The More Things Change...

...The more they stay the same.   You said it Tom!!

I've found myself sorta blank lately.  Some may call it nerves, some call it stress, some call it a mid-life crisis, my husband calls it "bat-shit crazy".  Call it what you want, but I've had sort've a blogger's block.  I'll have something pop in my head that I need to bitch about, and by the time my fingers hit the keyboard, it's either gone, or it sounds ridiculously stupid and I hit delete.

Anyway, part of my little "pre-midlife crisis" is probably stemming from the fact that one day I woke to the realization that I've become, like, a MOM or something.   I know what you're gonna say, "You've been a mom for almost 8 years, you're just realizing this now??"  I know I've technically been a mother since 2004, but only over the past year and a half have I realized that I've now become one of those moms that I always made fun of.  I was always sorta known as the "cool" mom, the "rocker" mom, the "tattooed" mom, the "f-bomb droppin'" mom, the "shows-a lot-of-cleavage, wears skin-tight jeans, fake eyelashes and big hair, chain-smokes, does countless tequila shots, and pukes out of the back of her brother's truck at Poison shows" mom.     Now I look in the mirror and I have no idea who this person is! All I know is that she really needs to put on some makeup.

The biggest change that's come over me is that I now do any and every thing I can to hide my "body art."  I mean, really?!  HUH?   Try to tell me when I was 18-22 that I'd ever be trying to hide them, and I would've very eloquently told you to "go make love with yourself".  Most people know that it's not like I have a 4 leaf clover on my ankle.  Ohhh, no, couldn't have been that simple.  I've got six of these freakin' things and they are NOT small in any way whatsoever.  And their placement couldn't be any harder to camouflage.  I don't know what triggered my self-conscience over them, but one day out of the blue, I threw on some capris, a halter, and pulled my hair back, and suddenly I went from the rocker chick who didn't care to "OMG, the only thing I'm missing is a pregnant belly in a crop-top with a Lucky Strike hanging out of my mouth in front of the trailer park!"    Suddenly I wanted to find one of those things that Muslim women wear, when you can only see their eyes.  It felt like the entire world was staring at me and I could just hear the whispers.  I'm guessing they'd been happening all along, but for the first time ever, it was like I could actually HEAR them. (Oh great, now I'm hearing voices) Either way,  I felt like Kat Von D in a prom dress.  

Then comes the crafts.  Now, this one, I'm gonna blame on Pinterest!  This evil website is bound and determined to turn me into a Stepford Wife.  The recipe hoarding was never a shock, because everyone knows that cooking is my one domestic skill.    But the crafts--OMG!  This board has me convinced that with only a brick, some yarn, a mason jar, and an old sock, I can create a brand new outdoor patio table.  Meanwhile, cut to me stuffing the sock in my son's mouth while smashing the mason jar with the brick.  Oh, but yet, I'll go find another one I like and I'm dumb enough to try it, too!    Seems like only yesterday when I was going to the store to buy vintage metal shirts and True Blood memorabilia, and next thing I know, I'm in Hobby Lobby for 4 1/2 hours and coming out with scrapbook paper and Mod Podge.  I'd never even HEARD of Mod Podge, and now I've got about 73 pins dedicated to it.    My sacred room upstairs used to be spent stalking people on Facebook, finding old Ratt videos on YouTube, and watching DVD marathons of Friday Night Lights, and now, here I sit with a friggin' hot glue gun, crystals, beads, brads, rotary blades, corner stamps, hole punches, quilting books, and scrap-booking embellishments, hearing Elmo in the background and all I can think is "How the hell did my life end up here??"

When I'm not baking Star Wars cupcakes for kindergarteners or creating a Death Star replica for my son's birthday, I'm gluing inspirational quotes and photos into memory books, cutting up my old concert shirts for a quilt, and chaperoning school field trips to the zoo (Yes, with the giant camera and 50ft zoom lens strapped around my neck).    I've gone from bedazzled Cinderella shirts, ripped jeans, and stilettos to turtleneck sweaters and ballet flats.  I just said ballet flats---ME, the girl who would wore 6 inch heels to stand outside for 3 1/2 hours waiting on Bret Michaels to come out of his tour bus.

Then there's Mommy Dearest.  With my older two kids, I was literally counting the milliseconds until I could ship them off to European boarding school Mother's Day Out.  But then here comes this little guy who I never in a million years thought I would ever even have, much less be so stinkin' attached to, and I've become the poster mom for Parenting Magazine or something.   I had him all signed up to start MDO in the fall, and then it came time to send in the paperwork and I just. couldn't. do. it.  I look in those big black eyes and can't even picture having to leave him somewhere.   I mean, seriously?!  What is with this sappy crap?  I know I started having kids too young, that's pretty obvious, but I just never thought it would be THAT different being a mom at 20 and being a mom at 28.  It's just insane.  I find myself staring at him like some kind of lovesick puppy and every single thing he does is somehow cute. And let's not even discuss the fact that I do baby sign language with him.  And I'll squeal in one of those godawful annoying voices when he does them without me asking.  Good gracious, I'm like a crazy first time mom, but for the third time.  I don't even know how to process this.

But the one that made me want to curl into the fetal position and die.  The final nail in the coffin. The other day, against my better judgement, found myself on the used car website looking at.....*breathes deeply*  wait for it....

MINI VANS!!

Dear God, make it stop!!!  I don't know what has come over me.  All I remember was walking to my car in the Target parking lot, lugging Gibson and 27 bags (I only went in for Aleve and diapers) and as I'm digging in the bottomless pit that is my purse, searching for that gargantuan wad of keys, I see this preppy little soccer mom prance up to her van, click one button and the door slid open.  I was staring daggers at her, as I was dropping bags (and the kid, probably) and all I could think was "I want a door that opens without touching it!"   Cut to me searching through Soccer Mom Pimp Rides website.    I mean, what next?  Am I gonna get one of those stupid stickers with the stick families and all of our names?  A megaphone decal with "SHELBY" emblazoned on it?  (Please, oh, please, oh please, if you're gonna spare me anything, PLEASE let it be cheerleading.  My poor mental stability can only handle so much)    But seriously, if anyone ever sees me in my driveway removing my "Defy Gravity" decal in an attempt to replace it with a stick-figure family of 6 with 2 dogs, or ANY kind of organized sport with my kid's name on it, I give you full permission to admit me into Lakeside...or just go ahead and put a bullet in my head.

I mean, is this a phase?  Is it like the time when I had my tongue and eyebrow pierced?  Or the time when I got the fabulous idea to color my hair?  (Note: Black hair, white skin and red eyebrows---not a good look on ANYONE)  Am I going to wake up and realize that I've just been over-medicating myself and the real me is happily waiting to reemerge?  Or is this what my life has now come down to?  Minivans, Mod Podge, and Muslim-wear?   Then I wonder, was the other life I knew all just a ruse?

All I know is that there are parts of me that haven't escaped and I'm bound and determined to keep them here.  I'm still a Vagabond through and through.  I'll never pass up a chance for a roadtrip to anywhere, and music and concerts are my life.  I'm still snarky and slightly foul-mouthed.  In order to be the parent of my children, if I didn't have a sense of humor, I would've been in a medically-induce psychological coma a looooong time ago.   (And in order to drive in Memphis traffic, you have to have a very diverse and colorful language.)   And even though I've somehow become an unwilling Desperate Housewife, I can promise you that you'll never see me making smocked john-johns, matching bunny jumpers, or shirts with puff paint (that one's for you, Kim!)

*sigh*   Well, I'd better go---don't want to be late for my interpretive Mommy & Me Zumba class.

Signing off---



The Artist Formerly Known as Ashleigh

DUDE....Where's My Car??

Ok, I'm seriously gonna try to start updating this thing more often.  I've had to make peace with the fact that it's really okay to post a blog that's NOT a mini-novella.   So they may be short and sweet, but they'll be posted more often.   And sorry, Facebook buddies, you may start hearing the same story more than once, maybe just slightly more detailed. (There's only so many details I can give in 420 characters.)   Oh wow, I'm gonna be like my Grandfather who tells me the exact same story every single time I happen to mention food.  He'll find a way to tell the overly-long story about his first time at a crawfish boil.   

Anyway, back to my story....

Note to self:  ALWAYS double-check your car for the Tora Tora decal in the back window.   Yes, I know that thing makes me look like a self-promoting groupie.  Yes, we all know I'm a complete tool when it comes to my bands, and how I like to "advertise" my love for them.  Yes, it probably embarrasses the shit out of my husband when he has to drive my car, knowing there's a big decal of his own band's name on the back.  (Then again, when have I ever passed up the opportunity to irritate him?)    Call me a corny cheeseball if you want, I'm so used to it.   But you know what?  I can find my car in a parking lot!  I mean, it's not like I'm the only person in the lot who owns a silver Dodge Durango.  But I'm definitely the only one who has a big red Tora Tora logo on the back. 

Anyway, so I'm leaving the nail place after getting a long-overdue pedicure.  (which was a story all in itself, because I always end up getting talked into getting procedures done that I don't need or want, all because I can't understand one freakin' word they're saying)   I knew the general vicinity of where I parked, so I was just headed towards my car, or what I thought was my car.  It was exactly like mine, but I only saw it from the front/side.  And knowing me, I was probably thumbing through Facebook on my iPhone at the same time (I have a problem, I know.) so I'm sure I wasn't paying as much attention as I should've been.  So I walk up to "my" car, open the door and throw all my crap in the front seat like I always do.  Then I'm digging through the bottomless pit that is my purse, looking for my keys, which incidentally are on the largest pile of keychains EVER, but yet, I still never can seem to find.   Find the keys, stick it in, go to turn, and it won't.  So I'm immediately going "Umm, WTF?"   But this had happened once before, because my precious children decided to mess with so many buttons in my car that it got put into theft mode and wouldn't let us crank it.   Try again...nope.    Only at that point do I happen to look over and think, "Wait, I have a GPS that's mounted to the dash.  It's not there.  I also have a pile of lighters, receipts, loose change, chargers, and little Starbucks coffee stoppers all piled in the console.  THIS console is all clean."   I mean, there is NOTHING in it.  Nothing, except for a badge...a badge to a medical supply place where I'm most definitely NOT employed.     Apparently, that still wasn't enough to convince me, so I actually turn around and look in the backseat.  No car seats.   Oh holy HELL, this is not my car!! 

Then comes the time where I have to very nonchalantly grab my stuff and get back out of this car, meanwhile just hoping and praying that the owner of this vehicle is not standing outside the door staring at me....or possibly calling the police.   I'm also really, really hoping that the people that are in the parking lot don't notice that I'm now getting out of the same car I just got into, only to then go to ANOTHER car.

So then I put my head down, and run very quickly to MY Durango that was parked 2 spots down.  I know this because even though there's no way in hell that this could possibly happen twice, this is ME, and I should know by now that if it's gonna happen, it's gonna happen to me, so I walk to the back of the car, and see that lovely faded and peeling band logo stamped on the back.   I jump in, and again throw all my crap in the front seat and proceed to gun it out of the parking lot at record speed. 

Yeah, so Note to Self:  Always check for the Tora decal. 
But also,  Note to my Doppleganger Durango:   Lock your friggin' car!!!   Not only do you have to worry about idiots breaking in and stealing your stuff, you also apparently have to worry about idiots getting in and attempting to drive it home. 

Preservative-Filled Food For Thought

I always thumb through the Yahoo! homepage, and I can't seem to pass up the Parents Magazine articles when they have all the cute cakes, cupcakes, and recipe stuff.   I'm a cake/cupcake girl, so I can't help but always be on the hunt for ideas. (We won't discuss my hate/hate relationship with the Eat This, Not That segments.)   But the articles that crack me up are the ones that have titles like Recipe Ideas for School Lunches That Kids Will LOVE!  The first thing it says is "Start by spreading some hummus onto pita bread." HUH?   Then the next is "Take some spinach leaves and...." who knows what came after that, because I had to stop reading at the words "kids will love," "hummus," and "spinach leaves."  Who the hell has kids that will eat this stuff?  I mean, I know my kids are picky, (just look at their father) but please tell me that we're not missing out on some kind of phenomenon where normal kids are now eating hummus.  I didn't even start eating hummus til like 2 years ago!

Who is writing these articles??  My guess is it's the same ones who don't allow their kids to watch TV, eat foods with preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, or anything that's not organic, and they breastfeed til the kid's in the 4th grade. (Let's go ahead and start taking bets on how many "nature moms" I just pissed off with that statement.)   Someone, please assure me that I'm not the only person whose children's tastes don't go beyond chicken nuggets, PB&J, bologna, pizza, spaghetti, and Capri Suns!   Now, I am proud to say that they LOVE fruit and they love salads, which is strange to me.  I don't think I ate a salad til I was about 15 years old.  But still!   I'll make a 5 course meal that takes me 3 hours to prepare, and my family's ranting and raving about how awesome it looks, smells, etc.  Shelby takes one look at it, and starts dramatically screaming "Ewwww!  Gross!!  I don't like it!  It's gonna taste nasty!  I want a bologna sandwich!!"  No matter what I try. I've done what my parents did:  "When you get hungry enough, you'll eat." Nope. Shelby's like friggin' Ghandi. She'd rather go on a hunger strike than to actually do something because I want her to.   **Also, let's point out that when I DO try that tactic, who is the first person who will give into her and feed her?   That's right, MY MOM!!  The same mom who was like those British guards that no matter what you do, they won't smile.  She would not budge once she gave a "ruling".  Now, she's the first one I catch sneaking them food.  Traitor.**

That being said, I don't think they're too abnormal. I'll go to friends' houses and they're having the same issue with their kids. So back to my original question: Who is the moron who is posting these "Kid Friendly" recipes, and moreso, who are the people who are agreeing with it?? My kids aren't vegan hippies, they don't eat gluten-free, they're not allergic to peanuts, soy and dairy, they're KIDS! If it doesn't start with "Throw some pre-packaged preservative-packed frozen chicken nuggets on a paper plate and throw in the microwave," then my kids will have nothing to do with it! I mean, sushi is my favorite food, but I know that my kids aren't gonna touch it with a 10 foot pole.  For example, this is what I made myself for lunch:

It's a Greek pasta salad with olives and feta cheese and stuff like that.   Now, I'm not STUPID enough to think they're actually going to eat this.  Nope, they took one look and were like "Ummm, okay, so what are WE having for lunch?"   They chose this:

But that's what you expect from a kid!  When I was little, my entire diet was based on frozen pizza and hot dogs.   (Although, I have to admit, I could probably still survive on nothing but frozen pizza even now.  I have a weakness for pizza in any size, shape, and form.)  That's what kids do.  So I just have to say that I'm really over this whole "fad" that if you don't feed your kid organic vegetables and preservative-free snacks that they're gonna grow to be complete idiotic buffoons.   I mean, just look at me---I ate nothing but crap and look how awesome I turned out!  (93% of you have now run from your computers to your nearest Organic Farmer's Market to buy all of your children's' food.)

And this has been my random public service announcement. 


If you're curious about the article, here's the link I was referring to.  And this one's not even nearly as bad as some of the others I've read. 

A Bunch of Weird, Organic Shit That Some Midtown New York Hippie Is Trying To Convince You That Your Child Will Actually Eat and Enjoy ---You're Welcome.

    

School's Out For Summer!!

Schoooool's Out ForEVER!!    Or so it seems to me...




And Mama needs a Xanax and a stiff drink!  

Let me just preface this by saying that I love my children, and I love being a stay-at-home mom...WHEN my kids are in school!  For anyone who knows me, they can tell you that I'm not exactly a Domestic Goddess.  I'm definitely more Peg Bundy than I am June Cleaver.   I'll keep restarting the dryer 4 times, just so I don't have to fold and put away and hang up clothes.  And I'll keep all the cleaning products out on the shelf, so that it looks like I've been slaving over toilets all day.   That's the type of housewife I am.  The only reason I haven't been "fired" is because my family loves to eat, and apparently cooking is the one and only domestic skill I seemed to pick up.    And when it comes to my kids, I get more than enough quality time with them between the hours of 3:30pm and 9pm, when they finally pass out.

Then I go thumbing through Facebook (where I probably spend WAY too much of my time) and I see all these Moms that are just jumping for joy at the fact that the school year is over and they get to hang out with their kids all summer.  Ummm. HUH????   I about lose every ounce of sanity when the kids are home on random holidays and snow days, and you people are excited about them being home for 3 months?   Deep down, I think they're totally full of it, and they feel the same way I do, but they're in a competition with their other Perfect Moms Anonymous Club.   But it makes me wonder, "Do I need more patience, or are my kids just psychotically worse than everyone else's??" 

First off, let me introduce these precious little angelic offspring of mine.   We'll start off easy.  There's Gibson, who just turned 1. 

His favorite activities include pulling the blowdryer and curling irons off the shelf onto his head, unraveling the toilet paper, stealing his brother/sister's food, chewing on the toilet brush and Clorox wipes, eating dog food, Lego's and any other inedible objects he can find, dialing random phone numbers on the cordless phone (I'm sure we'll have some calls to China show up on the phone bill), gnawing on the remote, and trying to climb out the dog door.  When you tell him "No," he just giggles and thinks it's a game to see how fast he can do it again. But if you pop his hand, he'll just cry inconsolably for 5 minutes...THEN go and do it again.  He's a 22lb ball of pure energy and curiosity, and he can't even walk yet!

Next, we have little Patrick (or "My name is Patrick...Jeffrey Patrick Francis!" as he likes to say when he introduces himself) who is 5.  

He's my sweet-natured, tender-hearted, handsome little blue-eyed man, who has a tendency to be slightly dramatic and is also VERY loud!  He's not being "bad", he just has no concept of how loud his voice is. (We say he is cursed with the "Swindol Volume")   And he also loves to deal with his problems with his sister by screaming in a very high-pitched squeal, which makes me INSANE!  (He's starting karate soon, so hopefully he'll be able to karate-chop her instead.)  He's such an amazing, smart little kid, and he's insanely funny!  You never know what's gonna come out of that mouth of his (a trait I think he inherited from my brother) but it's usually hysterical, and his humor is very natural.  He also can entertain himself for HOURS.  He would never leave this house if we didn't force him, and he would be perfectly content.  He'll watch his Star Wars movies (albeit about 10 times a day if we'd let him) role play with his little characters, reenact battles, and make up random scenarios.  I never have to worry about finding something for him to do.  But he does have a tendency to make something out of nothing.  If he loses a life during his Star Wars game, you can hear him scream all the way down at Jeff's house!  If he realizes that Shelby ate the last of his frozen peanut butter/jelly sandwiches, he'll throw himself to the floor, like he's going to starve to death or have a stroke in the next 3 minutes.   He actually would make a great little theater guy, but when it comes to just hanging at the house, it can be verrrrry irritating.

Now, for the grand finale, we have:   The Drama Queen Extraordinaire, Miss Shelby Renee', who is about to be 7.

Do NOT let that sweet little face fool you!   She has learned to use that innocent smile to slowly seek and destroy!  I love this girl to death, but that doesn't mean that I don't have to restrain myself from locking her in the dog kennel with a gag in her mouth every now and then.  She's SUPER-smart, loves school, she's very sociable, usually teacher's pet, she's verrrrrry helpful and goes out of her way to be a little assistant whenever possible, she's very artistic (she can draw better at 7 years old than I can now), she ADORES Gibson like he's her own child, and she's very full of life.  You know what she's also full of?  Sass and Defiance!!  She's got a mouth on her like you wouldn't believe.  She always has an answer for everything (usually a smartass one).   She will argue with a statue, she's got an eye-roll for every hour of the day, she's NEVER wrong---it's always Patrick's fault, according to her, and if she wants something, then by God, she will have it, whether it kills her or one of us in the process. She got her name from Steel Magnolias, and boy, does she live up to it every day!  The line that fits her perfectly is when M'Lynn says at her funeral "I kept waiting for her to sit up and argue with me."  That's her! 

Her favorite activities include torturing her little brother, back-talking me, wrapping her father around her finger and convincing him that she's a perfect angel and that Mommy's just mean, hateful and crazy, torturing her brother some more, blaming her brother for the 10 tons of candy wrappers that I find hoarded in her room and the couch, destroying her brother's hopes and dreams, telling her brother that Uncle Jeff is gonna arrest him and send him to the bad place on Police Women of Memphis...I think you get the picture. 

She can't entertain herself....at all!   She must have a planned activity for every second of every day, or else, she's practicing her art in places where it should not be (like going through my checkbook and making out fake checks to her friends).  And somehow, when she's home, Patrick then forgets how to entertain himself as well.  Instead, they find it much more entertaining to pull the cushions off the couch and every blanket out of the basket to pile drive each other off the mountain of cushions.  And car rides?  OMG!  She'll put his finger on him, he screams his high-pitched scream at her, she'll slap the crap out of him, he'll cry and attempt to slap her back, but she's more vicious, so she just pummels him.  Meanwhile, I've lost my voice from screaming at them so much, so I just crank up the radio as loud as possible and try to get into my "happy place."  Of course, then Shelby yells over the blasting radio "You know, you can still hear me!  I can still talk!"  Aarrggghhhh!!!     I really would love to invent a device that has big, mechanical arms on it, and I could reach it into the back seat and it would just repeatedly slap back and forth.  I don't exactly want to wreck the car by trying to smack around in the back.  And a fly-swatter doesn't seem to reach. (Oh yes, I've tried that)    But until I do, I'll just crank up the Crue and pretend that they aren't there.   And poor Gibson just sits back there in his little seat, staring at these two, probably praying to God "Really??  400 billion families in this world, and THIS is the one I get??  Seriously??" 

Now, if you get any of them on their own, they're PERFECT!!  Shelby's the best helper and she'll be so sweet and affectionate.  Patrick will play by himself, or he loves to play video games with Daddy.  Gibson is a sweetheart and if he's alone, it's a lot easier to keep him out of the tichen cabinets.    But put them all together, and you have a nuclear explosion!!

On top of that, throw in our two slobbering, 80lb boxers, Peyton and Jorja, and yeah, we've got a house of chaos 24/7.  And this chaos usually begins around 6:45am---that is, unless they have to BE somewhere at a certain time.  Then I'm having to shock them with jumper cables to get them up.  But if we don't have anywhere to go and could sleep in?  Oh yeah, 7am at the latest!   But yet, I'm a bad mom because I'm not jumping for joy at the thought of having them home for 3 months??   Suck it.  They hadn't even been out of school for a full 24 hours when I already hearing "Mooommmmmmmm, I'm BORRRRRINNNNNG!!!" -- yes, she says she's "boring" instead of "bored" --   and then cut to a couple days later, when she was screaming at Patrick that if he didn't give her iPod back, she was gonna get a bad man to come in his room and chop off his wiener!   (can't really fault her for the threat, though...I'm sure I've used that one a time or two myself)  Then 2 hours later, Shelby was off to her first overnight camp at church, and these 2 are hugging each other and crying like she was being sent off to boot camp!   Bi-polar, I tell you, they're bi-polar! At this point,  I'm actually calling up Bolivar to see if they have a room with a view, and finding out how visitation works.  (Maybe it's ME that's bi-polar??  Hmmmmm...)     I've pretty much signed them up for every single VBS, camp, zoo passes, spray parks, swimming lessons, literally whatever I can find!   If there was a Bulgarian Sign Language camp, Shelby will be going.

So before I'm berated yet again for why I wouldn't want to spend every last waking moment with my lovely little heathens, doing crafts and having Family Game Day, I wanted to just pass along a glimpse of my life.  Needless to say, I'm counting down the days til Aug 8!!

Now, I must go tend to my little G man.  The sounds I hear resemble that of a pre-toddler dumping all the Tupperware out of the cabinet and filling it with dog food.    Happy Summer Everyone!

"I'm on this new diet..."

"Well, I don't eat anything, and when I feel like I'm about to faint I eat a cube of cheese. I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight."   ~Emily Blunt, The Devil Wears Prada

Welcome to my life right now. 

One of my most absolute FAVORITE things in the whole world is our summer vacation.  We go once every couple years and we rent a condo in Ft. Walton, do the whole beach, shopping, swimming, and relaxing thing.  I love everything about our Florida vacations.  Even something as simple and stupid as going to the local Publix grocery store and buying detergent, snacks, baby food, and stuff for breakfast (because that's the only meal I'll agree to eat at "home"...I love ANY excuse to eat out) because we don't have a Publix here, and it's more fun to shop for stuff when you know you're on vacation.  I thought there was never anything about our upcoming vacation that I could ever NOT love.   I am now being proven wrong.    These simple words:  Shorts, tank tops....*holds onto my gag reflex* Bathing Suit.

Now, we all know that over this past year, I've been falling more and more in love with a new person.  He's 2 feet tall, bald a cue ball, has 5 teeth, drools incessantly and has a love of pooping out of his clothes while we're in public.   In most scenarios, I'd be needing to check myself into some sort of fetish therapy, but in this case, it's my sweet little man-cub.  My Gibson. 

Just wook at dat pwecious man!!!!   Don't you just have the urge to chew on him???     Ok, did you catch that word?  Chewing??   See, herein lies the problem.  Apparently I've should've been chewing on Gibson a little more and chewing on those Pizza Rolls a little less. 

Now, I sit and stare at the calendar in utter disbelief.  8 weeks.  In 8 short freakin' weeks, I'm going to be expected to put on this horrid little item of clothing that I can NOT wear Spanx under!!   **Seriously, has there ever been a more amazing creation than Spanx??   I even sleep in them.**     That sweet, little precious, practically edible person caused me to have skin and lines and what I just choose to refer to as bllllluuuugggggggghhhhh all over my stomach and thighs.    And now I sit and wait for the inevitable, "Oh, but you just had a baby!  Those stretch marks are a badge of honor, your body is beautiful because it made that sweet little person."   Ok, please stop.  And while you're at it, bite me!   (No, really, maybe if you bite hard enough, you can bite off some of these love handles.)    I am a person who is EXTREMELY self-critical.  But the reason is that I KNOW it can come off post-baby.   I had postpartum depression crap after having little Patrick (my 2nd baby, for those of you who don't know) and I blew up like a damn water buffalo. I actually weighed more AFTER I had him than I did when I was pregnant!   But with the help of some "crazy pills"  (which seriously made me certifiable...I'm talking batshit crazy!  But they did make me super-motivated) and an extreme gym and diet regime, I dropped 65 pounds. 

Before: 

OHMYDEARHOLYGODWOW!!  Agghhhhhhhhh!!    I seriously didn't know it was possible for my hips to DO that!!

Cut to 6 months later: 

Now, that's more like it.  There should be 2 thighs, and 1 chin!  (And apparently, I lost a bit of hair in the process as well.  Word to the wise---when you have naturally auburn hair, don't EVER try to "bring out the red" with one of those box coloring things.   It will be a disaster and you'll have to chop off a foot of hair.  Haven't colored it since.)

So anyway,  see, it's possible for me to drop weight post-baby.  I don't like to hear women use that excuse.  "Oh, well, I had a baby 6 years ago.  You never look the same after you have a baby."   Well, then sure, by all means, completely give up and drown yourself in a sea of Baskin Robbins and Steak n' Shake!   Anyway...

Back to the present.   When I had my issues post-Patrick, I had never heard of these amazing little tiny creations called "Phentermine"    Oh. My. Lord.    I'd had friends who had mentioned taking "Mommy Crack" after having their kids.   Well,  2 months after having Gibson, I had to be in my best friend's wedding.  So I skip on down to this clinic and I get the most amazing, beautiful, wonderful little iiitttttty-bitty speckled pill and the next month and a half were a whirlwind.  I had enough energy to leap tall buildings (or in my case, as my husband said, to just talk his freakin' ear off) and once a day I had to force myself to eat enough food so I literally didn't just fall over.  Never once got hungry ever. It...was...AWESOME!!  Dropped 27 pounds in one month and was like Woohoo, I'm gonna get the rest of this off in no time.  Then I go in there and the girl said (in my own words)  "I'm sorry, but you're not enough of a fatass anymore for us to give these to you.  Go gain back some of that nastiness and come back and we'll give you some more."   WTF?!    They only want to give these to "obese" people.  Well, looking around this entire area of the south, apparently the obese people haven't gotten the memo that this stuff is available, because they sure as hell aren't getting any smaller!   Walk into the Walmart in Booneville, MS and you'll see what I mean.  At 8 1/2 months pregnant, my mom whispered "Oh my god, you're still one of the skinniest people in here!"     Why would you not give these pills to someone who was dedicated to getting herself back in shape and who they were obviously working for??    Sure, save them for the people who will take it once, realize that they can't eat like a rhino all day, they'll put the rest away and never touch them again!  That's a great way to solve the weight problem here. 

So now, I'm on my own....which SUCKS!!  I don't care if you think I took the lazy way out by taking a pill.  There's a pill for every stupid little condition under the sun.  You can take a pill to sleep, to wake up, to take away anxiety, to make you more anxious so you're not annoying, to make your eyes not dry, to make your man better in bed, to make your man pass out so you don't have to actually do anything with him, they have a pill if you have RESTLESS LEGS!  But yet, if we take a pill to lose weight and get ourselves in shape and feel better about ourselves, then we're cheating, because we're not doing it the "healthy" way.  News flash, I don't care about being healthy, I care about not having to wear Spanx under my sweats!   I honestly want to go back to the days where people were wondering if I had cancer or was doing coke.   They were always trying to offer me food. Ahhh, those were the good ol' days. 

 Luckily I don't have a weakness for sweets/chocolate.  Our house is a 24/7/365 arsenal of candy.  Mom and Patrick are both chocoholics, and of course my kids are, too.  Me, I can be surrounded by it all the time and never once crave it.  (Well, take that back, there are 2 days that I will break an innocent man's legs just to steal his Frosty.  But for the other 29 days of the month, I'm cool.)  My weakness is salty, spicy JUNK.  Pizza, hot wings, deli sandwiches, dips, appetizers.  OMG, love it.  Luckily my favorite food in the world is sushi and from what I hear, it's supposedly healthy (don't you dare burst my bubble!) but Osaka isn't right next door to me, so I don't get it as much as I'd like.  I have an out-of-control Dr. Pepper addiction, and of course, I love my beer on the weekends.  And I don't care if it says "Light" beer, my lower abdomen didn't read that part of the label.   So having to be "good" and sit and eat fish and grilled chicken while watching the Pizza Hut guy drive by, makes me want to bludgeon small children and puppies.

And yes, I tried one of those weight loss DVD's. Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred.   Yes, after 30 minutes of that, I wanted to throw crazy bitch in a tree-shredder and then drown her in one of her own stupid protein shakes!  I seriously couldn't lift my finger afterwards to type about how much pain I was in!! 

  But now here I am, sans Mommy Crack (and seriously still willing to do an under-the-table drug buy in order to get it) and staring at this awful looking building with these dreaded words on it:   ATC Fitness.

I hate the gym.  Hate, hate, hate, hate HATE!!!!  If you ever see me running, then there is a 97% chance that I'm being shot at.   And I hate the people at the gym.  I always end up on the elliptical stuck next to the 87lb marathon-running cheerleader with her perky blonde ponytail bobbling back n forth to the beat of the Ke$ha song I can hear blaring on her iPod.  And then of course, there's the roid-heads in the weight area that are trying to lift about 700 pounds more than their body is actually capable of lifting.  The sounds that emanate from them resemble a gorilla trying to pass a kidney stone. (Have fun with those marble-sized nuts, there, Igor)     So every day I go dragging myself in there, cussing everyone and everything from the parking lot to the door.  I go to the tanning bed first (because everyone knows that fat looks better tan)  which is a feat all in itself.  Everyone is well-aware of my lack of pigmentation.  My husband likes to ask me if I'm wearing tube socks when I have on capri pants, and we like to say that I can burn in the moonlight.   But because we ARE at the beach, I really would prefer to not have to dress like those Muslim women who are covered in a black shroud with only their eyes showing.  In natural sunlight, even SPF 2000 wouldn't be enough for me.  So I do the tanning bed first.  But because of the said lack of pigment, it takes about a month for me to get any color at all.  I pretty much have to start at about 30 seconds and work my way up!   (I'm up to 10 minutes now and my skin actually resembles that of a person with a pulse!! Go me!)

Ok, back to the gym.  After having a 15 minute mental debate with myself, because I hate it EVER so much, I begrudgingly step on the elliptical of death.  I'm so horridly out of shape that this thing is like a torture device for me.  I crank up some Whitesnake on my iPod (because slimming down for the Tora Tora/Whitesnake show is also part of my game plan--Rock Star wives are supposed to be skinny and hot, right?  Well, at least they are, according to E!) and I start running.  After what I know has GOT to be about 20 minutes I look at the time to see how long I've been going.  1:47.  OMG, nooooo!!  The timer on this thing has got to be wrong.  I'm panting in pain like I'm trying to give birth by c-section with no anesthesia...in a desert!!    Plus, I'm so unbelievably uncoordinated that my legs keep going off in different directions and I almost fall off on numerous occasions.   I gave up on the treadmill for that very reason.  Yup, I so fell off.

Yes, that's what it looked like.   How I don't lose limbs and/or teeth on a daily basis is still an ongoing question. 

So finally, after what feels like 5 hours, I finally get my mile and a half in.  I then proceed to lay down on the floor and die.    I don't understand how people can say that they have all this energy and they feel SO good when they workout.  I feel like death when I walk in, and I feel like nasty sweaty DEAD death when I leave.     But I force myself to do it.  Everyday.  Stupid horrible elliptical and then the machines (which I don't mind as much...I feel like I'm actually doing something productive when I'm on the crunch machine and my abs feel like they're being set on fire.  If only they LOOKED the way that I feel they should look when I'm done)   And I force myself to even drink water when I'm doing it.  That's another challenge!  I can go for months without touching water, except to brush my teeth.  And if I could find a way to rinse my mouth out with Dr. Pepper after brushing, I'd be doing that, too. 

Ok, I've done my stupid workout for the day, I've been passing up food left and right (with NO help from my favorite friendly pill) and then I get on the scale.  NOTHING!!   Then I go to try on shirts that fit me before Gibson.   Um, yeaaaaah, I don't really want to join that style of 4 inches of belly hanging out from under my shirt.  How is it that it was so easy to drop 65 pounds, or even 27 pounds, but for me to lose this last 10 stupid pounds, it's been the most gut-wrenching experience ever??   All I want is to be able to wear the clothes I have now, but not have to wear 4 layers of Spanx under them.  Because when I've got those awesome pieces of Lycra sucking me in in every direction, I look fine. (Breathing is soooo overrated)  But my god, I go to get undressed and it's like opening one of those cans of refrigerated biscuits.  You start peeling slowly at the bottom and you're waiting for that inevitable loud POP! and then all the dough starts popping out from the seams and going gooey everywhere.  So disgusting.  (...aaaaand there goes that craving for sausage/biscuits you woke up with this morning. You're welcome.)   All I want is to look the way I did when I went to Rocklahoma 3 years ago, only not quite as pale.   Is that so much to ask??

Well, yes, apparently it is.   So now, I'm off to take Emily's advice and stick that cube of cheese in my pocket and I'm off to the gates of Hell.   The machine of death is calling my name.   Here's hoping that I don't break both my legs in the process (although, I heard those casts make your legs super-skinny afterwards) or at least we can all hope that if it does happen that someone has a camera.

Wish me luck---I've got 10 pounds and 3 inches to lose and only 8 weeks, 1 day til I'm expected to put on a bathing suit.   God help us all.    

Oh, and if anyone wants to donate to my plastic surgery fund, I'm setting up a Paypal option as we speak...










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Seriously, a huge thanks to all of ya'll for reading all my mindless, rambling rants!  I so appreciate all your awesome comments and feedback.  You're freakin' awesome.  Keep rockin'!

***And if you've never watched The Devil Wears Prada, you seriously have to.  Meryl is absolute perfection in everything she does, so that's without question. (I have a tribute wall in my entertainment room to prove that)   But Emily Blunt just steals it! So perfect for that role.***