, every day I meet or barely exceed my calorie goal, I feel more powerful and more confident and more satisfied with life. And it's not even about the actual weight loss. It's about the control, the discipline and the active choice to be a better version of me. Even though I'm not perfect and still crave and sometimes eat ice cream and other "cheat" food, I am feeling happy. HAPPY. That's a huge fucking deal, people. I am completely blown away by how supportive everyone around me is and I cannot wait to see where I am a year from now. For the first time in my life I feel like I have goals that I actually can and WILL achieve.

Now please excuse me while I jump around my living room to the Rocky theme.

Propping the bottle

9 months since my last post? Lame. Add "blogging" to the list of things I can't keep up on.

I feel like all my posts are about Mom Guilt, and it's because the feeling is so intensely present in my every waking moment that it's pretty much all I can think about. I have to constantly get it off my chest and send it out into the universe in the hope that I will be relieved from some of it, though that never seems to be the result. My personality has always been such that I feel extreme guilt for things that couldn't possibly be my fault, so being in charge of two little people is hardly a recipe for success in that vein.

Being the mother of 2 has been a bumpy road, and I never seem to have enough time to finish anything. My house is dirty. The kids are usually in some state of undress. One or the other never gets quite enough attention because the sibling is being needy that day. I don't plan my meals out ahead of time because there is no possible way I can be that organized amid the sea of chaos that is my living room. The patience that I was always complimented on by employers and teachers seems to vanish most days, and there is at least one occasion every week that I throw a full-blown Mom tantrum. I have very few coping skills, and the ones I have largely center around eating delicious things, because THAT helps. I feel every day is a lesson where I don't quite grasp the final concept, but I do my best to get by. If Motherhood were a university course, I feel like I'm a B- student. Maybe a B. Maybe.

In all this experience, the conclusion I have come to is that sometimes you have to prop the bottle.

What I mean is that when you are too drained from everything else happening around you, sometimes it's okay to put on a movie and let your toddler plop down in front of the TV for an afternoon. It's okay to make whatever box of food is in your cabinet that night because you were too busy cleaning up a poop mural to get to the grocery store for fresh produce. It's okay to put the baby in her crib and literally prop her bottle up on a blanket and let her feed herself while you go and sit quietly and gather you thoughts (or empty your head of them, whatever works).

These things are all severely frowned upon by parenting books, crunchy mothers and most people who live a conscientious lifestyle that somehow seem to have it all together. But you know, the next biggest lesson I've learned is that everyone has their own shit going on, it just doesn't always manifest itself in the same form as mine. I try not to judge anyone else for how they deal with their problems, so hopefully nobody judges me for my methods, though I'm constantly paranoid they do. I need to learn to let that crap go. Such a waste of time.

My mantra these days is "do your best, get through it, it won't be like this forever". I'm hoping that I'm getting brownie points with the universe for not yelling at my kid, even if it means she watches more TV that day than is probably a good idea. And on the days that I DO yell... well, I try to make it up to her somehow.

I also hope that my experiences-- the good, the bad, the hilariously ugly, will help motivate another mother to stop being so down on herself.

As for me, I'm trying really hard to make changes, even if it will take until my kids are teenagers to implement them. For now I'm taking baby steps and handing out snuggles, sometimes fruit snacks, and yes, propping the bottle as needed.

Angry Mom

I yelled today.

In fact, I've been yelling a lot lately.

Clara, my sweet little girl, has been recently replaced by a whiny, disagreeable, generally unhappy monster. Every question is met with "NO!" She no longer stays in her room for nap time or bed time. She refuses to stop climbing into the refrigerator or pulling out the eggs and carrying them around the house. The only thing she wants to do is go to her grandma and grandpa's house, and then when she gets there she is crabby and difficult.

When venting to some acquaintances, they ask her age, and then smile knowingly when I say that she's almost two. "Ah, yeah, they're called 'the terrible twos' for a reason, meh heh heh."

Shut up, people.

Even if it were normal for a child to literally change their entire demeanor over night, I feel like there has to be something more going on. Is she sick? Is she teething? Is she going through a growth spurt? Is she in pain? Is she under-stimulated? Over-stimulated? Does she need to just run around for a few hours every day until she drops? I have no idea.

This is my first time here in motherhood, and I don't have any answers. Nobody else has any answers, at least none that make me feel any better. So I try my best to be patient. Sometimes it's really hard.

Supposedly Clara is almost ready to start potty training. I'm told this because she keeps taking her diaper off and then taking a dump on the floor. If this is an important milestone, it's one I'd rather skip. I have cleaned up more poop from this child in the last week than I ever had to with a puppy and however many cats we've had over the years.

Today she took a crap on the treadmill and somehow managed to get it on the (white) curtains and a pair of her dad's work pants. Then our kitten, who is a holy terror in her own right, decided it would be fun to trample through it and then track it on the carpet before gracing me with yet another set of scratches on my leg.

"Clara, do you need medicine?"
"NO!"
"Okay."
"WANT MEDICINE!"
"Okay, here's some medicine for you."
"NO!! NOOOOOOOO  MEDICIIIIIIIIIINE!!!"

It's been day after day of verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of my 23 month-old tyrant. And there's another little dictator on the way. And I just want to clean my house without having it be undone within minutes, and then take a nap. That's all. I feel like that isn't a completely unreasonable request, yet it will never, ever happen. At least not in the next 10 years.

After Clara refused the spoonful of medicine I poured her (she kicked it away and made me spill it all over my hand), I chucked the spoon into the sink and shouted "I AM SO SICK OF THIS KID!" and then proceeded to cry over the sink, while my husband calmly carried her away and then told me to leave the house for awhile. I immediately felt like the worst mother in the world, but you know, sometimes you reach a breaking point. I've hit mine for the day. I feel like I'm drowning.

Being a mom, especially a stay-at-home mom, can be really hard. Every time I talk with someone and I tell them what I do they say, "Oh, what's that like?" and I answer honestly.
"It's great, but really hard sometimes."
Then I get a look of judgment and disdain, followed by, "Well, you're really lucky to be able to do that. I sure wish I had been able to stay home with my kids."

Yeah, okay, I know I'm lucky, but you have to understand that it's not an easy thing to be home all day, every day, on call for 24 hours with a child who is often babbling things that are impossible to understand, has a penchant for destroying household possessions, and is only capable of showing appreciation with a half-hearted hug. Don't get me wrong--those hugs are amazing and make everything else worth it in that moment. But it's HARD. Some people were born to be home with their children and would want nothing else in the world. Other people need a break once in awhile. So I'm asking you people to hold back on their judgment when they see a mom struggling at the grocery store with a screaming child, or at the movie theater with a kid who is acting up, or basically anywhere. Because until you've been there, you will never ever understand how hard it is and how much they are probably just trying to make it through the day without melting down.

So for now I am just going to say that I am tired. Really, really tired.

And my house smells like poop.

Not my bag

I've been a little down on myself lately, and by "lately" I mean "the past 28 years".  I find myself constantly practicing negative self-talk, so I thought it was time for an old favorite: Good vs Bad.

There are a lot of things I'm good at.

I am an expert eater. I do it well, I do it often. I could be a professional. The day that I see a craigslist job posting for "glutton with a 'tude", I will be alllll over it.

Judging? Oh yeah. I'm awesome at that. Although I prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt, I have no problem determining the level of douche a person possesses within seconds of meeting/seeing/smelling/hearing about them.

Sitting around? If the radio spot I heard saying that every hour you sit on your ass takes 22 minutes off your life is actually true, I'm down at least 10 years at this point. Check.

I may not have been chosen for The Voice (still not bitter, still not bitter, still not bitter), but I can belt out a Disney song or two. I can also quote and impersonate a wide array of Disney characters with laughable accuracy. Seriously, I've made people pee from it. Oh! And on that note...

Peeing my pants. No adult can wet their pants like me, nor can they do so at more hilarious times in life so as to provide their friends with prime story-telling opportunities. Not even that old lady from Billy Madison.

I am pretty good at bullshitting people. I once convinced my friend that I had a job writing random facts for Snapple caps. He told other people about it. I was pretty proud.

Keeping a straight face.... that might be what I'm best at. In high school I had a trumpet player do "the fat man shimmy" directly into my face during a game to try and get me to smile, and I. Didn't. Budge. Girl can keep her cool. I can also convert this talent into the ability to deliver face-melting glares when people are annoying enough to deserve it. My bitch face is basically a legend.


I could go on and on (oh, I'm also super good at being modest!), but it's time that I shift to what I'm not good at, simply to keep this exercise balanced. And on that note...

Exercise. And balance. I suck at those things. I LIKE being still. I LIKE being able to breathe at a normal rate and I LIKE NOT sweating. I might be fat, but damn it, I'm comfortable.

Not yelling. This one is what really has made me feel like a piece of crap lately. I generally think I'm a pretty calm person, but my daughter is able to really bring out the beast in me. I can take a lot and then all of a sudden, she's throwing my new ball of yarn into the toilet where I just rinsed out her shitty diaper, and I turn into the Incredible Hulk. I might need meditation.

Cleaning. I'm not saying I could be on Hoarders, but a TV crew coming into my house might trigger a suicide attempt.

Saving money. No explanation necessary.

Saying "no." I feel I have gotten better at this over the years, but I still have a hard time turning down people asking for help or anything else, mostly because I go into a happy place where I am so excited that someone wants to rely on me that I forget I have limitations and I agree and then usually really regret it.

Focusing. See? I'm already bored.

Photo Card

Scrappy Happy Frames Holiday

Create modern holiday cards with your photos at Shutterfly.

View the entire collection of cards.

Maybe in a few years

There is a picture of me as a baby sitting on a sofa at my grandma's with a little tabby kitten. Her name was Kimbie. We had her until I was 18 and eventually had to have her put down (she had abscesses in her mouth and the vet thought they were cancerous). As long as I have been alive, we have always had at least one cat, but I remember always wishing we had a dog. When I would encounter a puppy or a big, drool-ridden dog at a friend's house, I would swoon. There was no doubt in my mind that I was a "dog person," whatever that means. Fast forward 20 years... I'm not a dog person.

We got Ruby from the shelter after deciding that having a dog was the best way to keep me feeling safe when my husband is working out of town. Seriously, I have these crazy paranoid fears that people are standing in front of my window and just staring in at me while I sleep/stalk people on Facebook. It's a little out of hand, but add spiders into that mix and I will have a full-on panic attack. Think I'm joking? One time I encountered a "silver fish" that was literally stalking me around the living room. It crawled across my leg, so I flicked it off and bolted across the living room, and that little shit FOLLOWED ME!  I hopped up on our pub chair, and called Eric... who was in Washington DC at the time. Yeah, believe me when I openly admit that I have issues. Anyway, a dog. Safety. Companionship. Giving Clara what I never had growing up. All that good stuff.

It didn't work out.

Ruby was the only dog in the shelter at the time that was approved to be placed with children of any age. She was super sweet, adorable, and would let Clara climb all over her and snuggle without any complaint.

She was also a puppy, which meant her energy level was through the roof. Which was okay, until I started going to school again. While I was gone we would leave Ruby inside and play with her as much as having a baby would allow. This is not as simple as it sounds. Have you ever tried to walk a dog and a baby in a stroller at the same time? How about putting the almost 30 pound baby in a sling and walking the dog that wants to run? What about the backyard, you say? Have you ever experienced the horror of your baby trying to pick up a piece of dog shit? Clean it up, you say? Have you ever experienced a baby who only takes one mediocre nap during the day, giving you about 2 hours to squeeze in cleaning, studying, making dinner, showering and playing with the dog? Perhaps some women can handle this, but I am not one of them.

Please make no mistake, I am aware that this is our fault. I'm aware that I didn't consider the pros and cons of owning a dog before rushing out and getting one. I thought I did, but I guess I didn't. Neither Eric or I had ever owned a dog, and we were not at all prepared. We were not prepared for a dog that needed more than 2 walks and numerous play sessions every day. Not prepared for what we would be losing to chewing. We actually made amends with the chewing, realizing it was mostly our fault for leaving things out. We were not prepared for a dog that, when excited, would launch herself at every person in her vicinity, hurling her entire body weight through the air and knocking that person senseless.  Especially not prepared for that person to be my 1 year-old baby. We were not prepared for how aggressive Ruby got when she was bored, not trying to hurt and only wanting to play, but being way too rough for our baby, our cats and me. My arms were chewed on numerous times in a less than delicate manor. The biggest problem, aside from the terror inflicted on our cats, is that I was yelling at her all the time. I'd get so frustrated and overwhelmed with life, and Ruby was the closest source, so I'd yell. About everything. Always. I realized that Clara spent a considerable amount of time hearing me yell about things that didn't even matter, and that is NOT how I want my child to remember me.

But then... there was night time. No matter how energetic she was, she would always lay next to me on the couch and lie under my feet, and when it was time for bed she would follow me to the room. She'd either lay down in her bed next to mine, curl up with a sigh and sleep, or she'd hop up and sleep against my legs. When I woke up she would stay in bed with me until I got up. Sometimes when she was particularly impatient, she'd lick my face and lie across my stomach until I got up.

If Clara was crying over the monitor and I didn't hear it right away, Ruby would stand over me and whine until I woke up and got her. She'd run into Clara's room, hop up against the crib and try to lick her face, which of course made Clara scream with delight.

Even though at the core of things, Ruby was a great dog, we just weren't the right family for her. At least not in this phase of our lives. She deserves to be with a family who has the time to play, to take her on hikes or who at least has a bigger backyard than our little shoe-box property. She needs kids who want to play with her and don't get frustrated when she smothers them with kisses and knocks them over with her enthusiasm. Make no mistake, I am going to feel like shit every time Clara wakes up and immediately points to the hall and says, "doggy!" I am going to feel like a hypocritical coward every time I feel unsafe at night or lonely in bed. But Ruby is with a family (who we know, if we ever want to visit) with a huge backyard, another dog and two little boys that are ready to run with her until she drops. And I know she will be much happier.

If you think I'm deplorable, please reserve judgment. This was a really difficult decision, and I already feel like a selfish jerk. If it's hurtful or harsh, please keep it to yourself. And about me being a dog person? Maybe we'll try again in a few years when Clara is older. Maybe. For now I'll settle for being the crazy cat lady.

<3 p="p">

Photo Book

Click here to view this photo book larger

Create your own custom photo books at Shutterfly.com.

A rant about some feminine matters.

No, this blog is not about my period. At least not yet. Sometimes my posts end up in a very different place than I began, so really it's anyone's guess as to what topic this post will end on. But for now it is not about my period. It's about feminism. Well, kind of. 

Okay, so I'm a long-time Sex and the City fan. Nod, fist pump or groan here, whatever your stance, I don't really give a shit. I like it, and while I respect people who don't like it (to each their own and all that), I don't really understand people who adamantly don't like the show. Unless you're a man. Or a woman who doesn't like awesome TV shows with full-frontal nudity. I maintain that this show offers a bevy of insight to the female psyche. And on another level I just like seeing what bat-shit crazy outfits SJP dares to wear in public. And why does she wear a bra with everything? Her boobs aren't that big. Sometimes you can forego a little extra support to avoid everyone seeing your lacy black bra hanging out of your dress. Or just wear a strapless! If you can afford couture clothing and $400 shoes that are never duplicated in an episode, you can afford a friggin' strapless bra.

If you've never seen the show (gasp!), I will fill you in. There are four women that live in Manhattan and are best friends. Carrie, who is a writer, wears ridiculous clothing and spends more than she makes. She's small and thin, kooky and witty, and has issues with men. Samantha, who is a publicist, is the oldest of the bunch and has sex with anyone with a hard body (no pun intended). She's sassy, brassy, and--being the whore of the group--has issues with men. Charlotte, who originally is the manager/curator of an art gallery and eventually becomes a housewife, is incredibly uptight and kinda prude. She comes from old money and is often aghast at the outlandish behavior of her friends, but is sweet and has issues with men. Miranda, who is a lawyer, is the sarcastic redheaded ball-buster who delivers one-liners like it's her job. She's the most self-aware of the bunch and has issues with men. Cue hilarious antics regarding common relationship and life struggles.

Moving right along in this blog post that wasn't supposed to be about Sex and the City, there's an episode in the second season where the four women are sitting together at lunch/brunch/coffee/vats of alcohol discussing their recent relationship woes/struggles/victories/embarrassing sexual escapades. Miranda, the one that everyone thought was a lesbian until she let her hair grow out and had a baby with a man, gets frustrated and tries to change the subject. When nobody can stray from their man topic, she gets pissed off and storms out after delivering the following thought:   

"How did it happen that four such smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends? It's like seventh grade with bank accounts."

BAHA! 7th grade with bank accounts. Oh, Miranda, you slay me. 

But seriously... have you ever noticed that women talk about men? Like... a lot? 

It's arguable that the reason women talk about men is because we as a gender are very focused on relationships, romantic or otherwise, and our interactions with other people. I have my own theories, mostly that the majority of (straight) women get their validation from male attention, and blah blah blah something something we need better hobbies and stuff. Don't get me wrong, there's no shame in discussing men or your relationships with them, as long as we learn from things and grow. So often we don't do either of those things, and we just get stuck on some kind of emotional plateau. Worrying about the difference between "love you" and "love ya" is fine in high school, but as a 28 year-old, perhaps you should be investing your time elsewhere, like worrying about whether or not there will be a 3rd Sex and the City movie (I love this franchise, but come ON people. Enough is enough). 

The root of this rant is a radio show I heard while driving home tonight. It was a radio station that plays pop and mostly top 40 music, so I'm not entirely sure what I expected, but I was a little disgusted with the discussion happening between the three women on the air. First they were talking about whether or not they "can do" monogamy. One of them came out with this gem:  "I really enjoy being able to say, 'next, next, next' to guys and do what I want with them and then move on without any emotional attachment. But I mean, not in a slutty way." 

Wrap you head around that while I move on to the next part.

They segued into the topic of flirting vs. hitting on. Let me say that again. They were debating the difference between a man flirting with a woman, and a man hitting on a woman, and whether one is closer to adultery than the other. The hostess of the show maintained that flirting is harmless and is just something men do to be friendly to women, but that hitting on a woman is a clear move toward sex and is punishable if you're in a committed relationship. She also said that women are so often "desperate enough" to "misread signals" of men who are "only wanting to flirt a little bit". 

.............Am I the only one flabbergasted by this entire concept? Yeah, okay, I'm not saying that a guy who is married should be sent to the stocks for being friendly to another woman (unless he's my husband), and I GUESS if you consider being friendly the same thing as flirting (which I don't), you shouldn't worry about it. But to say that women are so stupid that they shouldn't get worked up by a man showing interest and being friendly to them? That is both insulting AND goes against the idea that "YOUR HUSBAND IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER DON'T DISCOUNT ANY MAN YOU SHOULD KEEP UP YOUR STANDARDS BUT DON'T BE SO PICKY THAT YOU WIND UP ALONE AND MISERABLE WITH 34 CATS!!!!" that this radio show also seems to promote. Can't we please just stop all these inane conversations and confusing ourselves? As if women don't have enough to worry about between the menstruating and the being arrested for naming rapists, let's add another level of bullshit called DIFFERENTIATING BETWEEN FLIRTING AND HITTING ON. Oh my GOD I want to smash something right now. Seriously, I haven't been this worked up over a topic on this ridiculous show since the hostess told a caller that her gaining weight was the reason her marriage is falling apart. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn't listen to it anymore, but it's like a train-wreck. It makes me sad but I can't look away.

My friend is always telling me how lucky I am to be married and out of the singles' scene. I usually brush these thoughts aside because married life is not always perfect, but if it means that I have to have one fewer conversation about stupid shit like whether a guy flirting with me is actually interested in me or whether I'm just misreading his signals and holy crap this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, I wholeheartedly agree. 

Love means never having to say, "I need some privacy so I can poop."

When I was pregnant and visualizing what life would be like as a mother, I was worried about a lot of things. What childbirth would be like, would I poop on the delivery table, would I have to have a c-section, how I would survive at home the first few weeks basically not knowing whether anything I was doing was right or wrong. I knew things would change when Clara came. I knew that I would have to sacrifice a lot of things, like sleep, social life (ha), quiet time and freedom. What I didn't realize was that, between a baby and a dog and two cats, I would NEVER be alone in the bathroom again. Ever. 

Think about that for a second. Never before have I appreciated that alone time as much as I do now, because I rarely get it. Any time I need to use the bathroom at home, I have to turn it into a game. I find Clara and get her to chase me down the hall, which she loves doing. I get her to follow me to the bathroom so that I can pee and keep an eye on her. This means the door never closes. Usually I will be going to the bathroom and she will be wandering around in the bathroom, climbing into the shower stall or trying to climb up into my lap, or grabbing my glasses off the counter and making a run for it. Now that we have a dog, Ruby joins in. This morning they both were fighting over my glasses (DKNY makes some very durable frames, by the way). If Clara is asleep, Ruby whines at the door until I let her in, and then she just lies on my feet until I finish up, waits for me to flush, then drinks out of the toilet. If Ruby happens to be outside and Clara is asleep, Callie (one of the cats) comes in and sticks her paws under the door until I let her in, then she sits in the shower stall across from the toilet and just stares at me. Oh, what a glamorous life I lead. 

I really love being a mother, but if you ever want to be able to poop alone, you probably shouldn't have kids.  Or a dog. Or a cat. You should probably just live alone in the woods. But watch out for bears. 

Reformation and Reclamation

Ever since The Great Coldstone Shaming of 2012, I have been really contemplating things in my life. I mean, I've always been a very pensive person and have always spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on my life and the things around me, but I have really been examining my choices, particularly regarding my weight and my personal development. I have been thinking about school, weight, career aspirations (or lack thereof), our family, and trying to figure out what really makes me happy and what I need to do to capture more contentment in my life.

I have a good life. I have an amazing husband and the most beautiful and funny little girl you could ask for. We have a nice home and family around us, and we don't go to sleep hungry. As difficult as it is for us to maintain, I have been blessed enough to be able to stay home with my daughter instead of having to truck her off to daycare, and I am appropriately grateful for all these things. But that doesn't mean that I don't have regrets, frustrations or heartache. 

My personal struggles are not particularly secret. I've dealt with depression and anxiety for a long time, weight issues for a shorter time, and both of these things have set me up for "issues" of other kinds, like uncontrollable spending habits and a complete disregard for educational authority. ......Okay, so the educational thing is more of a choice than a victim circumstance, but I maintain that it is at least related. But seriously? Shit has been hard.

Let's begin with the obvious. My weight. I haven't always been fat. Those who have known me for a long time will remember that in junior high and even high school I was pretty much the same size as everyone else, even though I always felt way bigger. Well, except my boobs, those have always been ridiculously advanced for my age. But the point is that I didn't come from childhood obesity or anything. I think when it started was when I got my license and started getting fast food. I was very active in high school, being a member of something like 13 performing groups, playing in a community soccer league and working as a nanny during the summer. I was able to eat mostly what I wanted because I was busy enough to burn it off. I actually remember thinking to myself at one point, "Hey, maybe I'm like those girls who can eat whatever they want and never get fat!" Fast forward 10 years and this is the perfect plot to a movie featuring Adam Sandler dressed as a woman in a fat suit. 

My personal delusions aside, I guess I just never learned how to nutritionally take care of myself. I have always eaten what I wanted when I wanted it. My weight has been steadily increasing since I hit my 20s, and I have attempted many different diets (Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, Paleo, Smoothie diets, Veganism, etc). They never work because, ultimately, I don't want to follow them. Weight Watchers has a saying that goes, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels". What a crock of shit! Shrimp pasta with garlic-butter sauce tastes way better than being thin feels! Anything with ice cream and caramel sauce tastes better than being thin feels! And pizza? Well...let's stop this before it gets dirty. My point is that when I was thin, I didn't feel thin. I didn't feel pretty most of the time, except when I was receiving validation from a guy, which is a whole different can of emotionally insecure worms. Being "thin" never did anything for me except make me feel like I wasn't thin enough. Being fat has a certain comfort to it. I don't really have to worry about trying too hard because I will still be fat regardless of how successful I am. I will get looks from people either way, but being fat usually elicits a look of pity rather than one of jealousy-bred hatred. Though it may have been unintentional, I definitely chose to get fat. And I have known this for a long time. 

But having Clara has changed some things. Before, I didn't really LIKE being fat but I didn't care enough to do anything about it. I had a guy who loved me and thought I was beautiful regardless of how many chins I had. My friends were still my amazing friends who laugh at my jokes, and I could still find clothes SOMEWHERE that I fit into and felt cute in. Despite being morbidly obese, I'm actually pretty "healthy". I don't have high blood pressure, I don't have terribly high cholesterol or glucose levels, I don't have gallstones and I can still haul my fat ass around on foot when I need to and get a reasonable distance before tiring out or quitting. But is that truly health? I think we all know that it isn't. Now that I have a little girl to think about, I realized that if I don't change my habits, she is going to develop them and go through a childhood and adolescence and probably adulthood with weight battles and health problems and that is the last thing I want for her. I might deal with being a fat adult, but I don't know how I would have dealt with being a fat kid. As it  was, when I was going through puberty and growing a fuller body frame, some boy in my class started calling me "flubber" and I wanted to deck him every time, but I just cried instead. I don't want that for her. 

So we have been making changes. We eat fast food sparingly instead of regularly. I try to cook every night and make our own bread so that what we're eating isn't completely full of preservatives and chemicals. We are making an effort to drink as much water as we can stand (with the heat that isn't much of a battle, thankfully), and now that we have the dog I have been trying to play with her and walk her as much as I can. But things aren't going as planned. Now that I actually WANT to lose weight and be healthier, I am finding myself physically barred from doing so. My knee hurts really, really badly whenever I walk or stand for more than a few minutes. My shins ache, my calves are cramping up, my feet cramp up into claws that I can't un-clench and my back huuuuuuurts a lot. A lot. This sucks and I'm hating myself for letting it get this far. 

Cut to scene of me sitting in front of my computer, researching LAP band surgery and eating cookies, a completely typical Monday morning activity. Sigh. If only it were that easy. In any case, I want to change. I want to be better than I am and that involves losing weight, finishing my annoying educational goals (at least the short-term goals) and working on my emotional health. Thank God for support groups and comedic memoirs to get me through these difficult times.

Stationery card

Poppy Girl Birthday Invitation

Shop for special Birthday wishes at Shutterfly.com.

View the entire collection of cards.

Dog days

If anyone had told me before that dogs are basically goats with less annoying voices, I probably would have thought twice about getting one.

A long time ago I was house-sitting in a mansion for my bosses. This place was gigantic and they had four kids, so they had alarms installed on every door to the house. Whenever a door would open, a beeping sound would go through the whole house, and sound again when the door closed. I had taken a bath in the jacuzzi tub because I am an absolute sucker for jets. I cannot pass them up. Sometime during my revelry someone came into the house, but I didn't hear the doors. It was late at night, probably around midnight. I was climbing into bed in this ridiculously huge master bedroom with floor to ceiling windows, and Rufus, the family's harlequin Great Dane, started growling. I don't know if you've ever heard a very large dog growl, but it is scary. It sounds like thunder. I was instantly anxious and when he got up and walked to the door with his fur standing on edge I started freaking out. I listened carefully and heard a soft rattling sound coming from the kitchen down the hall.. I started talking really loudly and shouted at Rufus to "GO GET 'EM!" He went bounding through the house, barking that terrifying bark, and I armed myself with a golf club that had been sitting near the bed (why is it that rich people feel the need to sleep with their putters?) There was a door slam, barking, claws scraping against the hardwood floor, then I heard the door alarm sound once, then twice. Whoever it was had left the house.

Ever since that incident I have never felt comfortable being alone in a house at night. Now that I have my daughter, I'm especially uncomfortable with the idea. Whenever my husband is out of town for work, I am somehow convinced that someone is breaking into our house or scraping on the window, and I end up just standing in the hallway, clutching my cell phone, debating about whether or not I should call the police. Usually my humiliation at the idea of reporting a bush scraping the house siding wins out and I just go to sleep and have nightmares. However, when my husband mentioned to me that he was going to be working out of town a lot this summer, we decided to get a dog. We have two cats and I love them almost as if they were my children, but seriously, cats are terrible in a crisis situation. They sleep really heavily and if they happen to wake up, they just run into the garage. THANKS A LOT, assholes. FYI, nobody will be here to feed you when I get killed by a jumpy burglar.

So anyway, we adopted a puppy from the local animal shelter. Her name is Ruby. She's cute. She's happy. She's affectionate. She lets my baby crawl all over her with very little complaint. She eats everything that gets left on the floor, and some things that are close enough to the counter's edge for her to swipe. Everybody's heard about dogs eating shoes and homework and all that, but I didn't realize they actually EAT things. I thought they just chewed things up and left them in pieces. No. Eat. Eaten. Digested. Pooped out in the backyard.

The list of things Ruby has eaten so far include a shoe, a pillow, a measuring cup, a plastic sand shovel, a rope toy, part of our bed comforter, a tennis ball, pine cones, a snail shell, and a refrigerator magnet. This is not unlike my daughter, who will also try to eat anything she finds on the floor, including a very disturbing incident where she ate a piece of cat poop that she mysteriously found. More on that later.

Thus far, owning a dog has solidified my belief that I am mostly a cat person. Here's the thing. I love dogs. I think they are cute and fun and awesome animals. I just happen to appreciate the independent nature of cats more than the loyal and somewhat dumb personality of dogs. Dogs are so needy, and they freak out if they don't get their energy out and they have smelly breath and insist on covering you in drool. My dog also thinks she's a small dog/cat/parrot and perches on the back of the couch around my shoulders. It's funny until she gets my neck with one of her gigantic claws. It's not AS hard as I thought it would be, but owning a dog (more specifically a puppy) is like having another baby... only that baby can jump and reach your face with her tongue and runs as fast as a car and tries to eat your cats. Also? Training a dog is a bitch. I just get so frustrated when she doesn't listen to me the first 400 times I say something (see the parallelism of dogs and babies?) and I eventually just get pissed off and put her outside. But then when I let her back in she is so excited to see me that she needs to jump! and bark! and lick! and nip! and roll! and tummy rub! tummy rub! tummy rub! and chase the cats! and this goes on for awhile.

Sigh. I don't regret getting Ruby. She really has been a nice edition to the family so far, except for the stress that the cats are under. One cat bolts into the garage as soon as he catches a whiff of the dog, and the other cat that will actually stick up for herself doesn't have claws, so it isn't that effective. Ah well. Everyone tells me that it gets easier once they start picking up on their obedience training, so I guess I just have to be patient. Grumble, grumble. In the mean time I will just have to be satisfied that there is yet another creature in my house who wants nothing more than to sleep on my feet and get belly rubs. And it IS pretty cute when Clara feeds her things from her high-chair tray. And snuggles her. And when Ruby's shepherd instincts kick in and she tries to herd Clara down the hall. And when she jumps into the baby pool and snaps at the water.

.....yeah, okay, maybe there's hope for me becoming a dog person.

My 260 pound life. Ok, 262.

I have had a lot of strangers say some really hateful things to me throughout my life. I will never understand why, but I literally have been walking down the street or through a bar and had people pass within one or two feet of me, look me dead in the eye and say things like "ewwwww!" or "what an ugly bitch." It's pretty horrible, and every time it has happened I have been left stunned and confused. Sometimes it's almost funny, like when I was working at a department store and encountered a little girl who looked at me, screamed "monster!!" and then ran away, or when a clearly clueless guy asked me when I was due (years before I actually got pregnant). I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor about myself, especially considering I'm the one who controls my weight (or doesn't control it), and self-deprecation is definitely my specialty, but there are some things that just cut like a knife.

Tonight I was in Coldstone because I had been fighting a sweet tooth all day. I know, I know, I went out buying ice cream so I was basically asking to be called fat, but whatever. Listen to the damn story. I was buying a couple containers of different flavors to share with my husband and roommate and a friend was in town so I kinda figured there'd be a freezer raid at some point. So I was stocking up. While the girl was packing my order, I was watching this adorable little boy in line behind me. He was probably about 4 and was super excited about all the different flavors he got to choose from. He was there with his dad, which for some reason made me smile. Until he turned around and stared at me.

Boy: Is there a baby in your tummy?

(this is not the first time I've been asked this so it seriously didn't phase me. Plus this kid had the cutest little lisp so I just smiled)

Me: Nope, not anymore.

Boy: Why not?

Me: Because she got too big so she had to come out.

Boy: Why did she have to come out?

Dad: This is not a conversation I want to have with him any time soon.

Me: Oh, ok. Sorry.

Boy: Why is your tummy so fat?

Dad: Trevor! Don't be rude! I'm so sorry, miss.

Me, laughing: Oh it's ok. I guess I've just had too much ice cream.

Boy: It's a REALLY big tummy!

Dad, turning beet red and yanking the boy behind him: TREVOR! I am so, so sorry.

Bitch girl at the counter: So did you still want all three containers?


The most embarrassing part is that I was in an ice cream shop, of all places, and it was full of seemingly fit people. Nobody else in there was fat, except me. And I was ordering three fucking cartons of ice cream. Needless to say, I canceled the third and only got two, which is still embarrassing given the situation, but I just felt like shit. I was spiritually crushed by a 4 year-old. I kept smiling and reassuring the dad that it was okay, kids say the darndest things, blah blah blah, because it wasn't his fault and he was very clearly mortified. I always said that as embarrassing it is to get asked if you're pregnant when you aren't, it has to be even more embarrassing when you're the one asking.

I left there trying to hold my head high and act like I wasn't bothered. I think I deserve an Oscar for my performance, quite frankly, because I cried on the way home. I didn't eat any ice cream. Instead I told my husband the story, took some Nyquil and started blogging. Because that's the fastest way to stop being called fat, to take OTC cold medicine and sit on your ass feeling sorry for yourself.

Whatever. Baby (not in my tummy) steps.

Sweet mother of God.

There was a time when I never thought I would be a mother. Ever. I went through a period of time (basically up until Eric proposed to me) where I was literally incapable of picturing myself getting married or having children. I guess I had been through so many failed relationships and played the dating game so long that I just assumed that would be my whole life. I wasn't in love with the idea but I had come to terms with it. Then I got married, shortly after that I found out I was pregnant and my whole world turned upside down in the best way possible.

I realize that it's annoying for people who haven't experienced something to read about other people spewing their personal experiences and gushing about how wonderful something is. Oooooh, marriage is soooooo greeeeeeeeat, being a mother is sooooooo amaaaaaaaaaazing! Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! I get it. It's annoying. So you might want to stop reading now.

No, seriously though, these admittedly wonderful things are not flawless. There are some women who appear to having everything all together. They are in great shape. Their houses are spotless. They wear clothing that is both classy and on trend. Their husbands have awesome jobs and college degrees. Their hair always looks like they just stepped out of a salon. Their child(ren) are adorable and also wearing trendy and adorable clothing. They have nap schedules down to a science. They never raise their voices. They are pissing me off.

Okay, these things are not what they seem. Even these stepford mothers have bad days. They might not broadcast them to the world, but they have bad days where their hair is flat, their kids get sick and barf all over their trendy clothes, they don't have the energy to scrapbook or cook dinner so they just order pizza and leave the dishes in the sink. It happens. They might not write blogs about it, but it happens. So stop getting down on yourself. K? Thanks.

I myself have many of these days. Granted I didn't start in the same scenario as described above.... I'm seriously overweight. My house is typically pretty trashed. I wear clothing that is usually found on clearance at Target or Lane Bryant. My husband has an awesome job and a college degree, but I have neither and it makes me feel inferior. My hair always looks like crap because I am perpetually growing it out or too lazy to style it. My child is definitely adorable and is usually wearing adorable clothing, but most of it is hand-me-down or bought from a used clothing store, and I often use her cute appearance as a reason why I don't have to try as hard on my own. We almost have naps down but for 9 months there were basically no naps, which is hellish. I raise my voice... um... a lot. Like... a lot. Not necessarily at my daughter, but just in general. At the cats, at other drivers, at the radio, at myself... yeah. I do not have it all "together".

Every time someone asks me what it's like to be a mom, I immediately think to myself, "I couldn't possibly describe it", so I just say, "It's the hardest and best thing I've ever done." Which is true. Clara is the most amazing thing I've ever done in my entire life. Granted she was an unexpected surprise (don't rely on birth control alone, friends), my pregnancy was kinda crappy and my birth experience was downright traumatic, I wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. Even when she screams at me for hours because I can't figure out what will make her feel better. Even when she rips out chunks of my swiftly-graying hair. Even when she refuses to fall asleep without me rocking her for hours on end. Even when I think I'm going to go crazy and put my head through a window...  the good moments (and there are hundreds of them every single day) make up for all the unpleasant ones, ten-fold.

If you are in the market for a child, I suggest taking your time. Live your life, experience all the things you want to experience like travel or daredevil kicks, anything that you can't see yourself doing while toting a kid around with you. Don't lose heart about falling in love, because I firmly believe that people who are wonderful together will always connect sooner or later. But if you want to be a mother... please, be a mother, and be a damn good one. 

An exercise in futility: My audition for reality television

So ever since American Idol came around I have had people ask me the same general question when they find out I sing: "Oh, really? Have you ever thought about audition for American Idol or something?" And the answer is always "No, not really." There are a few reasons for this. One is that I don't appreciate that most of the talent shows on television purposely put people who are not talented on and exploit them for entertainment's sake. It's both cruel and a waste of time for anyone truly talented who went to the audition and got turned down. The other reason is that, while I know that I'm a good singer and that people (generally) enjoy my voice, I am not Christina Aguilera. I'm not a pop singer. I can't sing Mariah Carey notes without tapping into some serious operatic vibrato. I have a pleasant voice and I am a good musician, but I don't really know if anyone would buy a record of me singing. But then along came The Voice, a tv show that didn't put on terrible singers and embarrass the crap out of them.

A friend of mine had a friend who was a casting agent for the first season of this show, and I was all prepared to audition for it... and then I found out I was pregnant. So not only would I have not been allowed to compete, my stupid morning sickness wasn't really conducive to auditioning for anything (I actually missed two other really big auditions that fall because of my damn morning sickness). Ever since that first season, my good friend has been harassing me to audition for it. This year was the first time I really considered it. Eric and I talked about it and ultimately we figured that it was something I needed to at least try before dismissing it. So I did. I flew down to Los Angeles and auditioned. It went a little something like this:

First of all, can I just say that fat people get the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, but none so much as when they have to fly on an airplane. I'm not so huge that I have to buy myself two seats or anything, but I know I'm a hefty lady. I know that people are about as eager to sit next to me on a plane as they are to sit in front of a screaming, kicking toddler. But these fears are unfounded, people! I almost always cross my arms or am reading a book on top of my tray so the arm rests are all yours. I am terribly polite and would NEVER make you feel bad about getting up to use the bathroom. I never recline my seat because those extra two inches are a joke. And I don't smell. At least not usually. So if you happen to be sitting in the aisle seat of a very crowded plane and a very polite albeit fat person asks if they could sit in the middle seat next to you, do not scoff and be a rude bitch about it, otherwise you MIGHT find that the Chanel handbag you left in front of your seat gets stepped on. Just sayin'.

I got there a day early so I would have a day to rest and get prepared. And rest. I. did. I spent almost an entire day in my hotel room lying on a giant bed with a bajillion pillows, reading The Hunger Games (I did my best to hold out on this trend, but I caved when I burned through the book I brought halfway through the plane ride down). Then I spent the night with one of my old besties and her girlfriend who is, honestly, pretty damn rad. We probably stayed out a little too late and I had a kink in my neck from plane, but I still went to sleep earlier than I usually do.

The next morning I woke up at 5am. The audition was at 7 and my friend was coming to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to downtown LA. When we got there at 6:10, there were already a few hundred people in line. The way they formatted the auditions was four major cities, three days in each city, two major time slots on each day. I was in the first slot of the second day in the last city. I showed up almost an hour early and there was already that many people in line? Ugh. I knew I had a long day ahead of me. All in all there HAD to have been at least a thousand people that showed up for the first time slot, let alone the second.

I stood in line outside the building for over an hour, inching forward here and there. It was freezing outside and I didn't bring a coat because I'm one of those idiots that assumes southern California is always warm. I was surrounded by people doing their makeup, wearing insane outfits and teenagers with their parents. There were people trying to cut here and there and the stage parents were not having it, which was pretty amusing. There was a girl behind me who was 17 and with both her parents. They seemed friendly enough but very, very confident. By "confident" I mean "arrogant." Their conversation went a little like this:

Dad: Ok baby girl, when you get in there just focus on your singing. You know that your voice brings so much joy to people so just focus on the joy, baby girl, and you'll get it.

Girl: Oh, I KNOW I'm going to get it, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to make it through.

Dad: Just don't make a fool of yourself, otherwise they'll put that clip on TV and make you look like a damn fool.

Mom: Whatever makes her famous.

Yeah. This is the kind of crap I had to listen to for several hours. There was another girl who I wanted to kick directly in the teeth. She was 19 but looked 30, was from San Francisco (which probably accounted for at least half of her annoying factor), had short, bleached blonde spiky hair, and was wearing a tank top, zebra print hoodie with a zebra head on the hood, and a crap load of chains. Seriously. Chain wallet (because apparently it was 1996 at the audition), chain necklaces, leather dog collar with spikes coming out of it, and somehow she made it through the metal detector. And THAT wasn't even what made her so annoying. She kept asking everyone around in a very condescending manner, "What's your genre?" When she asked me I informed her that I didn't have a genre, I sang a lot of different things. She didn't even bother to respond and then ignored me. When I asked her what her genre was she replied, "Oh, I'm singing Madonna." Because apparently Madonna IS her own genre. Crap genre.

The other thing I noticed was that every single person I heard talking about themselves was talking about their previous audition experiences. I think I must have been one of the only people in my general vicinity who hadn't previously auditioned for American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent or The Voice. On one hand I really admire these people for tenaciously pursuing their dream of singing. And on the other hand it's pretty sad that they apparently spend so much of their life trying out for these stupid shows.

Once I actually got to the audition room (around 9:30), they took us in 10 at a time and had is sit in chairs in front of a single judge who I assume was a casting agent. He called people randomly to stand in the center of the room and sing about a minute of the song we prepared. Some of these people sounded awesome, some of them were terrible. Like this one girl who sang a Mariah Carey song that I couldn't even recognize because it was so lacking in melody and, um, pitch. Until the end. Good lord, this girl pulled out two, bonafide dog-whistle level notes and she was so proud of herself. I was trying really hard not to crack up. When it was my turn, I got up, said where I was from and went into my song. I had been really worried about what I would sing because sometimes your song choice can make or break your audition, regardless of how well you sing it. I ultimately went with "Make You Feel My Love" in the style of Adele. I probably shouldn't have picked an artist who just got a shitload of grammies because I'm sure they heard a million of her songs all weekend, but I wanted to sing something that I emotionally connected with and that made me happy. I sang this song at the wedding of my best friend who was urging me to audition, so I felt like it was appropriate. I did pretty well although at one point I spaced out and started singing in kind of a different key, and if I hadn't been the seasoned pro that I am *cough* I would have stopped and asked to start again. I kind of figured I blew it and sat down feeling angry at myself.

The 17 year-old girl who had been behind me in line with her parents was in my group, and she sang right before me. She chose "At Last", which I kind of rolled my eyes at because it's so overdone by people who try to sound older than they are. She sounded okay, but she kept changing keys, and not intentionally. However, after everyone had finished their songs, the judge asked her to come back up and sing a second song. She chose, "Listen" from Dream Girls in the style of Beyonce. It. Was. Bad. She was basically shouting and doing vocals runs that she had no business trying to do. The tone of her voice was nice but that's about all I can say. There were at least three people in our group who sounded 10 times better than she did, but lo and behold, they asked her to stay behind for a callback. That's when I started feeling really heated and I wanted to lash out and say that they only picked her because she was cute and young and it makes for good TV. And that's probably true, but I was not about to be one of the people in the lobby crying because they didn't make it. Seriously, there were people sobbing and saying things like, "They didn't hear me at my best, I have a sore throat! This isn't faaaaaaaair!" And I had to laugh.

It's true, that girl probably was chosen for television purposes rather than musical merit, but I wasn't the only person that got snubbed in that audition. I know for a fact that I am a good singer, I know even better singers than me who have been turned down for TV competitions. I didn't leave feeling defeated because I had approximately 45 Facebook comments from people wishing me good luck and sending me votes of confidence on my ability. I have performed too many times and heard too many good things to let ONE audition make me feel inadequate.

And after all that, I got to spend the rest of the day and night with friends who I hadn't seen in years, drinking during the day and shopping without a child barfing down the front of my shirt. We went to the ocean, we ate Indian food, we played card games and word games and even sang Christmas songs from high school. It was a total nerd's weekend and I had an amazing time, whether I became a TV star or not.

On the plane ride home I sat next to a young Asian guy who looked apprehensive at sitting next to a fat lady... until I offered him some of my licorice. See? There are perks to being polite to the fatties.

An aversion to all things poopy

Anyone who thinks they had a worse day than I had is wrong.   ....Okay, maybe yours was worse if you lost a family member or had to have a foot amputated or something of that nature, but otherwise I win. Or lose, depending on how you look at it.

The last 7 months have been wrought with minor meltdowns on my part. Lack of sleep, frustration with a baby who just don't understand what you're saying (because she's, you know, a baby), dealing with feelings of loneliness in the transition from socializing adult to home-bound hermit. There has been crying, yelling, throwing of things, screaming into pillows, and a general stank attitude on many occasions. Plenty of meltdowns to be had. Yesterday was probably the worst one.

So Clara has been teething which isn't fun, for her or me. She has been generally crabby and inconsolable for the last few days and I am reaching the end of my rope. I always hear from people that "some babies have a harder time with teething than others", and if I ever meet someone whose child wasn't at all phased by teething I will seriously kick them in the shins. And why are baby teeth so painful anyway? They're just these teeny tiny little bone spurs, essentially, and they fall out in 5 to 10 years. What a friggin' waste. Anyway. She was really cranky yesterday and I was frustrated.

Her newest move is the alligator roll. Whenever I try to change her diaper, as soon as I take off the dirty diaper and go to put a new one on, she rolls onto her belly. This is not easy to deal with on a changing table because she almost always nearly falls off. When she has a poop diaper this is particularly problematic because she rolls and the poop gets eeeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyywwwwwwwhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrreeeeeeee. On her, on me, on the changing table, on her clothes, on the new diaper. It's awful and it's one of the most frustrating things I've ever dealt with. I've tried giving her things to hold while I change her diaper but she just holds them and rolls with them so she ends up lying on them. I've tried keeping her attention upward with a mobile, with things on the wall, with singing, nothing works. This scene is simply destined to repeat itself. Yesterday she had two awful poop diapers that this happened with. Two outfits, two changing table covers, two baths, two shirts for me. And that wasn't the end.

Clara was playing in the living room and I thought I smelled poop, so I checked her diaper and it was clean. A few minutes later I look down at my feet (I had been sitting on the couch because sitting on the floor hurts my back after a few minutes), and Clara was sitting in front of a big pile of glop. She held her hand up in pure delight and I saw that she was grasping a huge hunk of something green. I looked down and saw that it was poop. She was holding a chunk of poop. Then I looked at the glop and realized it was poop, too. And none of it was hers. Eventually I surmised that it belonged to one of my cats. He must have gotten sick and had a huge, disgusting accident right in front of me and I didn't even realize it, and now my daughter was playing in it. I scooped her up and put her in the sink and washed off her hand, then put her in her crib so I could clean up the mess without her getting into it again. Only since she was so cranky, as soon as I walked out of the room she just sat up in her crib sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs. I cleaned the poop mess up the best I could, gagging the whole time, and brought her out into her hair chair, hoping that she would be happier if she could see me.

At this point I wanted to vacuum the rest of the floor because I had discovered a second pile of poop. Our carpet is shaggy and brown so things that I don't want to step have a tendency to just blend in. I wanted to vacuum and make sure there were no other surprises.

As I put Clara in her high chair, I saw a very large gathering of ants underneath it. Great. I strapped her in, grabbed the Swiffer Wet Jet and got started on killing and cleaning up the piles of ants. Unfortunately, some of Clara's toys that were on the floor had ants on them (curse me and my laziness for not picking them up the night before!), so I brushed them off and gave them to her to play with while I kept cleaning. When I was done with the floor I looked at her and saw that her whole food tray was covered in ants, and there were a bunch crawling on her, too.

Are you sympathizing with me yet? No? Then get out.

I stripped her down, cleaned her off, cleaned the chair off, all with her shrieking and screaming and being generally upset with me, and I decided I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to call the husband.

Eric knows how stubborn I am and he knows that I only ask for help about 3 seconds before I am about to literally fall into a heap on the floor, so he came straight home and took over for me while I lay on the bed crying. He walked up and down the hall with Clara, looking at photos and talking quietly, changed her next diaper and got her dressed to go to her grandpa's house, and he even offered to let me have some beers with dinner, which is a VERY generous offer in our household. So I guess that I can take comfort in the fact that my day at least ended in a nice note, even though most of it was shitty. Pun intended.

Temper tantrums

When I read that quote by Rick Santorum saying that single mothers were the reason for the welfare system failing, or something equally absurd and bigoted, it really upset me. I hate when people feel the need to alienate an entire group of people and blame them for something that is completely out of their hands and isn't remotely true. But I was especially upset because this week I've been getting a glimpse of what it's like to be a single mom, and it is really fucking hard. (I would like to take this opportunity to say that I usually try to tone down the swearing in this blog because my grandma usually reads it, and although she is the queen of creative swear words, I'm sure she doesn't like to know that her youngest granddaughter has a potty mouth. But on this matter, I simply can't help myself. Sorry Grandma!)

Being a mom is really, really hard. I'm sure that anyone reading this who doesn't have children is probably sick of me posting about my kid, but you will have to get over it and bear with me. Talking incessantly about their children is just what happens when one becomes a mother. Sucks to be you. Being a mom is really hard. A mom of one, two, five, seven, it only gets more difficult the more there are, I imagine. Michelle Duggar is either a saint or a masochist...although I suppose when the age gap between kids is 20 years, the older ones can eventually help the younger... anyway. HARD. REALLY HARD. And I'm married and am fortunate enough to be able to stay home full-time with my baby. Being a single mom who has to work? Oy. I couldn't handle it.

Eric has been out of town this entire week. He is on the coast for work and the commute is too far to be practical, so he's staying in a hotel while I go it alone. I typically take care of Clara for the majority of the day, but I have to say, when Eric comes home in the evening it a huge relief to be able to have him hold Clara for a few minutes at least while I pee, cook, shower, SOMETHING that doesn't involve a chubby bunny ripping out handfuls of my swiftly-graying hair or barfing down my shirt. So far it's been going okay, until today.

I knew something was amiss when Clara didn't wake up until 10am. She usually wakes me up between 6 and 7am, so I really enjoyed my morning, but didn't expect it to last. The rest of the day was rather uneventful. There were no naps, because there are never any naps, but we had some quality play time crawling around the house together and both grandmas stopped by for a visit, so that was a rare treat. Sometime around 9 everything fell apart. Clara started screaming for no apparent reason and was uncontrollably crabby and slightly hysterical for at least two hours after that. I was trying to get her to bed for her 9:30 bedtime and she was having none of it. I tried every trick in the book; rocking, singing, bouncing, swinging, everything the damn Baby Whisperer guy suggested except swaddling, because she's too tall for that. NOTHING. By 11pm I was getting pretty crabby myself. And then the problem presented itself. A toxic poop diaper.

Let me just say that no poopy diapers are fun, but lately Clara's have been especially foul. Almost every single one manages to leak out of the diaper and drip down her legs, up her back and it causes a really arduous and disgusting clean-up process for me. Add that to the fact that she usually only has 2 a day and today she had 6, well, this one sucked. Her pajamas were ruined. The carpet has a puddle of poop juice where she had been sitting. The changing pad cover was toast. My shirt was covered. Her legs and back and tummy and hands were coated. And when I tried to undress her she was trashing around and almost fell off the changing table, and the stupid cats were attacking each other and clawing my legs and feet... I lost it. I took the tube of diaper cream and chucked it at the wall, I flung the cats off me, I hastily threw away her dirty jammies and the changing table cover, and started sobbing. I was begging Clara to cooperate, to hold still while I got her cleaned up, praying to God to give me patience to deal with all the crap. No pun intended. Ok, pun intended. It wasn't a pretty sight.


And an hour later, she still wasn't asleep.

So, aside from getting you to all feel sorry for me, the point is that I don't know how women do this alone.  I am by myself for a week and basically had a nervous breakdown. So for anyone, especially some closed-minded politician, to accuse single mothers of being the ruination of any facet of our country's economic system....   well, I'd like to send them one of Clara's toxic diapers.

A lesson in love

So today is Valentine's Day. Or, as my husband and I call it (because we purposely mispronounce words all the time.... I hope my daughter doesn't grow up stupid), Balentime's day. There seem to be two camps on this day every year since I can remember: for or against. Love is great or love stinks. Happy couples or bitter single people who feel like the world is out to get them for being single. I have always kind of been in the middle. I think love is wonderful, but I also know how shitty it feels to be single, not wanting to be, and having to see everyone around you going on dates and getting chocolates and whatever just because it's February 14th. Personally, I've never really understood what the big deal is either way.

I mean sure, my junior high boyfriend and I proclaimed our "anniversary" to be on Valentine's day, and if I happened to have a boyfriend at that time later in life it was always nice to get a card or a present or something. But otherwise I don't get it. Why is it so important on this ONE day of the year to feel like your significant other loves you? What about all the other days? I don't think forced frivolities or guilt-ridden gifting is especially meaningful. But I also don't understand why people feel like they need to crawl into a hole and die just because they're single.

A friend of mine always tells me how lucky I am to be married. And she's right, I am lucky, but not for the reason she thinks. She said I'm lucky to be married because I can stop looking for the right guy and that I always have someone there for me. That's true. She also mentioned how it must be nice to never have to worry about someone asking me out for a date or getting me a birthday gift or a Christmas gift and that I'll always have something special for Valentine's day. Uh.... well... in theory.

Let me preface this by saying that my husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. He works his ass off to provide for our family. He always listens to my bitching, and when I'm feeling depressed he lets me cry on his chest until I calm down, and he never judges me for it. He tells me every single day that I'm beautiful (even though I'm like 75 pounds heavier than when we started dating and usually only get to shower two or three times a week since Clara was born) and how much he appreciates me. He is a great husband. But he doesn't give a shit about holidays. And that's ok, because I love them enough for the both of us. However, I've never gotten a birthday, Christmas, anniversary or Valentine's gift in the nearly 5 years we've been together. He has financially supported me through pretty much that entire time, and he's always generous in every day life (with me AND my family... pretty much everything I've ever asked for he's gotten me at some point), so a present on a holiday doesn't really mean anything to me, so it's no big deal. But my point is that marriage doesn't automatically make Valentine's day more magical.


The myth:
A husband will send his wife a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He will have picked out some lavish gift, probably jewelry, and planned an elaborate scheme for her to discover it, like having it tied to the dog's collar and having the dog deliver it to her feet. He will take her out for an expensive and romantic dinner where they will hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes and, after sharing a dessert sprinkled with edible gold dust, go home and have crazy passionate sex featuring a special lingerie number the wife picked out, because that's her gift to her husband.

My truth:
A wife will spend the day taking care of a sick baby who not once, not twice, but three times had poop diapers that leaked into the wife's lap. Her husband comes home bearing a box of Girl Scout cookies he bought from the daughter of a guy he works with. Thin Mint, of course. He kisses the wife on the cheek and then takes over baby duties from the wife. She then cooks a half-assed dinner of steak and zucchini, does a half-assed cleaning job and starts a half-assed load of laundry. The couple then argues about who will change the latest poopy diaper. The wife wins. The husband goes to bed. The wife stays up with the baby until the baby falls asleep. Then she watches "Dance Moms" while eating Thin Mints and drinking coconut milk, trying to figure out what the big deal is about this holiday.

I think a friend of mine really put it best:

 "I just want to say that although I love the gift of flowers and See's candy, I'm even more thankful that each day my husband gives me the gift of not being a douchebag. You can't buy that at the mall."