I am a Dealer

I feel like a dealer. A lot of the characteristics are the same.  I constantly have product on hand. I was approached just yesterday by a repeat user in my parking garage.  I have people who started out with a modest purchase and then escalated into a two, three, four a day addiction.

I’m constantly dealing.  Looking for my next score.  3 p.m. office sugar drop? I’m your gal. Post-soccer match treat yo’ self? I’m there. Office elevator full of women at 5 p.m…I’m right there with my stash.

I made the mistake early in the game of sampling some of my own product.  I say to myself, “Just one.”  OK, maybe another. And another. Hell, it’s been a bad day, I’ll just do the whole thing, but then quit cold turkey tomorrow. Yes, I can do that.  How bad can it be for you anyways?   Soon, I’m up to a box a day habit.  Strung out, hiding in the bathroom, inhaling my own product at mind boggling speed.  The kids’ will never know.  My husband won’t find my stash.  Just a quick hit to take the edge off the day.

Yes, folks.  I am a Cookie Mom.  I have that yearly temptation  of sweet goodness boxed and stacked shoulder high in my garage. Samoas, Thin Mints, Trefoils, Tagalongs.  I’ve got them all.  Timed perfectly at the end of February each year – just about the time our New Year’s resolutions are fading fast and a tiny cookie doesn’t seem so bad.  Lent promises are quickly broken as soon as my daughter and I walk through that door.   We are wheelers and dealers with our cute slogans and uniforms.  You never had a chance.  Even Leo can’t resist.

We are coming.  Soon we will hit your street with our wagon full of temptation.  Innocently peddling our wares.  There goes the neighborhood.

Sorry everyone, but a girl has to pay for camp somehow.  It’s hard times we live in these days.   Girls gotta eat.  Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.

OK, this is getting out of hand.  I better leave it be.  But really, I still have a ton left. It does do really great things for the girls. Buy a box would ya?  Help a mother out?  Building strong leaders and diabetes, one box at a time.  That’s me.  I’m a freakin saint for what I do.




PS – I hope to be back more often bitches!  🙂



Reasons My Son’s Not Eating

Some of us are blessed.  Their kids are adventurous.  They will eat all types of foods.  All types of textures.  For some lucky parents, this food can even touch other food. 


We are not blessed in this way.  This is our burden.  Our 8 year old son is a total pain in the ass when it comes to food.  Unless of course, it’s ice cream, then he’s good, but anything else, there are a set of rules that change almost daily.

Therefore, we give you:  THE REASONS OUR SON IS NOT EATING:

1. The pizza has sat out for longer than 5 minutes.

2. The macaroni and cheese is NOT Kraft. Homemade?  Big macaroni noodles?  No go.  Kraft M&C must also not sit on the stove longer than 5 minutes.

3. The noodles are too wide.

4. The noodles are a different color.

5. The noodles are mixed with something.  Anything, even broccoli, which he actually likes.

6. The carrots are mixed with peas.

7. The pizza has bubbles on it.

8. The bread has nuts in it.

9. There’s parsley on it.

10. The grilled cheese has a tiny brown “burn” spot.  (Not really, just browner at that place than he’d like)

11. The jello has fruit in it.

12. It has gravy on it.  Clearly, not my kid.

13. It has any sauce or seasoning on it.

14. It’s breaded with something other than nugget.

15. It touched the ranch.  Which he’s using to dip, but it touched before he’s dipped it.

16. Too much cinnamon on the applesauce.

17.  The carrots have crinkles.

18. It’s leftovers. Of anything. Pizza included.

19. It’s hot dogs. Of any sort.

20. It’s tacos.  Food touching all over the place. And lettuce, don’t forget lettuce. Ick.

21. It’s not the right meatball.

22. The noodles are too wide.

23. The potatoes are mashed.

These are just off the top of my head.  And there are rules on top of that. And if you do find something he likes that is remotely healthy, for the love of God, don’t over serve it.  No more than once every other week.

Now, on the list of Go foods are a few foolproof items, none of which are healthy.



Ice cream


Dessert, anything natch.

Every time.
Every time.

And that’s about it.

One might read this and think, “Hell, if that were my kid, I’d make him eat what I give him.”  You, my dear, DO NOT have this kid, because I can guarantee you no parent of a fellow picky eater follows this rule.  We get firm and we choose these food battles fairly often, and sometimes, we do the worst, meanest, most horrible thing a parent can do:  we withhold dessert. For the most part, we desperately try to put something on the table they might just eat a few bites of, but our hopes are dangerously low on the best of days.  We scour the internet, church and family cookbooks, and foolishly click on all the articles about “picky eaters,” but we are always disappointed, because I don’t know anyone whose picky eater will eat “Baked Polenta Fries,” cause mine sure as hell won’t.

Not gonna work bud.
Not gonna work bud.

But we keep on the fighting the good fight.  We pin the hell out of Pinterest.  But, most days, it’s PB&J or nuggets, with the hope that one day, one day soon, they’ll look up and say, “How about Mexican/Italian/Indian food?”

Until then, stay strong picky parents!

Cause he's cute, that's why.
Cause he’s cute, that’s why.

Food for Thought

Here’s what I hate.  I finally get a moment and the motivation to sit down and write, and…..complete blank.  Now, in the shower, driving to and from work, at work, in the bathroom, and so on, I am ripe with ideas.  Now? With time? Complete and total blank.  So annoying.

So, I guess I’ll talk about what I’ve been thinking about fairly constantly for the past three weeks or so.  Ah hell, who am I kidding, my whole freakin life.  Food.

As of this moment, I am half on and half off the wagon.  I kind of picture myself with a rope being dragged behind the wagon hanging on for dear life.  All while the people on the wagon securely are all like, “I just lost 5 lbs in a week on Weight Watchers!  And I have trouble even eating all my points every day!”  To you people I say:

eye roll

Cause that doesn’t happen for me.   I spent $165 at the grocery store a few weeks ago to attempt a SkinnyMs.com diet and lost 3 lbs in the first week.  I was ecstatic.  They even allowed for one “cheat” a week.  So on that Friday I had 2 pieces of pizza….and maybe a cheesy bread stick, and maybe a few pieces of cinnamon bread dessert….but who’s counting.  Anyways, BAM!  next morning, 2 lbs back on!  (To be fair to SkinnyMs – their recipes are actually really, really good.  Their green smoothies, while they look like snot, are actually very good.  It’s just a really really expensive way of eating, and very time consuming.  Plus, I’m the only one eating this stuff.  I made their chili one day and ate it for the next four days. I haven’t totally abandoned it, but I am having to add affordable/quick food slightly back in.)

Anyways, this is not the root of my problem, and I’m asking for advice here.  The root of my evil is basically food is like heroin to me.  I can’t stop.  Basically I want to be eating 100% of the day.  Like, I need something in my mouth.  Paging Dr. Freud!   Gum helps, but I have jaw problems and can’t chew it very long.  Food is basically my nervous habit.  Procrastinating?  Let’s eat.  Don’t know what to do with myself?  How about a snack?  Too much going on and don’t know where to start?  Let’s see what’s in the fridge!   I sit at a computer all day and if I am not reaching for something to put in my mouth, I feel weird and unfulfilled.   I count minutes until my next “snack time.”

Also, I feel like I am keeping a tight lease on my eating. Like I am always trying to squash the voice inside my head that screaming at me, “EAT THE FOOD!  EAT EVERYTHING YOU SEE!!!”    Life if I just go balls to the wall and let myself go, I’d eat an entire cake and wash it down with a  Coke Zero.  Like Louie CK says, “I don’t eat until I’m full, I eat until I hate myself.”

Sing it Louie.
Sing it Louie.

And I can’t stop.  If it’s around, I feel a compulsion to eat it.  Like the food’s feelings will be hurt if I don’t try a piece.  That’s why I kind of wish it was a heroin addiction.  At least then people wouldn’t surprise me with it at 3 p.m. saying, “Oh just one bite of heroin won’t kill ya!  Just try it.”

My Achilles’ heel is being delivered this week.  Girl Scout cookies.  I think I’ve ordered 18 boxes from various girls.  I’m supporting my community right?  Not when I get my first two boxes delivered and I have eaten an entire sleeve of Thin Mints before I get out of the car on the return trip.  That’s all for me.

Then the shame spiral happens.  I get nauseous.  I hate myself.  I make resolutions that will last approximately 6 hours.  Then I do it all over again the next day.

I guess what this rambling post means is, I don’t know where to turn.  I feel like I need to be hypnotized or acupunctured.  Maybe I should wire my jaw shut like that crazy girl in Real World 20 years ago.  But, I’d still eat milkshakes and Coke, so that wouldn’t help.

I feel like I need a person to shame me into not eating, but that doesn’t work either.  If I get one of those people, and I’ve tried, I end up eating in secret.  Hiding from them.  It becomes a game to sneak the food.

God I am such a head case.  Honestly, it’s embarrassing to post this, but at the moment it’s kind of ruling my every thought.  Sure I can joke about being chubby and eating a lot, but when it comes down to it, I really do want to get healthy.  Not just skinny.  Healthy.  I want to have energy.  I am tired of my back hurting.  I am terrified my cholesterol is going to kill me.

I’d do great with a nutritionist and a personal trainer, but that ain’t happening.  Maybe some tips on how to start.  Baby steps.  Quick, easy, healthy recipes I can slowly incorporate into my life?




Excuses Excuses

Maria Kang has caused another mommy controversy on the internet these past few weeks (see here).   She posted a picture of herself in tight workout gear with her three kids next  to her.  The caption reads, “What’s Your Excuse?!”  People say it’s fat shaming, judgy, etc.  Also, she’s a bad mom for ignoring her kids to get fit.  I say patooey on the whole thing.  I just read this from Baby Sideburns (The New Rules of Mommyhood) and I completely agree.  100%.  Did you read them both?  If so, do that, then COME BACK.  Don’t get sidelined by Kim K’s engagement ring or that Joss & Main ad.

I say let each mom be each mom.  If Maria Kang can work out and be gorgeous and a good mom, rock on with her bad self.  You can’t call her a bad mom.  She’s just doing what’s right for her, and you have no idea whether she’s a bad mom or not.  You have very limited information.  This tends to piss me off (see here).

BUT, in fun, I thought I’d offer my excuses for Why Not?

  • Traveling husband/dad
  • Full time job including travel time/daycare drop-off
  • 2 very fast moving hours a night with my kids (must include feeding, bathing, homework)
  • I would rather read.  Currently the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  Seriously, I CANNOT PUT THEM DOWN.  Vampires + porn + 12 books 500+ pages each = How’s a 7:00 bedtime sound kids??
  • I can’t read on the treadmill, it makes me nauseous.
  • I really like to eat.  I could write a love letter to food that would be more erotic than one to my husband.  Seriously, if above mentioned vampires ate food the entire 500 pages, I’d still be totally turned on.
  • If I do get the rare opportunity to use our local YMCA membership, I am totally intimidated by gym people and the equipment, so I wuss out and get on the treadmill for a half hour, which I could totally do at home.  And at home, I could wear just a sports bar and shorts, and not have to worry about various exposed jiggly parts or the fact my vagina is slowing trying to consume my shorts.  (Shut it!  You know it happens to you too!).  Plus there’s the ick factor of hopping on a machine after sweaty, hairy guy vacates it without wiping it down.
  • Working out makes me sweat.  I hate being hot and sweaty.  I don’t have enough underwear to make this comfortable.
  • Working out at home is all the way DOWNSTAIRS.
  • I have trouble balancing my Kindle on the equipment to watch TV.  Music is nice, but I need some visual eye candy.  Maybe I could hire some firemen to dance in front of me whilst I work out.  Nope, scratch that, see above workout gear.
  • My available work out times are 4:30 to 5:30 a.m. or 9:00 to 10:00 p.m.  Those are definitely my optimum energy hours.  I think of all the times I’ve planned to get up and exercise in the morning, I think I’ve done it maybe twice in my whole life.  The road to hell is paved with good intentions…and donuts.
  • I hate healthy food.  Every day, I bring an apple to work.  Each day, I add said apple to my ever growing bushel in my food drawer. Eventually I will make a pie with them.
  • I can’t pronounce edamame or quinoa, therefore, can’t buy them for fear the cashier will want to talk about them, hence exposing my ignorance.
  • I hate healthy food.  Seriously.  Hate it.  My ideal “healthy” snack is a spoonful of Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter.
  • I love pop.  I hate water.  Just saying it makes me happy (POP, POP, POPPEDTY POP POP).  Water makes me sad and bored, and doesn’t wash down that candy bar aftertaste like a pop can.  God, I can hear me becoming diabetic.
  • Diets make me instantly hungry.  Just thinking about a diet makes me hungry.  Like, right now.  Do I have any cheesesticks in the fridge?  Is it too late for nachos?
  • My happy pills make me tired and slow my metabolism.
  • My allergy pills make me tired and you know, probably slow my metabolism too.
  • My kids make me tired.  Seriously, ever spend an hour yelling to get them into bed, brush teeth, poop, pee, break up fights, break up giggle fests, freak out over homework not done, get water for parched daughter, tell son why he cannot have water, argue about how long he can read, assure daughter there are no monsters in the house or room,  spray monster repellent into room just in case, reassure daughter all is OK after her nightmare (which she hasn’t had yet, because she has yet to close her eyes), tuck them in, re-tuck them in after they get up to rearrange their stuffed animals, trim a “nail” (read hangnail that is obviously life-threatening), put band-aid on non-existent boo boo, hear about friend’s vacation, talk about our vacation, and so on….?  Yeah, by the time they have finally given up the fight for the night, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall.  Puttin on exercise gear (see hot description above), tennis shoes (apparently this is a Midwesterners’  term, so OK rest of America “shoes”), get water, desired electronic device for entertainment and heading downstairs does not sound appealing.  A glass of wine, a good book and/or catching up on New Girl and Vampire Diaries does however.

I want to be one of those women.  Like Maria Kang.  I want to LOVE exercise.  I want to LOVE healthy eating.  I go in cycles.  My husband usually times them.  I get on the wagon, detox for a week (read:  miserable, hungry, constant internal yelling at self), slowly start feeling awesome, crave working out, then BAM Coldstone happens or sick happens or tired happens and I am off the wagon on a binge most heroin addicts would say, Calm down lady, why don’t we ease up a little eh?  (Because my heroin addicts are Canadian.)

So, those are my excuses.  They are lame I know.  I am slowly killing myself I know.  It’s a vicious cycle.  I feel like I am a hamster stuck on a spinning wheel.  Only my spinning wheel consists of a couch, Kindle, Hulu and a snuggie.

Good night!


Fat cat

I like food.  I am currently successfully battling my food demons.  As of right now, I am back on the wagon, on week 4 of Weight Watchers and have lost 3 lbs.  That’s pretty good for me.  My goal is not to lose my ass and thighs, that’s a forevermore for this girl, but I’d like three things to go away.  First and foremost, the baby belly.  Second, the double chin aka the Waddle.  Third, I need to dump the chubby arms and get my rockin swimmer arms back.  The kind I had 10 years ago whilst waiting tables and bartending.  The arms that came from 12 hour shifts, trays of food, moving kegs of beer and full bus tubs.  I want to sell tickets to the gun show.  $50 a pop.

About a week ago, one of Will’s after-school caregivers asked me if I was going to have a baby.  If that’s not a kick in the pants, I don’t know what is.  It hurt.  It made me feel bad, which makes it even worse because I was feeling pretty good about myself up until that point in the day.  Was it stupid for her to ask?  Hell yes.  Was it a crazy statement?  Not so much.  It’s where my weight has settled.  Babies have left and food has taken their place.  My food baby.  God I love that food baby.   It might help if I wasn’t constantly touching it and resting my hand on it, much like I did when I was pregnant.  It’s just fascinating that so much can just dwell there.  I have to admit, I am constantly poking at it, grabbing handfuls of it when I sit down and look around for a pair of scissors, because that’s what I want to do, just trim it off.  Can’t hurt that much right?  See how lazy I am?  I’d rather CUT my fat off with SCISSORS instead of GASP! walking away from that donut or getting on a treadmill a few times a week.

Since the food baby question, I have been more motivated than ever, so thank you naïve young daycare girl, you made me hit bottom.  Time to look up and start taking care of myself.  I want to like me.  I want my kids to know that I like myself.  And I want to make my husband happy, which is not the hard part.  He really likes chubby girls.  His big fear is that I’ll get “too skinny” and lose my ass.  Don’t worry honey, it’s not going anywhere.  I’ll never be my teenage self (save maybe the acne, which come on, give a girl a break! I’m 33, when does it end?), but I would like to be a leaner version of me.  One that doesn’t use rouching on swimsuits as extra material to fill.  I want the actual rouching to come back and be just that, cute wrinkles in the front.

As a testament to my commitment and a way to keep up the motivation, here Internet, is a picture of me NOW.  You know, so I can mail it to Weight Watchers and have them ask me to be a spokeswoman, cause you know, they don’t have enough celebrities who’ve just had babies 30 seconds before who want to join.  Just so you know, I made pregnant cankles sexy WAAAY before Kim K.  You stole my sausage feet Kim!

No, I didn't buy this dress.  My sister talked me out of it after I texted this pic to her.  Gotta love sisters.  They tell it like it's fat.
No, I didn’t buy this dress. My sister talked me out of it after I texted this pic to her. Gotta love sisters. They tell it like it’s fat.
A good example of "the Waddle."  Yeah, the skinny bitch next to me makes it look worse.  I blame her completely.  :-P
A good example of “the Waddle.” Yeah, the skinny bitch next to me makes it look worse. I blame her completely. 😛


Food Issues…Again

Hi, my name is Jenny and I have food issues.
Hi, my name is Jenny and I have food issues.

I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, or more likely beating a bag of M&Ms,  but I have food issues.  This weekend, being Easter, only highlighted these issues, and with this past week being a combo pre-holiday, Aunt Flo week, all bets were off.

For those you also obsessed with vampire shows, I often compare myself in vampire folklore terms.   Take Vampire Diaries, where they have this nifty thing that if you are a vampire and life gets too unbearable, you have a “humanity switch.”  This switch can be flipped and will let said vampire turn off their emotions and just live without feeling anything.  Very good for upping the drama factor and making good girls and boys look cool doing bad things and excusing it later type thing.

Hmm.  Damon.  Just because.
Hmm. Damon. Just because.

My “switch” that I oftentimes turn off pertains to food.  It’s what I would term my “self-control” switch.  The one that tells me, Hey Jen, why don’t you stop at the first row of Oreo’s, that’s plenty dontcha think?  Or maybe, Hey girl, how about we not eat our weight in candy today mkay?  The inside voice that shuts down my inner voice that can justify eating anything as long as no one sees me doing it.  Like a tree in the woods, if no one sees me wreck that plate of cookies, did it really just happen?

I battle to keep this switch on every single day, and sometimes, the fight just goes out of me.  I stress eat.  I tired eat.  I bored eat.  I eat because if someone doesn’t eat those ice cream sandwiches currently in my fridge, no one will.  I am always thinking about food.  I know it’s unhealthy, but therapy is freakin expensive, and I currently can’t afford to pay someone to listen to me whine about food, which in turn, will only make me hungry.

I feel like food is a drug I can’t quit.  Besides I can’t quit, we humans technically need it to survive, and besides, it would completely put me in a whole other psychological mess category, and I’ve tried not eating, it doesn’t work.  Usually a half hour in, I’m like, I’M DYING, MY STOMACH IS STARTING TO EAT MY LIVER, GET ME SOME FOOD, and I end up eating half the McDonald’s menu, which by the way McD’s thanks for the calorie count buzzkill on the menus now.  I prefer ignorance; I know your restaurant is not good for me, please stop preaching it when I am trying to get my Double-cheese on.   (Quiet KQ, I am not eating your ridiculous apples.  What’s the point? You took away the caramel months ago, which almost caused complete anarchy in my backseat by the way, a little warning would have been nice.)

I will jump back on the wagon tomorrow.  I will once again try to be good, but another stumbling block I face is even when I am super good, drink water like a camel, love me some fruits and veggies, and eat smaller quantities, I lose approximately 1 pound.  I was awesomely good for the entire months of February and March (with the exception of last week, doesn’t count, see above Shark Week and Easter combo). I ate well, worked out three to four times a week, I didn’t eat at night, and I actually choked down my 8 glasses of water every day.  I only lost 4 freakin pounds.  Now, in this time, I did feel pretty darn great, my muffin top got smaller, I did have more energy and other things, but it’s HARD when you just don’t see the results on the scale or start to get Madonna arms after like 10 whole pushups.

Another problem is I LOVE food.  Not good food mind you.  Crap food.  I love Little Debbie’s, Chef Boy R Dee, anything chocolate, and anything pre-packaged and convenient.   I hate thinking ahead and planning.  I hate vegetables.  I am the person that buys like $30 of fresh fruits and veggies at the store on Saturday and am throwing them away untouched on Friday to make way for the next cycle.   If I can’t grab it, rip the top off the container and shove it down my gullet, I am not eating it.  Nachos are awesome to me, but only on special days, because those are a lot of work.  Probably not wondering anymore why my cholesterol is 265 are you?

This post is a cry for help.  I need motivation.  I need something.  I have only one idea left.  Basically I need people in all areas of my life shaming me into not eating badly.  I need people judging me at get togethers.  I need people at work to call me names when I am gorging on donuts and M&Ms.  I need to know I am being watched, or else I won’t quit.  Nighttime is the hardest, but I guess I’m on my own there.  But if I can make it the rest of the day, I might just have enough willpower to finish the day strong.

I have to do something.  I am killing myself.  I am teaching my kids awful food habits.  I want to put dinners on the table every night, not just mac and cheese and nuggets.  I need to get my butt in gear and grow up.  I am 33 years old and it is time to get organized.  I bet there’s something on Pinterest for that, and most likely, I pinned it months ago, and then went back to funny memes without reading it.  So, I issue my inner circle a challenge:  watch me, comment on my eating, shame me, it’s the only way I will stop, or at least get started down the right path.  I will warn you though, in approximately 28 days, if I come at you looking for chocolate, you best move out of my way, because this week can make me violent.

Happy Easter everyone!


UPDATE 4/1/13:  Just called the doctor’s office to get my updated cholesterol bloodwork results and I am down from 265 to 216 just with the dieting and exercising I am doing!  There’s a little motivation to not jump off the wagon!  I may be fat, but by God, I am making myself healthier! Yay!  No meds yet for me.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bathroom

I keep trying to think of an intro that eases you into this story.  Some gentle Family Circus humor before I get all gross.  But…I got nothing.  Subtlety is not really my forte in writing.  So here goes nothing… an Honest -To-God True Story about why sometimes it sucks to be a woman. 


Having a period in an office environment can be a bit challenging.  Every 30 days, I get a visit from Aunt Flo that’s not so much fun for about 48 hours, and I need to quietly excuse myself every 3 hours or so to stop the epic dam that’s about to burst and bleed out in front of my co-workers.  Gross.  I told you, but hey babies don’t come from storks, magic pixie dust and fairy wings.  It’s nature people.    


No matter our age, women have to figure out a way in public to get hygiene products into a bathroom for a quick spruce up and to stop the dam from breaking.  In high school, that meant suddenly carrying your purse to the bathroom for one week a month.  In college, you had to plan for long class days and pack your bag accordingly, and not get stuck in a 3-hour class and feel gravity take over halfway through.  Eww I know, but hey ladies, you all know what I’m sayin…you’ve all been there, and it sucks. 


So then you get to be an adult with a job with a nice clean bathroom and more leniency on when you can get up and pee.  (Unless, you work in a call center like I did once for 8 tortuous months, then it’s like breaking out of prison to go to the bathroom.)  If you carry your purse, everyone wonders where the hell you’re going, and in my office, they ask.  So instead of coming up with a lie every four hours, “Uh, I just have to get something out of my car,” which some in my office would totally keep track of, and soon I’d be hearing, “You know, you go down to your car a lot, maybe you should plan ahead and bring it all up at once.”  Thanks.  I’d never thought of that. 


See, our bathrooms are not in our suite.  They are at the end of a LONG hallway and shared with other offices on our floor, which is awesome for total anonymity when you need to go drop a bomb after some KILLER Lebanese food or you know you will be making some sweet noise after a round of refried bean Mexican dip.  This is not so great when you have to RUN to them after some really good milkshakes, which really, all they do to me is make my boys run FROM the yard.  Lactose intolerance sucks and milkshakes are SOOO good – it’s such a double edge sword.    And yes, every time I hear that song, I think of diarrhea.  Not quite what Kelis had in mind I think.   


Anyways, God, I could talk about poop all day, but that’s not what I’m telling you today.  So, I had my monthly friend visiting and it was time to do some necessary business.  Now, I have created my own little secret stashing place for my unmentionables, ok, let’s just get this out of the way, TAMPONS.  There, now I can stop thinking of delicate words for it.  Hell, I’ve already confessed to running diarrhea so I am not quite sure what I am so embarrassed about.  This secret place doesn’t require an obvious purse or pockets, which I’ve discovered my work pants usually never have, or if they do, they are decoys and uselessly shallow and only there to showcase the fact that your hips are making them stick out at wierd angles.  My genius spot?  The waistband of my slacks.  I just need 2 uninterrupted seconds to place said tampon and pull my shirt over it and VIOLA!  I can discretely go to the bathroom with no one the wiser. 


Now when I say 2 uninterrupted seconds, really, that’s all I need.  But, in my office, much like my home, I have very little privacy.  2 uninterrupted seconds is damn near impossible.  Over the years, I have summed up the difference between home and work is that I don’t wipe butts at the office.  That’s the ONLY difference.  And don’t tell my sales associates I am a fairly good ass wiper because then that will be the next request from them.  So as I was saying, I was in the process of discretely placing said tampon in secret traveling location when unbeknownst to me, behind me magically appears a partner asking for something to be done.  I jump like an idiot and try to quickly stash said tampon into the waistband and then try to casually act like I totally wasn’t doing anything just then.  Standing there for no reason. 


He gives me a weird look, pauses, then proceeds to give me the task at hand.  He walks away and I breathe a sigh of relief and hope he didn’t see what I had in my hand.  Then I look down.  And see that the tampon has not slid into the waistband as hoped, but instead did this.    

Recreated just for you...
Recreated just for you…

So, while one of our partners was trying to nonchalantly ask me to do my job, I was not so casually sporting a tiny thin PENIS from the top of my shirt.  Awesome.  I am the COOLEST person ever. 


 I will probably never know if he saw it.  I’m too embarrassed to ask.  And he won’t mention it.  Ever.  Trust me. 




PS – HEY!!  I just learned to embed something.  Baby steps.  Maybe one day, I’ll figure out how to make this blog somewhat readable.  In the meantime, enjoy some Milkshake…




So, I ate something weird on Christmas Eve and got some sort of bug.  I blame the ranch dressing that my sister offered for the salad that expired in AUGUST.  My one attempt at semi-healthy eating was ultimately my undoing.  Just because my sister’s household does not consume ranch by the gallon weekly as does ours.  Yet.  Give her kids a few years.  Then, it will be a food group.  You know, one of the basic five kid food groups:  ranch/ketchup, chicken nuggets, mac n cheese, waffles/pancakes, and of course, dessert.

So one bite of bad ranch dressing and I got hit fairly hard later that evening with the vomit bug.    And no, sister, it couldn’t possibly be the insane amount of rich food that I had been consuming prior to that evening.   The one pound of caramel corn, chocolate covered everything snack mix I consumed at work like it was my job.  The crazy good meat and cheese tray.  The meatballs.  The kielbasa.  The truffles.  The cake.  The cookies.  The spinach dip.  And that was just lunch.

Anyways, Christmas morning I managed to slug my way to the couch to watch half-heartedly while my kids enjoyed their loot from “Santa.”  (Fat bastard.  Why does this guy get all the credit?   Mark was up until 2 a.m. wrapping, while I puked my guts out in the bathroom.  No fat man in sight.  Where were his elves when we plucked down hard earned cash amongst the other half-crazed, tired parents trying to stay on a Jelly-Of-The-Month club Christmas budget while delivering yet another Christmas of their dreams? Then having to play along about how awesome Santa is and answer all “How did he know I wanted this?” questions.    I know, I am a killjoy, and I should just enjoy it because the magic doesn’t last long, but I really hate that guy.  And really, my mom and dad should have hated him too, because he OUTDID himself in our day, and I figured my parents were lazy and cheap for only buying clothes.  Yeesh.  Mom and Dad, I am so sorry!  You guys totally rocked, and now in hindsight, Mom’s annual lock herself in the laundry room cryfest totally makes sense.   I totally get it Mom, and I’m sorry, YOU were awesome.  Not some non-union sweatshop guy in a red suit.   Crap.  Didn’t I start this with a parenthesis?  Sorry for tangent.  And I am ending……now).

Anyways, I digress.  I got to spend Christmas Day afternoon and evening all by myself, which normally for me would be awesome, but come on, even the most intense introverts crave a little family and friends on Christmas.  Therefore, I was bummed and feeling like crap.  So, I set up nauseous camp on the couch proceeded to watch Nativity documentaries on the History Channel, switched up with TBS’s A Christmas Story Marathon.  However, the best part was the in between, which brings me to my point.  Infomercials.

Being that I am mostly a Netflix and Hulu girl, I don’t see a lot of these anymore.  And They. Were. Awesome.  SO – here is my new revised Christmas list for 2013.  Forget the cleaning person and personal chef.  I NEED a Wax Vac!!

The Wax Vac


Scene:  Enter idiot man ramming a Q-tip deep into his skull and then screaming in pain when he hits brain. And then looking at the Q-tip like it’s the enemy, not the idiot with opposable thumbs.  Enter the Wax Vac, a gentle vacuum that sucks the sticky wax magically out of your ear.  Awesome.

First off, maybe I have abnormal earwax, but how hard does this thing have to suck to get this pretty sticky substance off my ear?  I don’t want to vacuum my ear drum out, which defeats the purpose, and really doesn’t sound safer than sticking a stick in there.  Then, they say it’s easy clean.  Ever try to this stuff off your finger, let alone a machine?  Gross.

But, still I kinda want one.  It would be cool in the summer for water in the ears.  Wax Vac, I am open for endorsement talks if this intrigues you.

The Cloud Pillow


Developed by ancient Asians centuries ago, this has some sort of weird bubble like material that keeps your head and neck perfectly aligned and never goes flat.  Magic again.  This pillow improves sleep, sex lives, and sings lullabies in your ear until you fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.  This pillow will also reach out and smack any needy child or pet that wanders to your side of the bed in search of disturbing you from your peaceful slumber.   It creates an invisible barrier between you and your spouse from any “accidental” farting or bed/cover hogging.  It will gently hug your ears to stifle any snoring coming from the other side of the bed, which couldn’t possibly be you, because you my dear, are a lady.  Finally, the grand finale, this pillow will have SEX with your husband while you sleep peacefully.

Seriously again, I want this.  What if it works?  What if this is the reason I am a bitch?  Years of bad pillows.

The Orgreenic


Ever cook eggs for over an hour and then wonder why it sticks impossibly to the pan?  Me too!  The ceramic pan is green and therefore totally organic and safe, because you know if you paint asbestos green, it’s totally safe too.

One question though…does it still not stick if you don’t actually use it?  Do you have to cook yourself or does it cook for you?  Because really, if it doesn’t come with my previously requested personal chef (one who doesn’t require sexual favors for cooking like my current one does), I am probably not going to be using this thing.

The Cushion for your Tushion.


Need more motivation to stay sedentary?  Try the Forever Comfy Cushion!  I want this totally.  I want to be the crazy lady at work who has a cushion under my butt because getting up every hour to un-numb my butt is just too much of a chore.  Like I need any more reason NOT to get off my ass.   But, seriously, I would totally buy this.  My butt may have more cushion lately, but it still goes numb while typing endless letters and emails for my two-finger keyboard pecking agents for 9 hours a day.  And it tingles with disuse during the tens of minutes I sit here every few days writing this eloquent, thought-provoking, and inspiring blog.  Plus the excruciating 20 minute commute I make twice daily from work to home is a real cheek killer.

So there you have my new and updated list.  It can mostly be yours for $19.99, but if you call now, you can get a second one COMPLETELY FREE, plus $35.99 shipping and handling.

PS – Don’t let me forget to tell you the funny tampon story sometime soon.  HA!  Cliffhanger!  Leading you on by a string….ewww…. It’s not gross, it’s hilarious I promise.  And could only happen to me.


All right.  I made it until 4 p.m.  I was STARVING and light headed.  No one can just eat fruit.  Fuck fruit.  Sorry, but it’s just a stupid crash diet.  BUT, in my defense, I haven’t eaten badly, just something other than simple carbohydrates.  I had a Greek yogurt and then a big salad for dinner.  Do I want the Little Caesar’s that my mother-in-law brought over for the kids?  You bet your ass I do, but I know the shame spiral that I will face after I eat that pizza.  Pizza that’s not even good.  Pizza you buy just because you don’t have to plan 15 minutes ahead.  Guess I won’t be getting any Little Caesar’s endorsements anytime soon.

Anyways, I am still trying.  I ate a freakin fruit plate at Star Diner this morning.  I turned down my favorite Mexican food and margaritas tonight.  I have to stay strong.  The new pants I ordered optimistically yesterday will not fit comfortably around this body.

Wish me luck… I’m going to need it.

Day 1

I am 7.5 hours in and I feel like Alex the Lion in Madagascar.


Yep, this is how I see everyone right now.  I am just hungry, no matter how much fruit I freakin eat.  Can’t wait for my potato tomorrow morning.  That is going to be one delicious pat of butter.  Pat = Stick right?

This better be worth it.  If my Pastor can fast for a month for the good of mankind, I can certainly last 7 days to take some junk out of my trunk right?