Last night my husband and I took the kids to Friendly's for dinner. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to go out to eat, but my son seemed so excited about it and somehow, in our minds, we thought that it would be fun.
There was a time in my life when Friendly's would have seemed AMAZING. Cheese sticks, cheese quesadillas, crappy tuna melt, a HUGE ice cream sundae. But I don't normally eat like that anymore, so the thought of their food is vile. And guess what? It was just as awesome as I thought it would be.
I, of course, thought I was going to get everything on the menu as an appetizer. This was the "fat me" trying to make an appearance. Luckily, we live on a pretty strict budget, so I couldn't go too crazy. I decided on the mini cheese sticks. And then "fat me" tried to kick the mother in me outta the picture. I actually did NOT want to share my appetizer with my kids. I even considered telling them no and keeping the fried yumminess all to myself. This did not happen, but I was a little asshole about it, dishing out only as many as I was willing to give up. I watched in disbelief as my 5 year old removed the yummy cheese food and only ate the breading. What a waste.
Then came my entree'. I gave myself two choices. The fried chicken salad or the fried chicken wrap. I don't know why in my mind these seemed like the most "healthy" options, but I really thought that they would be the lesser of the evils on the menu. I went with the wrap. I have to say, I really didn't think a flour tortilla could be any worse than the white flour ones you buy at the store, but this one tasted like...Jeebus, I don't even know. Like at some point in the process it had been fried in fake butter and then dried, and then fried again, and then ironed maybe. I really started to wonder how it was made to be so soft and pliable. Also, how do you get iceberg lettuce to taste any shittier than it already does? Blaaarrrgggh. And don't even get me started on the tomatoes. So goddamn gross. I smothered this wretched concoction in watery ranch dressing because the honey mustard that was already on it was clearly not enough. I was good though. I only ate a small portion of my cardboard fries and gave the rest away.
At least my kids had fun. While completely unappetizing to me, their food looked fun. My son's sliders came on little chopstick like skewers which the kids promptly removed and began to use as swords. Mandarin oranges came on the side of my girls' hotdogs and I have decided that those have to be the most disgusting excuse for fruit EVER. My 3 year old made me eat one and I thought I was going to have to spit it on the floor.
Dessert came with the kids' meals and due to the fact that my wrap was slowly making it's way through my bloodstream, I was able to resist getting the Reese's Pieces sundae. My son got this sundae that had an upside down cone and when my husband asked how he was going to eat it, I thought of all the inappropriate ways I could get us kicked out of the restaurant and banned for all eternity. "Sorry guys, mommy's not allowed at Friendly's anymore. Apparently they don't like it when adults simulate fellatio on the desserts. I guess they don't appreciate the art of deep throating."
Oh joy!!! To top the night off the waitress brought each of the kids balloons, a strange toy that I have never liked and find a little dangerous. Everyone always tries to put them in their mouths or beat each other with them. The best is when they hold them up in the back seat so that I can't see out of the rearview mirror. "Woops!! The wind just carried them away!! I'm sorry, babies. <snicker, snort>"
So, once again, I have been reminded of why I don't eat at places as awesome as Friendly's anymore. I will remember for awhile and then in about a year we will decide to go there again, forgetting how truly disgusting it is and then wishing we had gone and eaten something more exotic. Of course, I wouldn't mind going and sampling their phallic desserts...
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
That Would Be Filed Under F For Fuck My Life.
Sometimes I wish I could have some sort of disease that worked like Alzheimer's. Not in the horrific way that Alzheimer's destroys every part of your brain and leaves you unrecognizable and rips your family to pieces. But if I could have some of the bad memories taken away, I wouldn't mind. Not all of them, of course, because some of them have been very important in my growth as a person. But seriously? Many of them can just go away. I usually don't dwell on most of these thoughts, but they will just creep in when I have been thinking about something else that may be related in some obscure way.
It's like I have drawers of memories filed away under different categories, written on cards to be looked at every once in awhile. But sometimes when I am looking at one, I drop the drawer and the cards become a jumbled mess, so I have to look at each one and put them back in their place. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just go through and hand pick the ones I don't want and burn them in a nice little pile?
Take this little gem for example:
Year: 1985
Place: Elementary School
Description: While preparing to give a demonstration of how to make pancakes and heating up the griddle, cockroaches that had been living in said griddle began running for their lives.
I wish this did not actually happen to me. But it did. And every time I think of it, my cheeks still burn with the shame and humiliation that I felt that day. It is like I am 11 years old again, crying to my teacher. But the best part of that memory <insert sarcasm> is that now, as an adult, I can only dream of all the things she must have been thinking.
How about this one:
Year: 1987
Place: The shopping center across from my house.
Description: While walking with a more popular girl that I did not find very attractive (I still don't know why we were hanging out), she told me, "It's not your fault that I am prettier than you.".
Yeah, I don't like to remember that one either. I don't actually think she was prettier than me and honestly, that shows some insecurity on her part. But the way I felt about that statement at 13, considering the way I already felt about myself and my life at the time, so not cool. And so not worth rehashing, but there it is. Cataloged away to make an appearance when I least expect it.
This one is similar, but worse on so many levels:
Year: 1990
Place: The neighborhood next to mine
Description: Walking home from school, a younger child that I did not know told me I was fat and ugly.
Again, not really worth rehashing, so why can't it just go away?
This one, wow. This one is one I would totally love to forget. No, this one I wish would have never happened, but forgetting it would be nice too:
Year: 1992
Place: My best friends car
Description: After getting ripped on Purple Passion wine coolers and calling my friend to come and rescue me from a party, I suddenly puked Purple Passion and the contents of everything I had eaten that day all over the passenger side of her front seat.
Do I even need to explain why I would not want to remember this? No, I didn't think so.
So, yeah. I wouldn't mind having a few memories erased. Again, nothing overly important, just ones that have no business hanging around and taking up my sweet ass time.
It's like I have drawers of memories filed away under different categories, written on cards to be looked at every once in awhile. But sometimes when I am looking at one, I drop the drawer and the cards become a jumbled mess, so I have to look at each one and put them back in their place. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just go through and hand pick the ones I don't want and burn them in a nice little pile?
Take this little gem for example:
Year: 1985
Place: Elementary School
Description: While preparing to give a demonstration of how to make pancakes and heating up the griddle, cockroaches that had been living in said griddle began running for their lives.
I wish this did not actually happen to me. But it did. And every time I think of it, my cheeks still burn with the shame and humiliation that I felt that day. It is like I am 11 years old again, crying to my teacher. But the best part of that memory <insert sarcasm> is that now, as an adult, I can only dream of all the things she must have been thinking.
How about this one:
Year: 1987
Place: The shopping center across from my house.
Description: While walking with a more popular girl that I did not find very attractive (I still don't know why we were hanging out), she told me, "It's not your fault that I am prettier than you.".
Yeah, I don't like to remember that one either. I don't actually think she was prettier than me and honestly, that shows some insecurity on her part. But the way I felt about that statement at 13, considering the way I already felt about myself and my life at the time, so not cool. And so not worth rehashing, but there it is. Cataloged away to make an appearance when I least expect it.
This one is similar, but worse on so many levels:
Year: 1990
Place: The neighborhood next to mine
Description: Walking home from school, a younger child that I did not know told me I was fat and ugly.
Again, not really worth rehashing, so why can't it just go away?
This one, wow. This one is one I would totally love to forget. No, this one I wish would have never happened, but forgetting it would be nice too:
Year: 1992
Place: My best friends car
Description: After getting ripped on Purple Passion wine coolers and calling my friend to come and rescue me from a party, I suddenly puked Purple Passion and the contents of everything I had eaten that day all over the passenger side of her front seat.
Do I even need to explain why I would not want to remember this? No, I didn't think so.
So, yeah. I wouldn't mind having a few memories erased. Again, nothing overly important, just ones that have no business hanging around and taking up my sweet ass time.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
I've Fallen Flat On My Back. Could You Help Me Up?
So, I am a total fucking dummass. An awesome fucking dummass, but a fucking dummass all the same. Up until recently, I was not a beer drinker. I always drank liquor, rum mostly, but after I had kids I lost the taste for most liquors. So, naturally, I switched to beer. Not ultra shitty beer, but not great beer either. Of course, that didn't really matter to me because I only really drank it when I wanted to get drunk. :)
This past summer, my husband helped me become a little more adventurous (hah!) in my beer choices based on the beers I would generally choose. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the different flavors of beer and not just wanting it to get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I still wanted to get high, but why not like what you are drinking while doing it, right?
At Christmas, my husband convinced me to try a beer called Raging Bitch. I have to say, I would never choose to buy this beer just by looking at the bottle. The colors are obnoxious, the letters on the label are frightening and there is a picture of a huge, rabid dog on the front. No, I was scared. I thought it would taste like dog shit. But, I trust his knowledge of beer, so I gave it a whirl. Ummmmmm, YUM!!! I never knew beer could taste like that!! You know, drinkable!! I don't even think I made any kind of face with my first sip, even though I was all prepared to pucker my lips and do the sour lemon jolt.
While we were drinking the so called Bitch, my brother and husband tried to explain why beer, having a lower Alcohol By Volume than liquor, could still get you drunk. Yeah, I didn't get it. It didn't click at all. It was like someone trying to explain how you turn the TV on and a picture comes out. I.Don't.Care. It just does. Period.
Fast forward. This past week, we have been trying beer that I like even more than the Raging Bitch. Beer with higher alcohol content. Beer that you only need a few of to have a nice, even buzz. AWESOME!! The first couple of nights were great because I didn't get Stinko in the Sinko, I just stayed nice and happy. Almost like I had smoked a bowl, but legal!! The third night, my hubby bought three different beers. A Little Sumpin' Wild, Double Bastard and Dogfish Fort. The first, YUMM-O. Citrusy, like pineapples and oranges. The second, not my type of beer, but still pretty good. Tasted a little like Whoppers. High end Whoppers, of course. By the third, which was a raspberry beer, I was feeling pretty warm and this little bell was going off in my head like, "Hey, you stupid bitch, don't drink that. You feel good, just stop. Now." Did I listen? HELLZ NO!! I went right on down the road, wanting to enjoy the beer with my husband. Also, maybe not wanting him to think I couldn't hang with the big boys. So I plowed ahead. Fort tastes like raspberry soda. Like a fizzy soda you would get from some pretentious health food store. It went down quick and smooth. It is also 18% alcohol.
Suddenly, I felt drunk. Not tipsy, not heavily buzzed, drunk. Falling down, breaking shit, waking up in your own vomit, drunk. And I am telling my husband, "Oh my fucking gawd, I am DRUNK!". And, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. I had an epiphany the way you would have one smoking a joint and suddenly understanding the meaning of the universe and why you are in it. "Holy shit!! This whole glass was 18% alcohol!! Like the WHOLE GLASS!! A shot of liquor mixed with coke in the same glass DOES NOT equal 18% alcohol!! I get it! I get it!! I was blind!! Now I see!!! JEEBUS F. CHRISTMAS!!! I am POH-LOOTED!!!" And with that, my husband tucked me into bed before I could go running through the neighborhood wearing nothing but my running shoes.
What have I learned from this experience? Well, for starters, math is not my strong suit. Two, when you have had three beers in a rocks glass and don't think it is that much, remember that the rocks glass holds 12 oz. and the lowest percentage of alcohol you are drinking is just under 9%. And C, I am a huge, drunk, fucking dummass.
This past summer, my husband helped me become a little more adventurous (hah!) in my beer choices based on the beers I would generally choose. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the different flavors of beer and not just wanting it to get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I still wanted to get high, but why not like what you are drinking while doing it, right?
At Christmas, my husband convinced me to try a beer called Raging Bitch. I have to say, I would never choose to buy this beer just by looking at the bottle. The colors are obnoxious, the letters on the label are frightening and there is a picture of a huge, rabid dog on the front. No, I was scared. I thought it would taste like dog shit. But, I trust his knowledge of beer, so I gave it a whirl. Ummmmmm, YUM!!! I never knew beer could taste like that!! You know, drinkable!! I don't even think I made any kind of face with my first sip, even though I was all prepared to pucker my lips and do the sour lemon jolt.
While we were drinking the so called Bitch, my brother and husband tried to explain why beer, having a lower Alcohol By Volume than liquor, could still get you drunk. Yeah, I didn't get it. It didn't click at all. It was like someone trying to explain how you turn the TV on and a picture comes out. I.Don't.Care. It just does. Period.
Fast forward. This past week, we have been trying beer that I like even more than the Raging Bitch. Beer with higher alcohol content. Beer that you only need a few of to have a nice, even buzz. AWESOME!! The first couple of nights were great because I didn't get Stinko in the Sinko, I just stayed nice and happy. Almost like I had smoked a bowl, but legal!! The third night, my hubby bought three different beers. A Little Sumpin' Wild, Double Bastard and Dogfish Fort. The first, YUMM-O. Citrusy, like pineapples and oranges. The second, not my type of beer, but still pretty good. Tasted a little like Whoppers. High end Whoppers, of course. By the third, which was a raspberry beer, I was feeling pretty warm and this little bell was going off in my head like, "Hey, you stupid bitch, don't drink that. You feel good, just stop. Now." Did I listen? HELLZ NO!! I went right on down the road, wanting to enjoy the beer with my husband. Also, maybe not wanting him to think I couldn't hang with the big boys. So I plowed ahead. Fort tastes like raspberry soda. Like a fizzy soda you would get from some pretentious health food store. It went down quick and smooth. It is also 18% alcohol.
Suddenly, I felt drunk. Not tipsy, not heavily buzzed, drunk. Falling down, breaking shit, waking up in your own vomit, drunk. And I am telling my husband, "Oh my fucking gawd, I am DRUNK!". And, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. I had an epiphany the way you would have one smoking a joint and suddenly understanding the meaning of the universe and why you are in it. "Holy shit!! This whole glass was 18% alcohol!! Like the WHOLE GLASS!! A shot of liquor mixed with coke in the same glass DOES NOT equal 18% alcohol!! I get it! I get it!! I was blind!! Now I see!!! JEEBUS F. CHRISTMAS!!! I am POH-LOOTED!!!" And with that, my husband tucked me into bed before I could go running through the neighborhood wearing nothing but my running shoes.
What have I learned from this experience? Well, for starters, math is not my strong suit. Two, when you have had three beers in a rocks glass and don't think it is that much, remember that the rocks glass holds 12 oz. and the lowest percentage of alcohol you are drinking is just under 9%. And C, I am a huge, drunk, fucking dummass.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
You Should Never Work With People, Ever.
Today started off to be a pretty good day. Had an awesomely, cold run this morning. Went to pick up my new glasses, which I LOVE. Took the kids to Jerry's Subs for lunch. Disgusting. Kinda tasted like a mixture of sweat, dog shit, and mayo, but it made them happy. Then met up with an old friend at Borders and let the kids play around in the children's section. This is where my black heart turned just the tiniest bit blacker and my ass kicking self wanted to make an appearance.
Between my friend and me there were 4 kids, 3 of which were mine. All of them were playing with the stuffed animals and puppets, making a little bit of a mess, but it was contained and they were peaceful. Oh, and did I mention we were in the Children's section? So, an employee walks by and looks at some of the toys on the floor, but doesn't seem to mind stepping over them. My friend, we will call her MF, apologizes and promises we will clean it up. Okay, cool. The employee seems satisfied. A couple minutes later a different employee walks up, looking annoyed, and takes an exaggerated step over the toys.
MF: We promise we will pick those up before we leave.
Employee: (In an "I'm joking, but not really" tone) Well, you better!!!!
Alright whatever. I was annoyed, but not too bad. The kids weren't doing anything wrong and, again, we were in the Children's Section. So we continued to let them play and go about their business. Oh, and by the way, at this time there were maybe two other people milling behind one of the other shelves in that part of the store.
Another few minutes go by and the same employee walks up. And I know I am a bitch, but she looked like an ogre (please see very first post).
Ogre Lady: (Directed towards MF and me in the most ogrey tone imaginable) Okay, this is turning into a problem. It would probably be best if you cleaned as you go. Someone could trip.
MF: Okay, yes. Baby boy, please pick up those toys and put them away.
Me: ...
Ogre Lady: (to my 3 year old in the most snappy way as she was trying to stack a boxed toy) Just, just put it here! <insert annoyed sigh>
Me: ...
Me: (to MF as Ogre Lady walked away) Aren't we in the Children's Section?????
As the kids were picking up the toys, I imagined the way I wished the conversation had gone.
Ogre Lady: Okay, this is turning into a problem. It would probably be best if you cleaned as you go. Someone could trip.
Me: A problem for who? You? The two people who can be heard over here, but not seen? Did someone complain? Can you not see where the kids are playing?
Ogre Lady: Look Ma'am...
Me: Oh no you di'n't!!! I will Ma'am your ass all the way to next Tuesday, Bitch!
Ogre Lady: No, I just meant...
Me: No, I know what you meant you skank! You meant that you think we don't know how to CONTROL our children!! You meant you hate our children and wish we would beat the shit out of them so they wouldn't make such messes. You meant that you hate ALL little kids and wish they would follow the seen but not heard rule! I know what you fuckin' meant!
Ogre Lady: No, I...I'm sorry.
Me: I know you're sorry, now apologize, Scag, before I kut ur ass!! (I produce kitchen shears at this point)
MF: Yeah, Ho. You best be steppin'!! (pulls brass knuckles out of her purse and puts them on)
Ogre Lady: <runs away, weeping>
Did this happen? No, of course not. It never does. I always sit there with an expression of disbelief, knowing that if I open my mouth the venom might escape. Then I just talk behind their back with my friends about what assholes they are.
I just don't get it. Why did she have to be so snippity? Why couldn't I think of anything to say to her that would not have been combative but still put her in her place? Why would you work somewhere like that if you clearly thought all kids should rot in Hell? I just made that up, but she seemed like the type. And why, oh why, for the love of of JEEBUS, WHY does Border's have a CHILDREN'S SECTION built for CHILDREN if they do not want kids to come there to PLAY???? Just sayin'.
Between my friend and me there were 4 kids, 3 of which were mine. All of them were playing with the stuffed animals and puppets, making a little bit of a mess, but it was contained and they were peaceful. Oh, and did I mention we were in the Children's section? So, an employee walks by and looks at some of the toys on the floor, but doesn't seem to mind stepping over them. My friend, we will call her MF, apologizes and promises we will clean it up. Okay, cool. The employee seems satisfied. A couple minutes later a different employee walks up, looking annoyed, and takes an exaggerated step over the toys.
MF: We promise we will pick those up before we leave.
Employee: (In an "I'm joking, but not really" tone) Well, you better!!!!
Alright whatever. I was annoyed, but not too bad. The kids weren't doing anything wrong and, again, we were in the Children's Section. So we continued to let them play and go about their business. Oh, and by the way, at this time there were maybe two other people milling behind one of the other shelves in that part of the store.
Another few minutes go by and the same employee walks up. And I know I am a bitch, but she looked like an ogre (please see very first post).
Ogre Lady: (Directed towards MF and me in the most ogrey tone imaginable) Okay, this is turning into a problem. It would probably be best if you cleaned as you go. Someone could trip.
MF: Okay, yes. Baby boy, please pick up those toys and put them away.
Me: ...
Ogre Lady: (to my 3 year old in the most snappy way as she was trying to stack a boxed toy) Just, just put it here! <insert annoyed sigh>
Me: ...
Me: (to MF as Ogre Lady walked away) Aren't we in the Children's Section?????
As the kids were picking up the toys, I imagined the way I wished the conversation had gone.
Ogre Lady: Okay, this is turning into a problem. It would probably be best if you cleaned as you go. Someone could trip.
Me: A problem for who? You? The two people who can be heard over here, but not seen? Did someone complain? Can you not see where the kids are playing?
Ogre Lady: Look Ma'am...
Me: Oh no you di'n't!!! I will Ma'am your ass all the way to next Tuesday, Bitch!
Ogre Lady: No, I just meant...
Me: No, I know what you meant you skank! You meant that you think we don't know how to CONTROL our children!! You meant you hate our children and wish we would beat the shit out of them so they wouldn't make such messes. You meant that you hate ALL little kids and wish they would follow the seen but not heard rule! I know what you fuckin' meant!
Ogre Lady: No, I...I'm sorry.
Me: I know you're sorry, now apologize, Scag, before I kut ur ass!! (I produce kitchen shears at this point)
MF: Yeah, Ho. You best be steppin'!! (pulls brass knuckles out of her purse and puts them on)
Ogre Lady: <runs away, weeping>
Did this happen? No, of course not. It never does. I always sit there with an expression of disbelief, knowing that if I open my mouth the venom might escape. Then I just talk behind their back with my friends about what assholes they are.
I just don't get it. Why did she have to be so snippity? Why couldn't I think of anything to say to her that would not have been combative but still put her in her place? Why would you work somewhere like that if you clearly thought all kids should rot in Hell? I just made that up, but she seemed like the type. And why, oh why, for the love of of JEEBUS, WHY does Border's have a CHILDREN'S SECTION built for CHILDREN if they do not want kids to come there to PLAY???? Just sayin'.
Isn't 7 Just A Made Up Number?
Saturday mornings I run with a group about 15 minutes away from my house. They start at 7 a.m. Let me be perfectly clear. Getting up early enough to be anywhere by 7 a.m. is like death to me. It is one of the many reasons I chose to homeschool my children. I couldn't imagine trying to get up and get them ready to be at the bus by 7 in the morning. But, once a week isn't so bad and it gets me out running with a group of peeps that have a common goal. However, this morning I was ill prepared. My running clothes were down in the laundry room instead of being on my chair in the bedroom where they should be, I couldn't find a long sleeve shirt to wear under my jacket, I almost left my running hat upstairs and to top it off, I was only able to find one of my running shoes. I had a vague recollection of my 5 year old walking around my living room wearing my shoes, but could not remember where she had taken them, and could not find the match to my one ANYWHERE. It was right then and there that I decided daily beatings are in order. That will teach my kids to play with my shit.
Anyway, after deciding that not going was absolutely NOT an option, I pulled my old pair of shoes out of the closet and set out for my daily dose of cardio. When I got in my car, the temperature read 11 degrees. "That can't be right. 11 fuckin' degrees. No way. Once the air gets moving through the car, it will change." And change it did. It went DOWN. By the time I reached my destination, the temperature had reached 7. 7 degrees. 7? For fuckin' realz? Am I really running in 7 degree weather at 7 in the morning? Who is this crazy ass bitch, and what has she done with the old me? What I found even crazier is that there were 4 other people there waiting to get their run on, one of which had already run 5 miles. Did I mention that I smoke crack on a regular basis? So, after I put my crack pipe back in the car, we started out. I thought that once I started running I would warm up and forget that it was only 7 degrees. Boy, I must be dumber than I thought because no matter what activity you do, cold is fucking cold. Internally I felt okay and all the parts of my body that were covered by my bra, running tank, tech shirt and coat were fine. But every body part that did not have more than one layer felt like it was being stabbed over and over and over again by little needles. Also, I am pretty sure my nose has become permanently frozen as I do not own a face mask. Why would I? It would take thought and planning on my part to purchase such an item. My plan was to run 5 miles. I did actually reach my goal. But only because I was afraid if I slowed down or stopped, my face would break off.
Now I have been home for about an hour and a half and I can not get warm. I immediately stripped off my sweaty ass clothes and changed into pajamas and a sweatshirt, but it didn't make a difference. I allowed freezing cold, 7 degree weather to penetrate my body. I am predicting to not warm up until somewhere around June. Oddly, I know this experience will not make me smarter and will not teach me a lesson. I will continue to run on Saturday mornings without checking the weather and will probably never dress accordingly. Because I am a crack whore who is completely invincible. And don't you forget it.
Anyway, after deciding that not going was absolutely NOT an option, I pulled my old pair of shoes out of the closet and set out for my daily dose of cardio. When I got in my car, the temperature read 11 degrees. "That can't be right. 11 fuckin' degrees. No way. Once the air gets moving through the car, it will change." And change it did. It went DOWN. By the time I reached my destination, the temperature had reached 7. 7 degrees. 7? For fuckin' realz? Am I really running in 7 degree weather at 7 in the morning? Who is this crazy ass bitch, and what has she done with the old me? What I found even crazier is that there were 4 other people there waiting to get their run on, one of which had already run 5 miles. Did I mention that I smoke crack on a regular basis? So, after I put my crack pipe back in the car, we started out. I thought that once I started running I would warm up and forget that it was only 7 degrees. Boy, I must be dumber than I thought because no matter what activity you do, cold is fucking cold. Internally I felt okay and all the parts of my body that were covered by my bra, running tank, tech shirt and coat were fine. But every body part that did not have more than one layer felt like it was being stabbed over and over and over again by little needles. Also, I am pretty sure my nose has become permanently frozen as I do not own a face mask. Why would I? It would take thought and planning on my part to purchase such an item. My plan was to run 5 miles. I did actually reach my goal. But only because I was afraid if I slowed down or stopped, my face would break off.
Now I have been home for about an hour and a half and I can not get warm. I immediately stripped off my sweaty ass clothes and changed into pajamas and a sweatshirt, but it didn't make a difference. I allowed freezing cold, 7 degree weather to penetrate my body. I am predicting to not warm up until somewhere around June. Oddly, I know this experience will not make me smarter and will not teach me a lesson. I will continue to run on Saturday mornings without checking the weather and will probably never dress accordingly. Because I am a crack whore who is completely invincible. And don't you forget it.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Hello, Fatty MacFatterson
I went shopping for running shirts today. Actually, just running shirt as I only bought one. And when I say "shopping" I mean I walked into the Nike store, checked the clearance racks, bought my $5 shirt and left. Anyway, while I was looking through the racks, I realized that I was second guessing my size and thinking the mediums would be WAY too small. So, I held them up to my body to see how tight they would be. Huh. They looked like they would fit. How could that be? Oh yeah!!! Because I am not fat anymore!!! I always do this. Think that I am bigger than I am. Because let's face it, once you have been fat, the fear of being fat again never really goes away. Which is funny because when I was fat I think I thought I was thinner than I actually was. Until I saw pics of myself and was like, "DAMN!! Who's Shamoo?? OMG, that's me isn't it?" But now it is ridiculous to think of myself as fat. Not that their aren't things I would change about myself still. Like the saggy potato sack that used to be my abdomen, or the droopy feather pillows I used to call boobs. But for the most part, I am happy with my body. As happy as one can be after years of mistreating it with booze and fried food. I just wish I could stop having this weird perception of myself. I guess thinking I am fatter is better than thinking I look hot when I don't. I have had that happen before. Struttin' my stuff, thinking all the boys are being brought to the yard with my milkshake. Then I catch a glimpse in the mirror or see a picture of myself (usually in a sitting position so that my skin rolls are bubbling) and my dreams are shattered into a million pieces as I realize my milkshake has found it's way to a different spot and the only boys in my yard are there because they are playing with my 7 year old son.
Just for once I would like to see myself in a realistic light. Thirty something, pretty okay shape for an old fatty with three kids, smells pretty good (usually), dresses decently. These things are true. But they are kind of boring. Maybe that's why I always see myself as an extreme. Big Fatty vs. Total Hottie. I would actually like to see those two duke it out. "In the blue corner, weighing in at 220 pounds, sporting a burrito wrapped around fried chicken and mashed potatoes, Biggie soda in hand, HILDEGARD THE HUUUUUUGGGGE! And in the red corner, weighing in at 125 pounds, wearing the pink hot pants, whore makeup, hooker shoes and drinking her dinner, TRUVY the TRAMP!!!! HH comes out trying to step on TT, but is too slow for that quick slut. She is also way more interested in her chicken friend burrito than fighting. TT throws her liquid meal at HH's head. Oh no!! HH might be down for the count!! TT picks up the burrito filled with fat and goodness. Wait, what's this? She is eyeing it adoringly, licking her chops. She comes in for a bite and WHAMMO!!! HH knocks TT over with her huge ass!!! TT tries to recover, but fails as HH slimes over and covers TT's tiny body!! Now they are both writhing on the floor! It looks like a ham humping a piece of asparagus! OMG!! What's happening? What are they doing? They are melding together to make one average person!!" And there you have it. The description of me. Mediocrity at it's finest. But at least I am not fat anymore. I always have that!
Just for once I would like to see myself in a realistic light. Thirty something, pretty okay shape for an old fatty with three kids, smells pretty good (usually), dresses decently. These things are true. But they are kind of boring. Maybe that's why I always see myself as an extreme. Big Fatty vs. Total Hottie. I would actually like to see those two duke it out. "In the blue corner, weighing in at 220 pounds, sporting a burrito wrapped around fried chicken and mashed potatoes, Biggie soda in hand, HILDEGARD THE HUUUUUUGGGGE! And in the red corner, weighing in at 125 pounds, wearing the pink hot pants, whore makeup, hooker shoes and drinking her dinner, TRUVY the TRAMP!!!! HH comes out trying to step on TT, but is too slow for that quick slut. She is also way more interested in her chicken friend burrito than fighting. TT throws her liquid meal at HH's head. Oh no!! HH might be down for the count!! TT picks up the burrito filled with fat and goodness. Wait, what's this? She is eyeing it adoringly, licking her chops. She comes in for a bite and WHAMMO!!! HH knocks TT over with her huge ass!!! TT tries to recover, but fails as HH slimes over and covers TT's tiny body!! Now they are both writhing on the floor! It looks like a ham humping a piece of asparagus! OMG!! What's happening? What are they doing? They are melding together to make one average person!!" And there you have it. The description of me. Mediocrity at it's finest. But at least I am not fat anymore. I always have that!
Friday, January 14, 2011
Top 10 Things That Are More Fun Than Quitting
Here is a list of the top 10 things I think we would be more fun than quitting an addiction:
10. Stepping on thumb tacks.
9. Having a tooth extracted without novocaine.
8. Pulling each of my toenails and finger nails out one by one with pliers.
7. Being run over the foot by a car. Twice. Then having said foot amputated with a rusty saw.
6. Having each of my fingers broken with a sledgehammer.
5. Being hit in the eye with the edge of a chipped brick.
4. Being shot through the hand by a bullet AND an arrow.
3. Cliff diving and landing on pointy rocks.
2. Sticking an ice pick in my ear.
1. Burning alive.
If you can't tell, I really want a fucking cigarette.
10. Stepping on thumb tacks.
9. Having a tooth extracted without novocaine.
8. Pulling each of my toenails and finger nails out one by one with pliers.
7. Being run over the foot by a car. Twice. Then having said foot amputated with a rusty saw.
6. Having each of my fingers broken with a sledgehammer.
5. Being hit in the eye with the edge of a chipped brick.
4. Being shot through the hand by a bullet AND an arrow.
3. Cliff diving and landing on pointy rocks.
2. Sticking an ice pick in my ear.
1. Burning alive.
If you can't tell, I really want a fucking cigarette.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)