I'm Scratching This Itch and I Can't Stop

I woke up in the middle of the night, already raking my nails over the lump forming on the bump at the top of my foot that only Fred Flintstone and I could call an ankle bone. I kept scratching the little bite because I knew the second I stopped it would be agony. I scratched and I scratched, it was nearly euphoric. If I stopped, if I stop scratching, if I stop running my nails over this little bite, agony.

Eventually I had to stop.

And, then I laid there, awake. Itching. Thinking. Knowing that there was some sort of metaphor in here somewhere but I was too tired to grasp it.

I think I'll just keep scratching.

This Place Has Just Become...

Horseshit. One word. Horseshit.

Seriously? Why are you here? Have I given you anything worth a damn? No I haven't. I haven't given anyone anything that is worth a damn. I used BoomTube as an excuse and did you see that freaking train wreck?

In my defense, I wasn't ready. Jason and I had just argued and then he's all, "ready, set, go! Be funny!" and I was all, "Wait, what? No." But then it was too late and the light was in my face and I had to try to be funny.

And you know what? When I'm in a bad mood I am not funny. Not one thing is funny about me except maybe the stupid look on my face. No funny here, kids. No anything here. I even have two designs that I HAVE to get out this week because next week? No one is getting a single, solitary, gawddamn thing from me. It's not like their getting much as it is.

A really big part of me wants to just blow everything off until after vacation. I've already check out. I'm gone. Splitsville. I'm so fucking gone I just said splitsville. What the fuck?

No, really, what the fuck? Can you tell me? Because I've got nothing here. And, for some reason splitsville reminds me, this weekend Jason watched a biography on Marlon Brando and when he was done he looked at me and said, "Marlon Brando was really a dick." And, I was all, "Not a newsflash, the man was a dick and screwed like... I dunno, something that screws a lot. How many kids did he have?" and then Jason was all, "Like ten or maybe even more, no one really knows." And that made it seem really mysterious to me.

I have no point of telling you this except that I would be really, really pissed and disappointed if after someone got done watching a biography on me, if they weren't asleep, that they might then look at their spouse and be all, "Dude, she was a total dick!"

But then this takes me one more place. Something Jason and I didn't get to on BoomTube was the Super Bitch. There is a car that is always parked on the street down about a block or two from our house. And across the back window, in giant and I mean really big fucking letters, red ones even, it reads "Super Bitch".

Now, seriously? That's what you're going with. Super bitch? You're sticking with that? That's your label, your message? You could put anything in the world in that space and the stroke of genius that you had was super bitch. I have been thinking about this shit for like two weeks now, right? So while I was in the middle of thinking about it and trying not to nod off on my drive to work, I saw a bumper sticker that read, "From zero to bitch in 1.5 seconds". What are you saying there? You are both a zero and a bitch because that is some seriously fucked up advertising and you might want to consider firing your PR agent. Or seeing someone about your self-esteem issue.

All I'm saying is maybe I should just get it out of the way and put "disappointing dick" on the back of my car.

I would just feel bad when Jason had to drive it.

Which now? I'm reminded of the time my brother spray painted "FAT ASS" on the side of his car and I had to drive it. And I was all, "Yeah, funny and ironic when your tall, skinny ass gets out of the car. When I get out of that car it's just mean."

Baby Stepping Through The Muck

I sort of feel like I don't own this space anymore and it pisses me off. It used to be that I would rush to the computer every day to sit down and write. My blog was my very favorite thing and I couldn't wait to get to it every day.

Now? It's a struggle. Worse? I'm writing about blogging and that is like one of the Seven Deadly Sins of blogging. You don't write about blogging. You blog about everything else going on in your life. And maybe that's what I should do, but you know what? I just don't want to. It feels forced. I feel like a stranger in my own world right now.

Furthermore, I should recognize what this is and I haven't even bothered to do so yet. I have Summer depression. I always have, since I was a kid. I feel listless and useless. The gears in my head that normally crank out the words are just chugging along, working harder to perform basic daily functions.

Getting up out of bed? Well that takes more effort than it did just two months ago. Every year I go through this and every single year it sneaks up on me. I work harder to smile, I work harder to not grump about and tell everyone in my eyeline to eat shit and die. I wouldn't mean it if I said it, but still the temptation is there and it would be a delicious moment when I did say it. Well, until the guilt set in. I'm not big on hurting feelings.

The good news is that I'm going on vacation soon and hopefully it'll knock this shit right out of me. This never lasts too long, it's more of a nuisance than anything. I just have to work a little bit harder to push my spirit out and project something other than blech. I fake it 'til I make it.

Little reminders:

Am I smiling?
Am I responding in a pleasant manner?
Wait, did I just tell that person to suck it?

Fuck.

I made it through what would have been my son's fourth birthday. Now I just have to push through until the anniversary of his death. It falls 3 days after my birthday every single year.

It's time to buck up.

It's not going to change.

UPDATED! My Car and Wednesday Conspired Against Me - Jerkoids!

Last night my husband came upstairs and said, "You know you are going to end up on one of those shows on the I.D. channel because you killed me, right?"




PS - Last night at the end of my work day, I sat in my car, put the key in the ignition and all I got was the middle finger and a heavily Japanese accented voice that said, "Fuck You!"

I yelled back, "This wouldn't happen if you were a fucking robot."

Jason picked up my prescription on his way home.





PPS - Seriously - I've been told this might not be entirely clear. Let me clarify:

My husband thinks I should kill him. Or that I'm going to, I'm not sure which. He yelled something else about life insurance.

My car wouldn't start. I'm not sure how that wasn't clear when I said it gave me the finger and talked to me.

If it was a robot it might do the same things but it would take me where I wanted to go. It's a car robot, it has too.

Meds people. The crying, they help the crying.

Why do I feel like I will have to explain this again?

UPDATED!!! Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

Here's the thing about yesterday? Yesterday was bitch. Yesterday was the kind of bitch that could make a girl face plant into a bag of mini candy bars and come up for air only to complain that there was not one single solitary drop of bacon grease to be found in that fucking bag.

Yesterday left me with two choices.

Get drunk
Eat a lot of shit.

This morning came really fucking early and found me feeling hollow - well except for the bacon covered peanut butter cup that I could be making up. But am I?

So this jerk face, ass wipe Tuesday also found me laying in bed, sobbing hysterically because I ended up watching one of those Dateline shows where they put actors in horrible situations and then watch mankind fail miserably at being anything close to human. And when they had the homeless actor, lay dead on the sidewalk and not one asshole stopped to help because he was homeless I decided I no longer wanted to be human.

The good thing that happened was when Sunday, Bloody Sunday came on the radio, for the first time in 3 years I smiled at the song. Mostly, because I had this entire Twittersation with someone that I'm just going to go ahead and put in the same category as knees that belong to bees, about how Bono is totally her imaginary husband and how Michael Hutchense makes your soul ache and bleed with his beauty. So when that song came on I smiled instead of feeling the pointy little bitch dagger that usually just turns itself inside my bruised and broken heart.

The thing about that song is that it's forever burned into my being and is simultaneously on my highlight and lowlight reels of life because when I hear it, when I feel it, all I can see is the night my husband swayed and danced with my now dead son around our tiny little living room while this video played behind him.

That's a total bite, isn't it? I know, fuck me and my sadness today. As a matter of fact?

Fuck you sadness.

But that wasn't about sadness right? It was about new found goodness.

Yesterday's big suck factor was mostly due to this really insanely stupid meeting we had with our financial planner that made me want to gouge out an eye, kick a shin and then just made me cry like a baby. And here's the thing about crying, I hate it and try to not do it.

This morning, I might have said something to Jason about how buying Depeche Mode tickets might not be our best plan of action and that left a big gaping hole in my belly. Then I stopped to get a Diet 7-up (which is my new crutch in life) and stood there, grinning like a jackass when the guy in front of me plopped to tall boys down on the counter and started to count his pennies to pay for them at 7:30 in the am.

Because hell? Life could be so much fucking worse, right? I waited patiently because no matter what, I wasn't doing that and I knew if I saw that guy laying on the sidewalk, with his can in hand, I wouldn't hesitate to call 911 and check his pulse. I'm a hella good person, I know it. And then? Then I reached in my pocket to pull out the dollar and some change I had to pay for my drink and all I pulled out in the first handful was a few pennies, a partial Kleenex and a mother fucking button.

I pulled out a button.

Like Charles Fucking Dickens was writing my bacon lacking life story.

Fuck you, little street urchin button!

I found my dollar and clutched the cold bottle as I walked into the cold air and got into my car. I looked at the car with the broken window next to me, smiled, again thinking, look, worse, right? Look at my pleasure over other's misfortune. Oh and maybe I should consider moving.

As I reversed my car, I turned up the volume and this is where I just wonder what the hell I've ever done because the haunting drum of Sunday, Bloody Sunday started tearing into my ear drums and I burst into tears.

So you know what? Fuck you, Wednesday. Fuck you hard.


Hold the Mah'fucking phone. My day just got better. I found THISSSSS!



Or even better? Huey Mah'fucking Lewis!



Thank you cracked.com

My Pants Hate Me

I don't have a lot of time today because I've wasted a good portion of my morning sobbing and pulling every. single. clothing. item. out of my closet and throwing it back in.

I was the girl that I totally hate this morning.

Moving on, I'm going to keep this really short and bitter.

To my pants I just have one thing to say. Fuck you pants.


PS - Oh and to the cupcake that I ate at 10:30 last night...

You were delicious, you mother fucker. That's why I gave your twin brother to my daughter this morning. I'll show you, asshole cupcake.

I Feel Weird...

Recently I've realized that I've been feeling really strange. Some of you might call it "manic" and still some of you may have referred to the fact that I might be "cracking the fuck up."

Whatever. You guys can be so mean.

But truly, I have been feeling weird and suddenly as I was driving back to my office from lunch with Jason today, it hit me.

I was sitting behind the wheel and I was all, "Wait, what is that? Is that what I think it is? Is that happiness? Yes, Yes, I think it is."

When I laugh, I'm feeling it on the inside rather than just laughing because it's what I'm supposed to do.

Suddenly it feels like there is life inside of me again. I don't feel like the soft underbelly of a raw nerve ending.

I feel alive.

And, I haven't felt this way in nearly 4 years. Not since Jadon died.

Much to my husband's chagrin, we suddenly remembered why everyone used to say that I reminded them of Dharma or Dharma reminded them of me, and let it be said that Jason is definitely the Greg to my Dharma.

So what appears to be me cracking up, is actually the first time I've been "normal" in so very long.

To celebrate this feeling, I have put together the BEST DRAWING EVER!

That's right, I went there.



Say it with me now! TADOW!

We've Got Something That Will Turn Your Brain To Sh*t

Subtitled: Shit I threw up on Twitter this weekend.

I had been in this fantastic mood and frame of mind for a whole week. And while I was in it, it was like being on vacation. In the moment I was all, "there is no way I'm ever going to be moody or uninspired again!" In the flip of a switch, it was out. Seriously, it was like over the weekend someone flipped a switch and all capacity to put my incoherent ramblings together into a solid, magical thought was gone.

There were flashes of greatness like the conversation Jason and I had while watching the St.Pierre/Penn fight Saturday.

Jason: Is he walking out to the Foo Fighters?

Me: Yeah... Some people really think the Foo Fighters rock. And not just like rock, but FUCKING RAWK.

Jason: Meh.

Me: I see your point, if it were me I'd walk out to The Cult's Fire Woman. I mean, that would be bad ass, right? Like if I had a hood pulled up and I was all punching the air and stuff? ( I demonstrated air-punching.)

Jason: Yeah, that would blow people's minds, especially if you did a leg kick and fireworks came out of your crotch?

Me: Hmmm, I don't see a lot of pyrotechnics... Wait? Out of my what?

Jason: Your crotch, you know like Shania Twain.

Me: No, I don't know and why do you know?

And then there was the whole Journey, Pre-Game debacle. I mean, really? Were his eyes not the most uncomfortable thing to watch that you've ever seen?

I came in and sat down, bone weary from mopping the office floor for close to two hours. And then I heard the awesomely, magical words of "Ladies and Gentleman, JOURNEEEEEYYYY!" or something similar. And I had seen Journey in concert like two years ago, so I totally knew Steve Perry wasn't coming out, but I didn't expect the Asian guy from Big Trouble in Little China with his weird glowing, rolling eyes.

It was like nobody told him Steve Perry isn't dead and he was trying to channel him the whole time.

Me: Seriously? Is it just me or is this guy super creepy?

Jason: What is up with his eyes?

Me: I'm pretty sure somewhere Steve Perry is just sitting there, motionless, not enjoying the pre-game, because this asshole is trying to tug his soul into his body. How freaking rude.

Hey you know how you should get a Journey tattoo?

Jason: Ummm, sure?

Me: Just make sure it says Journey - and then underneath it's all, but real Journey. Fucking Rocking Steve Perry Journey. Fucking Rocking REAL STEVE PERRY JOURNEY because I'll never STOP BELIEVIN' - Not, Creepy Possessed Asian Guy Journey.

That's probably going to be a big tattoo. Wait! Where is my laptop this is PURE GENIUS!

Jason: No honey, it's not.

But he thought it was pure genius later when we were going to bed and I nuzzled his ear and whispered, "if punching koalas is wrong, I just don't want to be right."

Yeah, I even got a nose booger to fly out on that one.

Okay, I'm starting to feel better already. Mostly because it's obvious how awesome I really am.

Besides, if Bruce Springsteen can power slide into the camera man and make that RAWK! Then who am I to be moody?

I'm Kind Of Funktified

I'm thinking it's mostly because it's Monday, but that just makes me a whiny a-hole, because seriously, if you do something like look at Twitter or even open your ears at work, everyone is complaining about this shit and really? Didn't complaining about Monday go out of style with Garfield? Lazy-ass cartoon cat.

It could also be because I spent roughly 2.5 hours cleaning floors in my office yesterday only to have them be covered with dusty little footprints again by approximately 8:05 am. And that is because I evidently work with a whole slew (not half a slew, but a whole one) of butt faces that were born in non-footwiping barns. And yes I feel inherently better when I say something as mature and role-modelish as butt face.

Truly though there is something that is probably contributing even more to the Funkitification of Betsey Booms (which you know I'm funky if I'm speaking in third person because that is for suckers). If you know me then you know I freaking love burritos. I would eat burritos every day of my life were I not already eating tacos or chocolate. Burritos are the food of the Gods and if there is one thing that I could eat every.single.Monday it's a farking burrito. Monday's bring on the weekend hangover. Monday's should be renamed Methadoneday (who knew I could reference Methadone so many times in a week? And if you say Methadoneday out loud, it's just fun and Spanishy sounding). The one thing I love for a hang-over is hands down a burrito. So when my boss sheepishly walked up to my desk and pulled the old "I hate to ask and it's outside the realm of your job description" bit and sent me on an errand to come back with freaking FIVE burritos in less than half an hour, I basically wanted to stab myself in the eye because not one of those FIVE burritos would be sliding down my sleepy, hating life throat.

I realize there are bigger problems and worse days, people, but this is MINE! And because of this I'm going to be a big, whiney loser and continue to butcher the English language with my mostly's, seriously's and poorly thought out run on sentences. That? And I'm rebelling by changing my blog design while I'm AT WORK.

So take my passive aggressive shit and move on buddy!

Yeah, I showed them.

Oh and PS - I would love to hear this post in a dramatic reading fashion, because then we'd really see how self-involved and ridiculous it is.

Look, This Is Going To Be Totally Random...

While watching fastfood commercials I decided my husband should call my private parts "Tender McChicken". Mostly it's tender but not so much McChicken.

In addition to this? I decided that the Boston accent is single-handedly and dually the most annoying, yet KICK-ASS accent the United States has to offer.

Also? I decided that this argument on the Original VS. Faux Stiles has to be the most insightful thing I've ever read (while drinking vodka). Only it's not so much an argument as it is a complete tranformation of your life if you read it. You've been warned.

Additionally? I have declared that if you name your son Adam 'PacMan' Jones then you are pretty much dooming him to be the caveman with athletic talent that he turned out to be. Seriously? Stop going to strip clubs with guns, dude. Is it that hard? And I'm sorry, but I've never been to a strip club that served food at 1:30 in the morning. (Take that as you will, because obviously calling my kid Crazyman Jones is setting him up for a much better, XGames based lifestyle.)

Also? I swear that his lawyer is the same guy that defended the "Zoloft made me kill my grandparents" kid and let me tell you, Zoloft never made me want to kill anyone but occasionally Cymbalta makes me want to shoot people with a BB gun.

And for those of you that do things like call the cops because someone twittered about putting their kid in a dog kennel, please don't. I don't even own A bb gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack. What am I gonna do with a gun rack? And just yesterday my husband said that THAT movie had a time and a place and it has passed but I will stand here and beg to differ.

And now you know.

Why My 30's Blow

I have super clean teeth today. First thing this morning, I headed to the dentist to get the 6 month cleaning. Now I keep running my tongue over my clean teeth, in between bites of candy and gulps of Diet Coke to undo every bit of good they did this morning.

I type this with freshly painted finger nails. Which is a luxury these days. While I can find the moment here and there to file and paint, they chip so quickly and then I stare at my gnarly nails every day and cringe at the thought of making the time to re-do them.

I used to spend hours doing things like my nails. I can't remember the last time I did something like that. Oh I spent a good 2 hours on my hair this weekend. Bleaching and updating my cut but it all came with a sense of dread and urgency. Once I got Crazyman down for a nap, I rushed to mix the chemicals and slap them on my roots, that were long over due.

This stuff used to be fun and now it's just....

Upkeep.

I was so tired of trying to find the time to stop and get my bleach monthly that I bought a 9 month supply this weekend. With the bleach on my head, I stopped to kiss the hubs as I cleaned around the house. He wrinkled his nose and said "you stink".

Indeed, I stunk. I asked if he'd like me to stop bleaching my hair. I think there was a small moment of panic in his eyes for a second. I reminded him that beauty is painful... or just a complete pain. Whatever. As I glance at the TV I see some starlet in super cute clothes.

Clothes I can't even fathom wearing because that shit is expensive and it has to be washer ready and comfortable on top of that. I reach past my super cute heels every day to pull out one of the standard pair of flats I rock these days.

I guess what I'm whining about here is that...

I just hate not having the time to take care of myself anymore. When I do have the time I'm butt ass tired. Which reminds me...When do I find the time to work that out too?

Maybe I should stock up with a 9 month supply of Bondo to fill in the dents and dings?

Tough Love

Tough love is one of those things that people can't always agree on. When it's happening to you, it feels so very harsh. When you're dishing it out, it can be difficult and you wonder if you are truly helping someone out.

Jason and I have a family member that is going through an incredibly tough time right now. There are nights when I know this person is lonely and questioning the decision they made. And there are days where they are angry and hating the world around them or the one they perceive as causing them pain.

Hearing of their struggle is so incredibly hard and I wish I could take my experience and roll it up into a little care package, complete with pretty paper, floppy ribbon and a glittery card and place it inside their soul to let them know that it will get better. I can't. I can talk to them and give them advice that may or may not be used. I can say that I understand but that won't fill in the pothole in this person's gut.

It just won't.

It's one of those situations that we are all aware of where we suffer from terminal uniqueness. We don't take the time to think that others go through this and know the pain and the loneliness. The dark, empty nights. The waking to no one being there in your quiet home that doesn't feel like home anymore.

I wish I could open my home, my doors and my little family life up to this person and make it all better. To let my family hold them while they hurt and heal.

I can't.

All I can say is that I do understand and the dark days will become bright again.

This? I promise.

The One Where I'm Too Lazy To Form Sentences

It may be because my 31st birthday is this weekend. Or it could be because we've been over extended socially the majority of the summer. Whatever the case may be, I have moss growing on my shady side from the amount of time I spent rooted in my over-sized chair in the living room.

My body only saw real clothing for a few short hours Saturday night when we ventured out to the game. Otherwise it was huge scrub pants and a tank top that hasn't ventured anywhere near elasticity in about 2 years. It was up in the air all day on Saturday if we'd even make it to the game as rain was in the air. But we all awoke from a 2+ hour nap to find gorgeous game going weather.

Yeah, I said nap. Something I never used to do and really just enjoy way too much these days.

So I'll stop rambling now because I just cannot muster quirky, witty, pulled-together or even awake today. So here are some shots of my kid because filler is always good. Well unless you're a blog critic and then whatever.

Because he is the biggest 15 month old I've ever seen:



He met Sluggerrrrr:



And here is what he thought of that:

This Keeps Me Going

Ignore my stupid looking bangs.

Low

I can't see my way out right now.

I'm really lost in the hurting. I know a good deal of it is Jadon. I know the rest is the hard little ball of hate I have for myself stuck way down inside my belly.

I've heard things said. Things said that won't undo. Things that resonate so clearly inside of me it's all I can feel. If it didn't feel so true then I could brush it aside. If I didn't feel that way too then I could forget it.

Being good enough is never an option and that big hill is always outside my door when I awake in the morning. I wish I could wake up and that hill I've been running up my entire adult life would just be gone.

But it won't.

Things that I have done that are good and right are seemingly unnoticed.

I cling to my son right now because he's the only one I have near me. Jadon is gone and always will be. My sweet daughter is gone for a few more weeks.

I'm rushing towards the end of this year of my life and the beginning of another. Why do we have to mark birthdays when they only serve as a reminder that another year of a life that isn't perfect has washed away?

I want so much to just smile and say that it's all alright. Maybe I should.

Maybe I realize that I'm not what was expected. Maybe I realize that until I'm that very thing then I'll never be right. All of it is running around in my mind. I hear it over and over.

It's always been bad for me this time of year. My birthday, Jadon's death and having Marley gone so close together while realizing that I don't bring happiness are so very much like cosmic kick in my soft belly.

If I can smile. If I can smile and keep smiling will it go away? Will it fix itself? Will a flood of smiling wash it away?

What It Is

A quarter to five this morning my eyes popped open. My head was heavy with the dull thud of realizing it feels like my life is falling apart. It's not. I just feel that way because my son's whole life is going to be changing.

As I laid there, stressing beyond what should be considered reasonable I remembered, for no relevant reason this little girl I played with as a child. In my memory she looks very much like Rudy from the Cosby Show. At the time we lived on a very busy street. Our house had a large front porch that I can remember playing on and watching the cars go by. From across that busy street this little girl suddenly appeared and asked if I could play. I remembered begging my mom to let her play.

She did.

And you know what? That kid was a total shit head. My mom had just bought me an awesome tube of bubblegum that looked like a toothpaste tube (how I miss the 80's) and this little bitch told me she'd tell my mom something bad if I didn't give it to her. I remembered thinking that my mom would never believe her but always wanting to avoid conflict I let her have it anyway.

And then?

I watched as she chewed a huge gob of it for a while, then pull that gob out of her mouth and shove it back into the tube to save it for later.

Bubble gum stealing buttface.

I was digusted and when I told my mom she was mad and asked why I did that? I had no good reason and then my mom said she was a jerk.

This has nothing to do with anything other than the insanity that permeates my mind as I lay awake.

When I got Crazyman to his sitter this morning. I got some great news. His friend Trey, who is exactly 20 days older than Crazyman - his mother is going to start her own in home daycare and is willing to take his current sitter's clientele. This means we wouldn't have to split up Crazyman, Trey and Braydon - AND? Trey lives in the same neighborhood as we do and as Braydon does and pretty much directly in between both of our houses. We all live about 3-4 blocks from each other.

I hesitate to celebrate this because it seems too awesome.

And in retrospect I guess the memory of the bubble gum stealing buttface came to my mind because I was feeling so screwed over.

If I had it to do over? I would have shoved her off my porch and taken my gum back. And then promptly thrown it in the trash because, dude? That shit is nasty.

Why Is It?

That when I've been working harder for the past 4 years at something than I've worked harder on anything else in my whole life - it doesn't seem to get easier.

In fact, it seems to get harder.

So very much harder.

Leaving me to feel like a huge failure.

How Much Of A Lazy Fat Ass Am I?

One of my best friends in the entire world informed me that her doctor said that the difference between a fit person and an overweight person is about 2000 steps a day. I argued that Big Mac's, thyroid conditions and genetics might break that theory but I had to let it go. My husband says I'm much too argumentative anyway.

My super smart friend then told me that 2000 steps is about equal to 30-minutes of walking at a decent pace. Again? I could not argue... She has a pedometer and has lost roughly 70 pounds. That makes her slightly more the authori-TAY than my happy ass.

If you've been here for a while you probably know, I have a fat ass. Not only do I have a fat ass but I have the largest thighs you've probably ever seen on a girl that appears to be as relatively thin as I do.

Let's take a moment to thank my mother for her wonderful additon of "thunder thighs" to my genetic milkshake. My sister and I do this often. I also have the double blessing of my paternal grandmother's giant hips.

Thanks for nothing, Grandma.

*I* am not overweight. My thighs are overweight. I have an awesome pear shape. And by awesome I mean it totally blows goats and I've been hating my ass-half since it started to curve outwardly when I was a teenager.

Since birthing the third one, I have not just 'snapped back' into shape and it pisses me off to no end. I'm entirely not okay with this.

Not in the slightest.

My husband once told me that I will never be overweight because I would never allow myself to be. Let me stop right here and say that I do have a family history of weight issues. My mother struggled after my kid brother was born and her mother went through a bout with it as well.

I've been blessed with height which neither of those fine ladies has. My mother is 5'2" and my grandmother is 5'. Having this much height means it pretty much just settles in my ass. I know that. That makes it a fact.

Okay, so I won't allow myself to be overweight - but guess what? My body, much like a teenage girl - doesn't give two shits about what I will or will not "allow". I'm going to have to work for this shit obviously.

Last night I got home, loaded Crazyman into his stroller and off we went. We zoomed around the neighborhood and I counted my steps for the first bit until I could guess by my pace how many I was taking. I took a detour through the school parking lot to allow extra steps and I hefted myself up the hilly stretch like it was my job.

When I got home I was winded and I was sweaty.

A 30-minute walk kicked my ass. Is that the saddest thing you've ever heard? I'd like to blame the sweatiness on the fact that it was 90+ degrees but really? Let's face it.

I'm horrifically out of shape.

But I did it!

And then I celebrated with a few beers and fried mozzarella sticks.

Tonight? Two thousand FIVE HUNDRED steps.

Seriously.

Thursday

This coming Thursday would be Jadon's third birthday.

Last night we were exhausted after a long weekend at the lake. Jason and I decided to lay about and watch a movie after dinner.

We chose 'Godsend'. The timing was really poor on our parts.

I cried for the first 15 minutes of the movie. Jason was just about to turn it off but I knew the tone would change.

I slept very little last night and this morning my heart hurts.

I didn't want Crazyman to go to bed last night and I didn't want to leave him this morning.

The busy-ness this week has in store for me is a secret blessing.

If only I could get rid of the steel band holding tightly around my chest. It just shocked me. It always does. I go about for time periods not thinking about it, not hurting and then...

Well, you know.

Unsympathetic

Who gives a shit?

I find myself saying this so many times a day, I'm starting to think I have a weird syndrome. And perhaps I do. It's called being unsympathetic.

I have had to stop caring what other people think of me. I've spent the majority of my life always trying to live up to changing standards. I turned 30 and said enough already.

When I was younger my mother often uttered the words - who gives a shit. And I would be indignant and hormonal and declare loudly that I gave a shit and I thought it was sad that she didn't.

I often wondered where in her life did she get to be so numb that she simply didn't care.

And then? It hit me. Not caring really makes me happy. You hate my hair? Great. You think I have a fat ass? Me too, what else do you have? My attitude? Yeah, it's bad, real bad.

This is all fine and maybe even dandy, but now? Now, I listen or read other people's thoughts (don't assume I mean you) and I find myself saying it.

Who gives a shit?

I don't know what it actually means to give a shit. Why would you want a shit. Is it like take a shit and it kind of means the opposite?

Now I've ventured into crude. But you know what to do. Say it.

All I'm saying is that perhaps I'm too tired, too weary. Perhaps I'm too callous, too uncaring.

It's all not true, it's not. I care about my loved ones and my friends. I want to help and protect them. What I don't want to do? Is try to understand why they sweat the small shit (another of my mom's famous lines). Who cares about the post office lines? Who cares that Wal-hell is a bitch to navigate? What is the big deal about being angry all the time? This morning I honked at a lady because she sat through the green arrow light. At the time it was a big fucking deal. In retrospect, she was a moron, I know that still, but whatever. It didn't jack my whole day.

It was nice to hear my horn though. I don't honk that sucker enough.

Maybe I'm just gliding day to day. Maybe I should be more indignant or take a bigger stand.

But at the end of my day, when I lay in my bed, bone tired all I can think is:

Today I didn't give a shit and that rocks.

And if you see some nutcase just randomly honking their horn with a big, stupid grin on her face. Pay no mind. She's not honking at you. She's me and she's just happy to hear her horn.

Or something.