I know what I said, but...

...I have some word vomit.

So, whether it is a good thing or a bad thing-here is a post.

I have a little downtime today so, yep.

Observations on swimsuits.

First of all, they are required in most pools. But the ocean doesn't mind.
Which made me consider not taking one on the trip.
A woman who goes to Florida without a swimsuit? Blasphemy you say?

No, sanity, actually.

You see...while I have preached on about mirror avoidance-when you have to be in front of people other than your awesome husband in Lycra and spandex-ON PURPOSE...the mirror is kind of important. You have to try on the things and look at the "things" in the mirror to make sure that you don't look like someone might mistake you for-say a---beached whale or because it is Florida...a manatee or something. But, here's how I know that I won't be mistaken. My Lycra water resistant material and fat container is actually black with white polka dots. You don't see many whales or manatees for that matter- with polka dots...the the likelihood of that is at least...slim. (unlike me...in a swimsuit-or clothes...or skin)
Sigh.

I mean...what is the deal with swimsuits? They don't hide anything. They actually accentuate things that you don't want accentuated. Like FAT. Like creases, like dimples, and worst of all...cottage cheese. This is cellulite, for those of you who don't know-and,  By the way...I hate you.

So my thinking was that I could totally get away without taking one...
I can do the full sundress in the ocean, yeah?

Ok, ok....I know I need to take the damn thing. I know because there could be a pool at some point. Hopefully I can stay away from people. Or maybe I could just paint myself green and go as the creature from the black lagoon? With polka dots.
I'm fat....not un-stylish.

The mirror was cruel. As always.

I'm sorta kidding, by the way. I know how absolutely frightening I look in a swimsuit-but anyone who doesn't want to look...doesn't have to.
I will be wearing my dots proudly and hoping to avoid fisherman's nets.

And the diet is still not going well. I'm considering speaking with my doctor about a pill, maybe. Something to help. Because just eating right (and mostly not eating right) is not working. I haven't lost a pound. Not even one.
I haven't gained anything-so there's that. But while I have lost a lot through my life-weight is not one of those things.
But, I did have a nice lunch today. A vinaigrette quinoa bowl with veggies. It was actually pretty tasty-low cal, low carb, high protein, heart healthy.
But, I haven't been doing that everyday. And therein lies the problem.

And I'm sure while on vacation...I won't be good, even with effort. Sigh.

So, what I am planning on is this...until I speak with the doctor.

Swimsuit-check.
Mirror-check.
Full body mirror selfie in said polka dot monstrosity-check.
Post on fridge (as soon as we get home from Florida)

That should keep me in...... Check.

Ok, probably not-but there are worse ways.

I actually split the leg of my shorts from last year when I put them on today.

#thestruggleisreal.

XOXO,
Bathing (not so) beauty.

In Four Days...

...I go to Florida.

Not the rapper who wants his whistle blown and wants girls to come to his house.

The actual state.

My step daughter is getting married and it's going to be a great 5 days.
But I have to fly. Yay.
I'm um...not a good flyer. That anxiety thing, and all.

So, in case you were wondering why I haven't posted much-there you are. Busy fat girl.

And I lost my part time job last week...it ends on May 4th.

Go me.

Between job hunting and getting ready for the trip and a plethora of other duties...it's been a crazy few weeks.


So, nothing profound or really even interesting to post. Although, I am taking my laptop-so there may be a possibility of a post while in the sunshine state- on any downtime I may have. With pics.

The job hunt resumes next week.
I got my toes did today...all Frenchie style and beach ready.
And bought all of our travel necessities tonight...including a slew of magazines to distract me from the fact that I am 50, 000 feet above the ground and hurtling through air with no net.
Tomorrow..I download a bunch of music to the phone (AKA) another distraction...
And I color my grey away.

Hey, if I can't be a healthy size 16...I can at least look younger.

If you don't hear much...it's because...adulting.

I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue...

XOXO,
knuckler-girl

I'm totally at a...

...standstill.

The diet isn't going well. And I wish I had a reason for it. My first concept was...weather.
Yeah, weather.

We all want spring. We all want it to come-for real. Not just throw us a bone for one or two days with warmth and sun-but come, unpack the bags, and fucking stay put.
And believe it or not-weather helps.

1. When it's warm and sunny you want to do more. So you actually do. You move. As for me, I don't belong to any indoor gym. I don't like them, for one...and for another-I probably wouldn't go as often as I need to, to justify the cost. Know thyself. So, I need nicer weather to want to actually do the things.
2. When you are indoors more...you get bored. And what follows boredom? Eating. Unnecessary eating. Snacking and then feeling bad about snacking. And then feeling bad because you feel bad. It's all so 80's cocaine commercial. Yeah, I said it.
3. Nice weather brings a lack of clothing. Shorts, tanks, etc...And typically when people dress-they look in the mirror. And what have I told you people about mirrors? Avoid, right? Well...sometimes you can't, sadly. And when you see your blobby arms and jabba-gut and cottage cheese, dimpled legs, and double chin (that you can't hide behind a turtleneck like you do in winter)...it's a motivator. When you can hide body parts under winter clothing...it's much easier to have a positive self image. Warmer months-hide nothing.

But even the cruel bitch, mother nature cannot take the blame for poor food choices. You know, when you have a nice lunch with your husband at a local Chili's. And you see all of the guiltless grill choices and you know, you chose Chili's for that reason alone-the abundance of the things that are better for you. Smart choices, so to speak. And, you look it over and see the chili lime chicken for like 280 calories, or a nice salad. And you fucker that whole plan up by ordering a buffalo chicken sandwich with extra ranch dressing and a side of French fries. You know...that shit is NOT Mother Nature's fault. It just isn't. Fatty fat fat...that is ALL you.

That said, I can't figure it out-but I just keep sabotaging myself.

I'm like a fat version of Inspector Gadget. Go go Gadget liposuction!

And the thing is...I know that I have time lose this weight. It's not about vanity anymore. It's about my existence. It's life and death. Or life and needles and glucose meters, and test strips and sugar free baked goods.
Have you tasted sugar free cookies anything? It tastes like gross. I don't have a more eloquently description...it just tastes like fucking gross.

I admit, I am frustrated.

But that buffalo chicken sandwich was so goddamned good. I seriously did not take a breath while eating. It's called vacuuming...and it's a real thing. Or maybe not. Wait, it is...and I know this because...I did it. Today. At lunch.

I didn't eat the fries, though. Go me. Ugh.

I guess that I need more than others for Mother Nature to take her damn meds and get right. Sunshine and warm temps. Because even if I sometimes make a bad choice, I will have to put on a sundress at some point...and I don't have regular spanx. I have lycra and super industrial shape wear. Putting these things on are similar to stuffing a sausage.

The casing...VS my lumpy fat, a battle royale in the octagon. My fat usually wins by submission hold.  It's not pretty. I could totally see Amy Schumer doing a bit in one of her movies similar to it-I
I could be rich. Large...but rich.

If it wasn't NSFW, I would totally record myself putting them on just for the comedy. No shame in my game. It's hee-larious.

And if I have to put on the damn dress and squeeze into that shapewear...it's another motivator. Cause fuck shapewear. I like breathing. It's fun.

So, the conclusion is this.
1. Weather needs to change, and change permanently...not just a few days at a time-teasing us like some little tart from that book by Nabakov.
2. I have to figure out a way to make better choices. And this is just strictly will power, which I have none of. Ugh.
3. Look in mirrors more.
4. Put on my Spanx more.
5. Watch a butcher actually make sausage.
6. Watch YouTube videos on insulin injection.

And that should totally do it.

Hmmm...I totally didn't intend to make this entire post about my loathing of lycra, but here we are.

Yep.

Wishful eating.

XOXO,
Connor McGregor-UFC badass.

The Struggle....

...is real.

Because, the story of my Life is told in images.

Good times.

PS...hope your Monday doesn't suck, cause they typically do in some way.

More later.

XOXO,
Chubby.

When Herman Melville Died...

...he was so penniless and forgotten that in his obituary, they called him Henry Melville.

I write.
You have read it, here. So, you know.

Sometimes I use sarcasm to be funny and even-shocking.
But, my point always gets there.

For many years in my late 20's to mid 30's I wanted to make a career out of this writing, and aspired to be a fictional character by name of Carrie Bradshaw. Yes, I know. As I said...she is fictional. But, while Candace Bushnell may have written her-it was the life of a character I wanted, and not the life of the writer.
I wanted to live in a big city, wear fashions that stunned on the big city sidewalks. I wanted to wear $1200. a pair Christian Louboutin's and drink Cosmopolitans and have this amazing group of friends with equally successful careers and money to burn.
I wanted an alternate life. Far removed from where I was-literally.
At the time, I measured only the bleak portrait on the outside looking in.
Single mom, lonely, man-less, poor, living in government supplied housing and sadly enough, following a local band on the weekends for a social life.
Bleak.

I wanted the life of a fabulous writer. And the talent to pull it off.
I wanted to be the newly crowned J.K. Rowling and re-invent myself.

Obviously, it didn't happen.

Things turned out much differently for me.

Hold on a minute-before you find me pretty and ungrateful...I never said I regretted anything. I don't.
I happen to love my life, for the most part. There are always if's and's and but's...
BUT...in the greater scheme of things-my life is pretty good for the most part. The things that suck, are mostly of my own doing and I am trying to fix them.

But writing.

It really never left me. The word vomit, as I so eloquently call it-always seems to stick, like bad velcro.
So, I make words and my world (write about what you know, they say) on an online diary. This blog, and many others.

Also, I am writing a novel, fiction, horror-suspense in a Sandford or Koontz style.
Lots of violence, language, and shock factor.
Not what Carrie would write, I'm sure. But because a lot of my life has been a horror story...it fit.
And as I write, I think about why I ever developed a talent for something that won't make me rich, or famous, or even known?
They call us starving artists for a reason, I guess.

The point is...
For all of my want of the spotlight for all of these years, I realized it didn't matter.
I write the blather for me, and whatever cathartic properties it lends to my soul and my heart.

And someday when I publish-(probably self publish) I will dedicate the words to my son and all of you-the few that read this blog and wonder about me, and why I am like I am. And why I say the things I say, and do the things I do. The genuine interest and curiosity of the people who take time for all of this word vomit.
The non famous word vomit.
The penniless word vomit.
The unknown word vomit.

The promise of something else. Even if I don't care either way.

Thanks readers...for finding me non-famous. But loving me anyway.

Just make sure, friends...that you clean up the mess after you visit.
Vomit can leave an odor.

XOXO,
Henry Melville.

So...I'm watching this show...

...called Unveiled.

It's on Netflix, and there's nothing else remotely interesting there, tonight, and hubby is at band practice.
I would never watch this with him around...mostly because. Sigh. Judgment.

And he would be right to judge.
Cause...it is ridiculous.

Basically, it's about these soon to be married ladies who are so ridiculously uncomfortable with their appearance that they resort to thousands of dollars in plastic surgery on needless things...
"Like...Oh my gawd...my hairline is too high-my forehead is HUGE."
"Ugh...I'm a size two, but I had a baby and my stomach has some extra skin!"
"Eeks...I have dark circles under my eyes...and I need hundreds of hours of dermabrasion laser therapy to erase them!"

And all I can think while watching is-I'm fat.

Ok, here's the deal. I'm a chubby chick because I put myself here. My love for food and abject laziness far outweighs my love for looking hot.
I had years to look hot. I did, actually. I appreciate that.
My 20's were a blur of sexy clothes and heels and beauty.
(LOL) Yeah, right.
I was a little above average at best-but still far removed from my 46 year old self.
What used to be low cut cropped tops and low rise jeans with coiffed hair and piles of makeup-is now a local brewery tye dye, plus sized mom jeans and brown loafers-sans any makeup. I hate makeup. I was never good with it, and honestly-a lot of it never suited me. I always felt like a bad imitation of Tammy Faye Bakker with better hair when I wore it. It was all just...sigh...too complicated. And I'm lazy. I have always been...even when I was young. I never understood women who spent hours applying makeup-it's just so involved. 

Here's the thing, though...
When I was a bride, I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I was chubby, sure. But nothing like the Jabba-esque woman you see before you. But, still...I never even considered plastic surgery to enhance or change myself. And like I said-above average looks at best, here.
I cannot imagine what makes a woman see herself in pieces like that.
Who worries about their forehead? I mean...unless you are the Bride of Frankenstein, or something. If there are no fucking bolts on the side of your neck and you can form full sentences...you are golden, in my book.
Size two...and you want a tummy tuck? And weeks before your wedding?
Are you serious?
Is this piecing apart of your natural looks necessary? Nope. You are all either-1. Insecure as hell. 2. Batshit. or 3. Shallow and Vain.
I mean, haven't you women ever heard of Instagram filters?

I can't see another way around it, folks.

My husband, bless his dark little heart, is truly a real man.
And I say this because-no matter what I look like, he's all in. There is no wishing I looked more like...
Or wanting me to lose like 5-10...
Or comparing me to his ex girlfriends-most of whom were vapid, skinny little assholes.

He loved me when we first got together, and I was just pushing a size 16.
He loved me when we got married and I was pushing a size 18.

And he loves me now...when I am pushing a size 20-22.
I still wear a size 16 dress. Don't ask me how that's possible. but I just bought one and it is in fact a size 16. Winning.

But jeans? (throws head back and laughs maniacally)

The most depressing shopping ever.
Ever.
Everrrrrr.

But this fat blob hanging from my mid section, while amorphous and sad...is mine. I earned that bitch. Carbs 101, and I am taking you to school, ladies.
And although I DO need to shape up and I know this...it is not for vanity's sake.
It's purely a health thing.
And, well, OK... while I would like to have a reason to buy that La Perla Chemise, and actually look...okay...in it, I'm not ever willing to go to the extreme of plastic surgery to take that amorphous little buddy away.

First of all...I AM batshit, we have already covered this.
And secondly, anxiety-I don't do sedation. Or General anesthesia (ugh...I hate that word, for two reasons...one I always have to spell check it and never spell it right-super annoying, and two-because, NO. There is no place on this planet where I feel comfortable with letting someone knock me out and cut me. Who does this?
Apparently...weirdos who go on reality shows who struggle with societal pressure of what's normal, or good?
I can't. 

Look, you gotta come to grips with self. And you gotta love it. I do. Like I said...I worked hard for this body.
It's imperative.

In some way, you have to love your little buddies.
Your fat lumps, skin tags, sun freckles (not the cancer kind...go see a dermatologist, dumbass) and large, looming, hairlines.
You gotta work with what God gave you.

Weight can go away naturally. Meaning-no surgery needed. Diet, and exercise. The extra skin and even stretch marks are what make you a
bad ass. These things are a mark of battle...and you must wear them proudly.
Stay healthy, out of the tanning bed, and be happy with yourself...because if I have said it 1000 times, I'll keep saying it-anyone worth it, will love it too.
And stay. And he or she will be your little buddy too.


No, I am NOT comparing your significant others to a skin tag, although...I know some people who come pretty fuckin' close.

Now, Before I wrap up...Ill preface with this-YES. I too struggle with insecurity-every Goddamned day. But, I can usually shut my insecurity up with chocolate-and mirror-avoidance. And at the end of the day, my husband lays in bed with me-even on the hardest of days and tells me he loves my blob, loves my chunky thighs, and my HUGE ass. He usually makes a smart ass comment in complaint that he doesn't see enough of any of these things, but he knows what's up.

And to those ladies who may not have a significant other...and you struggle with these things on your own-remember this. I was 42 when I got married. I was fat, insecure, lonely, clingy, desperate, AND a single mother.
There's Hope for everyone of you.

Trust me.

If someone was willing to marry me...with all of this baggage, figuratively, and literally-then, well, there is someone for you.
Fat you.
Skinny you.
Forehead you could view a map on, you.

My point is-You don't have to mutilate what was given you to make any of it happen either-and when women stop caring and start thinking this way. The men will follow-because trust me, jerking off gets boring after awhile, and because calluses are a thing, I guess?

I mean, You spent decades fighting for equal rights and all of this feminism horseshit. Take advantage of that freedom for one second, and love thyself.
There is no greater love, afterall.
You just gotta figure that out.

Be you. Uniquely, and wonderfully you.

As for me, I'll just be over here avoiding mirrors and buying new spanx.

XOXO,
Jadedgirl.

So carbs....

...are trying to kill me.

Literally and figuratively.

The other day, I was eating a delicious piece of baguette from Panera.

It was small...relax.
And I was eating it with a strawberry poppyseed chicken salad-which was good for me.

Don't judge.

Anyway, the piece of bread was delicious...with the right amount of snap and crusty on the outside and delicious soft gluteny goodness inside. Basically, what Panera does best-the perfect baguette.
I was thoroughly enjoying this combo when suddenly-the crust of the bread separated on one spot and literally pinched the corner of my mouth-drawing blood.
No, I'm not exaggerating.

It made me bleed.

This delicious thing, which I practically worship and love so much-attacked me.
Now I feel like a victim in my own home.

A victim of a vicious carbohydrate attack-an unwarranted one.
I reasoned that maybe it was self defense, I mean...I was EATING it.
But still.
Doesn't a true carb live its whole life to please me? Sustain me? Fatten me?
GIVE ME FUCKING DIABETTUS.

#imoffended.

No but really...you have addicted me with your flava' and your wonderfullness and now...you make me bleed too?
So whatever, asshole bread.
You are dead to me.

Ok, not really...but, still- if I don't chill on the carbs they will either reverse "rolls" (yeah, I did that on purpose)  and eat ME, or they will turn my blood into a lake of sugary sludge that I will fall into and from whence there is no return.

So carbs are trying to eat me.

#i likehashtagsbecausetheylooklikewaffles
#wafflesarecarbstoo
#lowcarbspaghettiisan"impasta"

XOXO,
Breadgirl.

  

So there I was-Posting....

...a Facebook status update.

The post was about friendship.

I have friends. Who doesn't? Ok, maybe some people don't have friends...like The Grinch, and Scrooge, and Satan, and Donald Trump. Wait...Satan and Trump are the same person. My bad.
You get my point though, right?

Years ago, I was given a nickname. My nickname-Mother T.

Reason being, because I acted a lot like the mom figure of the group of misfits I was surrounding myself with at the time and because...Sigh...I am NO nun. (It's a dumb and ironic moniker all at once, work with me)
Anyway, the person who gave me this nickname was a local musician. Someone I really did consider a friend. He was the very reason I met my son's father and really...a large part in why I have my Bubba.
Mostly because he introduced us and the rest is history.

I can barely stand my son's fathers stupid face now-but that's entirely another post.

Speaking of stupid faces, I no longer like the guy who gave me the nickname, either.

Therein lies the point of the post. False fucking friends.

Years ago, this local musician-who fancies himself to be a "local legend" (Yeah, he actually does)
He was a nice person at the time. He was genuine at the time. He was mostly good looking at the time. And he was talented. Local legend, Ugh. Ok, maybe-for some accomplishments, sure. He's been in the Peoria area music scene since he was around 16. He has been in some pretty good bands with large followings. But, truthfully...there are better out there. Many better.
Despite his ego, and chasing away many other former band members due to this ego problem (which we will delve into more here in just a bit)-he alienated a lot of people.
We all dealt with it for some reason. Reasons to this day, I am still legit baffled by.

Something happened about 10 years ago that soured me, finally. My eyes were opened pretty quickly about the type of person he really is.
The shitty, ego maniacal, false faced jerkwad he really is.

Let's just say he got a little handsy and violent with another friend when he was drunk. All because when he asked for her opinion of his new band, she was honest...
Her opinion, by the way wasn't just hers-it was also mine and many others. As a matter of fact, when he asked me the same question earlier in the night-I said pretty much the same thing my friend did. That they sounded like shit.
Not because of his guitar playing, or really any of the music-but because of the singer-who sounded akin to a warbling Quaalude popping slowed down 45 record sounding version of a David Draven wannabe (that's the singer for the band Disturbed, fyi) was there leading the charge. When I say this guy was bad, I mean...there are not enough cotton balls in the multiverse to absorb the amount of blood streaming from the audiences collective ears.
I'm not exaggerating. The guy sucked. The worst part? He thought he was great. Every posture on stage, every belting scream sounding similar to sacrificing a goat (where is Trump when we need him?), every flirtatious gesture to a front row lady.
It was really all so pathetic.
But there it was.
When I gave my opinion (much kinder than the one above) Don't sugar coat it honey, tell us how you really feel.
He shrugged me off, rudely. But, like I said...EGO. If you didn't want to know, douche-canoe-why for the love of God, did you ask?
Validation is a funny thing as they say.
What a sad, sad, little man he was...and frankly...still is.
So, when my friend was asked the same question and she kindly gave her honest opinion...he snapped. He screamed at her in front of a large group of people, embarrassing her-and even going on the defensive-berating her. Then he grabbed her, and shoved her off the stage. She fell.
He laughed at her from above, and the rest of the nasty sheep around him did as well. (baaa baaaa...it sounded so familiar)
Needless to say, I saw this from across the room, and ran over to help her.
And in turn...(pick on someone your own size, fucker) Went OFF on him.
I explained-not very nicely, I might add that I would literally fuck him UP if he ever put his hands on a woman in my presence again-let alone THIS woman, who never did anything but adore this guy, worship this guy, and help this guy. She had a crush on him for literally years, and he always dismissed her as chattel. And she always put up with it. He even went so far as to call her pathetic once because of her adoration and devotion to him. He spat on her loyalty, and repaid her by embarrassing her and putting hands on her in front of an entire audience.
NOPE.
That was enough for me.
I set him straight in front of the same group of people who had just laughed at my friend and with my finger in his face-I explained (not at all calmly) that I was done with him...and she should be too, and that unless he came back with a genuine apology to her, that we would never come to his shows again, and last but not least...that I would literally hospitalize him if he ever acted violently like that-to a friend and especially a woman. He backed away, because he's not stupid. A losery rock star wannabe, but not stupid.

I have never been to one of his "shows" since.
I have not spoken one word to him since.

My friend...not so much. She still follows him. He handed her this pseudo- apology that was neither genuine, or absolute. But, she took it and convinced herself that this was good enough.
I'm not nearly as forgiving, as you can tell. So...fuck that guy.

So, from the book of face, I see that rockstar wannabe is moving to another state to pursue a real career in music. He's almost 50 years old, by the way.

It's laughable at best.

And because he needs so badly to feel validated in his pursuits he held his own going away party. Yep. He threw his own party.
It was a reunion of sorts with many of the band mates and friends he used to play with. And a lot of these guys are still to this day, great friends of mine.
My invitation was declined, as you can imagine.
And a good number of people showed up to see him off.
Although...I can't totally be sure that they were there to secretly be happy he is leaving...or because they are sad to see him go.
I think honestly that so many people are so snowed by his fake facade face that most were sad. And this was precisely what my Facebook post was about today.
Fake, false, counterfeit, frenemies.

I can't with this.

I value those who are there, always...not just when it seems like they get some benefit from it.
But, it just goes to show you...stupid IS as stupid DOES, and sheep will be sheep.

My friend is the exception, though. And I'll explain why.
I work in absolutes.
When I am done with you, that pretty much sums it up
But, she has a kinder soul than I do. Which has helped me in many ways as well. We have always gravitated back to each other, even when I fuckered it all up-which was typical of me in my younger days.
I didn't always deserve her, truth be told. And neither does that guy.
But, if that's the way she chooses to be, probably good for me...just in case. More power to her, I say.
As for me. Nope.

Fuck that guy.
Nickname giver, baby daddy introduction giver, or not. (Which I could turn that around and say...thanks a lot douche.) But because I got my boy out of the deal, I feel like it wasn't all bad...even though baby daddy is an asshole of epic proportions.

My issue here is the people who are still so blind to this wannabe's bullshit. They only like him because they believe it gives them some sort of VIP status.
You know, because having VIP in Pekin Illinois is the creme de la creme of accomplishments. Once you get past the cloud of meth, I guess...hey...it's really somethin'
Ok, not really.

The flock mentality of some people is just the worst. And honestly probably why Satan is president. Don't blame me, I voted for Elmo. He's ticklish, you know.

Either way- I have friends. Go me.
And the friends I have have proven to be loyal and genuine. And truly care about me, and my family and my general well being. And anything less than that isn't worth it. Including that guy.

I guess I just wish that more people understood what real friendship is supposed to be about and to be careful who you surrounding yourselves with. People who suck don't get the privilege of being my pal. And everyone should be thinking the same way. Even with a big heart...you gotta shelter it sometimes, because there is always someone out there ready and willing to take advantage of it.

And as far as me...well...I have many mottos in life. But here's the one that pertains to this post especially:

"I'd rather be an honest asshole, than a well-liked liar."

Don't let the door hit you on your way out, old "friend"

XOXO,
Jadedgirl.

Anxiety...

ain't for sissies...

Ooh. Two posts in one day. How, you say? How IS this possible?

I have word vomit days-it is what it is. I may, or may not surprise you occasionally with more than one post-dependent on my mood, and ambition.

Today, you are getting it twice. The words that every married man wants to hear...
Wrong context...get yer minds out of the gutter.

And now, word regurgitation.

So about a year ago, my hubby started meditating. Yeah, I laughed too.
My original thought was: Oh God...not this hippy dippy flake-fest. Anything but this.
But, he liked it. And it really did seem to lessen his stress levels a bit. It was noticeable enough. But, I was still me. Cynical. A bitch.


Then I had the heart attack.

And I learned one of the factors was my anxiety. I was actually diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder after speaking with the hospital head-shrinker while being treated for my heart attack. I was leading a life of fear...to quote the lady. She was ridiculous.
She suggested pills, of course and you can imagine what my response to that was. I wasn't very nice. But then again, I rarely am.

So, when released from the hospital-after 7 long days...
I knew among the diet and lifestyle changes, I had to also figure out something with the stress and anxiety-but was coming up empty. You know, you just get to a point where you figure-this is me. This is my life, and this is how I am, and there isn't anything I can do to change it. I knew I could change the diet and exercise portion of the shit show-but the mental issues. Many others have tried, and failed miserably. I was dealing with acceptance, and the acceptance wasn't good in this case. I was starting to now feel depressed because I figured...this is it. I either take crazy pills, or I die. The anxiety will eventually do me in-and that's the way it is.
Not good.

So, here we are-anxious about being anxious.  Anxious about my heart, anxious about the barrage of pills they were making me swallow daily, anxious about side effects, anxious about exercise, anxious about sex, anxious about death, anxious about my son, anxious about my health, Anxious about my husband,  my weight, my LIFE. Probably a little PTSD settling in as well. I was a mess. Moreso than before the attack for the most part. Sleep was not happening because, well..I have always had trouble with this. My mom's illness growing up put weird juju in my head. I thought-yep, I'm just going to die in my sleep one day, like they said my mom would. Irrational? Yeah...anxious people aren't anxious because they are totally normal, rational people. Duh.  Jeez. Keep up.
Like a bag of cats, this one...you could quite literally smell the crazy on me.

When I told my husband this fear after we got married, he shrugged it off and said: "That's exactly how I want to die...so that's not a bad thing..."
But, when night comes, and the darkness is there, and you know it could take you-it's terrifying. For 5 years after my mom passed, I would lie awake and will myself NOT to think about it...and drift off only to jerk myself awake with the fear...it's happening!

No, it's not normal. Yes, I did finally shake it. Sorta.
It happened on and off for years...dependent on my stress level at the time, but never left entirely.  And this was only one symptom. (laugh, it's ok...I give you permission...I laugh about it all of the time) There was a whole new brand of crazy plaguing me from the age of 14. A mess. Certainly was  AM.

So, when I went to see my GP for blood tests and follow up after the hospital-he asked how I was doing-mentally. I laughed. It was that weird high-pitched, nervous laugh that sounds like a crackhead with a new rock to smoke. You know...the menacing sort that makes people uncomfortable? Yeah, that one.
So, without even answering his question-verbally. He knew.
It ain't good.
At this point he rolled his stool over to me and said...what can I do? what can WE do to take some of this burden off of you?
(He's a kick ass doctor)
He then asked the million dollar question...

And I swear, because he knows me pretty well...he actually recoiled a little after it left his mouth-as if to say...don't beat me up.
He asked: Have you ever tried meditation?

With this, the crackhead laugh changed to a "Oh for fucks sake" laugh. If we're being proper-it would be called an incredulous laugh. I think I may have actually thrown my head back with it. Classic me.

When he didn't respond, and gave me that earnest doctorly look...I knew he was being serious.

Fuck.

I got a little angry, truth be told and dismissed him with the same attitude I had when my husband started meditating. And it goes a little something like this:
No sir..I live in the real world...not some bullshit ethereal plane of existence. Humming out loud on a plastic mat, sitting crisscross applesauce like some fucking toddler at a Jim Jones style commune waiting for magic fairies to come and take all my cares away. I mean, are you serious? You are a medical doctor for crying out loud...not some second rate shaman peddling snake oil and poking me with needles. I am not drinking this Kool-Aid-you...you-DICK.
OK...OK...I didn't say this out loud. What I did say was: "I'll think about it." But I had a really sharp tone. And I was thinking it. And I may have said it to him  (myself) in the car on the way home....while the people in the next car at the stop light looked at me with fear. Yeah, like you haven't done this yourself.
Whatever.
I said it though.

I got home and cried.

In some stupid and immature way, I felt like doing this was a betrayal to myself. I know, it's really not that big of a deal...but at the time my head was not in a great place and I was more nutty than usual.

About three days later and a great deal of thought on the matter...I laid in bed one night while hubby was at band practice. I looked on my phone and found an app. It was called Calm.
That's it. Just Calm.
It was a meditation app, of course..with guided meditation lessons, sleep stories and calming peaceful music.
I downloaded it.
I listened, but didn't try anything. Just listened.
It was....
Nice.
Damnit.

The narrator of the meditations had a lovely, soothing, voice. None of that weird ASMR whispering crap. (look it up...seriously strange and creepy)
Her voice was pleasant and calming. Just like the name of the app.
And the message she was giving was also good.

I listened with an open mind. (something I tend to be not very good at)
The next night I admit, I finally gave in and tried it. I laid still and listened-and while I couldn't really sit still for the whole thing, it wasn't terrible.
Shutup.

And I kept going back, every night before bed. Before I knew it, one full week had passed and every time, I got better and better at it. I was able to just focus on my breathing and zone out...but still listen to her message and sometimes I even drifted off to a really peaceful sleep.
I was no longer facing insomnia.
I was falling asleep, and waking up feeling at ease.

The days got easier.
I found acceptance for another reason. Acceptance that this meditation thing could be working. Helping. Healing.
I had found a coping mechanism. 46 years later, this was helping me.
Huh.

I was legit baffled by it.

I told my husband after one week that I had been meditating, and waited for the teasing to commence-miraculously- I found none. He was really sweet about it. He said...Awesome! I'm glad. I think it will really help you.
Knowing him, this was not the response I was expecting...but I was really relieved for the one I got.

We have even meditated together a few times. Although he doesn't like my app, he prefers to just listen to music when he does it, he says her voice interrupts his patterns. Understood.
He has been doing it longer and doesn't need the guidance. Whereas, a year later..I still do. Letting go is not my strong suit.

Admittedly, I don't meditate everyday. Whereas...hubby does.
I'm not quite that loyal. But when I do...it does help. It lightens my load. It makes me feel at ease. Some days it helps more than others, but it's still better than medicine.
I don't sit crisscross applesauce, either.

I'm not that ridiculous. And I'm lazy. I prefer to be prone.

I like it and I am not ashamed.

Although...when my doc asked me about it-I told him not to get a big head...he still thought I had heartburn when I was actually having a heart attack. That shut him up. Jerkface.

So now, it's like 10pm and it's been a meditating week...so the OM calls...

Kidding. I don't chant. That's stupid.

And if anyone reading is interested. It's a great app-especially for beginners. I highly recommend. ;)

XOXO,
Jadedgirl.

Lately I've been stuck...

...in a rut.

Typically-September through February, I spend it coaching high school speech-which is my passion. I love everything about it and usually wax on--at length about the season, the love of the kids, the triumphs, and the failings. I love it...truly. But could it be truly considered a career? No. Not really. It's part time and seasonal work. This part time seasonal work limits my availability to work a full time job, or even search for a career in my field of degree-marketing. As a young'un, I wanted to be either 1. a teacher, or 2. a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, 3. an actress, or 4. the owner of my own business-restaurant or bar. (this dream started later, in my early 20's after working for SO, and I mean SO many idiotic managers and owners)

Obviously after the chubby set in-the dreams of becoming a professional Cheerleader were squashed. You know, pushing 175 after graduation-it wasn't an option. And really...can you imagine? Nope...me neither.
The actress thing obviously didn't pan out-for many reasons, mostly, um...talent and you know that need to actually be able to memorize things.
The business owner thing actually happened. I owned a restaurant, and currently "own" a social media marketing business, and a cold food catering company and event planning service. I don't have any customers-but, hey...they are all mine. Ugh.
The restaurant...I miss it. And would do it again, in a heartbeat. But money...yeah, that pesky stuff.
So we were left with teaching-not that it was ever my 3rd choice, the others just filtered out naturally.
I took some ED. classes out of high school and planned to jump right in.
Until they said...3 full semesters of algebra.
My comfort with higher math is even less than my ability to grasp rote memorization. So, that dream was shelved as well. This one was much harder to let go of, honestly-but it didn't take long to figure out in later years that maybe...I made a mistake. I should have hired a tutor and stuck with it. But hindsight-as they say.
So now-I coach. I do the next best thing to teaching. And before you glass half full folks start chiming in with: "It's not too late!"
It is.

Look, I checked into my educational options...and it seems that even with the drastic teacher shortage-the state I currently live in-AKA...cesspool of political corruption and massively fucked weather patterns-makes it really difficult to become a teacher, and also requires a pretty large path of math, and even a re-take of the SAT. (I didn't score particularly high on it my Junior year, sadly) And frankly...I just don't want to go back to school. I mean that. I was there for literally 17 years. No, not exaggerating. And while I would love to explain why...this is for another post.

So...my point.

I work the seasonal coaching job-which hinders finding a full time gig, and I work another part time job for a local dance studio as an administrative assistant-10 hours a week.
The rest of the time, I flounder.

Yeah, I said flounder.

Like a poorly prepared sea creature on a paper plate. I flounder.

I write, like right now-occasionally. I surf facebook, I play some PC games, I do housework, I plan my dieting adventures, I work out, or do yoga, and...flounder.
Maybe this is my mid-life crisis?

I don't know.

And that's JUST it. I don't know...
Don't know what I want to do, don't know who I want to be, don't know.

Narrowing it down...

Here is what I do know.

I want to be healthy, and I want to be a good wife, and a good mom, and I want to make more money doing something that is not thankless, and makes me at least a little bit happy.

I'm working on all of these things pretty steadily-except the money.
I tried the office job thing and it seriously does not work for me. Either the stress, or being chained to a desk made me miserable. I can't do it, no matter how much I tried to make it work.
I tried going back to bartending. But, I couldn't make this work for me either...After owning your own place, it is really just too difficult to go back to taking orders from a dimwit you know you can do the job better than-period.
Really, the coaching is the only thing that makes me happy work-wise...and the possibility that I could have my own restaurant again-but turning coaching into a full time job is just as impossible as raising the funds to buy our own building and start our own restaurant.

And so...the rut.

I don't know what to do.

I scan and apply for appealing jobs weekly-but nothing ever comes from it.

Mostly, I just feel large and worthless.

Look, it's not a pity party-its real stuff. And I don't expect anyone to feel sorry, or give me advice about it, really. It's just words on paper. What a blog is supposed to be about. 

I don't even have the wherewithal to formulate a list to get on track-but I think a lot about it.

This was tragically un-funny or even the slightest bit interesting, but...I can't be funny or interesting all of the time-even on paper.

I'm just so sick of thinking about it. I'd love to put a plan into action, but...as far as I understand-you have to have a plan first.
Sigh. Rutting like a pig.

XOXO,
Rutgirl.

Nothing....

...new to report, really. 

The diet has not been going well. I derailed this weekend, and am really only partially back on track. 

I slipped a lot today. Some Thin Mint cookies (you horrible, evil, little girl scouts put upon this earth to grant diabeetus to poor unsuspecting fat women like myself...I hate you all-Satan's devil children-you put evil magic in those cookies, and it's not fair. I hate thee.) 

Saltine crackers. Yes...I said Saltine crackers...I needed the salt to balance the sweet cookies, what? At least they were whole wheat! 

Taco salad for dinner...with the fat well drained from the 97/3 ground beef. 

All veggies and a nice limey salsa verde. 

I had 1/4 of a whole Pepsi today...and some licorice. 

So yeah. Not doing the greatest, in all seriousness. 

Truly...I think it's hormonal. My face is a tragic pizza right now and I'm not sleeping well. 

So there you are. 

Either way, you know...I should be able to resist. 

I'm weak. 

Tomorrow should be better...I'm off work and should be able to plan better. 

Not the funniest or most entertaining, or even well written post today-but, I'll get more creative tomorrow. I have more brain vomit...it's just too late to work out today. 

PS...did you know gummy vitamins don't taste like fruit snacks-at all-and are are, well...the worst thing ever-but some days it's the only sugar I get. Sigh. 

XOXO, 

Jadedgirl.