Friday, June 29, 2012

Girl Crush Revealed: Celebrating Sex Appeal

“Appreciation is a wonderful thing; It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” – Voltaire

She walks through the office with an air of confidence, oozing sexuality, with a look that says she could own the place if she only wanted to. She doesn’t of course. She wants respect, and if it’s not given willingly, she will demand it. From me she would never have to. I am smitten.

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It’s official. I have a crush. From the moment she appeared on the screen in Mad Men I have been in full on crush mode. Fiery red hair, voluptuous body, brilliant blue eyes, peaches and cream skin, and attitude… She’s everything I want. Well, she’s everything I want to be. I am girl crushing on Christina Hendricks in a big way.

Girl Crush (n): Feelings of admiration and adoration which a girl has for another girl. A nonsexual attraction, usually based on veneration at some level.

The above definition is confirmed by many sources all over the internet so you can stop with all the speculation and inappropriate giggling. It’s not sexual (towards her) in the least, but she does exude sexiness in a way I certainly aspire to do. There’s more to it than that, though. A lot more!

In a time when women find themselves with few celebrity role models that aren’t considered fat at a size 7, Ms. Hendricks reportedly rocks a size 14 dress. Accurate or not I stopped looking at sizes a little over a year ago because I gave away all my clothes that were too big and have been too poor to replace them, so the dress size doesn’t make me giddy. What does make my face break into a smile is that she isn’t hiding her curves. She's also not lying about them.

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I wrote a piece last year called Lies About Size where I nailed poor Kirstie Alley to the cross for opening her mouth on Leno about what size of dress she was wearing. Seeing Christina strutting her sexy stuff with no apologies and no excuses is a beautiful thing to behold. She's knows what she's doing and she works it. Rock.On.

There will be those who choose to believe that my affection for this vixen is strictly to do with my own body image issues, but I assure you I am not alone.

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Douglas Charles, of Guyism, says, "These three photos of Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks reaffirm my statement of late that Esquire has really done some serious movement up in the magazine world by featuring some of the hottest women around."  Multiple guys in this office have professed their attraction. My Instant Messenger friends gave responses varying from, "I'd f*ck her" to "She's hot" with a few who immediately launched into discussions of how they felt about season 5 of Mad Men, complete with opinions on her character and more. Even my 16 year old son voted on my Facebook poll that allowed people to choose from either Christina's character Joan or her co-star January Jones (plays the role of Betty Draper). Ms. Hendricks won by a landslide.

While it might seem backward by today's standards, I am excited to see a real life curvy girl getting the props she deserves in the sex appeal department. It's about time we started seeing more diversity in body types without everyone that exceeds120 pounds being cast as a the jolly comic relief or the angry bitter brainiac. My hats off to the team at Mad Men for creating a role that allows Christina to shine in ALL aspects!

Monday, June 25, 2012

Pay no attention to the figure in the mirror!

Sweat dripped from the tendrils of hair that had escaped the grip of my hair elastic. I peeled off my clothes and stood in the current of air that blew from the fan. The chill let me know that I'd perspired in far more areas than even my damp clothing would indicate. As I walked warily to the bathroom I congratulated myself for a good workout and made up my mind to just soak away the day. Passing the mirror I stopped, as I had many times before. I examined myself from multiple angles and when my gaze finally met my own eyes in the reflection I was shocked by what I saw.

Anger. Disgust. Failure. Loathing. The clown from the movie IT. Just kidding... only anger, disgust, failure, and loathing. The face was familiar. It was the same face I gave my kids when they did something that disappointed or angered me. I hadn't realized how hurtful it was until I saw it reflected at myself. Ouch!


Two years ago I was able to look at myself in the mirror completely naked and smile with pride. I was far from perfect and 40 pounds heavier than I am now. I would critique what still needed work and praise myself on some new found bit of definition in my ab (yes, singular) or perhaps the way my arms weren't waving back anymore. There was feeling of accomplishment that I had never experienced before. It felt good. I felt good.

Another forty pounds later I had lost that feeling. As time went on, the critiques became harsher and more frequent while the feelings of accomplishment dwindled. After 3 years of watching what I ate and maintaining a workout tracker to ensure that I met weekly and monthly fitness goals, I realized that it would never be enough to satisfy me. The changes were less noticeable and took so much longer to achieve. I was sick and tired of egg white omelets and frozen Weight Watcher meals. It was then that I realized that all of those fitness gurus were full of shit. Exercise doesn't make you happy! That peppy blond doing high impact on the DVD had to be on uppers.

I tried bulimia back in the 90s, but one day after eating half a Jello cheesecake I realized that bulimia wasn't for me. I was too lazy to throw up, especially after that much cheesecake. A good binge? That was something I definitely excelled at. I eyed junk food at the grocery store like a recovering alcoholic gazes longingly at a bottle of whiskey. My car followed illogical routes in order to take me past fast food restaurants where I could put the window down and inhale the greasy burger aroma. My kids were the ones who really felt ripped off. Imagine being a kid who gets to smell the happy meal but never gets the nuggets. To be honest, I'm shocked I never wiped McNugget grease on my gums like a junkie. 

Then one day it happened. I snapped. I waited until the kids were gone and I drove to the hood where all the best devices could be found. KFC would be my undoing. It was that damned bowl that sunk me. Mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, chicken, and cheese? What farm girl can resist that? Hell, the only thing better would be to serve it with beer and a slab of bacon. I ate with joyous abandon and my body tingled as the gravy slowly cut off my circulation causing a mild heart attack with pleasure.

I sat in the parking lot of that tiny chain restaurant like a man who'd just dropped off his first hooker and I reflected (just guessing here). It was good. It was sinful. Dammit, I wasn't getting it at home! I justified it ten ways to Sunday then I drove back home. I wasn't in the door 5 minutes before I had washed the crispy chicken crumbles and gravy smears from my face and put my running shoes back on.

The problem was never the food. It wasn't even my body. It was always me. My imagination had pasted my head on to Angelina Jolie's body and every single time I looked in the mirror and didn't see what my imagination told me should be there I kicked myself... really hard. I was tired of kicking. The same realizations that had put me on the fitness track were the ones that finally put me on the reality track. I was doing okay. I was healthier. I could still eat what I wanted from time to time and the world didn't end. My pants didn't split. The scale didn't jump 10 pounds. I could still be human... instead of glossy magazine paper. 

Today as I slipped out of my workout gear I allowed my eyes to rest momentarily on the set of weights next to my bathroom door. I really should have done toning, but I was already naked. I didn't want to risk dislocating a shoulder or a back spasm that would leave me in a naked crumpled mess on the floor. My poor kids would have to dial 911, and that's a visual I didn't feel right leaving them with. No, it was better to just put it on the schedule for another day. 

As I passed the mirror in the bathroom I averted my eyes. "Pay no attention to the figure in the mirror" I told myself. In my mind I used the voice of the "Great and powerful Oz" and a smile crept across my face. I crack me up.

read to be read at

Friday, June 22, 2012

Love At First Deliberately Deceived Sight

Yesterday a co-worker came to me with a story all too familiar, but always conversation worthy. Yes, it was about the "D" word. That word that can bring even the strongest of people to their knees begging for reprieve. Dating. 

After a couple weeks of exchanging flirts, winks, and text messages it was finally time to take things to the real world, face to face level. The plan was for his potential paramour to meet him at the restaurant lounge where he works in the evenings. She would bring a few of her girlfriends and they would all go out. As he finished his shift, he spotted the girls. Smiling confidently he wandered over to the girls. Drinks were drunk, conversations carried, and smiles smiled. My friend thought to himself, "Wow, she's even prettier than her picture!" 

As he mentally patted himself on the back, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He smiled when he saw the girl smile and also saw her name on the caller ID. He opened the text message. "Hey! We're at Eighteenth. Are you still planning to meet?"

That's right kids. He'd been lubricating the wrong female. He made a polite retreat and made his way to the new location. Had the true prospect been as appealing as the mistaken one, perhaps the story would have had a happy ending. It does not. "Angie, she was 4 inches shorter, 10 years older, and 50 pounds heavier than her picture." he said.  

The most common words spoken by people in dating hell": "I just want to find someone who loves me for who I am... someone who will see the real me." Yawn. Yeah yeah yeah. Who hasn't heard this? I've said it myself and I know quite a few people who have lamented this same thing. I'm not going to go digging for scientific evidence for what I'm about to say. I don't have to. It's my blog and I do what I want. 

"Love at first sight" is based on physical attraction not real love. It is merely a reaction based on what your brain has been wired to find appealing. 

The 2nd most common words spoken by daters is, "all the good ones are taken". This is often said when they become frustrated with the dating scene and the seemingly never ending search for love. The truth is that the internet and the explosion of online dating sites has expanded the dating pool exponentially. Even if you're not a social butterfly, you still need to mingle and online dating has provided an alternative to the crowded meat markets of yesteryear. 

Imagine being able to browse through a list of potential dates without leaving the comfort of your own desk chair, bed, sofa, etc. Places like and eHarmony are to dating what eBay and other online retailers are to shopping. That's essentially what dating is anyway; Shopping. Now you can make your list, check the specs on potential purchases, and if you like you can try to schedule a test drive. You can do all of that without having to even put your pants on! Isn't that just convenient? Yes, yes, isn't it just... 

Your selection has grown and the method of weeding out the "hell to the no" contestants has been simplified, but it still doesn't remove all barriers to finding that special someone. If you're serious about wanting a solid relationship, there are still a few things that you need to keep in mind when diving into the deep end of this dating pool. 
There is a big difference between a professional or semi-professional photo and a camera phone/webcam photo. Stop taking pictures of yourself at impossible angles in order to make yourself look taller or thinner. The purpose is to actually MEET someone. If your love match walks past you multiple times with a searching look on his/her face, chances are that your picture isn't a very accurate depiction of you. The same goes for using old pictures. That picture of you at 25 is sexy, but you're almost 40. You might not think it makes a difference, but it does. 

   ▪ Ladies, immediately stop taking pictures from over your head. One for perspective is fine, but the others should be taken at an angle known to mortal man, you know someone who doesn't have the ability to hover over you to get the same effect. You won't always be on your knees.... will you?

   ▪ Men, stop lifting your shirts and taking pictures of  your abs. Seriously. Save that stuff for your partner once you've landed them. That pose is getting to be as ridiculous as duck lips. You've got abs. We get it. Be original. Show me your forearms or something. Show me a perspective shot of your hand in comparison to your wallet. 

Don't pretend to be someone you're not. This includes all levels of things from your job to your habits. If you're not a doctor you'd better pray to God your date doesn't come to you with a medical problem or asking for a referral to one of your specialist friends. If you have $5 in the bank and claim to be a millionaire don't be alarmed if the other person expects you to pay. Don't say that you have a degree that you do not have. Like your career and hobbies, education can be a topic of interest to a potential suitor. Questions get asked. People expect answers.

Be what you expect to get back. When completing your profile, be honest about yourself, your characteristics, your likes, and your dislikes. The more honest you are about what you want, the better the odds are that you'll find someone who floats your boat, trips your trigger, and doesn't make you feel like you've settled. 

If you can't follow those simple rules, then you don't actually want someone who loves you for who you really are. You want someone who loves you for who you pretend to be. If you need to lie about your job, stability, education, appearance, or anything else in order to land the date you should consider halting the search to find someone to love you until you have learned to love yourself. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

I was okay until you asked if I was okay

Friend- Stop being so serious.

Me- Um, okay?

Friend- Are you okay?

Me- What would lead you to believe that I am being serious or not okay?

Friend- Because you're acting accordingly.

Me- Now I have to go back through my texts and check. Did I not :) or LOL enough? If not, :) :) LOL haha!!

This really gave me pause. What had I done that made my friend think that I was somehow in a bad mood, depressed, feeling serious, etc.? I looked back through my texts, and the only thing I could find was a lack of LOLs and smiley faces. Perhaps the fact that it was during my work day would be reason enough that I didn't respond as favorably as anticipated? Maybe it was that I was in the middle of a meeting? Regardless, I felt the need to supply everyone with a list of ways to know that I am "not okay" or "feeling serious" so that I don't have to have this exchange again.

How to tell if I am serious or sad:

1. You find my multi-tool knife in your tire's sidewall.
You have made me serious and sad. You don't even need to ask what you've done. I am pretty even keeled when it comes to how I show my emotions to other people. If you find your tire flat and evidence that I've been there, you can guarantee that it was not accidental. You have pissed me off. You have made me sad. You've made me wonder what the hell I was doing being your friend or dating you.

2. I call you crying
Unless I say the word "aw", you can assume my tears are that of sadness or seriousness. Chances are if I see a puppy or a new baby, I will say "awwwwwww". Double the chances that those are not times I will call you. I am not that person. I don't cry with joy. When happy shit happens I smile really big. If I call you crying, you can assume that I am in a serious mood. Triple the odds that I am sad.

3. I call you swearing
Even if you pick up the phone and I seem okay, if it's been months since we spoke and I begin my litany of curse words immediately after the obligatory greetings.... I'm angry. I am serious. I am not sad. I'm pissed off. Let's not mistake this for something you can fix. It will only end in blood. Maybe yours. Your best choice at this point is to agree with me and encourage me to not kill someone. Remind me jail is unpleasant and wishing someone would cook and clean for me is NOT the same as prison.

In all other circumstances, if you have any idea who I am at all, you will know the difference between me being busy/occupied or sad/serious. I am not a person of a million faces or personalities. Even when I try to pretend I am not angry or upset, I suck at it and anyone who is, at the very least, my friend will know the truth.

Better yet, if you want to know how I am, call me. Please don't try to diagnose my mental state by the lack of smiley faces, LOLs, or other obvious joking mannerisms. My mental state is far more screwed up than you might think and 99% of it has absolutely nothing to do with you. Putting it on yourself or somehow involving yourself in it is a big ass mistake. I choose my friends for a reason. No where on my list of friend qualifications is there a point which asks if you're capable of diagnosing my emotional issues.

So... LOL, HA-HA, LMAO, :) , TFF, ;) , ROTFLAMO. I'm okay. I''m actually better than okay. I'm just really busy. I'm not even talking to my family... just ask them, normally you can't shut me up.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Isn't it time we gave hate a chance?

When it comes to relationships there is a very fine line between love and hate. It's a scientific fact. A study by a professor at University of London showed that much of the same brain circuitry is used when both love and hate are felt. The big difference? Hate allows for logic, where love is seemingly the lack of.

This goes a long way in explaining why I rarely feel hatred on a relationship level. I am generally illogical in matters of the heart. Personally, I still love every man I have ever loved. Perhaps not who they really are, but who I believed them to be when I fell in love. Definitely not enough to return to them should they come begging, but I still love them, or their traits, or maybe even their hearts.

While hatred has often seemed the logical answer, I don't often let myself go down that road. After a particularly painful breakup, a friend advised me that "if it doesn't end badly it doesn't end", as her way of telling me to embrace the hate so I could move forward with no regrets and no ties. There have been times when I wished I had taken that advice. Often I should have not just burned the bridge, but rented a backhoe, tore out the roads, and filled the river with crocodiles, rusty razor blades, and barrels of battery acid. It would have been quicker, less painful, and in the end perhaps healthier.

Is my long lasting love for others entirely unselfish? On the contrary, as time goes by I believe it to be quite the opposite. Holding on to those feelings of love has kept me from having to admit to myself that I am a really shitty judge of character. Make that super shitty. If there were a super hero power to find and date total douche bags, I would be the strongest super hero with that particular power. Ever. For real. I'd wear a kick ass leotard and cape and really awesome boots. Right across my chest would be a big "I" for Idiot. Or maybe "P" for Pathetic. I'm still working on the super hero name... "Really Shitty Judge of Character Girl" seems to be a bit drawn out.

I mean seriously, there has to be something of value in the men that I foolishly gave my heart to, right? Of course there is... probably. But it's not like they benefit in any way from my ability to remember a small detail that makes them lovable though, do they? Nope. Just me. I'm the only one who gets anything out of it.

I get sort of hateful just thinking about it. I really need to start agreeing with my friends when they point out that I date complete douche bags. No more will I say, "Well, yeah he's a douche MOST of the time, but he's not ALL douche. He was okay this one time." Perhaps it's time I give hate a chance. Maybe it's the key to finding real love. Nah, that's illogical. Besides, there was one time when he held me in his arms and....

Alright, your turn folks. Are you a lover or a hater? When it comes to moving forward, what's your best strategy? 

Thursday, June 14, 2012

I think I've been played

"I pulled your car into the driveway to clean it out and noticed the front passenger side tire is flat. I can't get the doughnut tire out of the trunk because the bolt or something is stripped." read the text message. Immediately my daughter left her desk to let me know about the major drama occurring in her life.

"Just so you know, my car is stuck in front of the garage and there's a flat." she informed me. "Okay, so why are you telling me?" I asked, already a bit irritated that I was being torn away from the newest and most God awful report I'd ever picked over. "Well, it's in your driveway, so I thought you should know." she replied and shrugged her shoulders as she spun and walked away.

Sure enough, when we returned home, the car (formerly mine) sat directly in front of my garage with the front passenger side tire pancaked on the cement. As per usual, my initial response was to ignore the problem, as it was not really MY problem, and head inside shaking my head. Kids these days. What can you do? They seem to know everything except what they should know.

My daughter, taking after me as she tends to do, also ignored the problem. She has a man. He noticed the flat tire, and therefore he must be the one to fix it. She had plans to pick out suitable business casual attire with her girlfriend and couldn't be bothered with the pesky task of fixing something mechanical. She will be a perfect candidate for an MRS. degree. She went, she shopped, she kicked the store's ass, and returned home shopping bags in tow.

"I bet Julianne can get the tire out of the trunk!" I heard my daughter say. I listened as the garage door went up, the girls chattered, came inside, and began to discuss where my tools might be. Part of me wanted to just sit and let them figure things out for themselves, but the more I listened the harder it became. "What are you looking for?" I asked as I lifted the trunk lid. "I just need a tool to get that spinning ring off the bolt holding the spare in." she replied. I spun the ring and lifted it off and pulled the tire free.

I'm certain the new neighbors enjoyed our show of girl power in the driveway. I mistakenly jacked the car up too high to get the tire to grip the pavement at all so Julianne attempted to help me by grabbing the tire as I used the crappy multi-tool to remove the lug nuts. It only took one slip of the whatchamacallit tool to whack myself in the shin and I let out a howl of pain and some serious obscenities.

My daughter and her friend Caroline sat crossed legged on the pavement watching and "learning". To be honest, I don't think either of them could repeat the process if paid for it, but they made a hell of a cheering section. As each lug nut finally gave way to my superhero-like strength they gave a shout and clapped happily.

As I lowered the full weight of the car on to the doughnut tire I realized that after 12 years of life in the trunk, it too was a bit on the flat side. I packed up the tools and brushed the dirt off my dress pants with my equally dirty hands and advised the girls to go air up the tire. I swear they actually looked proud of themselves as I walked into the house. I finally understand what men must feel like when they some pretty girl suckers them into changing their tire, oil, brakes, or whatever the hell needed fixing. I think I've been played.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

In lieu of pity, please send chocolate...or wine.

My mother told me a very long time ago that women who go to the bar alone are only looking for one thing. I'm not looking for that at the bar. As much as I would like to say that I don't live by those stereotypes, that is a big fat freaking lie. If I go to the bar with my friends and I see a girl sitting alone at the bar and she's not joined relatively soon by her friend(s), I assume she's trying to get laid. It's probably sexist of me and I get that, but it's still what I see. If it makes you feel better, I assume that guys who are sitting there alone are either crappy partners, alcoholics, or trying to get laid. I'm an equal opportunity offender.

Unwinding with a drink would be nice, but I can do that at home without having the voice of my mother echoing in my head telling me that people are probably thinking I'm a slut. Unfortunately, at home I have the voice of my father in my head asking me if I have a drinking problem. Either way it sort of blows, but at least the home version of the drinking game doesn't involve having to tip for shitty service to avoid worrying that someone will spit in your drink or food.  

I'm not a "joiner". I can't think of much I'd enjoy less than scrap booking with the ladies or joining a Bunko group. No offense, it's just not me. I don't want to join a book club. I don't want to go to the movies or dinner alone. Most of the time I don't want to do those things with other people. There are a lot of neighbors I've never met and don't particularly care to. It's not that I don't like people; I simply enjoy the time I have at the end of the day and the end of the week where I can put on yoga pants, throw my hair in a ponytail, and eat cold cereal from a Tupperware container without anyone expecting anything or judging. 

I haven't lived with a man since shortly after I bought my house. I've dated off an on over the last 5 years, been in and out of relationships, and on occasion I've met a nice gentleman with which to spend my time. To be honest, I prefer the one-on-one company of a man. I love actual dates, but not nearly as much as I love having someone to chill with at the end of the day. Someone who doesn't require constant conversation, knows how to laugh, and well... all the other things I'd want a man for. 

It's just not in the cards at the moment. I haven't stumbled across that person just yet. It will happen eventually, but until then don't feel sorry for me when you ask me what my plans are for the evening and I run down my typical agenda. If I wanted to be out slutting around I would be. If I wanted to party every night I'd party. My life suits me fine. So in lieu of pity, please send chocolate... or wine. Both would be great.

This works for me. 

Monday, June 11, 2012

I'm not a bitch. I have a disorder.

Angie 2.0v3B says:
 I've been spending my day doing reports and researching what sort of personality disorder I have.

Becca says:
 Shut up. You do not have a personality disorder.

Angie 2.0v3B says:
 Look at this.
 This is me. 

Becca says:
 Honey that's not you. That's an exaggerated (HIGHLY) version of you, but not you. 
 I love you though, and your Munchhausen's.

Remember when we used to just be quirky? I felt so much better about myself when I was just your ordinary quirky girl with a little bad relationship baggage. Now I know that it's far more dire than I'd once believed. Apparently I need a shitload of therapy. As I browsed the list of possible malfunctions I might have, I was torn between being narcissistic, histrionic, or avoidant. I chose histrionic because I felt the theatrical definition seemed more glamorous, and I know how important being glamorous is to me. I mean really, have you met me? I scream glamour. Sometimes I whisper it, but screaming seems to give me more attention so I do that usually.

I blame daytime talk shows for my heightened awareness of my disorders. I can't afford proper therapy so I have to figure myself out in other ways. It's become unfashionable to just be bummed out, bitchy, and selfish. These days I have to have a disorder to validate my mood swings. Now if I am bummed out for too long I am clinically depressed. If I'm selfish I'm probably suffering from narcissistic personality disorder. Even my plain old bitchy days have been renamed. You don't get to have plain old PMS anymore. PMS has branched out depending on your level of irritability and emotional whiplash

Let's look at Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder: Five or more of the following symptoms must be present to diagnose PMDD, including one mood-related symptom:

Disinterest in daily activities and relationships- I'm not interested. I'm not going to lie. Most of the time I couldn't give a shit less. Relationship wise I suppose I'm in one where we say "I don't know what this is", which is not really a relationship at all then is it?

Fatigue or low energy- Maybe it's because of my horrible diet or the fact that I try to squeeze in a minimum of one hour of cardio plus 15-20 minutes of toning a day. I also get up at 6 AM. By 11 PM I am freaking exhausted.

Feeling of sadness or hopelessness, possible suicidal thoughts- I haven't been suicidal in almost a decade. Abusive relationships tend to do that.

Feelings of tension or anxiety- Judging by the extreme pain between my shoulder blades and the soreness of my jaw, I'm going to guess this is an affirmative. I find myself tense and anxious 90% of the time.

Feeling out of control- Of course I feel out of control. The people I know who feel they are able to control every aspect of their life are in even worse shape than me. I just accept that all I can do is my best and whatever happens will happen. Sure I freak the fuck out once in awhile, but I think most people do.

Food cravings or binge eating- I don't binge as much as I crave, but yeah... I meet this criteria. Last week I ate an entire bag of chilled shrimp with massive amounts of added horseradish in the cocktail sauce. At least 3x a week I crave a chicken Caesar pita from the Pita Pit. I crave Monster lo-carb all the damned time.

Mood swings marked by periods of teariness- Yes and yes. I cry. Not in front of people usually, but I do. I also go from happy to pissed the hell off. Do you know why? Because sometimes people do things that aggravate me on a GOOD day, and when my hormones are all over the board I react with angry eyes, hissing speech, and lots of cursing.

Panic attack- Every single month when the bills come due. Apparently, it's taking me quite a bit of time to recover from the loss of my two 401K accounts and my savings when my company closed a couple of years ago. This makes me panic wondering what the hell I'm going to do when I am old and have no money.

Persistent irritability or anger that affects other people- Let's leave my kids out of this okay?

Physical symptoms, such as bloating, breast tenderness, headaches, and joint or muscle pain- Maybe it's the salty foods, the poor choice in sports bra, the extra glass of red wine, or the sometimes excessive cardio, but check, check, check, and check.

Problems sleeping- If by problem sleeping you mean can't get enough....

Trouble concentrating- What?

Today I realized that I have Narcissistic Histrionic Avoidant Disorder with a side of PMDD. It sounds like a much nicer description than what I was yesterday, which was selfish bitch. Thank God for modern science.

So, what's your malfunction?  

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Sinful Saturday

Property of my sister. 

I promise myself every weekend that I will sleep in. Unfortunately with age comes the feeling that if you don't get up and do something you might just waste the day. Weekends are too short to be taken advantage of. Even when I do an extended weekend get away I am up early and ready for the next part of the adventure. That being said, I am T minus 27 days from Vegas. In preparation for the trip, I am spending the next few weekends participating in Sinful Saturdays... and possibly Sundays weather permitting.

My list of sins will be as follows: 
1. Abusing my sleep cycle. 
As my sister proved last weekend with the picture above, you cannot drink all day if you don't start in the morning. However, I cannot drink all day. My kids wouldn't like that so much. Besides that... there is lawn care that must be done on the weekend. Yes, I have able bodied teens living in my house, but I love the satisfaction that comes from getting up early and annoying the holy hell out of them when I mow next to their windows. It's a pleasant feeling akin to a really funny joke that makes you laugh on the inside and then bubbles to the surface. 

2. Abusing my skin.
Any dermatologist can tell you that my plans are not healthy. Your body is a temple and should be treated as such. Unfortunately, my temple is not quite golden. I will spend every free sunny weekend in the middle of my lawn (the back yard... not the front. I'm not ghetto trash) baking in the sun, just like in the olden days (60s - 80s). I have a couple of bottles of bronzing gel from the place where I used to tan. It's going to be put to good use. I don't plan to get Tan-Mom bronze, but just enough so that the bits that show aren't whiter than cake flour. For the most part, I still believe that if you can't tone it you should tan it.  I am one day in and already a pleasant shade of garden tomato. 

3. Abusing my ears. 
The plan is to listen to all the crap music I love, whilst toasting myself in the Easy Bake Oven of life. You can count on hearing things like: Adam Lambert, The Black Keys, Adele (because I like feeling bitter), Dr. Hook, Florence and the Machine, Jessie J, Matchbox 20, Gorillaz, Afghan Whigs, Ke$ha, Head East, Panic at the Disco, Christina Aguilera, and even, dare I say it, some Britney Spears. Go ahead and make faces. I don't care and if you don't like it you should stay out of my yard.

4. Abusing my liver. 
Vegas promises to be full of indulgence. My liver is not trained for multi-day drinking. Occasionally I'll get some 2 in a row days when I am home for the weekend, but aside from that I tend to keep it to 1-2 days in the span of a week and rarely two in a row. My liver is a sprinter. It does not do marathons. Any time I have tried to run the marathon of drinking I've ended up on my ass for a week solid following. I get all lazy and I start to lie to myself about when the next time will be that I lace up my running shoes and get my fat ass back on the treadmill. It's not pretty. The carbs are uncountable. The guilt is immeasurable. In order to prepare for the Vegas crowd, I will be slowly torturing my liver a little more each weekend to build tolerance. Call it what you like, but you don't know these people. They are professionals. I refuse to be the sad girl asking someone to hold her hair while she vomits on the strip.

5. Abusing my mind. 
I admit it. I purchased Fifty Shades of Grey. If you can get past the really crappy writing, I'm told there is plenty of smut to be had. What better way is there to pass the day sun bathing than to read smut? My friend Kristy and I used to sneak-read smut when we were kids, so I consider this just educational really. As a single woman of the new millennium, I need to know what's changed. To be honest I got 2 chapters into 50 Shades and wondered if it was a college student's piss poor excuse for "What I Did on My Summer Vacation". I am thinking of doing a key word search for dirty words in order to get me by.

Thus far I am five for five. I don't know if I will be able to do #4 again tomorrow, but the others are definitely on my "to do" list.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Your Village Called: Tide! It's not just for breakfast anymore!

Parenting is a tough gig. You spend a good portion of the first year being crapped, peed, drooled, and vomited on and that doesn't even come close to the discomfort you feel when you are sleeping less than you've ever slept in your life. It's not easy, but when you put your thing in someone elses thing or let someone put their thing in you it's a risk you take. Things are like that. Always getting people in trouble. I won't go so far as to say that you did it to yourself, unless you've adopted or turkey basted yourself into this situation. Either way, parenting is a choice. Watching the kids is your job. 

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Recently during our afternoon office chat a co-worker mentioned a news blurb he'd seen regarding Tide Pods making kids sick. My first reaction was, "Was there any doubt that eating detergent is not good for you?" Apparently there is some disconnect between my way of thinking and that of the average bear. Am I the only one who simply assumed detergent wasn't safe to consume? 

Amid claims that the detergent giant has created a product so colorful that it's easily mistaken for candy and that the current container resembles a candy jar, Tide is changing the container to make it child proof. You know what else would be a big step in the right direction? Putting it on a high shelf, putting it in cabinet with a child safety lock, or better yet... watching your damned kids. 

When my children were small I had child safety locks on the cabinets that held poisonous chemicals. I also had child safety locks on cabinets that held pots and pans because when a child is allowed to play with a metal pot there is nothing to save you from insanity, but that's beside the point. I didn't let my children play with things that could harm them. 

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I buy the individual use detergent packs for my laundry and for my dishwasher. Neither of these containers are childproof. Many detergents have tropical or fruit fragrances. Liquid dish soap is regularly lemon scented and brightly colored. I've yet to see a child safe bottle of dish soap even though there are many claims that dish soap can cause serious diarrhea. 

What about the big bottle of Mr. Clean Apple Berry Twist? It looks like fruit punch and has a picture of fruit right on the front. It's obviously scented to smell like fruit. It's also not childproof. They've even given it a tasty sounding name. How long before we see an article calling for Mr. Clean to childproof their bottles? 

Let's be realistic. That Tide Pod didn't taste good. A child that has gotten to the point where they actually consumed the product was NOT being watched. Would you leave your child alone with a BOX of powder detergent? No, because you don't want them spilling it all over the place. Would you leave them alone with a bottle of floor cleaner? No, because you don't want them spilling it all over the place. Would you leave them alone with a bowl of Tide Pods? Yeah, why not? At least they can't make a mess with them, right? 

Unfortunately we have a generation of parents that cannot take simple responsibility for watching their own children even when the result is far more serious than spillage. It is not the job of any product creator to child proof a package that you, as a parent, should know full well is dangerous to your child's health. Tide wasn't around when let your brain fall to your pants to make that baby. It's not brain surgery people. You had them. You watch them. 

Saturday, June 2, 2012

I don't suck. I'm not allowed.

Do you remember that commercial with Wise Old Owl helping the child figure out how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? That's me with any hard candy. I'm never content to let it melt away slowly, no matter how advisable it might be. When your dentist tells you not to chew ice or hard candy and not to open things with your teeth he's pretty serious.

Chomp. Chomp. I chewed the Tic Tacs. The first indication that something was wrong was not the crunchy noise. It was the feeling that my mouth was somehow incomplete. It's hard to explain, but even the slightest shift in your bite can be felt immediately. I ran my tongue back to where my Spidey senses noticed the change.

"Sonofabitch!" Where there had once been a filling, now was a very jagged gaping crack in the back wall of my molar. There was no pain.  It was simply a spot my tongue continued to find, long after I'd brushed and examined the damage. "Well no pain is good." I said to myself as I sat down to examine my brand new dental policy. Talk about timing! "Sonofabitch!" This word was quickly moving to the top of my usable vocabulary. Due to the enrollment period, my new policy is not effective until July 1. One solid month away.

I convinced myself that I could simply wait out the month, and schedule an appointment for the beginning of July to address my dental dilemma. As I took my first sip of coffee yesterday my plans changed. The white hot flash of pain that hit me was enough to make my body go into mini-convulsions. Then the after shocks started. If I were a cartoon you'd have seen my cheek physically bulging with each throb that pulsed through that exposed nerve. I allowed myself a single tear and a whimper as my fingers moved shakily over the keyboard in search of my dentist's phone number.

Obviously my dentist doesn't work Fridays. I say "obviously" because there is no other way for these things to happen. I quickly located an office to help me, booked the first free time slot they had, and jumped in my car. Thirty minutes later, as I lay in the chair with my eyes closed, the doctor confirmed my worst fear. "We won't be able to save this one, but I can pull it if it's bothering you." he said. "Just take it. How long until I can get an implant? I don't want to have a missing tooth, I smile too much for that." I replied. "Give it 3-4 weeks to heal and we'll check your jaw to make sure the bone is strong enough." came the response.

He proceeded then to numb me up right. I've not had much dental work that required numbing, but I must say this guy (Dr. Johnson @ Neighborhood Dental) is good! Zero pain dentistry is the way to go. As badly cracked as my tooth was, the rest of the tooth was apparently pretty damned healthy. There was a lot of pressure and what felt like someone was standing on my jaw. During a brief moment of no pulling, I opened my eyes and saw my dentists shaking his arms like a body builder might do between sets. He meant business.

Once the job was complete and I'd been handed my bill, it occurred to me that it might not have been the best idea to have this done the day before my friend's wedding. As I reviewed the after-care instructions my face slipped into sad sagging mode, and not just from the effects of the numbing which leaves you looking like you've just suffered a mild stroke.

1. Eat only soft foods (So no crispy chicken?).
2. No strenuous activity (Um, what about the wedding dance?).
4. Do not drink through a straw (But that's how I drink my cocktails!).
4. No alcohol (WTF? It's a wedding!).

There might as well have been a bullet point that said "don't do anything one might do at a wedding". When I returned to work (Yeah... that's how I am. I go back to work.) I showed the instructions to my boss and gave a half-hearted laugh. "Check out this list of rules I have to follow. So much for the wedding fun tomorrow. This sucks!" I said. To which he replied, "Yeah, doesn't look like you get to do any of that either."

Now it's time to get my non-drinking, non-dancing, non-sucking ass ready for the event. Have a terrific weekend kids and don't do anything I wouldn't do... if I could, which I can't, so I won't, but you go right ahead!

My Zimbio
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