Turtle Snacks

Not much for you. Another way to short weekend, complete with day trip to Oakland.

But since Faith asked, I will answer.

Turtle snacks are just a much more fun name for love handles. Any chubbies that peak out over your pants are just more snacks for the turtles. No, I don't know how this came about, but it's a much cuter name for a body part that is so unpleasant. Especially if you can picture a cute little turtle nibbling at your chubs. Just funn-eh.

And I think a kitty has adopted us. She's tiny and pretty and really sweet. And she's been hanging around our house for a week. We've named her Mrs. Sparkles and I think she's getting a bath tonight. Then some cuddles.

How did I used to find time to write?

Oh yeah, because my job was non-existent.

Friday morning, I woke up 20 minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I felt good, so I took it as a sign, "Get your ass out of bed, and run!" I'm struggling with fitting everything I want to do into my schedule these days, and exercise has been what I've cut out. And it's starting to show. So, I threw on my work out clothes, and was out the door.

I felt good while I ran. It'd been a few weeks, but I hadn't lost all my increased ability. I didn't have too long to run, so I kept it to about a mile and half. I'd gone as far out as I was planning, and had turned to start heading back home. Until I stepped on a seed pod the exact density of a bocce ball, heard my ankle "crack" before skidding to a stop on my hands and knees. I yelled a string of profanities, then looked up to see a 10 year old kid standing there watching me. Oops.

What a delightful way to start the day. My ankle quickly swelled up to an unsightly bulge and my knees were scraped up and bleeding. And I still had to get back home.
So, I hobbled as quickly as I could, got home in time to shower, throw on clothes and barely get to work on time.

No righteous deed goes unpunished.

Shake, Shake Yeah!

Oh my god. It's only 10:23 am, and I've already been through my entire blog list. Brutal.

However, my morning just improved greatly when I remembered that Xtian was kind enough to pack a mid-morning snack for me: everything bagel, cream cheese, smoked salmon, cucumber. Oh lordie, does that man know the way to my heart. Between good food and a good blast of fun music, my morning just took a good turn.

And for serious, could Metrostation make a catchier song? I've been running around singing "Shake Shake Shake" for a week straight. Oh, and Warren *knock wood* slept straight through the night last night. Now let's hope I haven't completely screwed myself by talking about it.
Now if only everyone whose site I read would post some delightful bon mots I'd be all set.

~~
While in Chico last week, my mom and I ran out to *cough* Walmart (I know, I know. But mom was buying and who am I to tell her where to spend her money. But god, is there any worse place to be seen?) and the second I walked in the door, someone is saying, "Oh my god, it's Coley." Sure enough it's a group of girls from Jr. High and High school. Unfortunately I only remembered one of their names. Luckily, I can cover for it, with effusive use of flattery.

The girl who I remembered, we'll call her SL, was a little bigger than she was last I saw her. No biggie, but the first thing out of her mouth was an embarrassed laugh followed by blurting out, "I had a kid! Which is why I look like this...ha ha. Children ruin your body!"
Literally the first sentence out of her mouth. And I'm thinking, "shit, you don't need to apologize for how you look. I don't care. You're fine. " And how sad that she felt so uncomfortable (which is funny since I'm easily 50 pounds heavier than I was in high school) with me seeing her looking like that. Is this what women inspire in other women? Fear? Embarrassment?

So, to cover her obvious awkwardness, I went where all parents go, "Oh, your kid? How old? Boy or girl?" We chatted for a bit, she had a 9-month old, husband in Fresno, she stays home with the kid, met in college etc. We wrapped up the chitter chat and got on our way.

I've been ruminating on that conversation, in hoping I'd not react that same way. And what must her impression of me be if she felt so compelled to explain herself?

And I have to admit, I'm a horrible human being. At the time, I was sitting there thinking, "HA! I had a kid two months after you, and I look better!" So, apparently her fear was well-placed. I am an asshole. I can rationalize and tell myself that I don't think badly about her, because I don't. Mostly I'm just proud of myself and how hard I've been working to lose weight and get my body into a better place than it was before I got pregnant. But, still, the thought was there, so I'm a total douche. But whatever, I'm owning it. I've been judged harshly millions of times for being "wrong" bodywise. There is no winning the game. Someone always thinks your too fat, too thin, too short, too thickwaisted, too ANYTHING. So, fuck it, it's probably not anything to do with me, why SL felt the need to explain her body and apologize for it.

See? Do you like the way I rationalized that one so I don't have to feel badly about it anymore? I'm really that good and justification. You just wish you had my skills.

Yadda, Yadda, Yadda.

So, two nights of Xtian being sole parent and the results are: mixed. First night, the kid slept all the way through, without stirring once. Last night, he woke up, got snuggled for a few minutes, fell back to sleep, only to wake up again two minutes before Xtian's alarm went off (at 4 am, for those keeping track). So, we're doing it again tonight to see what happens. All bets are off since it turns out, children don't care about YOUR schedule. Selfish bastards.

I realize I'm making it sound far worse than it is. Really, we get plenty of sleep. The thing standing in the way of getting as much sleep as I'd like is usually me, and my inability to realize, "holy shit, it's 9:30. I should have been asleep like an hour ago!" Because I'm vaguely ridiculous.

Anyhow. Operation de-fatten my ass is going well. I actually wore pre-pregnancy jeans outside the house, and no one was sickened by muffin top, nor did any one snicker in my general direction. Slowly but surely, the scale is doing what I want it to. It just takes obsessive monitoring of my caloric intake. And I do mean obsessive. But that suits me just fine. Since I'm verging on OCD in many ways anyhow.

The only problem with losing weight is that you don't get to decide where you lose it from. Thanks to the miracle of breastfeeding, tits are still here. Unfortunately, I can't say the same about my formerly glorious booty. Maybe I've been living in mostly black neighborhoods for too long, but I was really into having a big ass. I like the concept of end-table ass. And my booty is shrinking at a pretty steady rate. I refuse to be a pancake-butt white girl. So, I guess it's back to the StairMaster for me. *sigh*

Mmmkay. I'm out. Perhaps some random Warren loving tomorrow, since, unbelievably, he's six months old tomorrow.

No cohesive thoughts here.

There must be something in the water, every time I have left the house for the last few days, a dimwitted driver has tried to kill me. Either by changing lanes directly at my car (dude, I can make eye contact with you, you should probably be able to see that my car is already in this lane), or by slamming their brakes so hard, I barely have enough time to react and change lanes to get around them (and, no I was not tailgating). I think we're all becoming worse drivers. This is exactly the reason we should have a behind-the-wheel driver's test at least every two years. At least remind folks of what good driving looks like. Sheesh.

The asshattery abounds is what I'm saying.

Oh, so a few gossipy notes about the wedding I attended last weekend. The Snitch was there, complete with booze breath (like a barroom floor), and a boyfriend who looks like an Italian mafia guy, with a white man's afro, and teeth so bad it looks like someone threw them into his mouth. Just awful.
It's always kind of fun watching coworkers, especially upper management types, drink far too much, then making their dates squirm by asking them pointed questions. Personally, I tend to get tipsy and start telling people about Steak and BJ Day. (If you don't know what or when it is, google it. Seriously).
But that's about it from the wedding. I think there was more to it, but this lady drank a ton of champagne, and it's been a few days, so the hilarity has faded.

In other news, Operation: De-Fatten my Ass is going pretty well. I've not been too obsessive about calorie counting (at least on the weekends), and I've been losing at a steady pace. In fact, I actually was able to zip up a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans. Granted, I had a muffin top you wouldn't believe, but that was mostly from the loose belly skin issue.
Ladies who've had babies, when does the loose skin go away? It's been forever, and it's still mostly all there, just emptier. Oh, god. Is this how people end up with stomachs that look like basset hounds' faces? If you have a C-Section, why can't they just cut out some of the fat and loose skin at the same time? Hell, I'll pay extra for that! This is a service hospitals should be providing. I'm going to petition my doctor.

Ok, that's it for random shit for the day. Happy Thursday y'all. We're just shy of magnificence.

Stuff and things

Dude, so my last post was number 420. Huh huh. Sorry, turns out stoner humor never dies. It just gets more awkward as you get older.

Quick note, consider it a public service announcement. If you haven't seen the movie "Once" do yourself a favor, and get that movie this instant. It's so beautiful, and sweet. And yes, it's categorized as a Musical, but it's not like that. It's about a street musician, and the songs are there because of it. It's not like the characters are eating dinner and burst into song and choreographed dance. So, don't let that dissuade you. I'm so in love with the movie, that I'm rocking out to the soundtrack as I type.


So, I'm going public with this in the hope it'll force me to actually succeed. I have decided to lose 35 pounds by October 1. I figure that's a decent enough amount of weight to really change how I look and feel, but is still a doable figure. I found a fitness tracker dealie online that has proven addictive, but is also keeping me honest. I've been working on it for just about a week, and I'm down a pound and a half. Which is pretty well on track to meet my goal.

But here's where things get sketchy. Every time I do any conscious weight loss, I realize that after all this time, I still have a totally unhealthy relationship with food, weight and my body in general. As a young girl and into my teens and if I'm perfectly honest, well into my 20s, I used starvation as a way to punish my body for not being what I wanted. I used the feeling of hunger pains the way other people cut themselves. It hurts, but in a way that feels good. Because it's what my body deserved. And when I finally broke down and ate something, I'd hate myself and punish myself with exercise and forced vomiting.

This is a cycle I'm working really hard to break, but it's the only way I knew how to control my body. I do not know how to eat food without bringing punishment or reward into the equation. So, while I've been obsessively tracking my calories in vs calories out, I've been trying really hard to not limit my calories too much. Otherwise, I start playing the "How little can I eat and still get through the day" game, not very healthy, eh? And really fucked up that I still remember my all-time record. 200 calories a day for more than a week. And even more fucked up, I feel inadequate for not being able to do it again. These are the types of thoughts I'm trying to curb.

So far, I've been doing pretty well. But as soon as I let up on disciplining my thoughts, I find the shitty things creeping back in. Just before noon yesterday, I was feeling hungry. Rather than using that as a signal to eat my lunch I stayed put and reveled in the feeling for another hour and a half, seeing how long I could hold out before I gave in. That was a familiar sensation and when I finally recognized it I went and grabbed my lunch. Which is progress for me. I used to try to keep that hungry feeling for a day at a time. Then two. Then three. Or eat just enough to take the edge off the pain. Of course, I didn't do that. I ate my entire lunch, and felt fine.

But it doesn't take much to bring it all back. This is when I wish I'd kept up with therapy. How many people recovering from eating problems actually know how to eat without it being a punishment, or a reward? Am I going to have to be this vigilant for the rest of my life? Is it ever going to come naturally? Eat when you are hungry, stop when you are satisfied.
Sounds so simple.
But it's just not.

See if you can follow my crappy logic.

My body is unbelievably sore. I blame my jerkoff coworkers. (Please note, not all of my coworkers. Just the coworker who are jerkoffs. Subtle difference.) Because they whined about my schedule, I now have to stay in the office 30 minutes later. Which means I spend an extra 15 minutes in traffic, which means that instead of beating the crowds to the gym, I get there JUST AFTER everyone else. So, instead of getting to use the equipment that doesn't destroy my old-before-their-time hips and knees, I was stuck with the plain old treadmill. Which in order to work up a proper sweat, I had to actually run on. Which lead to my knees swelling and my hips aching.
Thus, my entire body has been wracked with ouchiness for two days. Suck it.

And, also because of my later schedule, I won't be able to go to they gym today. I have guests coming over this evening, and I wouldn't be able to work out, shower and dress in time to actually spend time with my guests. It was hard enough to get to the gym before, now it's damned near impossible. And this bitch wants to wear some pre-pregnancy clothes already.

And you know, I can zip up most of my pre-pregnancy pants, which is super exciting. The only thing standing in my way? Huge amounts of loose skin. Empty folds of nastiness that will create a muffin top with any pair of pants snug enough to stay on my ass. Seriously. Just...icky.
I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to tell myself that it took 10 months (or more) for my body to turn into this, I should give myself that same amount of time to recover. Except, no. No no no. This is gross. I think I'd almost rather just be really fat than have this deflated inner tube hanging off my midsection. And yes, I know it's gross. But I'm going to tell you all about it because...well, because I can. Also disgusting: stretch marks. Stretch marks covering the empty sack that is my belly. Feeling sexy just thinking about it, aren't you?

It's all about my boobs.

So, since my kid is the eatingest eater that ever ate, I've been doing my damnedest to increase my milk supply. Keeping hydrated, eating well, getting some sleep and most importantly, pumping and feeding like it's my job. But, much to my frustration, I think I've finally topped out. I had hoped that if I could pump a little more at work, I could finally get my freezer/fridge stocked again and maybe give myself a break. Ever since that first day of daycare, when he almost doubled his normal milk intake, I've been trying to pump 150% of what he eats (based on that 19 oz day).

In fact, I was kind of stressing about it, until I realized, "Um, hi? You are pumping a grand total of 20 oz a day, and you still feed the kid directly about 5 times a day." And the last several days at daycare, he's only eaten between 12-15 oz. So, why is it still stuck in my head that I MUST pump at least 25 oz while at work? I'll be darned if my overachieving mentality isn't getting the best of me. I'm a freak.

That is the reason I think I would probably be the worst stay-at-home mom in the world. At least I can focus my "Achieve or die" energies at work, instead of on my kid. Need another example? I was doing a little reading, and found that most babies roll over between two and three months. Warren is almost 12 weeks old. And he hasn't rolled all the way over yet. Still totally normal, especially since he HATES being on his tummy. But, this is clearly a personal failure on my part, and I'm driving my whole household crazy demanding that we all work on this. Jesus, even while I'm doing it, I know I'm being a little crazy. If I were home with him all day, can you imagine how neurotic I'd make this kid? "Hit these developmental benchmarks WHEN I TELL YOU TO! And don't give me any of those 'benchmarks are just vague guidelines' excuses! In this household, we do things a minimum of three weeks ahead of schedule. I'll take no procrastination from you, Mister!" Why did people let me have kids?

You know, my friend Nathalie told me of her theory that if you have an easy pregnancy, you'll have a hard delivery. Since I proved that to a tee, I'd like to further extend the theory: hard delivery, easy baby. Seriously, not to jinx myself or anything, but this kid is so easy and good, (for now, anyways *knock wood*) it makes me want to have about 6 more, immediately if not sooner. I mean, jeez, the kid has been sleeping 10 hours a night since he was 8 weeks old, is more than happy to lay in his bed cooing at his mobile/horse toy, really only cries when he's hungry or overtired, and then for only a minute. I'm constantly shocked with his completely joyful personality. Not that I'm bragging. Hell, I know better than anyone that his easy-going nature has NOTHING to do with anything I'm doing.

But seriously, isn't he the sweetest kid you've ever seen?

Don't try to follow the logic, it'll only hurt your head.

I got home from work yesterday to find Xtian had chopped all his hair off, and shaved his beard, leaving some well trimmed sideburns and an adorable soul patch. He does this every so often just to keep everyone guessing. Now, every time I leave the room, and then come back I’m startled at the stranger in the house. Because I’m retarded and have a hard time with some changes. Meanwhile, he looks fabulous.

Also when I walked in the door, Xtian had a look on his face like a beaten dog. With his head hung low, he confessed, “I did something bad.”

Being the crazy broad that I am, I just assumed he’d brought home a prostitute who’d not only stolen all of our stuff, but had also lit the cats on fire an given him an STD. Isn’t that the first place EVERYONE’S mind goes in such a circumstance?

But no. Instead, the bad thing Xtian did was to do some laundry. Unfortunately, part of that laundry just happened to be his cell phone in the pocket of some pants.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever sent an electronic device through the Heavy Duty Clean cycle on your washing machine, but let us just say, the phone was dust. My husband is a delightful human being, kind, thoughtful, strong, and have I mentioned hot? Another thing he is: extremely accident prone. This is a man who has been hit by a tree. (No, he didn’t hit a tree, a tree dropped an enormous branch on him while biking through the park, totaling his bicycle.) I often joke that anything that can happen, will happen to Xtian. And I think this just reinforces my belief.

Of course the poor guy feels like a total schmoe. But to be honest, while I’m not thrilled at being arm-wrestled into throwing $200 into A&T’s pocket, I’m just surprised that it took this long for him to destroy his phone. (This time I was smart and opted for the $4 per month insurance. Why this option was not offered to me at the last contract signing, I’ll never know.)

~~

A lot of people told me that when they were pregnant, their partners put on some extra weight as well. I was always kind of comforted by that, since as some of you might know, Xtian is exponentially hotter than I am. (But don’t tell him that, seriously. I’ve got a good thing going here!) Not that I wanted to fatten him up, per se. More like I was hoping it would even the scales a bit while I was in Chubby Pregnant Lady Land.

Instead, the opposite has been true. Xtian has redoubled his efforts at the gym, causing his teeny little belly to shrink even more. And with the suave new hairdo, and the skin care regimen that makes his skin glow, and the love for dressing nicely, Xtian is getting hotter by the minute, while I sink further and further into Hag Land. It’s just not fair that he’s widening the gap here.

This really shows by my complete inability to keep my hands off him for longer than a few minutes, and his growing disinterest in me as anything other than a mom. Just depressing as all get out.

Now, in my magical fantasy land, my body will decide immediately after giving birth to shed 80 or so pounds, without any effort on my part. And, even better, it will let me keep my engorged boobs for the duration of my life. And with all that coming to fruition, I will take a giant leap in hotness that makes it so Xtian and I are on a little more even ground. Sounds reasonable, right? Yeah. Don’t shatter my dreams, man.

Hurray for doctor’s appointments taking up a few hours of my day. Hopefully she’ll give me some idea of how close to getting MC the hell out of me we are.

More pointless bullshit.

Who decided that putting CHUNKS into yogurt was a good idea? I’m enjoying a delightful, creamy yogurt, and close my mouth around a CHUNK! This is not a pleasant sensation. It is gross, and vaguely reminiscent of vomit. Eww.

You are all jealous of me. Want to know why? Over the weekend, my darling Jen came over with about 5 pounds of amazing carne asada and pollo assado. Which we then barbecued, and ate until we all wanted to die. Even better than the food, was that Barry came as well. And Barry = Fun. Yes, that’s right, fun with a capital F.
So, I ate amazing food, including more guacamole than a human should ever consume, laughed my ass off with some fabulous people, then I got to eat leftovers today.
And to think, I was on the verge of getting a freaking taco salad from Togo’s. What a damned fool that would have made me.

~~
So, writing here can be tricky. I have a hard time drawing the line about what to share when it comes to personal issues. Not MY personal issues, hell as we can see it’s open season on my own insanity/bitchery. More like, relationship issues. How much info is too much? But then I don’t have much to say without talking about the shit I’m dealing with.

I’d heard from other women that this happens, I just wasn’t ready for it because, clearly, those issues only happen to other people. I’m having a hard time dealing with what having a kid means in my relationship. I’m overly sensitive, and also completely wanting to get it on pretty much all the time. Unfortunately, Xtian’s not totally on board with this. He's just not as interested anymore. It’s not his fault, he’s doing the best he can to reconcile my mama status with my old dirty ho self. And since I’m overly sensitive, every time he doesn’t grope, kiss or respond to my hinting or downright begging for action, it clearly means that he doesn’t love me and is probably already sleeping with someone else.

I know that’s ridiculous. I know it, but my crazy ass still thinks it. I’m not very good at being vulnerable. (what? No, not me.) A big part of my identity is tied to my sexuality. Be it right or wrong, I’ve always been a very physical person, and have never had trouble getting the partner I wanted. It’s not a question of being attractive, or thin, or anything else. Because frankly, I’m not the girl you cross the room to pick up. I’m the girl that once you start talking to you can’t really resist my overtures. And having to ask for sex, and being turned down is really fucking with who I am as a person.

I suppose this is all part of that transitioning to mamahood. But damn, why does it have to kick me when I’m down?

Wherein I whine about my head hurting.

Yeah, so headaches are on the menu for today. Why do I keep feeding myself lies about them going away? As I look back through posts, it’s just about every other day I’m ready to decapitate myself to get a little relief. But I keep pretending that it’s only every few weeks. So, I guess self-deception isn’t very effective.

It’s genetic testing day, and I was warned to give them my most recent weight. So this morning I hopped on the gym’s scale only to find that all weight I’ve gained since being pregnant has come off. Seriously, body? The only time in my life where it’s a bad idea to be losing weight, and with no extra effort on my part, I’m dropping 4 pounds a week. This is some bullshit.

(And just to stem the advice: I’m eating. I’m eating often. I’m eating well. Now, let’s move on).

This weekend is Gay Pride in San Francisco. I can’t wait! I’ve made it out to some of the festivities before, but I’ve yet to attend the parade. This is the year. I’ll have to bring my camera, as shenanigans are always pervasive. MC is a lucky little fetus. In the course of one summer, MC will get to see naked people proudly strutting on the streets of a major city, The Wu Tang Clan, Rage Against the Machine, Mos Def and more live from in the womb. How many kids get this much excitement before they’re even born? Few if any.

I’m almost done torturing poor Xtian via command Charmed viewings. And, to be honest, I’m a little sad to think about it being over. 7 seasons, 6 discs each is a lot of time committed. And I’m not sorry.

So, I’ve had three nights in a row of amazing dinners, only to find that I hate them all in leftover form. (Turns out, Chicken pot pie, crab cakes with roasted red pepper sauce and Macaroni and cheese with spinach all made from scratch DO NOT get better the next day). So, yet again, I heated up my lunch, took one bite and promptly threw it out. Maybe after labs I’ll pick up a Taco Salad. Goddamn, I love Taco Salad. (It’s a salad with more than 1000 calories. How can that suck?)

Right. I’m just rambling on about bullshit, I know. I apologize. But since my posting has been all garbage lately anyway, I’ve decided to keep the bar low. Just makes life easier right now. Let’s hope for 15 hours of sleep tonight *fingers crossed* since I’ve slept like shit all week.
Peace, and I’m out. Or something.

So, Jen was like, "POST ALREADY!" So I was like, "Um, Ok."

Reason’s to love my husband:

1. While putting on my first pair of maternity jeans, he tells me with sheer joy and delight, “They have room for your butt to get BIGGER!”
2. When I can’t sleep, and so wake him up to see if he’ll make out with me, he in no way hesitates, even when he has to wake up in two hours.
3. No matter how much work he puts into “helping” me make dinner; he still does the dishes without being asked.
4. When I tease him for any number of silly man-things, (over indulging on chicken wings, grabbing my ass every time I walk by him, watching 6 hours straight of sports highlights etc) he responds with a grin, saying, “I’m not sorry.”
5. Calls me as soon as he hears any Raiders’ related news on the radio, even though he could not care less about my football team.

I think I’ve gushed enough about Xtian for the day, let’s move on.

I love Twix bars. But my question is this: If the whole candy, both fingers, is called “Twix”, what does one call an individual finger of the Twix? Is it a Twick? Or is it a singular Twix? I’m confused. And it bothers me. (Yes Faith, I’m currently eating Twix. Jealous? Muwahahahahaha)

Dude, I do not like talking to people in the bathroom. So, if I’m entering a stall while you’re washing your hands, please don’t talk to me. I keep having random coworkers start a conversation while we’re both peeing. This is awkward. But if I don’t respond, it’s weird too. So, I just make every effort to only use the ladies’ while it’s completely unoccupied. This takes some precise timing, but I think it’s worth it.

I just had my first pasta dish since I got knocked up, and was able to eat it with relish. Hurray for Trimester the Second! Also, Hurray for Three-Cheese Lasagna with Super Meat Sauce! It’s so nice to cook a meal, and then be able to eat it. I know, doesn’t sound like much, but for the last few months, I’ll spend an hour making an elaborate dinner, only to be completely unable to eat it.
What could I eat: Ramen, Chicken McNuggets (only from McDonald’s none of those spicy chicken fingers from Burger King), Mashed Potatoes, French fries. Bland, salty and fatty.
Yes, a very balanced diet, wouldn’t you say?

For the first time in my entire life, my doctor showed concern because I hadn’t gained weight. I’m kind of loving this pregnancy thing. I’ve only put on about 3-4 pounds since I got pregnant, and the doctor is a little concerned. Methinks that now I’m able to eat with pleasure again, the lack of weight gain won’t be brought up again. (But hey, maybe my body is just an asshole and only puts on weight when I’m actively trying to lose it. Now that I’m supposed to put on weight, I’m eating like a pig and only working out to make impending labor easier and am only gaining about .2 pounds a week. I love this game!)

OH! And we got to hear Mocha Cub’s heartbeat yesterday. The coolest thing in the world. Sure, we got to see MC on the ultrasound, but we turned out to only be 6 weeks along, so it was a blob with a little flutter for a pulse. This was way neat, and Xtian’s face was so excited I almost died. It really reminded me why I wanted to have children with this man. Who doesn’t want to procreate with a person who is just dying to be a good daddy?
And now I’m going to cry, because I’m still an emotional, sleep-deprived wreck of hormones.
Happy Thursday y’all!

Goal: Alone. Results? Mixed

Well, I did get to be alone for a couple of hours this weekend. Unfortunately, those hours were spent in the garden in my ongoing battle that is “MINT: Now with even greater creeping root strength!” But, I enjoyed warring with my garden, and have actually seen some really good progress already this year. (Hurray to the earliest signs of bush-growing zucchini, green beans, and leeks! Now just get on board Herbs and peppers!)

After the garden, my alone time came to an abrupt halt. While getting ready to shower, both Xtian and Sarah stopped in to say hi. While I was naked, trying to wash the mud off my feet before shaving my legs. Not a great way to peacefully end my stolen “Alone Time.” And then Xtian got sick, so immediately I had to pay attention to him all day and be all nurturing and loving. And frankly, I haven’t been doing a whole lot of care taking for Xtian. My attention has been elsewhere between girlfriends in mourning, family member breakdowns and hand holding at work. Unfortunately all that means that my nurturing energy is gone where Xtian is involved. So, it was about time for me to actually focus on the poor bug.

Although, we declared a Saturday night Roommate Drinking and Movie night. I'm always surprised how much fun I can have splitting a bottle of Maker's Mark with Xtian and Sarah, while watching bad movies, crappy tv, and excellence on You Tube. And, even better, we were all hangover free on Sunday. Now THAT'S what I call: Awesome.

So, the weekend has come and gone, and all I have to show for it is a weed-free (for now) garden and a husband who’s probably still laying on the couch feeling needy. And I’m fighting off some horror illness. I will NOT surrender to vague body aches and tiredness with occasional lung crushing coughing. FUCK YOU BODY! I don’t have time to take care of you; I’ve got a jam-packed week and a weekend of travel. You are just going to have to tough it out!

A few notes of note. Or not.

So, uh, remember when my back was hurting yesterday? And remember when I whined all day about my back hurting, and not knowing WHY my back decided to hurt? Let’s rewind to Wednesday Afternoon, shall we?

SCENE: My kitchen. I’m making dinner, Sarah’s chatting with me, and Xtian is popping in periodically to tease/grope me. Xtian surprises me from behind and tickles. I grab him by the arms and pull his body onto my back, suspending him in the air.

Me: “See?! You can’t fuck with me, I will destroy you!”
Sarah: “Ok, people with back problems shouldn’t be lifting their 230 pound husbands.”
Me: “My legs are doing all the heavy lifting here, Sarah. Geez, MOM!”
Sarah: “Well, when your back dies tomorrow, I’m going to remind you of this.”

So, yeah, my own retardedness thrown back in my face. Thanks, Sarah. Thanks a lot.

~~

A while back during the weekly shopping with Sarah, I realized that I had forgotten to grab a new multi-vitamin at Target. We were at the dread Whole Foods (yes, I shop at the godforsaken organic store. You forget, I was born in California. Which means despite my outer coating of “FuckOff!” there beats the heart of a goddamn hippie), when I had this realization. I was already in line, so Sarah ran back to grab a cheap bottle of whatever Lady vitamin they had.

Moments ago, I took this vitamin, and noticed the label: "VeganGuard! This product is certified vegan." This leaves me wondering: aren’t these mostly just minerals and extracts from fruits and veggies? Is there bacon in most multi vitamins?
And, hey, aren’t vegans always talking about how much healthier they are? If all they eat are fruits, veggies and all natural shit, why do they need a multi-vitamin? Is it because their diets DON’T provide them with all the nutrients they need? Muwaahahahahaha. Fuck off, vegans! I’m eating meat WHILE taking the ridiculous vegan vitamin. Take THAT!

~~

Ok, the headache and waves of nausea can really just stop it right now. Three days is long enough.

I know, I had the initial, “Nausea? Could that be….dare I even think it? Morning sickness?” thoughts too. But let me assure you. No, is the answer. No. How do I know this? Because it’s not physically possible for me to be knocked up right now. So, seriously, Nausea, can you at least leave me alone if you aren’t an indicator of good news? Thanks.

Clothing Martyr

http://www.suburbanbliss.net/suburbanbliss/2007/01/more_pressing_m.html

I read this the other day. It sounded so familiar; I had to double-check that someone else had indeed written it. If you are too lazy to click the link, I’ll summarize.

This woman used to be the hotty in her marriage, and over the years and after having two kids has martyred herself into not feeling like she looks good, or deserves to look good. (I should point out that she still is gorgeous as all hell, only the way she FELT about her looks changed). Meanwhile, her husband got himself all trim, fit and stylish over the years. A few months ago, she found herself resenting him for spending time and money on himself. Not terribly healthy, so she’s determined to make herself a priority. There's more to it than that, but this is where I'm putting my focus. Just do yourself a favor and read that fabulous woman's work.

I recognized so much of myself in that, it was almost scary. I don’t even have kids, but I found myself doing the exact same thing. I am not terribly fond of my current shape, and have a hard time staying positive when buying clothing. So, I have about 6 different outfits that I can wear in decent company/at work. In fact, at least twice a week, I’ll end up wearing Xtian’s shirts because I'm bored with my clothes. But, I keep telling myself that I can’t afford to buy new clothes. And that’s not true; I can afford it, but I always think that I could spend that money so much more wisely.

Thing is, I never spend that money wisely. Aside from bills and rent, all money goes to food or booze. If the money wasn’t there, I wouldn’t spend it on either. To make matters worse, I was really starting to resent Xtian for all the clothes he has. One day he ripped a pair of jeans, and I demanded that he throw them out (this made a grand total of three holes in the pants, one of which left half an ass cheek exposed). When he told me he couldn’t because that would only leave him with ONE pair of jeans, I was appalled and pissed.

“I've only had the ONE pair of jeans for two years. Why are you complaining?”

I was getting so annoyed because he had all these clothes. I was playing the martyr, and it felt ugly. I’ve turned my distaste for shopping into Utilitarianism. I’ve turned my Utilitarianism into a “character flaw” in Xtian. Because, clearly, if I only need about 4 pairs of pants and 8 shirts, then he’s just being excessive by having more than that. I suck ass. (Although, I still argue he has WAY too many pairs of shoes and far more clothing than he wears)

When UPS showed up at my house last night with a birthday gift from Sarah, I was amazed to open it and find 3 new, stylish as hell shirts that not only look awesome on me, but I FEEL good wearing; and a new pair of jeans. I tried them all on immediately, and I realized in that moment, all my supposed distaste in clothing and shirking of fashion was just stupid. Another way to punish myself and to criticize others.

I liked the way I looked in these clothes. And I felt better about my body. So, in this vein, I will allow myself to buy myself some clothes that I like, and that look good on me. I am only 24 years old, I am not an overworked mother of 3. I should not dress like a woman who has completely let herself go. I deserve to like the way I look. I deserve to own and wear nice clothes. Xtian deserves to have a wife who takes some pride in her appearance.

So, thanks Sarah. Your beautiful, thoughtful gifts reminded me that I am not the schlumpy soccer mom I dress like.

Lengua Fuera

So, it turns out my body is a shithead. I know, I’ve mentioned that before, but allow me to elaborate.
I’ve been working out 6 days a week for about two months now. And I don’t mean just showing up at the gym, I mean kicking my own ass with the running. And you know what my body HASN’T done? Lost one fucking pound. Yes, I know, it takes time and slow weight loss is the best kind, and yes my body is definitely changing for the better blah blah blah. But you know what, I weigh an obscene amount, and no matter how much muscle I’m gaining, there is absolutely no reason the numbers on the scale shouldn’t be going down.

So, again, my body is a shithead. Just ri-goddamn-diculous.

In other news, I’m pretty retarded for my husband. It’s just weird for me to be all gushy and lovey. I was never really keen on the idea of getting married. Just never was a priority for me. I wanted to have kids and be with a life partner, but marriage was always beside the point. However, Xtian was pretty adamant on wanting to make it legit. And I like weddings. Hell, what’s not to like about throwing a big ass party, wearing a big-ass dress and sparkly jewelry, getting drunk before noon and getting presents on top of it?

So, in light of my youthful misgivings, it’s kind of nice liking being married to Xtian. And that I haven’t become your typical “wife” is also good. Yes, I cook and can nag/whine with the best of them, I’ve been fortunate in the way Xtian mostly is the emotional caretaker and I continue in my neurotic battle between dudely and bitchy. Forced gender roles have always been my greatest nemesis. So, it’s nice to realize that getting married didn’t really change anything.

Yeah, with all the wisdom of someone who’s been married for 8 months. Whatever that counts for.

GAH!

An eventful day, was yesterday. I had jury duty, so hurray. And even better I might actually be on a damn jury for a murder trial. That’s all I’m LEGALLY allowed to say about it at this point, on the orders of honorable judge Hashimoto. So, that was fun.

After filling out the questionnaire, it occurs to me that a few things will either guarantee I’m on the jury, or get me excluded immediately: I hold a college degree; I am married to a black man; my sister is gay; I honestly think our judicial system is pretty fucked up.

So, *fingers crossed* I might be on a damned jury. That’s pretty exciting/worrisome.

The wheels really fell off for me later that day when (warning! Frank discussions of “Lady Parts” ahead!) my fucking period started. So, my body is officially a complete shithead. It’s just fucking with me for fun now. Let’s see, we’ll set a pretty normal, standard pattern here, then just when she starts to get her hopes up, BAM! We’ll crush the happiness right out of her. Why is it redneck 14 year olds get knocked up while using a condom and “pulling out” after a 2 minute drunken toss with their 21 year old redneck boyfriend, yet I’m foiled at every turn.
If I’d realized my body was this unwilling to procreate, shoot, I wouldn’t have even bothered with the pill all those years. Clearly, my uterus is a bitch, and my entire reproductive system is a complete waste of space. More than anything I’m pissed off at myself for actually holding out any hope. I’m usually better at setting myself up for the worst. Some people think that’s pretty cynical and that we should be HAPPY and OPTIMISTIC all the time. Those people are fucking stupid. Or they really relish feeling hurt, heartbroken and disappointed. Either way, they’re fuckers.

And if one more person gives me some glib “it’ll happen when it’s supposed to” or “it just takes a while, it’ll all be fine!” I may just have to kill them.
No, better yet, I’ll just return the favor when something shitty happens to them. “You got in a car accident, well these things are just meant to be!” “Your mom died? Well, you’ll get over it.” Yeah, sounds pretty rude and unhelpful doesn’t it? Remember that the next time you decide to belittle how I feel.

Can anyone tell that I’m bitchy? Really? You can? Huh, sucks for those who have to listen to me.

I think I’ll spend the rest of the week whining, doing nothing productive and eating junk food. If my body is going to fuck with me, Oh ho! I’ll show it how mean I can be. Double up the workouts, and increase the grease, salt and sugar intakes. Oh, and this weekend, I'm drinking more than any one human should, AND I'll be smoking. Take THAT, you asshole!

A few things

First things first:

Dear Drivers on Interstate 580 West,
Yes. I know the sun is bright. But rather than slamming on your breaks, thereby FUCKING UP all traffic for miles, try sunglasses.

That is all.
-Coley


Secondly, if you simply must get married may I recommend finding someone who will:

1. Wake up at 4:40 am on their day off so they can accompany you to the gym,
   
2. Not say a single word when it takes you 8 tries to parallel park at 5 am.
   
3. Offer to make you coffee before you go to work.
   
4. When it is discovered that you will not have time to get coffee before you must go to work, will sneak over to a coffee shop while you take a shower at the gym, and surprise you with a cup of perfectly creamed and sweetened coffee stashed in your car’s cup holder.
   

I cannot recommend that kind of life partner more. Just trust me on this one, folks.

Third and finally I have a really nasty, gross, HUGE blister on my foot. Is this my body trying desperately to keep me from exercising? Between the back spasms, the shin splints, and the blister I’m really starting to think my body is happy the way it is, and only desires to gain more weight. Well hear me now, body: FUCK WHAT YOU WANT! I’ll do as I please.

Enjoy your Thursday.

A few notes:

I finally got around to joining a gym around here. I’m tired of running in the dark, in the ghetto, dealing with crack heads and beating myself to death by running on asphalt. Seriously, shin splints suck, as does being accosted by some drug addict who hasn’t seen a toothbrush or solid food for more than a year among abandoned warehouses. But that’s just me.

Xtian went with me as he’s DYING to join a gym (for real). So we show up at the gym, have to fill out some forms before they’ll tell us anything or give us the tour. We already knew we were joining this one, so we kind of just zoned out while he gave us a rushed sales spiel. When it came time to pay, and set up the EFT, salesdude asked for a debit or credit card. Xtian pulled his out, and I mentioned that since both cards were linked to the same bank account, he could just put all the charges on the same card. Salesdude asked if I had a card with my name on it as well. Puzzled I said yes I did. He then hemmed and hawed for about 4 minutes saying things like, “Well, not that anything…don’t want to be rude…. sure you’re fine.” It finally dawns on me what he’s saying: in the event we break up, the gym dues would be screwy.
I just blurted out, “Umm, WE’RE MARRIED. If we were to break up, the gym membership would really be the last of our concerns.” He was totally embarrassed, and frankly he’s kind of a dipshit. He still refused to put both our dues on the same card. Well played salesdouche. Well Played.


~~


In other news, in spite of my best efforts, on the surface, I’m pretty much a Mormon housewife. Aside from the whole “having a job” and all that. I cook, I obsess about babies, I stockpile food like the end of the world will happen tomorrow, I clean (unless Xtian beats me to it) and am really thinking I should be making all Xmas presents out of pipe cleaners, embroidery thread and LOVE. If only I could get my sewing skills up to par and lose that whole “I am still complete human with the same rights, dignity and intelligence as men” mentality, I’d be campaigning for Relief Society president.

And who did it take to point this out to me? My mother. Obviously. I fucking rule.

~~~

And finally, I fear my hair is growing out even worse than I thought possible. The huge WAVE my hair seems to love is getting uglier by the moment. And better yet, not even my hardcore flat iron is doing anything to stop it. It's just a few gray hairs from looking like every terrible aging soccer mom haircut. Now all I need is a pastel twinset to pair with my boxy, sagging ass khakis. Just amazing.

Jingle Bells, now drink yourself retarded

Ah, corporate holiday parties. Is anything at once so awkward, fun and mockery-worthy? I daresay, no. I realize these parties are supposed to be a way for coworkers to all relax, let down their hair and have some fun. But, I always come out of these things feeling like I spent my Saturday night at work, only more exhausting because I have to make pleasant chit chat with coworkers and their spouses/partners. I’m all for second-hand embarrassment, but watching VERY drunk vice presidents grinding on their/other people’s dates is more than even I want to watch.

My only goal was to avoid having a new nickname due to the party (such as Spaz, MakeOut Machine or The Puker). I think I made it out ok. Luckily, I was smart and brought a flask with good whisky. This served two purposes: 1. Avoid paying $7 for a poorly made 3 oz. beverage and 2. Since I only had a limited supply, I barely achieved buzz. So no chance of drunken debauchery.

I mentioned to my sister how I was less than excited watching my drunken coworkers behaving in divorce-causing behavior, she called me a prude. “From what I’ve learned on sitcoms, corporate holiday parties are all about getting drunk and making out with coworkers,” she said. And can I just say, the greatest start to a sentence ever. “From what I’ve learned on sitcoms.” And as we all know, sitcoms are well known for showing the consequences of poor judgment.

Well, I just let that one go in the conversation, but it’s been bothering me. Am I a prude? Not in my private life. But I think this is the difference. I attempt to draw distinct lines between my work life and my home life. I don’t bring work home with me and I try not to bring my private life into the office. Yes, I’ve had a few work friends who have translated into just FRIENDS, but that takes a lot of time. Things that I wouldn’t think twice about doing with my friends, (such as stripping naked and doing a lap around the block for a drinking game) I would never do in front of coworkers. If for no other reason than, when promotion time comes around, I really don’t want my reviewer thinking about that time I got really drunk and made out with the VP of finance.

I’d like to think that doesn’t make me a prude. Just polite. I guess for my sister, any semblance of etiquette and good taste is really just uptight, prudish behavior. And if that’s the case, so be it.
~~

And for another round of Movies Everyone Else Saw Months Ago, I give you Borat. You know, I actually liked this movie. I think all the buildup of how “offensive” this movie was had me expecting far worse. And yes, there was more unattractive man-nudity that was entirely necessary. But aside from that, I think mostly it made people uncomfortable because it allowed rank and file Americans to lampoon themselves. And I think it mocked things that needed to be mocked. Religions that take place in tents complete with “healings” and evangelical “America is always going to be a Christian nation” declarations (all while conveniently forgetting to love one another, and not judge, but maybe I just dislike religions and so am predisposed to mock) is allowed to be poked fun at. And a trashy rodeo-organizer commenting that they should round up all gays and hang them, really has my disdain coming. Drunken frat boys declaring that women are all bitches who don’t deserve any respect and all the non-white people have all the power in this country really deserve to be shown for what they are.
Mostly, I think it disturbed people because it was pretty honest in it’s portrayal of the rest of the US. And if you don’t think that’s true, it’s time to get out of California for a while and actually listen to Joe Bob the Missouri farmer.

Good lord, I’m on the soapbox today.

In other news, I’m old and my body is falling apart at an alarming rate. My shin splints are back and threatening to break my soul. I’ve officially forgotten how to walk without a limp. So, clearly I should keep running on asphalt 6 days a week. I’m smart. Sometimes…