2014 Year of the Angry Pony

2014 will be the year of the horse, according to the Chinese zodiac.  I have decided to take that as a sign that this is the year for Angry Pony.  I've had one hell of a year in 2013 physically and mentally and I think I might have even had a few true growth moments.  I'm tired of cycles that repeat and, I think, at age 42, I may have figured a couple of things out.  I read through some of my blogs from last year at this time and also throughout the year.  What a ride it has been.

After reading through a lot of this stuff, I would like to first and foremost say, I am thankful I did not die from my surgery complications (I was so scared!).  I am thankful it has been just over 11 months since the last time I crapped my pants and that I can, once again, fart with confidence, if the need arises. I am thankful that, while I have not reached my weight-loss goal, I have made progress and experienced a few moments of joy that I have not before experienced.  I had my first Victoria Secret experience and shared that with my sister. It was a fun day and now my boobs know heights they could only have dreamed about before. I went into a store that I deemed as a "normal people store" and purchased my first pair of "normal people" jeans. I will always have a fondness for Eddie Bauer, as a result.  I am able to slide into booths and be comfortable when I go out to eat.  I put on a dress that I wore at my heaviest and it is too big to wear now.  Silly little stuff, when you consider all that life throws at us every day.  And, the most important thing I am thankful for, is that I have an amazing support system of friends through it all.  No matter how much I bitch or share my insecurities, there you are, supporting me.  Amazing feeling. 

It has also been a year full of self-doubting, negative thoughts, feeling inadequate and being hard on myself. This is my biggest struggle.  I often hear The Rug Doctor's voice, "be kind to yourself."  And then, Bitchy Pony tells her to shut up.  I've spent a lifetime of feeling trapped.  A lifetime of taking care of others and putting them first.  A lifetime of knowing that no matter what I do, I cannot lose weight or change the cycle.  A lifetime of "it works for everyone else, except me."  I am my own worst enemy, no argument there. I am the biggest road block.  I fight everything subconsciously.  Why?  I don't know, that is what Therapy Thursday is for, I guess.  It's probably, just a lifetime of embedded negative thinking, I guess, and I have to change that.  That's right, something else I have to do. Pisses me off.  Seriously.  I'm so tired of having to fix everything for everyone, even myself.  I want someone to take care of me for once.  I want it to be easy for me, for once. I deserve it.  I earned it.  Well, guess what? The universe doesn't give a shit what I want. 

I am reminded of when I was in my early 20's, living at home at the old farm house.  Our neighbor, Mama Safeway, was always trying to instill her "Mom" wisdom in me.  I would be sad about not having a boyfriend, or my job or life and wanting someone to make my life special.  She would say, "Honey, you have to make your own life  special.  If you want your birthday to be special, YOU plan it.  You take charge of your life, don't wait for someone else to make it so."  I always listened and thought to myself, "she doesn't get it. I'm not going to settle, I'm going to find someone amazing.  I deserve it."  And you know what, I did find someone amazing, eventually, but he doesn't have the romantic-planning-your-day-to-make-it-special gene.  For my birthday, six months after we met, he gave me a big flashlight and a My Little Pony.  Practical (for feeding the ponies at night) and sweet.  That is who he is, practical and sweet.  He feeds the ponies for me when I get home late.  He texts me that he loves me and that the sunrise pales in comparison to how beautiful I am.  He tells me he loves me 100 times a day.  But he isn't a planner.  I've been fighting this and been angry about it and trying to force him to be the planner guy.  Well, he isn't and I'm making myself crazy over something I can't control. And, in the scheme of things, what is my problem anyway? I know women that would give anything to have a guy like that.  Get over yourself, Pony!

Back to Mama Safeway, as it turns out she wasn't full of shit, after all.  I just wasn't ready to hear it. Why do I have to fight everything?  Why can't I just accept it all, take a deep breath, put my big girl panties on and get some shit handled? Life isn't fair.  Life isn't about easy street.  Life isn't about what you've earned or deserve.  Life is just what it is. And sometimes it bites. And sometimes, on occasion, it's pretty amazing.  Bottom line, I have to do this (the Ponies aren't happy about it either, but they are mostly on board).

So, based on all the drama and struggle and soul-searching in 2012-2013, the Pony, at age 42, is succumbing to the reality that this whole life extravaganza is up to her.  The Pony is letting go of all that negative shit (saying it, but know that I still have a pony voice inside fighting it) and moving forward.  In 2014 I am going to use my yoga pants for good instead of evil.  I am going to actually DO yoga in them (maybe even today...but don't rush me).  I am going to find a way to afford sessions with Ass Kicker once a week and I am going to get to the gym 3-5 times a week.  I am going to let go of the comfort of food and the idea that I need more than I do. I'm going to start believing that I can lose weight instead of listening to all the reasons why I can't.  I'm going to try and understand that it will not happen as fast for me as it does for everyone else and be okay with that (I'm not really going to be okay with that, but I have to at least say that for therapeutic purposes).  I'm going to be all up in my husbands business about getting his physical health in order.  I love that stubborn dirt bag and he doesn't get to run his body into the ground.  Come with me or get the fuck out of the way. 

And negative people, or people that think they can control me with guilt, I am done with you. It's time to think about what is best for Will and I.  I can't make everyone else happy and I am no longer going to try (this is a hard one, because I do care).

This is the year of the Angry Pony. I have a goal journal.  I'm going to use it.  I'm moving forward and letting go of baggage that is holding me back (this is the plan, I expect detours on this road, that is where the Rug Doctor comes in).

If things progress as they should, I anticipate the following blogs will need to be written:

• Why My Ass Hurts - Falling off the Elliptical
• Stuck in Downward Dog Position for 3 Hours
• Arm-skin, Can I Have a Round of Applause
• The Day My Thighs Slapped My Face
• Who's the Slut in the Mini Skirt with Saggy Skin?
• My Abs! I Found My Abs!

And then, maybe in 2015:

• Plastic Surgery: Where'd My Skin Go?

I've spent a lifetime of waiting for that "A-ha!" moment.  That moment that all fat people seem to hit that makes them change.  That moment that forever changes them.  It happens to everyone on The Biggest Loser, or Extreme Weight-loss Make-Over.  Everyone says, "when it becomes important enough to you, you will make the change."  Well, going into 2014, I say, that's all BULLSHIT.  It's always been important and "waiting" for that moment hasn't done a damn bit of good.  This blog isn't a "moment."  This is a gradual change and me choosing to say, "I got this."  Now, I just have to fully believe it.

Stay tuned in 2014...it's the year of Angry Pony.  
Next stop: Little. Black. Dress.

December 2013

September 2010

The Power of the Pajamas

Recently, I was digging around on Amazon.com and came across some pink, plush pajamas that had a pony on the butt of them.  They had footies and a hood.  It was a pink onesie and it was fantastic.  I knew at that moment that I must possess this item.  My future comfort and happiness depended on it.  They were kind of expensive, but the website was having a sale and then Amazon was giving an additional percent off.  It was like it was meant to be.  I told Will about them.  He said, "get 'em!"  I was like, "no, I can't justify spending money on myself now...but they do look amazing..."  Will encouraged me, "just do it."  And so, I did.

Fast forward, two weeks later.  It's freaking cold outside, I'm tired.  I feel like I've been rode hard and put away wet.  I walk through the door and Will had been to the post office.  There was the box holding my future happiness inside.  I took them upstairs and pulled them out.  They were so soft...so pink.  They looked just like that outfit that the Ralphie kid wears in the movie A Christmas Story.  No bunny ears, but same color.  They were amazing.  I said a little prayer that they would fit.  I would be devastated if they were too small.  I slid my feet into the footie part...omg, they even had little gripper things on the bottom of the footies! Saftey AND comfort! Squeeee!  I pulled them on with ease, they are actually a little big.  I rubbed my hands all over them.  It was magically soft.  I mean, I was one rainbow and one unicorn short of a freaking out of body experience.  I zipped them up and showed Will.  He laughed hysterically and we did the obligatory photo shoot so that all of Facebook could see what a child I am.  The reviews were kind of all over.  The general consensus is that my gangsta pajamas were not seducing anyone and that I would likely never have sex again.

Well, I don't care what anyone says, I love them.  I sat on the couch and continued to self discover how amazing the pj's were.  The hood, the pockets, the feet that will zip on or off...and then I realized there are holes in the wrist of the sleeves for your thumbs to fit through to keep your hands warm.  Are you freaking kidding me?  These babies are practically James Bond cool.  I soon realized that the couch was not a sufficient area to test drive these, so I went upstairs, just to stretch out for a short time.  What happened next would forever change my life.

It wasn't long and the warmth and comfort of the pajamas lulled me into a state of relaxation I have never before known.  I was laying on my stomach, sprawled on the bed.  I never lay on my stomach, but this position was magically comfortable.  So comfortable, I fell into a sleep that was neither truly asleep nor truly awake.  I was aware, but unaware at the same time.  Will called to me from downstairs, "Baby, are you gonna come down and take your make-up off and get ready for bed, or are you staying up there?"  I managed to get my lips to move and muffled into the bed, "yeah, I'll come in a minute."  That was a lie, the pajamas weren't going to allow this.  I looked at my arm and willed it to move.  It would not.  I was completely unable to move and the pajamas were completely calling the shots.  Will again yelled upstairs, "Baby, come on."  I muffled back, semi-conscious, "I can't move."  Will came upstairs and tried to get me to move.  I could not.  I would not.  The pajamas would not allow it. I was in a trance of relaxation and the pajamas didn't want me disturbed.  I feared the pajamas might hurt Will if he continued his assault on me.  I was finally able to roll over, only because the pajamas allowed it, but I could not sit up.  Will came back over and pulled me up.  He started laughing at me.  My hair was a mess, my mascara was all over my eyes, I was a hot mess.  I was a hot mess that was half out of it.  Will said, "Wait, I need your picture."  At this point, all I know is that I was comfortable and now I have been disturbed.  Go ahead, take the damn picture.  He is holding his camera, giggling and I am going on and on about my pajamas and how I was happy before and that he didn't understand the power of the pajamas.

I finally made it downstairs.  I had to take the pajamas off.  They are great to lounge in, but you can't sleep in them.  I mean you can, obviously, but not under fleece sheets.  My God, if I attempted that, Will would have woke up to nothing but the smell of bacon and my skin burnt into the bed.  Will says when I wear them that my skin becomes molten lava.  Hey, I didn't get these things to lounge on the beach, I bought them to stay warm and they work amazingly well.  Like magic.  Like nothing I have ever experienced before.  They are a gift from God and proof that He loves me and wants me to be happy...in plush pink pajamas.  Anyway, once the pajamas were off, I was sure I would freeze to death, so...cold...freezing.  I put my pj's over the railing and I couldn't help but feel as if I was betraying them.  I could sense they were beckoning to me, they wanted us to be together again.  I wanted it, too.  Our love was special and it was true. No one else would ever understand it.

The next morning, I wake up and walk past the pj's, petting them affectionately, wishing we could stay in bed together all day.  It was not to be.  I sat down at the computer and opened my Facebook.  The first thing I see, staring back at me, is my face, my messy hair, my mascara smeared eyes and the crazed baby-talk of a mad woman possessed by the power of the pajamas.  Holy shit.  I was shocked, then mad, then amused, then humiliated.  Sweet Maryanne, this thing has gone viral.  Facebook is lighting up with people laughing.  I go to work and people are like, "hey, nice pajamas."  Then, the full force of it all hit me.  I was walking down an aisle and Ugly Sweater Girl says, "Hey, I know we aren't friends on FB, but one of my friends posted a video of a girl in pink pajamas and she kind of looked like you and she had the same name...was that you?"  I sheepishly said, "yeah, it may have been."  Ugly Sweater Girl leaned in, "I gotta ask, was alcohol involved?"  The smart thing would to have been to say, "yes, yes it was."  Instead, I admitted, "No, I was just really tired.  Sadly, it doesn't take alcohol to get that kind of a performance out of me."  That is fantastic, my co-workers think I'm a drunk.  Note to self, gut-punch Will when I get home. Sassy Pants said to me, "Wow, that is a side of you I have never seen.  Usually, you are threatening to kick everyone's ass and keep the order around here.  That girl...she was kinda whiny.  I can see why Will snatched you right up." Then, later that afternoon, another instant message, "So, my friend just shared that video, I don't know how she got it, I didn't share it with her."  The damn thing has been shared all over.

Of all the things I could be remembered for: My over-sharing about Pranx, my boob rants, my 50 Shades of over-sharing, crapping my pants after surgery, my guts exploding, saggy boobs, my loathing of people that drive motor homes, my inability to handle alcohol...nope it's gonna be these beloved pink pajamas.  Fantastic.  I guess it's okay.  I mean, people do want to know where to get them.  I could end up being a spokes person for CafePress.com.  Maybe not. They probably don't want the crazy pj lady on their website.  I'm kind of an acquired taste, I think.

If you haven't seen it yet, go ahead.  Watch it.  Mock it. Laugh. I think if a person can't laugh at their own self from time to time, that is sad.  Life is full of funny shit.  Some of it, self -inflicted.  I'm proof.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BIYL8DtGrw&feature=youtu.be

It will only be available until someone writes something mean and pisses me off, and then I will probably take it down, so amuse yourself while you can.

Death of an FCD

I woke up this morning neither mad, nor happy.  Just went through the motions of the morning.  Pee, feed ponies, take shower, make shake, put on make-up, do hair, make lunch, have wardrobe crisis, leave for work.  Pretty basic.

My day progressed pretty normal. Four Feet of Fury scheduled a meeting for us at the time I usually go to the gym, so I guess today I will not go.  Which is okay.  I've been going four times a week and I'm pretty proud of myself for that.  I've discovered kick-boxing and that I actually like it.  Who knew? I've made some other changes to my lifestyle and I'm trying to be more patient.  I know, sounds like a load of crap, but one day at a time, people.  Anyway, I was confident in my choice not to go to the gym, but after the meeting with FFF, I started to feel sluggish and tired.  I wanted chocolate.  I wanted to go to the vending machine and self medicate.  I was strong, however, and I did not.  People were starting to make me crazy, though.  Crazy, hungry and now cranky?  I just leveled up.  Like, if I was playing Bejeweled or something, I would have just got a buttload of points.

As I was sitting at my desk, I noticed my FCD kept rolling up.  Now that I've lost a little weight, it doesn't fit like it used to, so now it is rolling to the middle of my belly.  This is not attractive in the dress I am wearing today.  It was making me angry.  At one point I had my dress completely pulled up in the front yanking at my FCD.  I looked around to see if anyone was catching the show.  No one was, but I decided I probably needed to reign this wardrobe adventure in.  Just then, the light over my desk started to flicker.  Well, that's relaxing.  Crazy, hungry, cranky and now I'm being tortured by florescent hell.  FFF walks up and says, "What's wrong?"  I said, "I hate people, I'm angry inside and my FCD is rolling up."  She looked confused, "I can tell your angry. What's an FCD?"  I explained to her that it was a fat controlling device. Her eyes got big and she said, "how does that work...?"  I was the one confused now.  I said, "Well, it's like Spanx, you know, girdle like?"  She laughs, "OHHHH, I thought you had like a machine or something working your stomach."  I laughed, but then thought, you know, I should get some electricity built into my FCD's and then my abs could be getting a workout while I'm holding it in...I think I have actually seen devices you wear that shock you.  I've been wasting time just  trying to harness it, I should have been working it! Damn it.

I continued about my day, trying to be less angry.  It wasn't working.  Valerina came over with her Taco Time, seducing me with her mexi fries, or potato tots or whatever the frick they are called, but I'll tell you what, they were calling ME.  I ate two and then looked at Valerina as my FCD rolled up again.  I said, "I've had it, I'm taking my scissors and I'm going into the bathroom."  Valerina said, "Well, okay then."  And just like that, I went to the ladies room, wait...that's a lie, there are no ladies in there, I headed over to the poop shack.  No one was in there, the coast was clear.  I chose the big stall.  I needed room to work.  I reached down in between my boobs.  I stopped.  I considered the price of these damn FCD's.  I considered the way my belly would look if I did it.  I considered how things would move as I walked around.  I considered what it would look like when I sat down.  And then, it happened, the Angry Pony inside me said, "you know what, Fuck it, I want to be comfortable!"  I reached down and cut it from my belly all the way to the top. I felt giddy inside.  A moment of remorse and the a new feeling of empowerment. Then, I reached over and cut the strap on my left arm, then on my right arm.  I pulled it free and threw it on the floor. My belly felt AMAZING! My boobs sagged a little, since that FCD was providing a little lift action, but thanks to the padding in a Victoria Secret bra, I was able to maintain a sense of order.  At least I can count on Vickie. Anyway, I contemplated leaving the FCD there on the floor.  It would be in good company. Other people's underwear, feminine products and feces had graced those floors.  No, it deserved a proper burial. I picked it up and carried it out and shoved it into the depth of the garbage can.  I looked in the mirror.  You really couldn't even tell I took it off.  I looked pretty much the same.  Hmmm, that's weird.  I felt a little naked and could feel my belly against the fabric of my dress.  I washed my hands, gave a full length look in the mirror, then a side ways look and decided, I was owning it as I left.

As I was leaving the poop shack and walking down the hall, I heard a whistle behind me.  I ignored it.  Then I heard it again.  I turned to see Sassy Pants giving me a grin from the break area.  Yep, this unleashed belly is really getting the ladies hot.  I made the right choice.

I spent the rest of the day with my blood flow working normally in the cells of my mid-section.  Internal organs...You.  Are.  Welcome.  I'm not saying I'll never wear another one, especially since I have several at home, but for today, in the fight of Angry Pony vs. Pranx...Angry Pony wins. 

Dark Places in my Mind...

Do you ever find yourself on a long drive or commute to or from work, by yourself, and your mind starts to wander into weird territory and you have this whole scenario that plays out?  Happens all the time to me.  Sometimes I think about my Dad and if his divine presence would save me if I got in an accident, or think about what I would say to someone that had made me mad and how I would word it and how that person would react, or what my life would be like if things were different, etc.

Tonight on my way home, I'm not sure what possessed me to get into such a dark place, but I started thinking about how Will and I would die. I guess there were not too many drivers to cuss at to distract me, because soon enough, I had some serious scenarios going on in my head.  Would I get some disease and die first, leaving Will behind to fend for himself?  Who would make sure he took care of the dogs and ponies? Who would check the doors to see if they were locked before bed?  Who would pay the bills?  Who would ride his ass to get shit done? Who would decide what was for dinner?  How long could he survive on cereal? I'm a pretty important person in his life for his basic survival.  Anyway, then I started thinking about us getting older.  I mean, healthcare is a sham.  I don't know if social security will even be there by the time I need it, we have no real retirement plan.  I'm planning on the cardboard box program.

Then things started to get really ugly.  What if we do make it to old age?  Then what?  What if we are homeless and cold and gangs keep stealing our denture cream and Depends and food stamps? What if we are tired of being cold.  I started thinking that maybe we would just shoot each other in the head.  Just end it all, just Thelma and Louise it at point blank range.  But what if one of us misses the mark and one of us is dead and the other just wounded, then what?  Or, what if Will shoots me in the head and then shoots himself in the head?  But what if he can't do it, then he is alive and I'm dead and he murdered me?  Also, that is suicide or murder, I don't think God would be okay with that.  What about pills? We could get our prescriptions filled and then totally take all of them at once. But what if we just end up in a coma?  Or again, what if one of us dies and the other lives and then they lock the surviving person up in a looney bin and then we have to wear a straight jacket, watch Sprout TV all day and eat applesauce and then we get bed sores because it is a state run facility and they are just soul-less bastards that work there and we are just sitting in urine and feces and then we get a diaper rash and we are so miserable we just want to die, but our bodies won't die.  Then what?  That would suck.  Or, what if we are homeless and we are really cold and we just can't get warm?  And we hold each other and just wait for the cold to consume us, because, after all, we are old and fragile.  But again, what if only one of us dies, then the other has no one to keep them company or keep them warm and now, one of us is walking the streets waiting to die, but death won't come.

Hey, you might not ever think about that kind of stuff, but I do.  I have concerns. Old age is coming and it scares the hell out of me.  I mean, if we die young, that has it's own set of problems like, who gets the dogs? Will anyone love Spanky the way I do?  Will he be sad?  Will he miss me?  Will he just be waiting to die? Who takes the ponies, who makes sure everything ever purchased for me or by me from Passion Parties or Lovers gets destroyed before our mothers see it?  I mean, we are probably not going to live out a story like The Notebook.  I don't want to go first, because who will take care of Will?  I don't want Will to go first because I don't want to be alone.

It was getting pretty intense as I finally got off at my exit.  I realized I was heading into a holiday weekend and I really needed to snap out of it.  No idea how I ended up in this dark place to begin with.  Just part of my charm, I guess.  I reached down and hit play on my CD, track number 8..."I gotta pocket, a pocketful of sunshine, I gotta love and I know that it's all mine...oh, oh, oh..."  That ought to cheer me up.  Pocketful of sunshine is perfect.  Suddenly I am the karaoke queen, I'm belting it out, I feel like I'm going to live to see tomorrow, everything is going to be okay..."take me away to better days....take me away, a holiday..."  Yeah, I'm perked right up.  Then, track 9, "Tell me how am supposed to breathe with no air...If I should die before I wake, it's cause you took my breath away...losing you is like living in a world with no air..."  Okay, maybe I should just listen to the radio....Miley takes it away, "I came in like a wrecking ball..."  Maybe I'll listen to Pocketful of Sunshine again....

Anyway, I did make it home. Will was waiting with a kiss, Spanky was waiting with tail wagging, squiggling and little grunty noises.  I guess today I don't have to worry about dying.  ...Unless, there is like a house fire or something.  But let's think positive, tonight probably won't totally kill us, or if it does, I hope it kills ALL of us at once.  There, see, now I'm thinking positive!

Homework - Letter to Myself...

I think I'm wearing the Rug Doctor out. She has given me homework. I think there comes a time when you are such a mess that an hour long session twice a month just doesn't cut it. Her and I have been discussing many things in my life, but one thing is a recurring constant that I cannot get a handle on.  That thing is my habit of eating when I am not hungry.  Whether it is stress, anxiety, sadness, anger, joy, boredom, relaxation, etc., no occasion seems off-limits (Yay! The Seahawks won, let's eat hot wings! Wait...I hate football...I'd better eat some cheese and crackers).  I'm frustrated by this. This is something that weight-loss surgery can't fix.  This is all me.  This is my "brokenness" that I have not been able to fix.  I have moments of greatness when I do everything right and then I fall off the wagon and ruin it all.  The Rug Doctor would like me to shy away from terms like "right" or "wrong"  or "good" or "bad" and just stick to "making healthier choices."  Bottom line is, I'm either being good, or bad, but if she wants me to use her terminology, fine, with an eye-roll and gratuitous air quotes with my hands, fine, "I'm making 'healthy choices.'"

The Rug Doctor wants me to write a letter to myself that is positive and encouraging and will be a reference point when I am feeling "unhealthy choices" coming on.  The thing about me that makes this whole process tricky is that it isn't like I don't know what I'm doing.  I analyze everything to death, I consider whether I need that cookie or not.  I think about what the impact will be and then I tell that little voice of reason to shut the fuck up and enjoy that cookie.  It's how I roll.  Given that circumstance, The Rug Doctor feels that if I can reference this letter, that I can impact my behavior before it gets out of hand.  She wants me to be in a "good place" when I write it.  I think her fear is that it is going to read something like this:

"Dear Buttzilla, put the freakin ice cream away. You are a fat-ass an you are never going to achieve your goals if you don't get your shit together.  What? Are you stupid? You like it when your arm-fat whacks against your sides when you apply lotion?  Do you want your thighs to give you a round of applause if you try and run?  What is wrong with you that you can't seem to keep your hands out of the freaking chocolate? You want to die fat? 'Cuz that is what you are headed for.  Fat and Alone wearing Pranx.  And you know why you are alone? Because you can't find your dog because you sat on him and he is wedged so far up your fat ass you can't find him.  That's right, your butt cheeks suffocated your dog.  How does that make you feel, Fatty?  You want that cookie, you think that will make you feel better?  Go ahead, eat it, I double dog dare you. Eat it. Prove to me that I'm right and that you are stupid...and fat."

I think that is the kind of letter to myself that The Rug Doctor fears I will write.  I do believe she understands I can't be like:

"Dear Beautiful, isn't it a glorious day? It's a brand new day where we can achieve anything together. You are beautiful, you are worth it, you have all the power inside of you to make this happen.  You love yourself and will put yourself before junk food and empty calories.  You can do this because all is possible through self-actualization.  Do you really need that cookie right now?  Are you really hungry?  Just remember that nothing tastes as good skinny feels.  You can do this, you have the power. Let's have a carrot."

I almost just threw up writing that just now.  I think the best I can hope for is the following.

"Dear Angry Pony,
I am one of the several personalities inside your head. I am Slutty Pony.  I'm talking to you. Look, we are all tired of fighting about this food thing up here. We are also tired of you whining about wanting to dress like a slut (okay, so maybe not a slut, but at least a skantily-clad pop-tart) We all know you are not hungry right now. We all know that you want to succeed.  We all know there is no real good reason to eat anything. You know you are worth it and that you could totally rock a mini skirt someday...after plastic surgery.

Skeptical Pony has something to say: Look I don't know if we can do this or not, we've never been skinny.  I don't know how far we can take this, but we won't know if we don't try. We need you to consider that food is not going to make you happy, it's not going to comfort you and it isn't worth the boredom. I can't promise you anything, because, I don't know if this thing you want can be done, but I do know it won't be done if you don't change your ways. We don't know what skinny feels like, but it probably isn't anything like the feeling you have after eating a KitKat.

Tough Love Pony chimes in: Look, Buttzilla, cut the crap. Stop being a victim and start being a success story.  You aren't getting any younger and we are ready to move this process along, so if you could quit screwing around and holding the rest of us back, we would appreciate it.  Now, get your ass down to the gym after you don't have that donut that Cross Fit Crazy offered you.  Oh, and by the way, we don't care what time schedule anyone else has us on, we are going to do this, no matter how long it takes.  This isn't about anyone but you.  So, if we could do this one thing before we die, we'd like to.

Sad Pony gives her two cents: I'm really tired of being stuck in this body and there is only one way out, we need you to find the Key Master...wait, wrong screenplay.  We need you to focus.  We need you to be better than this whole situation.  And, you are.  We need you to care enough. We need you to dig deep and stop being tired. Tired of trying, tired of obesity, tired of working hard and failing. Stop being tired and start being involved in the process. You have the tools, stop wasting them.

And finally, Bitchy Pony weighs in: And one more thing, we don't care if anyone else is on board. We don't need anyone else and those getting in the way will be eliminated, or at the bare minimum, will be cooking for themselves and possibly doing other things for themselves that may or may not involve lubricant. You know you are strong enough for this challenge so do it and don't let anyone or anything else stop you. Seriously, you are making us all crazy.  Get a grip, bitch.  Now, focus, behave and if all else fails go be mean to someone that has it coming because you need an outlet for this excess energy anyway.

P.S. We all love you, however, you really are making us crazy. Let's just do this thing, already, okay?"

And that is my letter to myself, with the help of the other little ponies in my head.  It will have to do for now, because today, that is good enough and this letter doesn't totally suck.

Motorhome Terrorists

On the way home tonight, I was almost taken out by a mother-trucking motorhome.  Traffic is slow, like 5 mph and we are all creeping along.  I'm in the middle lane and a motorhome comes up along side me.  I know they saw me, they had to have.  As their front tire clears the front of my truck, I notice their blinker comes on and they are progressing into my lane.  I am immediately horrified, because I AM IN MY MOTHER TRUCKING LANE!!!  Me.  In my truck.  Together, my truck and I, are occupying space IN MY LANE. The mouth breathing, armpit licking, toe jamb sniffing, butt picking, zit popping, dog shit eating mother trucking asshat is coming in on top of me.  I am sitting there gripping the steering wheel for dear life as I have no freaking place to go and I am laying on my horn.  Nope, the butt cheese eating asshat doesn't fucking care.  It must have been the Honey Badger driving because nobody gave a shit.  I was so furious as I watched the motorhome barely clear my truck as it bullied it's way into my lane.  It had a freaking motorcycle strapped to the back that almost took out my headlights.  I was beyond livid.  I just wanted to keep driving in my lane and see who won.  But, I knew the answer.  They were bigger, meaner, more ignorant and, they liked the taste of butt cheese.  I can't compete with that.

After they overtook the lane, I got over into the passing lane so I could get up next to them and give them a piece of my mind and possibly a finger.  I guess it wasn't meant to be as darkness was falling and I could not make out the face of the motorhome terrorist.  As my blood pressure boiled and I thought of all the things I would like to do to that person, I could only think, "Day 11 - I'm thankful I'm not packing because that scum sucking, baboon ass licking piece of rat excrement would be sitting right on the shoulder of the road, right next to the turd laundry with four shot out tires and I would be yelling, "yippie-ki-ya-mother trucker!" Drive that Bitches.

From a legal standpoint, it probably wouldn't end well for me.  But that got me to thinking, why is it that my husband has to have a CDL to drive his delivery truck or a bus, but any 96 year old lover of butt cheese can drive a motorhome that is bigger than anything in the local trailer park?  Or some stupid bitch and her asshat husband can take to the road with their home away from home terrorizing local civilians?  It's bullshit.  I think you should have to get a license and matching license plate to identify yourself.  Like, you have to take a test about your personality and based on that personality and a driving test, you are assigned a license.  If you are an inconsiderate asshat, you get a license stamped as Motorhome Asshat - your corresponding license plate says MOTO-ASS.  If you are like, over 60, you get a stamp of Blind as a Bat - Your license plate is BLNDSPT.  If you are just  mean or stupid, you are a Mother Trucker of the worst kind and your corresponding plate is MOFO-69.

Lets identify people, so people like me can go about my day and do my best to not get killed by the motorhome terrorists.  It's bad enough you've got the everyday mainstream mother truckers out there that almost kill you, but those motorhomes...that shit is not okay.  I'm just going to put this out there, if you are a motorhome driver, I hate your guts.  Okay, I can't hate all of you, because I do like some of you, but you damn well better learn how to drive the damn things and don't be a bully.  It makes the pony angry.  And, if anyone knows who the asshat, mofo terrorist was on I-5 in Everett tonight at 5:15ish, headed Northbound, I'd like that person's information.  I have a gift for them.  A very special gift.  You know how to reach me.

Bathroom Ambassador

This has been a crazy week so far. Weird stuff happening, thick fog that won't go away for days, people doing weird stuff in the bathroom, it makes me feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Seriously going to lose it, especially if the fog doesn't lift.  I'm going to need to find an axe and keep it handy.

I'll give you an example of the shenanigans. Yesterday, I'm minding my own business and I get an email from the credit card company for my corporate card.  Apparently, they suspect fraud on my account.  Weird.  I call and sure enough, someone has racked up $2400 in charges with my card.  Mind you, the card is in my possession, so how did they get the credit card number?  And, it's stuff like monthly charges and protection plans, etc.  Rest assured, if I was going to scam my company, I would not waste it on items like mortgage protection plans.  Mama would be gettin' some new shoes, some kick ass clothes, some stuff for the ponies...I mean, if I'm going down, I'm gonna buy some FUN stuff. At any rate, that set the tone.

Not to be out-done by fraud, I was walking over to the mini fridge to get some water and I smell something so horrible, I want to puke.  Did someone shit their pants?  Did someone die and we just don't know?  Does someone need a shower?  I needed a second opinion.  I called over Cross Fit Crazy and the Daily Incident King (DIK).  I asked them both if they smelled anything.  We opened both mini-fridges and deduced that wasn't it.  After a lot of sniffing and lip curling, we decided the only thing it can be is something dead is in the cubicle walls.  Now, I just did the headcount report and all employees are accounted for, so before anyone accuses me of anything, no one died at my hand.  We figured it must be a rodent.  Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that?  I can see it now, I put a ticket in claiming, "Either someone shit their pants or something is dead...somewhere, can you come take a sniff and bring some tools?"  I don't think that is going to fly.  I wonder how long it takes for rotting rodents to just turn to hair and skeleton and stop smelling?  I think we are about to find out.  I'll keep you posted.

Gross things seem to be the theme this week. I was at home earlier this week minding my own business (again) when I get notified via Facebook that someone has defiled the bathroom.  I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the lines I became the bathroom ambassador.  Every time something goes wrong in there, I get an email, a ping, a FB update, a phone call, a visit to my desk...how did the bathroom become my problem?  Sure, I have sent out a few etiquette emails, that have done no good, by the way, but that doesn't mean all this stuff is my problem.  I guess I am wrong about that.  So, anyway, no one tells me what happened, but apparently someone defiled one of my signs requesting people to clean up after themselves.  Apparently it was too horrifying to tell me what it was, but suffice to say, it was horrific. Okay, I'm fine not knowing.  I've seen shit on the floor, blood all over, "Fuck You" written in lipstick on the toilet seat, I've seen piss all over the seat, etc.  Really, what could surprise me at this point?  Well, I come in yesterday and Sassy Pants comes over and shows me the picture she took of the "defilement."  Disclaimer: If you have low tolerance for gross, stop reading.  The defiler had shoved a wad of tissue paper up her "tunnel of trouble" while she was riding the crimson wave, taken it out and then shoved it inside the plastic sheet protector which housed my note about being neat in the bathroom and disposing of feminine products appropriately.  Who does that? What kind of classless loser does that?  We aren't in middle school, we are adults.  Adults that should be able to get the shit in the toilet, not pee on the seat and keep Aunt Flo and her bi-products under control and be civilized.  Guh-ross.

Then, to add insult to injury, today, minding my own business (yet again), my screen lights up on my computer, "Cassondra, the toilet in stall one is plugged."  "Cassondra, the toilet exploded, what should we do?"  "Cassondra, there is water all over in the bathroom."  I am not the high priestess of bathroom maintenance.  I could give a shit less, however, I make a call and send out an email telling the troops to relax, help is on the way.  Apparently, someone had taken a dump of monumental proportion and used enough toilet paper to wipe an elephants ass and the toilet just couldn't take it anymore.

It wasn't long and the building maintenance dude calls me back advising me it is safe to shit with confidence again in good 'ol stall number one.  However, he has a complaint from the janitor.  The janitor, that spends the majority of his day on his cell phone, on break, taking selfies or not cleaning has apparently been recently reprimanded, because he has stepped up his efforts.  So much so, the bathroom is often closed for cleaning.  Apparently the bitches of the glass palace cannot wait to get in there and take their wadded up blood burritos and attach them to the signs, pee on the seat and then leave feces on the floor, so they are hassling the janitor when he is trying to clean it.  Seriously?  He might be a bit lazy, but that crazy bastard comes back to work every day knowing that he is going to see nothing short of an animal sacrifice in that bathroom daily and we are going to run him off?  Really?  Stupid bathroom bitches.  I don't care if you have a semi-truck load of feces traveling down the track of your intestines and it's race day, do not hassle the man cleaning up the dirtiest place on earth!!!

I'm exhausted doing all this bathroom monitoring.  I told my boss that from now on, we don't conduct skills testing for job aptitude.  Screw that.  We put them through a bathroom simulator test.  For example, if they see a sign that says "clean up after yourself" and it makes them agitated at all, FAIL.  If it is a multiple choice question on where does the poo belong and they can't clearly identify it goes INSIDE the toilet, FAIL.  If they see piss sprayed all over the seat and they answer that this is acceptable, FAIL.  If they answer the question, "I wash my hands after using the bathroom; True or False" and they answer False, FAIL.  If these people can't handle the bathroom simulator test, they can't work here.  I told my boss, "just think, if they can use the potty like a big girl, think what they could accomplish in their lives!"  I'm putting this down on my year end review. One of my metrics I get graded on is coming up with new processes.  I think this one is a perfect example of how we can get more successful people in the door and out of the shit-house.  Don't think for a second I'm not going to put this down.  I am.  Rating scale 1 - 5, baby, this is a big 'ol five!

I don't know what tomorrow holds in store for me, but I bet it will be some sort of bacteria.  Note to self, pick up more hand sanitizer at the store.

Night all, and remember, center your ass over the toilet, evacuate your bowels, use enough toilet paper to do the job, but not so much as to kill a forest, flush, wash your hands and please, put the seat down.

Thank you, that is all.

Sincerely,
The Bathroom Ambassador

Follow-up on my journey...

Today I had three different appointments, so I took the day off.  They were all just follow up appointments, so shouldn't be anything major. I had an appointment with the throat doctor because of my acid reflux, a nine month follow up with the doctor at the surgical center where I got my weight loss surgery done and a follow up appointment with the nutritionist to talk about how my diet is going.  That's three doctor's appointments.  What are the chances this is going to go smoothly? I was ever so hopeful.

At the first stop, the throat doctor, I checked in on time and as scheduled. I'm a good patient and I believe in being on time.  He comes in about 30 minutes after my appointment was scheduled for and proceeds to probe my nose and down into my throat with various instruments.  Hey, look, I don't even put my finger up my nose unless something really itches, I don't need Inspector Gadget up there poking around telling me how I won't feel this, but I will know it is happening.  Newsflash - I not only know this is happening, I FEEL IT!  Which is why I uncontrollably coughed in his face.  Woops.  Maybe if I would have known I would feel it, I would have been able to control that.  None the less, he completes his exam and informs me I need to be on more pills and oh, by the way, I should really see an allergist because my nostrils are inflamed. Duh, you just stuck a bunch of tools up there.  Great.  More pills and more appointments.

The next stop is my nine month surgical follow-up with one of my surgeon's associates, Dr. B. Again, I am on time.  I even checked in 15 minutes early as recommended.  About 40 minutes later, I am escorted back to the exam room.  The little medical assistant was going over my stuff.  She is full of hope and excitement and she says, "Let's go over your co-morbidities and see how you are doing! So, how is your Acid Reflux?" I told her it was worse since the surgery.  She continued, "And your depression, how's that?"  I said, "yep, still depressed."  She made the appropriate notes and continued, "And your sleep apnea?"  I said, "yep, still have that."  She concluded, "okay, so things are looking up."  I just stared at her and blinked.  If that is what she got out of all that, she is probably the most "glass half full" person I know.  She skipped on out and advised me Dr. B would be in soon.  As I sat there waiting, I thought about how  I wasn't happy about this appointment today because I feel like I am not where I need to be in this whole process.  No matter how much people tell me I am doing fine, I don't feel like I am doing fine.  I expect more from myself and I am impatient.  Anyway, another 30 minutes later, Dr. B shows up.  We go through the whole "how are things going?" line of questioning.  I cracked like the prize witness in a murder trial.  I confessed all my sins and told her what a failure I was.  She scolded me for being hard on myself and was very nurturing and caring and compassionate.  So nice.  Whatever.  Nice is for sissies.  I need a kick in the ass.  I know it, you know it, we all know it.  She asked me if I was scared of failure and if I might be sabotaging myself.  I said, "I don't think so..."  I don't know, do you think my subconscious is fucking with me?  It's possible, I suppose...I would consider that later.  She presses on and asks me if I have been working out and I tell her I need to get back to the gym, but I hate it.  She asks why I hate exercising.  I just looked at her.  This was a serious question and she wanted an answer. I sensed that, "because I freaking hate exercising" wasn't going to fly with her. I explained to her how my knees and shoulders had injuries, so they were difficult to deal with and that there is a lot of fat flying around and no one needs to see that.  I'm not one of those people that says, "yeah! I'm gonna run on the treadmill for an hour and feel the burn!" Fuck that.  She wanted me to find an activity that I liked.  "What do you like to do?" I contemplated her question, desperate for an answer that didn't involve skinny girls in turmoil on TV, or slaving over a cookie sheet, or spending money I didn't have.  I finally came up with, "I like to be outside."  This isn't a lie, I actually do.  However, I don't really like walking long distances due to my hips are all jacked up, especially now that I have lost some weight and my body is trying to re-align.  I think she could tell she wasn't going to get far with this line of questioning and finally turned her focus to other things. She asks me about my reflux and when she finds out what Mr. Throat Doc wants to put me on, she's like, "no, you need a endoscopy, we need to know what is going on there."  Great, another procedure, another appointment. She asks when I have my next nutrition consult and I look at my watch and say, "Five minutes ago."  She's like, "oh, well, they are used to me running behind, it will be okay."  I finish up with Dr. B and scoot over across the street to the nutritionist.

I arrive 15 minutes late at the nutritionist and say, "Sorry, I was being held hostage by Dr. B."  The receptionist says, "That's okay, we are running behind here as well."  Oh, whew, I'll just have a seat then. Fifteen more minutes go by and I say, "Just how long is she running over?" The receptionist informs me that she would probably be done in about 15 - 20 more minutes.  I was pissed.  I took a day off of work for these appointments and every single doctor has made me wait and now I had an appointment at 2:30 with the nutritionist and it is now 3:00 and I probably won't get to see her for another 15-20 minutes, which means, I won't even be done until 4:30 and I will be stuck in rush hour traffic.  Screw that.  I said, "We are going to have to reschedule, I was expecting to be done when you say I will just be starting. That isn't going to work for me."  So, now, I have to make another appointment to come back.

So, to recap, I now have more pills, a consult with the allergy doctor, an endoscopy procedure, which will lead to a follow up appointment, and another trip to the nutritionist.  Sweet Maryanne.  This is not what I had in mind. Totally pissed.  And, I wasted a vacation day for this.

I told myself today that, no matter what, I would try and be positive.  I would try and make "today good enough."  To that end, here is what I am going to hold on to, no matter what.  I heard Dr. B when she said this is MY Journey and no one else's and that where I am is just fine.  I am surrounded by a support team that cares and is in this for the long term, not the short term.  So, with that said, here are two pictures from before the surgery and another showing where I am today.  I guess this is good enough...for today.

Last summer 2012

Last Summer 2012

Today 10/15/13

And the journey continues...

My Opinion

The last couple of weeks I have been increasingly irritated with my fellow man.  I realize right now, we, as Americans, are pissed off, worried, confused and outraged about what is going on in our government and that is making a lot of people on edge.  You add in world problems, domestic problems, violence, poverty, healthcare, unemployment, etc., etc. and it is overwhelming.  Which is why some choose to check out of all of it and be blissfully ignorant.  I get it.  However, what I don't get, and won't tolerate, is a bunch of people being mean to each other, especially on social media.  It's no wonder we are a hot mess, we just tear each other down. No wonder kids bully, we adults set such a fine example.  Well, I'm sick of it.

Case in point, just today, one of my FB friends posted a picture of a wedding she had just attended.  The bride was wearing a beautiful gown, was holding a beer and she happened to have tattoos on her arms. She was having a good time, it was her day, she should. This friend of the friend just whips out a comment about how the bride looked like a trucker and hated tattoos and it looked gross.  WHOA.  Bitch Alert! First off, Bully Commenter, you are an asshat.  How dare you go on your friends page where she is celebrating the marriage of her family member and bash the bride.  Who the hell do you think you are?  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.  It took everything I had not to go off on Bully Commenter on that friends page, but, I did not.  I made a disapproving comment about Bully Commentors view point and moved on, because, after all, it wasn't my FB page and I wasn't going to start war.  It wasn't my place to do so.  I don't like it when people start war on my page, so I don't start war on others' pages.  It's a simple concept that many have not grasped.

Another example, just a week or so ago, I mentioned about the government shut-down in one of my blogs, just kind of in passing.  One of my friends made a comment about it (playfully so, we have that kind of relationship where we can poke each other about stuff and not freak out), and then my husband chimes in with a kind of harsh comment and then all hell broke loose from there.  First of all, I don't usually talk about politics AT ALL on my page because people cannot freaking have an intelligent conversation about it without going off on each other.  I get people are passionate about it, I get people are pissed off, I get that, which is why I don't discuss it on FB.  FB is for my entertainment and connecting with my friends and family...and posting a shit-load of pictures of my dog and my horses.  When that political shit cuts loose on my page, it pisses me off.  Here's the deal, it isn't that I don't have an opinion, I do. It's really none of your effing business what that opinion is.  Doesn't mean I don't care, doesn't mean I don't stand for anything because I'm not spewing it all over my page.  Look, I think the government is a fucking mess right now. I don't care if you are a Liberal, Democrat or Republican...or if you bury your head in the sand.  I don't fucking care.  None of you are ever going to agree.  You all spout off your sources and what "the truth" is.  Well, guess what? If I am a Christian and want "the truth" about Christianity, I don't go ask a Jehovas Witness what that truth is, I ask my fellow Christians.  Right?  Well, same concept with politics.  If you are a Democrat looking for "truth" you go to your sources.  And then you site your sources against the opposing sides sources and neither of you are going to agree.  Where is the "truth" in all that? Huh?  Tell me. It's somewhere in the middle, would be my guess.  The only truth I know of right now is that it's all fucked up and I don't think anyone has all the details.  And, I don't think our elected officials give a shit about the fellow Americans that voted them in. They are going to be just fine, no matter what.  They still get paid. They still get health care.  They still get a retirement. They still make way more fucking money than they need to.  THAT is MY opinion.  Without spouting off my personal beliefs about laws or specifics or who's side I'm on, that is how I feel.  With that said, I don't go on your FB pages and get up in your business and tell you what you need to believe and what "the truth" is.  I respect everyone's right to have their own opinion, regardless of what it is and I won't shame you for having that opinion...even if I do think your a fucking idiot. I have actually had to unfriend or hide people's posts from my news feed because that is all they ever talk about.  I have a hard enough time getting up in the morning without having to have conspiracy after conspiracy thrown at me.  Look, I've got inspirational quotes I need to get to, pictures of ponies, dogs and unicorns to see.  Hopefully some hot guy without a shirt on will show up in my feed.  I'm also looking for a certain amount of drama that myself and my friends supply on a daily basis.  It's how I roll.  I don't want that crap shoved down my throat.  I will choose my level of engagement in the issues. Doesn't mean I don't care about them, but it is all I can do some days to put both feet on the floor and focus on living.

Some people might think I bury my head in the sand.  To a degree, I probably do. But let me tell you a little bit about what I do  believe in and let you decide if you want to continue to hang around or hear anything I have to say.

• I believe in God.  If you don't, that's fine, just don't belittle me for believing. You can even be whatever religion you want, I don't judge you. I may not see things the way you do, but I would not disrespect you for it.
• I believe in choosing the best candidate, regardless of political party.  I usually lean to the Democratic side, however, do like views that some republicans have.
• I believe it is my body and I will do what I want with it. Doesn't mean an abortion is right for me, but I don't think it is my place to tell someone else they can't. Doesn't mean I want a tattoo, but if you like them, good for you.  Doesn't mean I'm going to pierce my nipples, but hey, they're your nipples.
• I believe that if you kill someone out of hate, dysfunction or pre-meditation, I think it would be best if you were also dead. I don't necessarily want to be the person to kill you, but if it needs to be done, it should be.
• I believe in my right to bear arms.  I believe people are bad, and if they want to kill you, they will find a way, gun or no gun.  The bad guys will always have guns and removing them from citizens is not the answer.  You can disagree with me on this, and I will still be your friend, by the way. I did learn that I cannot discuss gun laws with my husband because he goes ape-shit-crazy if you ever suggest anyone is going to take his guns away.
• I believe that if you are a citizen and pay into the system, as I do, you deserve the same rights I do.  If you are not, go home, or pay for yourself. I'm not your sugar mamma.
• I believe we should mind our own business more and focus on our problems here in America more.  How about we help our homeless and impoverished.  With that said, Thank You and God Bless all soldiers out there, I thank you for all the sacrifices you make, no matter where this country sends you.
• I believe you should marry whomever you want. Some of my dearest friends are gay and they deserve to marry if they want.  It isn't like the straight people have made it some sacred thing.  Take a look at the divorce rate, folks.  I have gay friends that have been together way longer than you.  Love is love. You don't have to agree with me, but don't ever be crude to my friends or disrespectful because you think you have the corner on the market for what is right or wrong.
• I believe that kids should be spanked when warranted.  I believe that the utter and complete lack of respect that many have for their parents and others is ridiculous.  A lot of things have changed since I was a child, I get that.  I am so thankful we didn't have social media when I was in high school.  I think the bullying that goes on is out of hand and that parents need to be more involved and more aware of the actions they take as parents.  
• I believe that women can do most of what men can do, and should be treated equally. That means, the toilet seat and lid should always be down - equal playing field.  We all start at having to lift something up in order to pee.
• I believe that your opinion is as important as my opinion, however, that doesn't mean I want your opinion unsolicited.  And unsolicited opinion can and likely will lead to activating my bitch switch.
• I believe if someone merges their vehicle on top of me, I should be allowed to get up on them, do some bump drafting and leave a swirly on the side of their car.  However, to date, I have not done this.
• I believe in old-fashioned romance and chivalry.  I like it when Will opens the door for me, when he puts his hand on my back when we are in public to help guide me through a crowd, or holds my hand.  I like that stuff. 
• I believe in being who I am and sharing what I want. I believe in standing up for myself and for my family and friends.  Nobody gets the gift of my friendship without earning it.  If you betray me, we are done. If you are my true friend, I will always have your back.

That is the short list of what I believe. With all that said, if you don't like anything I have said, don't let the door hit you in the ass as you leave my life.  I do care what people think, however, I will not sacrifice who I am to fit your mold.

Now, go in peace and don't let people be mean to you. Asshats are an unfortunate constant in life, but we don't have to tolerate them.

And, that's my opinion on this Sunday afternoon....

Annoyed on a Tuesday

Today at work it was "70's Day."  Four Feet of Fury loves the 70's.  She gets ready for work listening to 70's music and it seems to make her happy.  The music from that period mostly annoys me, so that could explain our mood differences.  Anyway, I didn't really want to dress up, but knowing how FFF felt about it, I thought I would be supportive.  I donned my long hippy dress and tried to curl my hair just like Farah Faucet. I knew I was in trouble when it started to flip completely out to the sides and I started to look a little more like the crazy cat lady.  I decided to go with plan B, which was hair pulled back and a full, sassy hair piece. Add a headband and some jewelry and presto, I was back in the 70's.

My outfit was a great success, except the dress is super long and actually trips me if I am not careful.  And, if I don't pull it up when I sit at my desk, it will get stuck in the rollers in my chair.  A real pisser when you have to go to the bathroom and you are playing office chair rodeo trying to get the hem of your dress out of the rollers before you pee yourself and without ripping the dress.  Indeed.  And yes, that did happen at least once today. It was making me crabby.  I know, the mind reels at the possibility of such an event occurring. It didn't help that people were making me crabby, too.  For example, I'm sitting there, minding my own business, working, and I get an instant message from Polly For The People wanting to know how I'm doing.  Immediately, I am on high alert.  No one messages me for no reason.  I ask her what's up.  She says nothing is up, she is just checking on me and wanted me to know that it is possible to get messaged without it requiring extra work on my part.  Not completely true.  I had to respond to her message. Thus, extra work. Nonetheless, I appreciate her sentiment.  I guess my railing on FB yesterday about how people only message me when they need something got through to someone.

My day progressed with the usual annoyances, but no major events.  I headed out to do a "desk drop" to all the consultants.  It was their lucky day.  They each get a can kozy and a handout.  Naturally, everyone wanted to know where their beer was. Ha ha. It got even less funny after EVERY person said something about it.  Whatever, we can't all be comedians.  I'm just about 3/4 of the way done passing these out when Bubba Gump, the security guard appears. I can't stand this guy, he annoys me.  He's kind of hunched over and staring at me.  I'm looking at him like, "what?" He doesn't say anything.  I finally said, "Can I help you?"  He asks me, "What is your name?"  I tell him and he says, "That's what I thought, there is a guy with a bunch of flowers for you at the front desk, I've called you like six times."  I looked at him, instantly annoyed, and said, "Well, clearly, I'm not at my desk."  He goes on to tell me that there are like six flower deliveries and that I need to bring a cart because the delivery guy is an old man with COPD and if I don't bring a cart, the guy isn't going to make it.  I asked, "so, do I need to go out to the parking lot, or what?"  He informs me the guy is by the front desk.  I said, "Okay, but he obviously needs the cart out there since he can't handle it."  The guard says, "He'll never be able to make six trips." We go round and round about where I need to be with the cart.  I'm losing my patience.  All the while, COPD guy is up there running the show while Bubba Gump is down here hunting me down.  Security at it's finest.  How do we know this isn't an elaborate rouse and that COPD guy isn't a suicide bomber?  We don't.  Bubba Gump didn't check his credentials.  This is how I know I am going to die there someday.  Anyway, I get my cart and head to the front desk to find a man hunched over the desk waiting for me.  He smiles and has half of his teeth in a lovely brown color and the other half are rotted off in various formations.  He is sickly, to say the least.  As I followed...I mean, lead him out to the parking lot with my rattly cart, he kept stopping to hock up parts of his lungs.  We finally make it out there and he hands me each arrangement.  There is only one left to get and suddenly, he stops, he can't go on.  His lungs have given out. Shit. He is going to die right here.  I don't have room for him on my cart, not with the flowers.  He finally manages to muster up the strength to hand me the last one.  I bid him adieu and start my dangerous trek back into the building.  I have to push my cart, hold up my dress and keep the flowers from sliding off the cart on the rough surface of the parking lot. This is a real hoot. I hope that guy wasn't looking for a delivery tip.  I make a mental note to be more diligent about my retirement.  Some day that could be me...pissing off some youngish saucy admin.

I finally get in the building, still upright and with all flowers still intact, and deliver the flowers to the happy recipients.  Now, where was I? Oh yeah, desk dropping the can kozy's.  By the time I am done, I am sweating in places I shouldn't be.  And, while I'm all proud of my Victoria Secret bra, let me tell you what all that padding does, it makes you freaking sweat.  I've got all this extra hair, a headband, extra jewelry, a long dress that has repeatedly tried to kill me today and I have tights that think the race to my ankles is the Boston Marathon.  Mother Trucker, I didn't need the perspiration, too.

At this point, I'm agitated.  Seriously. I sit at my desk and try and take care of some business.  First order of business is to let the employees know that lunch will be served to all of them tomorrow.  I sent an email out about this on Monday advising them (in all CAPS in the subject line) that lunch would be on Wednesday.  I had a few people ask me Monday afternoon where their food was.  No one can read the important part of an email.  It makes me angry. However, today, I am clever because I put it in the subject line again and now I put it multiple times in bold in the body of the email.  All the details they need.  Bomb proof. I can't possibly get questions now.  I walk away from my desk and someone asks me, "hey, when do I get my personal lunch?  Do you bring it to me or what room do I go to?"  I'm certain that my head spun around three times and that smoke came out of my nostrils.  I stopped and glared at him, "Don't you read your emails AT ALL?"  He smiled and said, "Well, kind of, but I like it when you tell me personally."  I smiled, in what can only be described as a menacing smile, and said, "Well, why don't you go read it again Einstein. This lunch isn't your personal lunch, it's for the center, do you really think I'd put it in a conference room?"  He started back pedaling.  I said, "Go read your email," and walked away.  I get back to my desk and I have an instant message asking me if the lunch will be buffet style or boxed style.  Okay, I'm going to lose it.  It's pasta, people. Who puts pasta in a box?  I talked about how we would keep the food warm and how people should come at their lunch times so that there would be enough food for everyone, etc., etc....I give up.  I had also explained to them that the food was coming in three different deliveries and provided the times.  Again stressing to them the importance of coming on their lunch time so that my calculations on deliveries would pan out. Another email, "What if my lunch isn't until after the last delivery?"  Um, come at your lunch time?  Then, finally an email that did not demand any further explanation, it simply stated, "You are making me hungry."  I felt dirty reading it.  I don't know why.  I felt like one of those cartoons where some guy is out in the desert with his best pal, but as a mirage he sees his best pal as a hot dog and starts chasing him and biting him.  I gotta get out of there.  I don't need anyone chasing me around the center thinking I'm a corn dog or something.  I think this place is getting to me.

I'll just be glad when tomorrow is over.  I hate center-wide lunches.  People don't follow directions, they think they are funny, they whine when they don't like something and they make a huge frigging mess. Well, in preparation for tomorrow, I'd just like to tell everyone, in advance,  you're welcome.

With that, I'd better get my beauty rest, because I am going to need to put a special face on tomorrow. The face of an admin that cares.  The hardest face to wear All. Day. Long.

Energy Shot?

Since I had my surgery, I do not absorb all vitamins as good as I should.  Specifically, I struggle with my Vitamin D, my iron and my B-12.  The B-12 is the biggest problem.  Notice these are all energy and mood enhancing necessities, no wonder I'm like a soaked Huggies diaper sometimes.  Anyway, the last time I was ordering my liquid vitamins online, I noticed they had some "Energy Shots" that were heavy on the B-12 and some other important stuff.  All natural, no unhealthy "uppers," which is good, because I can't handle anything that is an herbal stimulant. 

Today, I took one to work and decided I was going to take it.  I told Four Feet of Fury that I was going to take this, so watch out if I go crazy.  She whips it out of my hand and says, "let me see that!  You aren't taking that! It says it is 'High Performance' what does that mean?"  She is dead set against energy drinks and the like, says they are bad for you, which I tend to agree.  I told her it was supposed to be all natural and should be fine.  She starts looking up the ingredients online.  I said, "Don't you want me to perform at a high level?  Think of the crap I could get done, FASTER."  She still seems skeptical.  She gets to the second ingredient and starts laughing, "well this ingredient is good for erectile dysfunction, I don't even want to know what it is going to do to you."  I said, "Well, if you see me humping my chair or being inappropriate with my ponies, straighten me out."  She forbid me to take it.  I went over to Valerina and said, "FFF says I can't take this, but I want to, so watch me.  If I seem too intimate with my chair, stop me, okay?"  She agreed, she'd keep an eye on me. 

A few minutes after taking it, my chest fluttered a little bit and then I started giggling for no apparent reason.  Shit. This is bad. My hand started to itch and my left eye started to twitch.  It was at this moment I noticed one of the toys on my desk, a little dancing pony, had a pen positioned perfectly between it's legs so it looked like it had a big boner.  I couldn't stop laughing.  Dish Guy comes over and I said, "I have to ask you something, does this seem inappropriate to you?"  He stared at it for a minute and said he didn't think anything of it.  If the pen was sticking up in the air, maybe, but no.  Fine.  I had to move the pen, I couldn't take it anymore.

Come on, it's a little dirty, right?

After moving around, adjusting the items on my desk, I repositioned my dress so I wasn't exposing myself.  I looked down and noticed my boobs, dang, they look really good today.  That FCD has them good and scrunched..  Then someone walked by with a Marie Calendar microwave lunch.  Damn, that made me want a chicken pot pie.  I texted Will that I needed chicken pot pie and then eventually sex.  I was jacked up.  I was talking fast.  My boss came out and looked at me.  I smiled a crazy smile.  She went back in her office.  Cross Fit Crazy came over and asked for some documents out of the file cabinet.  I whipped around and walked over there, put the key in the cabinet and then cocked my foot up and tilted my head back.  I just stood there like that.  He started laughing, "what are you doing?"  I said, "I have no idea."  I gave him his stuff and went back to my desk.  Suddenly, I wanted to get everything done, all at once, this was going to be great, because by now, it was almost time to go home.  I looked at the clock again.  Wait, what?  I had looked at the clock, for what seemed like an hour ago and it said 3:15pm.  It was now showing 3:24pm.  I was in a time warp.  What the hell was going on.  I did a lot of stuff, it had to be an hour later, and yet, it wasn't.  Great, at this rate, I was never going to finish my shift. 

Dish Guy and his visiting boss, Cheetos & Takis, came over.  They were asking me something, or was I telling them something, I don't remember, but I was talking fast and somehow couldn't really remember where I was going with all this, but told them that luckily my energy shot had worn off.  They looked at each other and said, "...yeah, right...it's worn off..."  What?  I'm fine.  I mean, I have a little headache now, but my eye isn't twitching anymore and my hand is back to normal.  And, I totally didn't hump anything.

Valerina came over and I said, "I need crackers," with wild eyes.  She said matter-of-factly like a Mom, "you aren't taking that stuff again."  Fine.  However, as I sit here at home, a few hours later, eating my chicken pot pie, I can't help but wonder if I could get used to that afternoon buzz.  I'm watching Will over on the couch right now, eating his chicken pot pie, playing Quigly Down Under on his Kindle Fire and thinking, I wonder if he could use an energy shot...?  He seems tired...and possibly "uninspired."  I'm game to see if ingredient number two buys us anything extra.

Well, gotta go, gotta do dishes, clean horse stalls, feed the ponies, walk the dog, get lunch ready for tomorrow, think about what I'm going to wear, check FB, think about world peace and go to bed.  In consideration of my readers, I will not be reporting back on the results of ingredient number two.  You're welcome.

The Dark One

Mother Trucker.  That is the mood of the day.  The dark one has risen.  Of this, I am sure due to the two red marks on my forehead.  It would appear I am growing horns.  Fanfuckingtastic.

I'm not the only one that is a hot mess.  I check my FB first thing this morning and it appears the government is shutting down. The mother- trucking, lilly-livered, scum-sucking, ugly douchebag sons of a bulls nutsacks can't take care of our nation to save their lives.  No big deal.  The fat-cat, bottom feeding, wiener wielding asshats get paid, what the frick do they care?  They don't.  They have prostitutes to buy, oil in third-world countries and dirty deals with other country leaders.  NO ONE is looking out for us, least of all, our lame duck President.  I'm over it.  Now, in a related story about stupid people out for themselves, some couple in some other country decided to have sex on railroad tracks and the chick gets killed and the dude has severed legs.  What the hell is a matter with people?  Did you not see or hear the train coming?  My morning is filled with the asinine and ridiculous.  Ain't nobody got time for that. It's all just depressing.  Why don't we all just overthrow the effing government, go all "end of times" and frickin' pack a bow and a gun and do a Die Hard "yippie ki ya motha fuckers" and take charge? Who needs all this fancy crap?  I'm about ready to go prehistoric.  The government is going to kill us with our own food supply, pollution and bullshit anyway, why not make it interesting?  We are so busy screwing around in every other's country's business we can't even take care of our own.  Well, me Arnold Swartzenhegger, Sly Stallone and the effing Rock are going to get some shit right.  I'd better get my ass to the gym.

Anyway, I proceed to work and am in no mood to tolerate anything, but trying to semi fake it for Four Feet of Fury who likes to see me happy.  Luckily, she is busy so the darkness looming around me is undetected.  Then, almost as an answer to my prayer, HR shows up with a bunch of employee assistance pamphlets to pass out to those in need of support.  You know, if your employee says they are going to take the roof and off incoming civilians, you just give them a pamphlet, pat them on the head, and then you are good to go.  I took this as my queue to cover my ass.  One of the supervisors came up with a  question.  I proceeded to rip into her and when she stood there with her bottom lip hanging out, I handed her a pamphlet and said, "here, go make a  call and when they ask what your problem is, tell them "bitchy admin."  Now, go."  This was very fortuitous of HR to bring these today.  They were going to come in handy.  I wonder if I would need more...?

The next assault was when I checked my email to find a message from Ass Kicker.  Shit.  He was coming for me.  He wants to know when we can have our next session.  Today is not the day.  Although, I really should get down there soon, because of the "take back 'Murica" and my trip to the bathroom was exhausting.  Let me explain.  Today, I wore a long skirt...wait, let me start at the beginning...I had on the bra and panties, of course, then an FCD on the top, and FCD slip on the bottom, nylons and then the skirt, then a cami and then a cardigan on top of that.  I was layered like any fat girl does.  I waited almost too long to go to the bathroom because the nylons were under the lower and upper FCD, so I had to wiggle down the skirt and then the slip FCD, then roll up the upper FCD and then get my nylons down.  Holy shit, it was a serious undertaking.  Then, had to get myself back together after the fact and ensure nothing was tucked into the wrong thing as I left.  You people cannot appreciate what effort goes into dressing in the morning.

I got back to my desk, safe and sound, without flashing anyone and made a call to Amazon.  Those folks screwed up my order.  I ordered gift cards to be mailed to me so that I could hand them out to people that won them, but in Amazon's infinite wisdom, they gave me emailed gift cards, but then only emailed one of them.  I call and get some dude named Johnny with an accent so thick, I know that his real name is probably Bubskypicttaaaken Anju-Piakkeensomoffin.  He isn't from the hood, if you know what I mean.  I explain the problem to him.  Silence on the line and then he says, "I don't understand your problem."  I didn't understand that he didn't understand because I couldn't understand a fucking word he was saying!!!  Finally, I understand that he doesn't understand, so I say, "I don't understand what you don't understand...(I start to talk really slow) ...I wanted gift cards sent to me, so that I can give them away as prizes."  He says again, "I don't understand."  I said, again, this time slower and louder, "These cards are not for me.  I want the cards sent to me so that I can give them away."  Dead silence on the line.  I start again. "These cards are not for me to spend personally, I want to give them as gifts."  He finally responds back, "So these cards are not for you?"  I think I was having chest pains.  I'm certain my face was read.  I hit the mute button and put my head back and said, "oh my God, I am talking to the stupidest person on the planet in some village called Wikipupu, I know it..."  I probably just violated some sort of discrimination rule.  This is why HR is on the 5th floor and I am on the 3rd floor, sound buffer.  I finally finished my conversation with "Johnny."  I received an email from him asking me if he resolved my issue. I don't know how to answer that.  Until I see those cards, I don't know that he has.  I hope he doesn't get stoned at the well tonight for me not completing the survey.  I know that sounds really mean, but right now, I'm seriously sick of the bullshit going on in America. Maybe if we actually had people that worked here in America and companies didn't outsource so much, we wouldn't be in half the pickle we are in.  Ugh.

I finished my day by enduring a staff meeting and planning a luncheon for the entire effing work group at the Glass Palace.  I finally turn over to FB for some entertainment.  Not much entertainment there since everyone is pissed off at the government, which, rightly so, but seriously, where are my effing LOL Catz and inspirational quotes?  I did see one quote on there about how there are angels watching over us and how my Mom finds pennies where there were no pennies before and she thinks her angel leaves them for her.  Another friend claims she has found $20's from her angel.  I'm pissed. I have lost some special people in my life and none of them are leaving me money.  I don't even have that feeling anyone is watching over me.  Maybe it is because Satan has marked me to do his bidding.  I don't know.  If these bumps on my head get any bigger and start to form horns, or my tongue gets forked...or I grow a pointy tail...I don't know what, but it ain't gonna be good.  And baby, the Devil does not wear an FCD, so look for it to get ugly, too.

I've been marked by the dark one

I'm an Iceberg

I'm pretty pissy these days.  So much so, that my boss has noticed. I had canceled my therapy appointment due to other stuff going on and my boss informed me that I needed to call my therapist back and reschedule that appointment.  I guess I must seem on the edge.  I called my therapist and got my appointment back for today.

Today we talked about how much I feel angry and hateful.  I hate everyone that is happy, perky, active, achieving their dreams, losing weight, living a fun life.  I hate their guts.  Maybe not in my heart, but in my head, I do.  My therapist, the Rug Doctor, loves analogies.  She says I am like an iceberg.  Twenty percent of me is above water and angry.  This is the part everyone sees, the part I project.  The other 80% is under the water and is comprised of all the reasons I am angry on the surface.  The stress, anxiety, jealousy, vulnerability, sadness, fear, it's all there and it's driving the anger.  So, basically, all you skinny, happy, healthy, financially secure bitches are all wining and dining on your little boat called the Titanic of Life.  You are having sex all over the boat, eating whatever you want, wearing your diamonds.  Some skinny bitch wearing some big old amulet that is dangling in her robust cleavage is hanging over the front of the boat screaming that she is the king of the world with some heart throb standing behind her with a boner. (You can hear Celine Dion singing in the back ground ) I hate her guts.  I can't be her, so I'm going to destroy her.  Come here you big old Titanic of Life, come slam into this iceberg, let me show you what I think of your happy cruise of a lifetime.  Fuck off.  Oh, what is that? You're drowning?  That's sad, I hope you can push all those ugly people out of the life boats so you can get to safety.  Here, let me call my iceberg friends over to chill the water so you turn in to corpse-cicles.  I'm over you happy people.

No, I'm fine being an iceberg, really.  I've got all sorts of penguin friends that come over and climb all over me and shit on me.  Then, next thing you know, all these effing misfit toys show up and inhabit my cavernous hillsides.  Really, I'm okay with destroying the Titanic of Happiness, getting shit on by stupid penguins that just keep falling down over and over and using my iceberg ass for a slide for eternity, and then becoming the freaking land of misfit toys in hopes that some dentist with stupid hair and his mother trucking reindeer friend with a nose so bright show up and save the effing misfit toys when Santa gets word where they are.  That is just fine with me.

For the record, that probably isn't where the Rug Doctor was going with all that, but since she opened that door, I'm powerless to stop the train wreck of emotions that follow.  Speaking of trains, specifically runaway trains (aka, my train of thought), I told Rug Doctor about my anxiety when I see homeless people.  I'm torn between empathy and sadness and distrust.  I mean, some of those people are scammers out there on the corner.  Others are legit people that have fallen on hard times.  What if that is me someday?  What if I lose everything I have?  Financially, we are a mess right now, so what if it all goes to shit?  Then, that is me, my dog in a wheel chair, my pimp, Big Daddy, and there I am holding up a sign that says, "Homeless whore with a gimpy dog...anything helps, God Bless."  I'm wearing some wealthy bitches coat that she donated to the salvation army in 1986, I've got a half eaten hot dog in my pocket that I found in the dumpster behind Weinerschnitzel and a black eye from Big Daddy from putting up a fight when he took the $20 I earned blowing some crack head.  It's cold outside and I'm not sure where to go or what to do and I want more crack.  The other street whore bitches don't like me and I pretty much pray for a blizzard so I can walk out in it, curl up and die.  Rug Doctor just blinks at me.  I think my levels of crazy sometimes take her by surprise.  She says that scenario is unlikely to happen. She can't guarantee it won't, however, so the fear remains.

Here's the thing, I don't like being angry and feeling incapable of achieving the things I want to.  And don't tell me how I have achieved a lot over the last year.  I'm not buying that story.  I expect more from myself and this wishy washy ground of "I can't" is kicking my ass.  I'm angry.  I'm an iceberg.  And you bitches partying on the Titanic of Life, you better get your iceberg detection system checked.

Near, far...wherever you are....I  believe that the heart does go on...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKS5DwSC0fo