You're Not a Bitch, You're "Bitchy"

Due to the holiday, I had "Therapy Thursday" today.  Before going in, Stiletto Barbie and myself discussed the usual going's on in our lives and ended up doing what any normal person does when they are trying to diagnose something, we went on Google.  We didn't really find what we were looking for, but we did discover that I, and possibly Stiletto Barbie, suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  Now, I don't have all the symptoms, but I have some of them, maybe a couple, which pretty much is the same thing as actually having it.  Armed with this new knowledge, I went to therapy in hopes I was on the verge of a breakthrough.  I would share this discovery with The Rug Doctor.  I mean, I'm pretty sure she already knows, but I think it's good if I come out and tell her that I know that she knows.

We started therapy as we normally do, with the niceties, "how's it going...?"  I told her, "Well, I have been a real bitch lately and have no empathy for anyone or anything.  I have done an exhaustive (at least 5 minutes worth) internet search via Google and believe I know why.  I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  And, Stiletto Barbie may have it, too, we don't know for sure.  At first we were upset about it, but then, we were okay with it, which kind of goes along with the symptoms...but you probably already figured it out, but didn't tell us, which we are kind of pissed about, but also don't care.  Again, symptomatic."  As with all my theories, The Rug Doctor entertained my little excursion into self-diagnosis.  She said that most people have a few symptoms of any number of disorders or diseases and that I, nor Stiletto Barbie, had BPD.  She cited examples of BPD and went on to say that if I was examining whether I had it or not then I definitely didn't have it.  Fine.  There goes today's breakthrough moment.

We went on to discuss my bitchiness and loss of empathy, which, again, if I was concerned about my level of empathy, I probably had more empathetic behavior going on than I was giving myself credit for.  And, empathy and bitchiness do have a certain co-existence that goes hand in hand.  What we had to do was to get the bitch in the drivers seat to maybe relinquish control of the throttle to slow down the metaphoric vehicular assault I was committing with my mouth.  And, furthermore, I shouldn't refer to myself as a bitch.  Bitchy behavior, perhaps, but labeling myself as a bitch is going too far.  I just sat there and blinked at her.  I think there is a certain number of people that may strip her of her  license if they find out she said that.  I then showed her the picture of Maleficent that my face was pasted into that my co-worker, Zumba Barbie, did.

It is possible, I've been walking on the dark side. And, that people have noticed. Shark Bait is likely to agree. I've chewed on him more than a coyote chews on a deer carcass and with all the same ferocity.  (Is ferocity a word?  I'd better go look that up...please hold...yay! it is!) Not that he hasn't deserved a bit of it, but perhaps not ALL of it. I told the Rug Doctor about Shark Bait's "Bathroom Blindness," for example.  She asked what that was.  I said, "That is the inability to detect any dirt, mildew or undesirable toilet bowl stains with the naked eye.  You are completely blind to anything that needs to be cleaned in the bathroom.  You can't see where you flicked your tooth brush at the mirror, the orangey stain in the shower from hard water or anything that needs tending in the toilet...like smudges or rings. Don't make me get graphic. That is Bathroom Blindness and we don't need Google to help us diagnose who, and who does not, have it.  I know.  Just ask."  Turns out she has someone in her house that suffers as well, she just didn't realize there was a medical term for it.  Now she knows.  At any rate, after lengthy discussion about why I may be letting the bitch drive at high speeds, we decided (and by "we" I mean The Rug Doctor) that perhaps I needed to get the bitch to take mini breaks.  Maybe bring the empathy back up a notch and take the bitchiness down a notch.  I said, "So, like if I say, 'I"m sorry you're a dumbass.' That is a compromise?"  She said, "yes!"  She said that people like the snarky bitchiness, maybe just not the one that makes them feel like they were hit by a Mack truck.  You know, I did just get recognized last week for my snarkiness in a department-wide email.  It was from our VP and he said, and I quote:
"The only award missing is for Cassondra. "The Most" Clever, Snarky, Well Organized, Avoid Taking Credit, Fun Loving, Behind the Scenes get it done....the list could go on and on!"  
I've never been recognized for snarkiness before, not on a professional level. I mean, this is BIG.  So, I guess people do like it at some level. This is something to consider.  She said that because I was feeling bad about being so bitchy, that was a form of empathy, so hope was not lost.  She felt like I could take some baby steps in this pursuit of regulating the beast(s) which I know as the Angry Pony(ies) that lie within. I'll get with the group inside my head and see if we can work something out.  I'll see if I can get this done before Shark Bait gets home tonight and we have the day off together tomorrow.

Anyway, I don't know if we made any real progress today, but we did decide I should write a book called, "How to NOT Be A Dumbass."  After doing an exhaustive Google search (probably for about two minutes), I only found one little one-pager on the subject, but no books.  It seems I may have the material for my first publication. Maybe in 2015 I'll become an author or something.  I'm sure as hell not getting skinny, so I may as well try something else.  At the current rate I get projects done, look for it to come out in early 2025.

On that note, try not to be a dumbass to someone you love and on the flipside, try also not to be a bitch to anyone you love.  Let's say good-bye to 2014 peacefully.  I'm probably going to write another blog tonight and eat some cookies.  That should keep me out of trouble.

Who steals from Santa?

Today was a Monday that lived up to it's name.  Just coming off of a fun getaway weekend and now reality was waiting to kick my ass.  Mother. Trucker.

The day wasted no time sucking.  I walked through the door at work and the "security" guard assaults me with questions about how I want to set up for our open house we are having this week.  First of all, it's none of his freaking business.  Second of all, he's an asshat.  He thinks he's all large and in charge and really, he is a menace.  I told him I would handle it myself, later.  Get off me, you know?  I get down to my desk and there, sitting right up front and center is a stack of packets and info that will be used for the open house this week.  I made copies of all of these things last week. It took a lot of work, updating the packets and mostly fighting with the copier.  I mean, we got intimate.  There was yelling, there were tantrums, extra pages added to packets, folded pages in the packets, missing pages.  I mean, shit got real.  But, I got it done.  This morning I walk in and there are post-its on the packets where it needs to be re-done.  Meaning, I have to throw all those copies away and start over.  I hadn't even taken my coat off or put my stuff down before marching in to the interim boss's office.  I lost my mind.  The good thing about interim boss, is that she seems unafraid of my rants.  She just smiles back and blinks.  How can I be mad at that?  It would be like shooting a baby deer with a B.B. gun...like a Red Ryder gun.  The kind you'll shoot your eye out with.  There's no sport in that.  Feeling like I needed to get a handle on things, I retreated to my desk.

I took my coat off and booted up my PC.  Going through all my emails did not cheer me up.  And then the instant messages started.  "Do you have magnets?"  "Do you have some batteries?" "Where are the envelopes?  Does the return address go here in the corner?"  "Hey CassAndra, can you have someone write this order?"  "Hey, can we go over some stuff for the open house tomorrow?"  "Our fax machine is out of toner..."  "Hey, can we order a cake?  How much would that be?"  Sweet Jesus.  I just wanted to get the damn packets done so I could get ready for our "Santa Party" at 1pm.  Had to get ready for that.  Totally forgot I had to put the damn Santa outfit on again today.  I will remain calm.  I will get this shit done and take care of all these needy people at the same time.

Fast forward to 1pm.  There I am, laying in wait in the auditorium dressed as Santa.  I sat there next to the tree and lights that I had put up listening to Christmas music.  I was starting to pit out just a little and that freaking beard was itching my face.  How did this happen to me?  I don't know...no, I do know, interim boss.  This is her doing.  Oh well, I was going to spread Christmas cheer if it killed me...and possibly others.
Finally, the supervisors came in and saw the magic of the room and the very essence of the Christmas spirit (the angry part that you usually see at the mall, or some poor bastard ringing a bell for hours outside a store). Anyway, the name of the game was that everyone got to pick a gift, open it and then everyone says "oooo....aaahhhhh" and then the next person chooses a gift.  The next person can take the first person's gift or get a new one from the tree.  As luck would have it, I was included in the game.  I was #3, which was cool because I knew what I wanted.  I helped do the shopping (not realizing at the time I got to participate) and while all the gifts were good, there was one I wanted.  Luckily, there it was, waiting for me at my turn.  It was perfect, it was three different games.  The games were, Smart Asses, Dirty Minds and Head Games.  Squee!  Merry Christmas to me.  My joy would be short-lived.  The next person up, D.I.K. (Daily Incident King), came and took my gift.  Are you freaking kidding me?  I was DRESSED AS SANTA!!! WHO STEALS FROM SANTA???!!!  That dirtbag!  It's like he just killed Christmas.  I realize he was just playing by the rules of the game, but I was Santa...and I'm the admin...I'm dressed as fucking Santa for YOU PEOPLE and he steals my gift!  A gift that I clearly wanted.  I bet he would sell his kid's soul for a Kit Kat bar.  I bet he doesn't leave Santa cookies on Christmas Eve.  I bet he already told his kids that Santa isn't real.  I bet he takes pocket change out of the Salvation Army kettle.  I bet he wears Santa's elves as slippers.  I bet he eats venison for Christmas dinner...and puts a shiny nose on it.  I bet if Frosty the Snowman were in his yard, he'd get his blow torch out and watch him melt for fun...and make s'mores.  I bet he gets giddy during the part of the Grinch that Stole Christmas where the Grinch steals everything.  But you know what, DIK, you know what?  Those little Who's are going to sing and they are going to melt your little heart, but it's going to be too late because Santa will have written you off FOREVER.  You will be on the Naughty list for the REST OF YOUR LIFE.  You can't outrun this travesty, this injustice to the human spirit, this ripple in time.  You have angered not only Santa, but the Admin, which, frankly, is a far greater crime than any holiday stolen from the clutches of a hard working girl who just wanted a game called Smart Asses. 

It is noteworthy to say that no one else stole anyone else's gift.  That just goes to show you the cunning, killer instinct of this supervisor.  He seems like the good guy, but he just single-handedly stole Christmas from an admin.  An admin dressed as Santa.  Just think about that.  Let that set in.  Feel it. It feels horrible, doesn't it?

Anyway, after the injustice of it all, I took off the Santa suit and my black tights were covered in red velvet fuzz.  I looked like a cheap, washed-up showgirl.  Today was not my day.  At least a lint roller could take away the mark of good 'ol St. Nick.  The pain of having Christmas stolen, it could take years.  Thank God I have therapy this Thursday.  I hope the Rug Doctor can help me through these tough times.

Do you mind if I sh*t myself?

The other night, I was sitting there on the couch next to my beloved Shark Bait.  I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went through the labor intensive process of putting the foot rest down, getting the dog out from under the blanket that was on my lap, relocating the dog, etc.  By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat there, on the edge of the couch for just a moment and looked at Shark Bait.  There he was, totally engrossed in some sort of alien version of Candy Crush.  He was totally oblivious to my situation. I thought to myself, I bet I could sit here and shit my pants and Shark Bait would be completely unphased.  I sat there for another moment, just staring at him, my mind thinking about our relationship.  I finally stated my thought out loud.  He ignored me.  I said, "you're not listening to me."  He then gave me his full attention and said, "what?"  I repeated my theory about shitting myself.  He just looked back down at his Kindle and went back to eliminating aliens.  I pressed him further for a response.  He grunted, "doubtful." 

One of two things had just occurred.  I have either worn him out with off-the-wall scenarios, or we had reached "that place" where nothing I could do would phase him.  Like, romance and surprise, GONE. I sat there just staring at him, thinking about where we were as a couple.  There really wasn't much territory that we have not covered.  I mean, I have never spawned a child from my loins, but I have undergone a couple of surgeries that have produced some major side-effects.  I have had the stomach flu ( pre-marriage, so he not only survived that, but stuck around for the encore of marriage).  Also notable, I am a woman and thusly do cycle every 28 days, so, you know, things come up.  I don't hedge around it, I come right out and tell him that I am shedding my uterine wall, I have cramps like a mo-fo and that I just lost a clot the size of a small puppy.  Doesn't even phase him, he just says, "sorry, Baby."  And, I'm not even going to pretend I've never walked out of the bathroom after a battle of sphincter vs. nature's will and said, "Shark Bait, I think I just pooped something the size of a baby's arm, you could actually drive a semi-truck up my butt right now...without lube."  Okay, so that is gross, but that is the kind of relationship we have.  How did that happen?  I have no idea.

I mean, it's great we have this comfort level, right?  Or is it?  I mean, we do close the bathroom door, but really, we are a one bathroom residence and always have been at each location we have lived at, so if I need in there while he is going to the bathroom, I'm goin in.  And, vice versa.  I'm not saying I want to be in there, but if we are in a hurry, getting ready for work, or whatever, then, things happen.  I'm not going to freak out about it.  I mean, if things get graphic, I leave.  There are certain things I just don't want to witness. If what he ate yesterday is biting his ass today, I don't need to be there.  And, if I'm in there, reading the Do's and Don'ts section in Glamour magazine, I'd like some privacy.  How else am I going to know that leaving the bathroom door open with your man ruins intimacy?  I actually might have read that in Cosmo, but I can't be sure.  I think the bathroom situation is one of those issues that people are pretty much okay with or on the other end of the spectrum where they are like, no way, girls don't fart and never poo, or they just whisper in their panties.  I'm here to tell you, we've passed that road.  Human bodily functions just aren't a big deal.  I mean, if Shark Bait pulls a crop dust situation in the store, I'll leave him in a heartbeat.  I'll  get two rows over and I suddenly I will not know him.  And, if he tries to dutch oven me under the covers, I'll punch him in the nards.  I have limits and boundaries, after all.  I'm just saying, basically, everybody poops.  I think there is even a kids book about it.

Another threshold we have crossed: grooming. It's almost a monkey situation if I have a bump on my back and I need to know what is going on back there.  Shark bait gets the magnifying glass, tweezers, whatever.  If the words are uttered, "is that bite or pimple?"  The other person whips out their Ph D and jumps into action.  This is not for the squeamish. I'm not saying we are hideous zit-infested people, I'm just saying, occasionally, something pops up, so to speak.  And, when Shark Bait needs his eye brows tweezed, I'm there.  Not just because I enjoy inflicting pain on him, but also because I am not married to Ernie from Sesame Street and I'm not looking at that uni-brow.  For me, if I need my toe nails painted, Shark Bait is up for the task. 

Closely related to grooming is wardrobe assistance.  If I am stuck in my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), bra or nylons, this is when Shark Bait comes to the rescue.  He doesn't really get stuck in his clothing, but I can tell you, if he needed me, I'd be there.  I do fold his laundry sometimes, so that's kind of like wardrobe assistance.

We also can't forget another potentially awkward topic: sex.  Now, I'm not going to elaborate on this for obvious reasons, but let's just say, we do have a move called the "Geriatric Dismount."  Hey, if you get a charlie horse, you've got a situation.  You need an exit strategy. Also, I'm not shy.  I have questions.  I'll ask them. I'll ask Shark Bait stuff until he is ready to crawl under the bed and curl up in fetal position.  But he doesn't, he just goes with it because he knows that I'm like a little kid asking "why? how come? why not?"  I pretty much won't stop unless you give me a cookie and send me off to watch cartoons.  Shark Bait has never tried that, but he should.  We both will walk around the house naked or close to naked.  Neither one of us is a retired supermodel, or pretends to be, but there comes a moment where you just have to say, "who cares?"  I'm known to occasionally say, "Shark Bait, look at my fat belly...just look at it..."  It happens.  He always tells me he loves me and that I'm beautiful.  And, I always tell him I'm lucky I married a man with failing vision.

Aside from the obvious gross or embarrassing stuff, we can tell each other anything.  Unless Shark Bait just bought another gun, in which case, he keeps that a secret and then tries to convince me to believe he already had it or got a steal of a deal on it and he told me about it already and I just don't remember.  We  both know this tactic won't work, but it doesn't stop him from trying.  It's like a little game we play.  It's called, "I"m going to pretend my wife is stupid and she is going to hand me my ass on a platter."  It's a fun game, no dice or cards required.

All these things were crossing my mind as I just stared at Shark Bait sitting there on the couch.  I thought about how he has been rolling over and snoring and coughing in my face the last week while he has been sick and the nights he sits there completely in another world in his Kindle or in Facebook.  Are we just BFF's?  Have we sacrificed  a more mysterious, exciting life for one of two boring people shuffling around the house scratching and farting?  Are we fraternity brothers or husband and wife?  Some might say we have crossed too many lines and that the romance is gone.  But what is romance, anyway?  I mean, sure it could be flowers and candlelight or romantic strolls.  Or, it could be Shark Bait helping me feed the ponies on a cold night and we stand there together and watch the ponies chew their hay and sneak a kiss and hug in the barn.  It could be a night on the town and a fancy dinner, or it could be sitting side by side on the couch watching The Voice holding hands. 

Sometimes I think I want something different than what I have, but the reality is, 10 years of nurturing this relationship has created something comfortable and secure.  I know that whether I just need a kiss and a hug, or a full on discussion about how my intestines sound like a freight train, I can get either in the same place.  That's pretty cool, right?  So, I think the answer to the original question is, yes, I could sit next to him and shit my pants, and while he would be grossed out about it, he would still love me and we would laugh about it later.  I do think, however, I would be cleaning up my mess solo.  I mean, not that I have any desire to create such a mess, but since I posed this question to the universe, I think it deserved an answer.

And now, like many times before, anyone who has read this knows more than they bargained for. But like my relationship with Shark Bait, I think we all know each other well enough to expect a little trauma during the average blog reading.  Just to be clear, however, I don't feel close enough to any of you to want to see you naked walking around in my house.  I'll call the cops, I mean it.

I'm NOT Crazy

Things at the Glass Palace have been a little crazy the last few weeks.  We have acquired some new customers in an Eastern state where people are seriously rude.  Our call volume has been crazy, the customers are crazy, the systems are not working like they should and it has been general exhaustion all around. 

Today, I believe the overall diameter of the vortex of suckiness opened up and we are being pulled in slowly.  It's like we found a worm hole...no, a slug hole.  This sucker is fat, lazy and leaves a slimy trail that you can't get off of your hands.  This vortex is not leading us to a dimension that anyone wants to board the mother ship for.  I'm telling you, this is serious.  Serious as a heart attack.  But, how do we know this alleged vortex, this "slug hole" exists?  I'll tell you how I know, and do not call me crazy, because I AM NOT crazy.  Not this time.  I have witnesses.

I was at my desk, minding my own business, working, when I caught a movement on my right hand side.  It startled me for a moment because the movement made me think something was behind me.  I looked to my right and there, on my desk, was my little mirror and it was catching the image of the balloon arch that they did for my birthday last week.  One of the balloons is starting to die, so it was moving back and forth over my left shoulder and my mirror in front of me alerted me to that.  Scared the crap out of me at first, until I realized what it was.  I stabbed the balloon to death and removed it from the arch. I then grabbed the mirror to move it at a different angle so I wouldn't be distracted.  This is where the real trouble started.  I noticed my head looked enormous in the mirror.  What the hell?  This mirror doesn't usually look like that, I usually look like I am further away from it. So weird.  I put it down, moved it, looked at my reflection again.  Maybe all that Halloween candy was catching up with me?  Damn, I'm huge.  I tried to put it out of my head. 

Pretty soon, Stilletto Barbie came down to see me.  I shared with her about the mirror.  I knew she would understand.  Instead, she looked at me like a dog looks at something it doesn't understand.  She is my homie, she has to have my back.  Just then, one of the supervisors walked by and said she had noticed the same thing about her mirror.  HA!  Someone else has noticed!  Stilletto still looking skeptical, went to her desk and then reported back that her mirror was the same way, ENORMOUS!  Here's the thing, people, we know what we looked like in that mirror yesterday.  It isn't the same as what it looks like today.  I talked to others like Camilicious and Sassy Pants.  They, too, noticed the change. It was spooky.  What was going on?  Suddenly I realized this could be a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.  I was in one of those horror movies.  I was just waiting for the phone to ring and hear a creepy little girl say in a whisper, "seven days...."  like in The Ring.  What if I went in to the bathroom and there was a crazy clown in one of the stalls?  More importantly, what if none of us were going to make it out of the Glass Palace today?  What if the ground opened up and sucked us all through the slug hole?  Or, were we already in the slug hole?  Living a double life?  Like, the real Angry Pony was alive and well with a normal mirror in another dimension, but here I am with the warped mirror and everyone could see it happening.  I felt serious anxiety.  What in the fuck is going on?  Why are the mirrors like this?  It wasn't right.  I am not crazy. 

As I sat there wondering what the hell is going on, Stilletto Barbie said the only thing we could do was prepare for the worst. She suggested that maybe, if there were evil surrounding us, I should go in the bathroom and say "Candy Man" three times.  I haven't seen the movie that involves this scenario, but apparently, it doesn't end well.  I suddenly knew what Bruce Willis felt like in Armageddon when he had to take one for the team.  I grabbed my phone and went to the first floor bathroom.  It is the most likely place an angry spirit would be.  I mean, the Glass Palace is right next the cemetery, we could have evil in our building.  Feeling brave, I turned my phone on to video my experiment.  I mean, if I'm going down in a gory, bloody mess, maybe someone would find my phone to see what really happened.  People need answers. I mustered my courage and said "Candy Man" three times.  Nothing happened.  I pushed open the door to stall number one. If any stall would have evil in it, it's stall number one.  Nothing....for now.  Maybe this would be like the movie Final Destination and evil would find me later.  I returned to the alleged safety of my desk where the fun house mirror was laying in wait.

Video of my trip to possibly meet my demise: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10202847504411207&l=13813230872012245


I couldn't accept this reality that everyone's mirrors were different and no one had an explanation.  I'm not crazy. I'm not.  However, I was being met with resistance.  Dish Guy was telling me I was just making this up trying to scare the masses.  We went round and round about what was occurring.  Just then, Ambular walked up and picked up my mirror, she said, AND I QUOTE, "Wow, you are right, this is a lot bigger, that is weird."  SEE!!!  Yet one more person to stand by me in my moment of vulnerability.  Remember that movie Day After Tomorrow?  No one wanted to believe that guy that the climate was changing and that we were headed for an ice age and then LOOK WHAT HAPPENED?!  Someone has to be that person, that person that saves the USS Enterprise from being sucked into the black hole, or in our case, the slug hole.  Luke Skywalker defeated the Death Star, no one is laughing at him, are they?  I really am upset about this.  Stilletto Barbie suggested we need to be ready to evacuate.  I went over to our person in charge of emergency preparedness to find out what we would do in the case of an actual emergency.  I explained what was going on.  Turns out, he does not have a plan for our ultimate demise, being pulled into a slug hole or if the ground opens up to swallow us.  I shamed him for his lack of foresight and returned to my desk. 

This can't be happening.  There is no logical reason for it, other than, it sucks so bad at the Glass Palace that our souls are being transformed into blobs.  Everyone is stress eating, after all.  At this point, I had so many people confused, we did what any evolved, intelligent person would do.  We Googled it.  It seems there is no phrase you can put in the Google search that will really lead you to an answer.  And, frankly, I don't have time to learn physics.  As far as I know, tomorrow could be too late. People suggested the pull of the moon, gravitational pull, planets in retrograde, rotation of the planets and the popular, "we're fucked."  All possibilities.  Someone suggested I needed to find someone that is a Wiccan.  At this point, I'll take whatever help I can get.  Something is going on and I need to understand it.  I'm a level-headed girl when it comes to this kind of stuff, but I know what I saw, I know what my friends saw and I have no explanation.  I'm being punked, I have to be.  Like I don't have enough problems and now I have to wonder if I am in a cross-dimensional time warp.  This is a lot of pressure.

I sat there at my desk, confused and a little traumatized.  I caught a glimpse of my mirror again, this time, this is the image I saw.

Seriously people, how much more can my heart take today?  That White Queen behind me, why was she looking at me like that?  Is she menacing or supportive? She's creepy, okay, CREEPY.  I'm freaking doomed, we are ALL freaking doomed.  If anyone can explain to me why all the old Verizon mirrors are suddenly looking like fun house mirrors, PLEASE let me know.  I may not always like my life, but I don't want to live in another dimension, or be pulled through a slug hole.  And, if I am gonna get pulled through, I want to be skinny and have a fucking unicorn!!!!

I'm exhausted.  I leave you with a simple "good-night."  Still no answers.  I hope I wake in the morning...in my house.  I'm not going to work.  It's too risky.

Angry Pony, Anxiety and Itchy Irene

Life according to Angry Pony has been a bit of a roller coaster lately.  I've had some moments where I have wanted to blog about stuff, but have had the presence of mind to not do it.  I mean, there is some stuff you don't have to know.  That's what Valerina said.  I mean, I don't care, but I suppose I should have some boundaries.  Anyway, I've had a few moments of utter despair, some moments where I felt like everything was going to be okay, moments where I was losing my mind and other moments where I just checked out. Ultimately, I have survived, as I always do. Funny how that always seems to be the case.  Shark Bait has been in the middle of most of the drama and has once again ridden out the storm.  That guy may well deserve a kick in the ass sometimes (a lot), however, he should also be entitled to some sort of medal of honor.  Maybe for Christmas I'll work on getting him one.

I don't really know what is causing the mental chaos, ultimately.  I mean, on the surface, there is a lot of bullshit going on, but I am no stranger to bullshit.  I practically use it as an exfoiliant and bathe in it daily.  But, what is really going on?  I've given it some thought and I think I have a few theories.

Why in the hell am I so scared of everything falling apart and allowing myself to worry all the time?  Well, it could be one of a couple of things.  First, after talking to my mom at length the other day, she suggested it could be that we are nearing End of Times.  I mean, it seems the world is going to hell in a handbag, so seems like a plausible theory.  If this is true, I really do need to spend less time worrying and more time enjoying a nice soft loaf of French bread (with butter), enjoying my ponies (when they are not sick with the flu), relaxing with the dogs watching The Ellen Show and being naked...not naked with the dogs, just naked in general.  Really, I have a healthy relationship with my dogs, we have boundaries.  Oh, and muscle relaxers, I need more.  What I need to do less of is to spend less time going to work, going to the doctor trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me and worrying about my future and if I have some sort of cancer.  I mean, I don't think I have cancer, but how do I know I don't?  I just read a thing the other day about the silent killer, ovarian cancer (or was it cervical? I don't know, but it was a vagina related cancer) and I had most of the symptoms.  And, what is going on with my neck and the numbness? Is it a tumor?  And, before anyone gets their panties jammed so far up their ass that they are practically dialing 911 to get them extracted, know that when I say these things about cancer, I'm not making light of it.  I know how cancer kills, personally. I mean, I didn't die, personally, but people close to me have.  So, relax your ass and those panties will come down on their own.  I'm allowed to talk this out in ways that make sense to me.  Lately so many people are getting upset about everything everyone says about health, politics, current events, etc.  I know we are all uptight in this effed up world, but we all have to deal in our own way and writing my thoughts down, no matter how sarcastic or weird they may be is my way. 

Another possibility for my anxiety, if it isn't End of Times, is that I have been trying to be more positive and that is scary for me.  I don't usually get my hopes up and wish for things and believe in the possibilities.  I usually survive through the tough times and try and make a difference for the future.  So, being positive is the equivalent to putting my feet in the water, realizing it is too cold or too deep and then just saying, "I don't like water, I didn't want to go swimming anyway."  So, maybe I'm anxious because I'm in new territory.  I'm like the Pony Express guy riding his faithful pony through the wild west wondering if I can get the mail to Walnut Grove or if I will be scalped on the prairie left to be eaten by the wolves or, whatever, and what would happen to my pony?  And the mail, what if some guy didn't get some mail from his girl and thought his girl didn't care, but she did, she sent a letter, but he doesn't know because the Pony Express guy got killed on the prairie and now he is never gonna get the letter, so he gives up, gets a new girlfriend and gets married and has kids and then one day the stagecoach comes in to town and the girl who sent the letters shows up with all her bags because she wants to be with him for the rest of their lives, but now she finds out he is married and she has no place to go and has to work at the local saloon and become a whore and her life is ruined because she has to have sex with One-Eyed Willie with erectile dysfunction and a foot fungus that the town doctor has tried to help him cure, but he can't.  And now she has the fungus and so everyone calls her Itchy Irene and eventually she takes a walk down to the old water well and just dives in head first.  Then, the town water supply is contaminated, because they can't get her out and pretty soon the whole town dies from disease and that's why they never got a major train station and no one ever came there again. And, now it's haunted.   All this because the Pony Express guy was killed.  Wait.  What was I saying?  Oh. yeah.  So, anyway, it's likely I'm having anxiety because of attempting to step out of my comfort zone.  I think those feelings I'm starting to have are called...(gulp)...hope.  It leaves me wide open for heartbreak.  I don't know how you hopeful people do it. I should read a self-help book or something.

What is also likely is that I'm having feelings of failure realizing that the year is coming to an end and I set a lot of goals for myself and I made plans and I had a vision of where I would be.  I have had some set-backs this year, for sure.  I started out strong.  I learned that I am an athlete under all this cellulite.  I learned that I could do things that I didn't think I could.  And then my body broke and I am trying to recover.  I'm not giving myself grace for that, but I probably should be.  At any rate, I promised myself a little black dress moment in December and I know it isn't going to be what I wanted it to be.  And before anyone says, "look how far you've come!" or "don't beat yourself up," or whatever.  I'm not trying to be mean to myself, I'm just talking through how Angry Pony feels and as The Rug Doctor says, "those feelings are valid."  Look, we all have disappointments.  I'm allowed to feel disappointed.  Doesn't mean I'm not going to keep fighting, I will. I can't not fight.  I don't know any other way. I'm like that fat girl in Silence of the Lambs stuck down in that pit in Wild Bill's basement.  I'm down there with my lotion, trying to not get the hose again and things look pretty freaking grim, but damn it, I'm still gonna try and climb out or coax that mother trucker's dog down that hole.  I'm not going to be anyone's woman suit without trying everything in my power to stop it.  And, I'm going to get soft skin during the process. Bonus!

So, what's the plan to calm the fuck down?  Drugs.  Just kidding.  I don't have any. And to those that have suggested I should get some "herbal" help, no thank you.  I'm fine.  What I am going to do is let go of the 2014 -Year of the Angry Pony.  I'm going to attempt to embrace the Life of Angry Pony, not just a year that doesn't represent anything more than a period of time now behind me.  I don't know if I will do a black dress experience this year, or not.  I'm going to take the pressure off.  I'm going to try and enjoy fragments of time and not add expectations to those moments, or days, or weeks.  I'll take them as the come and deal with whatever follows. I'm not going to stress over the holidays and tell myself that I hate them as I have for many years now. I'm going to find one thing to do each weekend that embraces the holiday spirit, even if that thing is me asking Shark Bait one more time if he will wear a red union suit and allow us and the dogs to all be in union suits for our Christmas card picture.  Or, maybe we watch Christmas Vacation, or go look at Christmas trees.  We will not live based on anyone else's expectations, we will take time to be together and enjoy the season, no matter how commercial it is.  It isn't going to be epically romantic.  It's going to be moments of relaxation and joy.

And, maybe, just maybe I'll wear my boots that make me walk like a prostitute and maybe wear something black.  Maybe it will be a dress.  I don't know.  That's the great part of taking it moment by moment, right?  This is the plan anyway.  This is the immediate, short-term goal.  Gonna try it, cuz if I don't, I'll likely implode.  Angry Pony guts...everywhere.  No one needs to see that. 

This concludes tonight's deep thoughts and my theories.  I mean, there are a ton of other ones, but as you can see from my Pony Express digression above, it might take some time to get them all written out and expressed.  There is a lot of stuff going on in this head.  This blog is just remnants of steam seeping out.  You are welcome for me repressing as much as I have.

Now, go hug someone or something and enjoy a moment.  No less, no more.

More Postive Thinking Fall-Out?

I can't blame the chain of events that happened today on my positive FB post from the other night, but I can't help but make a connection.

I got up this morning with the best of intentions.  It's Friday, it's payday, I had zero supervision in the office and I was going to get stuff done and kick off a hopefully fun weekend.  At 10:45am this morning, that all changed.  We were notified of a school shooting in the nearby city that many of our employees live in.  All the details are not yet known, but from what I have heard thus far, a kid brought a gun to school and shot specific individuals that he was angry with and then ended up dead himself.  I felt sick inside.  I remember going to school and worrying about not having the trendiest clothes or being over-weight or having someone pick on me for being fat, but I never worried about being shot.  In today's world, it's becoming more commonplace.  My God, no wonder kids are a mess these days and on anti-depressants or fight depression on their own, untreated, and have anxiety or feel insecure.  I mean, not all kids are like that, but I think the number of kids that find it hard to deal with life is on the rise.  If getting up and going to school could be the last thing you do on any given day, why care about anything?  Why care about your future?  Why care if you even go? Or, care so much that you are paralyzed with anxiety. I am so deeply saddened by these realities and these acts of violence.  In my opinion, I think kids are desensitized to violence and it seems more plausible to handle your confrontations or disappointments with an act of violence.  TV, movies, video games, domestic violence, drugs, bullying, social media stalking, etc. it's just so much of their daily lives and it is glamorized. Maybe it seems legit to just handle things like The Terminator?  I don't know, just my theory.

And these events have a ripple effect.  I know someone that was at the hospital, needing medical attention due to a potentially life-impacting issue. This person was unable to be admitted to the hospital due to all doctors that were qualified to help him were busy with shooting victims.  So, now, what about all the other people that need care?  That's fucked up.

Let's talk about all the kids too scared to go to school now.  Let's talk about the crazy weather and funnel clouds destroying structures. The catastrophic  mudslide that happened earlier this spring, the wildfires that raged all summer, then the mudslides that followed that. Let's talk about the email I got at work today about Ebola. Let's talk about ISIS and terrorism. Let's talk about all the accidents on the freeway lately.  Let's talk about who was just diagnosed with cancer or a life threatening disease.  Let's talk about a government that is so corrupt, we have little hope of ever living in a healthy functioning socioeconomic society.  Let's talk about all the other violence that happens daily.  How in the hell am I supposed to  think positive and not feel like this world is bad?  How do I hold my head up and have hopes, dreams, goals?  How do I do that when I am full of anxiety about what disaster will strike us next.  When I kiss Shark Bait right before I go to sleep at night, will we both wake up in the morning?  When I leave work to come home, is that the last time I will see my friends and co-workers or my husband?  So, when I consider whether I want that piece of chocolate, is my overall health important?  I mean, if I can't really count on tomorrow, why not have ice cream?  You may say, "Angry Pony, none of us can count on tomorrow, it is not promised."  I know, I get that, but I'm not talking about breaking a promise, I'm talking about having a realistic expectation that it is possible you can live without anxiety and then if your number is up, you lived a good life and you enjoyed it.  Some people do, I believe.  How do I do that when I am so full of angst and anxiety about my "living conditions" and my potential future.

The flip side that I struggle to achieve is the one that says:  Let's talk about the time I spent with my loved ones today.  Let's talk about the laughter that was shared. Let's talk about the puppy dog and pony kisses I had.  Let's talk about how accomplished I feel after a good day at work.  Let' talk about how I worked out today and it felt amazing to know I'm doing what's right for my body.  Let's talk about those moments I sat there and watched the colors in the sky as the sun set.  Let's talk about laying in bed on a Saturday morning listening to the rain on the roof and smiling because my love is next to me, my dog is at my side and I am snuggled safely under my comforter.  Let's talk about a trip I am excited about taking.  Let's talk about all that.  Let's talk about being able to enjoy all that.

Let's also talk about the kindness I observed today at the grocery store when someone dropped their purse and a stranger helped pick it up. Let's talk about the love I saw in a mother's eyes as she kissed her baby.  Let's talk about the people helping the homeless.  Let's talk about the people who work in animal shelters and help the animals get homes.  Let's talk about the people that looked at a picture of a loved one and ran their finger over the front and had a memory about them and felt their arms around them, if even for just a moment.  And maybe a tear slipped down their cheek, but a smile followed. Let's talk about watching the ponies play in the pasture, kids playing in the park and screaming with excitement and pure joy.  Let's talk about paying off your car loan and how amazing that feels.  Let's talk about having faith that this life means something, no matter what.  And if disaster strikes, it will bring us together, not tear us apart. 

How do I get there?  We have to get there, right? For sanity sake, we have to, right?  I think it is normal to feel like the rug is pulled out when something like this happens, but sometimes it feels like one more nail in the coffin.  It's glass half-full vs. glass half-empty.  I just declared some very positive stuff the other night and then within two days, it feels as if those positive thoughts are erased by angst and crisis.  Thusly proving positive energy is wasted. This is why I don't get my hopes up.  Or, do I look at this and say, "I am okay.  My family is okay. No one I know personally was seriously impacted.  I'm fortunate. I'm okay. I'm going to support those that need support and I am glad I can be there for them in their time of need." 

I don't know how to get there, but I do know there are two paths to choose from.  One is a moon-lit path lined with fun-sized Hershey's Halloween candy,  kettle-cooked potato chips and lots of potholes.  The other path  is lit by the morning sun and has ponies running playfully in pastures and a Jamba Juice on the corner.  The road is never-ending and you can only just see over the next ridge, beyond that, other adventures await.

So, bring a flashlight, or bring my sunglasses?  It's a struggle every day making that choice...but I do look good in my Ray Ban's, I just have to remember where I left them last.

My Hips Don't Lie...

Yesterday I posted the most positive post I have ever made on Facebook, historically speaking.
 This is what I posted:
"it's not that often I'm this positive, so I'm about to get it all out of my system at one time. William is getting a new job. Epic. We have taken some steps today that will help our financial future. I am going to get a new boss, eventually. I have committed to doing two 5k's before the end of the year. I am going to an event with my horse on Sunday. I will believe that positive changes can happen and I will enjoy them all. I feel like doing a Sheldon Cooper BAZINGA! right now because I'm scared to jinx anything I just said. I always get scared I'll get disappointed, but maybe this time will be different because I got a unicorn in the mail and that MUST be a sign...a good sign. And, I'm going to be a pink fluffy unicorn dancing on rainbows for Halloween!!"

 I mean, I knew it was a gamble.  I'm not positive because it is too risky.  Things could fall apart or not happen like I want and all that believing will just make it more painful.  None the less, I had recklessly posted how positive I was about the changes and suggested this could have been a mistake.  Today, I knew I had gone too far an the Universe was "checking" me.

It started innocently enough.  I put on my black tights and then tried on various things until I decided on today's ensemble.  It involved my boots and a skirt. The boots are always a good choice.  I even tried something new with my hair today, which was only semi successful.  Anyway, I was feeling sassy.  Empowered almost.  I stopped off and got the gift cards that our visiting Director had requested I get.  She wanted 20 $25 Starbucks cards.  I was like, wow, she is being super generous.  I arrived at work and presented them to her.  She said, "Oh, I wanted 20 $5 gift cards, I don't have this rich of a budget."  Mother. Trucker.  I called the store to see if I could return or exchange them.  Nope.  I guess we were going to need to have a lot of sales contests with Starbucks as the reward.  I said, "Well, I can take these four cards down to Starbucks and have them cash out this amount for the 20 $5 cards you wanted."  Seems like an easy fix.  Right?

I arrived at Starbucks in my boots.  I was one Pumpkin Spice Latte away from being the stereo-typical white woman.  Luckily, I don't drink coffee, at all, so I would remain atypical.  I let the scrawny kid behind the counter know what I needed.  He seemed confused.  I said, "I need to use these gift cards to purchase 20 $5 gift cards, can you do that?"  He looked slightly confused, "So, let's see...20 $25 gift cards?  How many?"  I stopped him, "No, that is how this all started.  I need 20 of these cards in increments of $5."  He said, "Okay, let me do the math..."  I was like, "no math needed, I have $100 in gift cards now to pay for this transaction.  That equals 20 $5 gift cards."  I could see he was perplexed still, but he started entering them, sure enough, he rings the first one of up for $25.  I am mentally slapping my forehead.  He calls the manager over, tells her what I need.  She voids his transaction and rings the first one up for $25.  I'm losing it.  I said, "No, not $25.  I need $5 on each of these cards.  I have 20 cards."  Finally, she makes progress and the scrawny kid takes over again.  He says, "Sorry, I'm dyslexic.  Can I get you something to drink?"  I gave him a firm NO and left.  As I'm walking down the sidewalk in my black boots, black tights, black and white houndstooth skirt and my stylin' rain trench coat I notice that I'm kind of doing a weird walk.  Like, I think my hips were doing an extra "boom."  What the hell? 

Boom Boom

 With the task accomplished, I head back to work.  I get to a stop light where I need to turn left.  There is a SUV in front of me.  Our light is red.  All the sudden he starts to go.  Like, he got out into the middle of the intersection.  I'm sitting there saying to myself, "what a dumbass."  As if just realizing he was a dumbass, he stops mid-intersection and waits for the light to turn green.  Mind you, all the existing traffic that does have a green light has to maneuver around him.  Finally, our light turns green, we start to go and this guy in the lane right next to me jumps out of his vehicle to check something behind his truck.  Don't mind me, I'm just obeying the law and trying to navigate back the Glass freaking Palace.  I dodge that and continue on.  It's two lanes in my way of travel, the dumbass is in front of me driving like, well, a dumbass.  He takes the left lane, I take the right.  Then he decides he wants over in front of me in my lane so puts his blinker on and stops.  What the hell? There is no other traffic...what?  Not wanting to be taken out, I let him go in front of me.  Then, some guy parked on the side of the road flings his door open to get out of his vehicle.  Holy Batshit, Robin, I just want to get back to work in one piece. 

At this point, I'm kind of overwhelmed, I just need a break.  I pull in to McDonalds.  I never go there, but I needed some comfort fries, RIGHT NOW.  I pull up to the first menu to see where the value menu is and the guy starts yelling at me from the intercom telling me to pull forward to order.  Look, dicknose, I will pull up there when I am ready.  What is wrong with people today, get off my back!  I get a beverage. Hey, look, it's the Monopoly game!  I pull off the Monopoly pieces and sure enough, I'm not a winner.  No surprises there.

I get back to work and find a parking spot.  Again I notice I've got this saunter going on that is not my usual saunter.  I think it's the boots.  I think the boots are making me walk around like I'm some Rap guys girlfriend.  It's like I'm powerless to stop the boom boom going on.  I get in the office without seducing anyone with my Shakira hips and settle in at my desk.  I get a visit from Sister Sarcastic and her step-son, Happy Kid.  They brought me a wooden horse with a makeshift horn.  It's a unicorn, they said.  I gave a tentative, "...thanks?" We believe this unicorn to be an absorber of power and it is going to absorb my powers of awesomeness and be magical.  This is our hope.  After some idle chit-chat, they leave.

Finally, I get down to some real work.  No, it isn't meant to be.  I hear Angry Stallion going on about how he was victimized by the deli service lady at a local grocery store.  It would seem that she helped the black man in front of him with a smile and sense of passion.  When Angry Stallion walked up there, just a simple white man, she gave him half-assed service, threw his breakfast burrito in the microwave for a few seconds and then sent Angry Stallion on his way.  He got to work and bit into his burrito and it was cold.  That bitch had clearly discriminated against him.  Most people don't know that middle-aged white men get discriminated against at grocery store deli's, but they do.  The struggle is real.  He was feverishly looking for their email.  Amused by all of this, I yelled over the wall, "That is bullshit! Don't stop with an e-mail, you go to the CEO! You deserve JUSTICE!"  He agreed.  This was an outrage.  You can't eat a cold burrito!  Who eats cold burritos?  I'll tell you who doesn't, that black guy.  We've got some serious first world problems going on here, you don't understand.  Then, a woman was walking around the office that we believe may or may not become our new boss.  She was like a cold chill cutting through the air.  One of the consultants come running over and said, "Did you see Cruella de Ville? You can freeze ice on her ass."  Yeah, I saw her.  I knew she was not the boss for me and said a little prayer it would not be so.  Things could get ugly real fast in my world.  Anyway, Angry Stallion was also upset about Cruella.  Nobody needed this kind of news.  As if he could take no more, he left.  He was going to go to lunch and maybe, just maybe, go confront the service deli discriminator.  I laughed at the hilarity of this whole situation.  This day is just not good.

It was now time to go check the mail. Me and my boom-ditty boom-ditty boom boom Shakira hips didn't leave any lies out there, we walked the truth up the stairs to the mail area.  I picked up a letter sent to me from the National Professional Women's Association.  Yeah, I'm real professional today...First street professional.  I considered that my boots were bewitched.  Like, if you put them on, you turn into a prostitute working First Avenue.  Disturbingly enough, I kind of liked it. I owned it.  At one point, I was leaning against one of the cubes talking to Sassy Pants and I was standing there resting one foot pushing my butt out.  I told her, "I can't seem to stop. What is a matter with me?  I don't act like this?"  I know cats in heat acting more subtle.  I need to take a break from the boots.  This has gotten out of hand.

I returned to my area once again.  Angry Stallion had returned victorious.  He had gone to that store, reamed out the service desk and got a $3 refund for his cold burrito.  Justice was served!  That's right, no more discrimination! I told him, "Someone has to fight for the people, be the change we want to see in this world!!"  I was actually enjoying this part of my day.  Often, Angry Stallion keeps me from crying.  He and I can joke about the hilarity and stupidity of this Glass Palace, the unfairness of life and how we are one step away from the apocalypse.  It's coming, don't even challenge us on this. We have proof.

Anyway, we finished off the day having dinner with our visiting Director at Olive Garden.  I told Angry Stallion, "if anyone tries to give you bad service...give them hell!  I'll record it with my phone and we'll go the the CEO..."  I'm nothing if not supportive.  It took them approximately 30 minutes for them to bring me a "to go" box.  I'm going to let this one slide...this time.  I'll live to fight another day.

That is a lot of rambling to say, it was a long, weird, frustrating day and I blame it all on my previous nights positivity.  I will not be making that mistake again.  I may, however, try to start generating some extra cash in those boots on the weekends.  What?  Too far?

Ebola and how I didn't shit my pants

So, it's been a while...(that's how the Rug Doctor told me to start...and then see what happens, she said.)

I haven't blogged in a while.  Life has kind of been a pile of crap lately and I haven't had much to say that is really worthy of blogging about without getting out a violin and playing some sort of sad music.  If I was a radio station I would be WHAA 95.3 the station where the hits just keep coming...all of yesterdays sad music mixed with today's angry girl rock.  I didn't even want to tune in, how could I expect anyone else to want to? Anyway, today was Therapy Thursday, which usually gets the thoughts all churned up, so I thought I would give this a go tonight. 

I walked in to therapy tonight and informed the Rug Doctor that I likely had the beginning stages of Ebola, but as long as we didn't french kiss and I didn't shit bloody diarrhea all over her couch and she didn't attempt to clean it up with open sores on her bare hands, we should be okay.  She seemed unconcerned and advised me, as she often does, that while it is possible to die from Ebola, it is highly unlikely that I will.  I went on to explain to her about the movie Outbreak where one person coughs and all that juicy phlegm is in the air and then someone else breathes in or has an open sore and then it's over, it spreads like wildfire.  Why, just last weekend, all those people from Dallas flew in for the football game.  How do we know they didn't bring it with them?  How do we know that some lady on the same plane didn't get sneezed on and now she was at the Everett Safeway this morning at the same time I was and sneezed, and maybe I don't remember it because I don't remember when everyone sneezes, but maybe she did and I breathed it in?  What if that happened.  She's a carrier, she doesn't realize yet and now she spread it to me and BAM! Ebola epidemic!  I go to work and cough and spread it there in the call center where the ventilation is horrible and all of us are breathing it in and then we go to the grocery store because fat people work at the call center so are already unhealthy, but now we're hungry so we go to the store and now we give it to others who take it home to their families and give it to the kids who take it to school and pretty soon, everyone is dead.  Look, I'm no genius, but if I'm a terrorist, I'm going to start with world domination and complete extermination of the human race by putting that Ebola shit in a call center, the root of all evil.  The Rug Doctor still seemed skeptical, but said I looked like I was well enough to not shit bloody diarrhea on her couch. Sure, the snot was running faster than I could eat it, but I was well enough to function without diapers.  With that out of the way, I was now able to focus on other more pressing matters, although, I don't know how they could be more pressing considering I have the early stages of Ebola.

We shifted the subject to the hot mess that is my head.  We talked about how I was feeling frustrated about  taking care of everyone in every aspect of life, how I was frustrated with feeling stuck and unable to really get moving again on my life goals.  I told her how I saw this quote on Facebook the other day that just pissed me off.  "If it is important to you, you will find a way. If it is NOT, you will find an excuse". - Monster Factory. So, my goals apparently aren't important? Because I have not been able to achieve what I want and have lost my way, I'm an excuse maker?  This is where my "critical voice" kicks in and tells me "I told you so...loser."  Apparently the critical voice along with my anxiety voice and depressed voice, or whatever that one was, over-ride the reasonable voice.  The reasonable voice is the one I need, but I keep telling it to shut up.  Apparently.  So, the Rug Doctor says that the quote doesn't take into account the struggle along the way.  Things are important to me, that doesn't mean there isn't a struggle along the way.  Struggles do not equal excuses.  I'm going to have to let the voices work this one out.  It's out of my hands at this point.

I think the highlight of our session is when we discussed allowing the reasonable voice to push through and say, "today is not going to totally suck, we are doing the best we can" and just go with that and not expect so much from the day. In doing so, that hopefully stops the critical voice from saying, "I told you that you would fail."  She said to celebrate the small victories, like, for example, "Today I didn't shit my pants on the couch."  I couldn't even contain myself.  I started laughing.  I mean, seriously, the quality of my life is such that I have to hold on to the little golden nugget that I have not shit my pants.  Anything beyond not shitting my pants is a freaking success story.  I mean, I knew I was a mess, but even to me, this  bar seems low.  Well, I guess someone that loses their leg function has to learn to walk again, so this is my mental stability in a wheel chair waiting to upgrade to a walker.  So, today was a freaking success story!!!  I am proud of not soiling my panties.  GO ME!!!

I left my session with much to consider.  I advised the Rug Doctor to please not touch the trash can where my mucus filled used tissues laid in wait fostering the early stages of Ebola.  I need her, I can't have her dying of Ebola.  It would take me YEARS to get a new therapist up to speed.  I mean, that is, if I don't have Ebola.  I'm not saying I don't, I mean, it could happen.  I'm not saying I want it to happen, but if I believe worst case scenario, then I will be pleasantly surprised, you know, like when I don't crap my pants.

Let this be a lesson to all of you.  Set the bar low and all of your dreams will eventually come true, unless we all die from Ebola, in which case, it no longer matters. So, basically, do whatever the hell you want.

And remember, as my wise Rug Doctor says, you are doing the best you can on any given day and today is not going to totally suck.  Words to live by.  I do.

I keep telling you, Hope Is NOT A Strategy

We had a manager several years back, affectionately known as "Brinkley," that was quoted as saying, "Hope is not a strategy."  It has always stuck with me.  If you think about it, it's true.  You can't rely on hope alone to accomplish a goal.  I suppose it is not a bad idea to have some hope to guide you through your journey, but you gotta have a plan, you know?  You need to have a plan, you need to have measurable goals, you need to have the ability to make alterations to your plan if things are not going well.  You must remain diligent and you must remain focused.  You must be willing to kick someones ass and take hostages if it isn't going well.  Nowhere in that scenario is "hope" called for. 

I, personally, have never really relied on hope, unless we are relating it to things like, "I hope Santa brings me a show saddle for Christmas."  It is noteworthy to mention that never happened. I would also relate it to situations like, "I hope I don't catch a cold."  But, I usually did.  And in cases like, "I hope I win the lottery!"  You don't see me sitting in some luxury accommodations having someone else workout my thighs for me, do you?  So, you see, "hope" has never really panned out for me.

Today, during Therapy Thursday, I was telling the Rug Doctor that I am starting to stress out because we are getting down to the wire on my Little Black Dress deadline, or, as my Dad used to say, "it's nut cuttin' time."  I promised myself at the beginning of the year that I would make my goals a reality and that I would pledge to myself and all my readership that I would wear a LBD in December of 2014, no matter where I was in my journey.  I cried to the Rug Doctor, "What was I thinking?  It's like I didn't even think that through?  It's like I had hope! What was wrong with me?  It was such a careless thing to do!"  It's true.  I let that little mother trucking word in..."hope."  Brinkley was right.  Hope isn't a strategy.  Hope isn't doing anything for me.  What would be doing more for me is if the scum-sucking saboteurs would get the huge mother-fucking plastic orange pumpkin full of Halloween candy away from my desk.  That would be one strategy that might help.  Another thing would be if I could strike some sort of deal with my body to stop being old and broken and to start being functional.  This seems to be the biggest hurdle.  Actually, that's a lie.  The herd of disfunctional ponies in my head are probably in the running for the number one problem.  Unruly band of rogue ponies. It's like half of them are untrainable and the other half should be made into glue.  Ass Kicker has pretty much put me out to pasture.  "Yeah, you should just work on cardio and stretching."  I used to be an athlete in the making, now I'm just one of those random people sweating on the elliptical.  I'm trying not to be depressed about that.

 Anyway, I digressed...a lot.  So, the Rug Doctor says, "Well, hope might not be a strategy, but it is reasonable to think that hope plays a role in your journey...blah blah blah...and it's only September... you still have time."  I stopped her.  "LOOK, it isn't like this is Extreme Home Makeover and that Ty Pennington guy is going to come make me over in five days and then yell "move that bus!" and then I am going to cry because I am going to have a new body that I am going to end up putting a second mortgage on because I can't afford the power bill on and end up losing it and now my disabled kid is out on the street again.  That isn't going to happen, this takes time!!!  I'm down to TWO options, juicing diet or anorexia.  Get on board with one or the other, because that is ALL THAT IS LEFT!!!"  The good news is, this isn't the Rug Doctor's first rodeo.  She's seen this hysteria before.  She remains calm.  She then tells a story about another patient that has parallel metaphors to my situation.  Something about it takes two hours to get from point A to point B if everything goes perfect, and yeah there is a lot of traffic and this and that and the other, but the point is, she finally got to point B even though it took longer than two hours and all the stressing and worrying didn't change the fact that she did get to point B and it was okay and it worked out.  I just looked at her and said, "What if the bridge goes out, then what?"  She thinks she's winning this one today, she isn't.  Not even hope can help her at this point.

So, this is where I'm at folks.  I foolishly had hope, and threw out a foolish challenge at the beginning of the year. Now, I'm in a bind.  It's looking a little less like Little Black Dress and a little more like Big Black Dress.  As the Rug Doctor would say, it looks like I ran into some traffic along the way on my journey...and some construction...possibly an accident...a natural disaster...road block....a detour....ran out of gas...car was impounded...stuck in a foreign country...Obama isn't coming for me...so, here I sit.  It's gonna take a little longer than I thought....or...had hoped.

This is why hope is not a strategy.

I do NOT have the runs

Weird day today.  Today was one of those days that just had a weird feel to it.  I don't know if it is the full moon or what.  The day started innocently enough, just normal.  You know, no major wardrobe issues (even though the upstairs closet is a wreck), no major drama on the way in. Upon arriving, I walked in with Chatty Wilson, we lamented about the weather, the company, where we were going to die and if we died at our desks, how long we'd rot there, etc.   I got to my desk, got a few things done, Valerina showed up for the morning check-in, I chewed out Moglie for everyone that has ever stolen my Clorox wipes, he was unaffected, you know, normal stuff.

It was about noon-ish when things started to fall apart.  I realized I needed to get the mail done, but that I also had a staff meeting during the time I needed to do the mail.  I guess that means I don't get a lunch hour.  And then I stopped.  This is stupid.  The mail is a recent added responsibility.  It isn't my job, really, it is a responsibility, but I had a full time job before I got this responsibility.  So, you know what?  The building will get their effing mail when I effing get to it.  I eat my lunch quickly, go down to our new meeting room, set it up, come back up, get ready to go to the meeting and then the phone rings. It's Butthead the security guard. It appears someone is at the loading dock with computers.  This falls into the category of NOT MY FUCKING PROBLEM.  I'm beyond irritated.  This is not my scope of responsibility, but because Butthead has dumped it on me, what am I to do?  Just then, as if by magic, the new building dude appears at my desk, "How's it going?"  I said, "I'm glad you asked...." and proceeded to rail on him about Butthead, the delivery at the loading dock and how I'm late for a meeting.  New Building Dude and I go down to the loading dock and get this handled.  I go to the meeting, take notes, feel like stabbing my eyes out...normal stuff.

I head back up to my desk and pass one of my co-workers in the hallway whose eyes are big as saucers telling me about a crazy lady by the bathroom.  I don't see a crazy lady by the bathroom.  Maybe she is the crazy lady by the bathroom.  Hey, that reminds me, I have to pee. I go in, pee and go to pull my nylons back up.  That is when I heard the sound no woman wants to hear.  I just ripped a huge, mother trucking hole in my nylons.  Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity Fuck.  I manage to get them to a position that will still allow me to put myself back together and walk.  Hopefully I can make it to my desk where I have some hairspray. Maybe that will hold this situation at bay.  I do the crippled girl shuffle back to my desk.  No one is around, so I pull up my skirt just enough to spray the hell out of my nylons.  The rip is on the inner upper thigh, so now, I have successfully managed to glue my legs together.  Thank God I wear underwear, otherwise, I may have required a stylist down there.  Anyway, I walk over to Valerina to tell her my plight.  One of her male teammates overhears me and says, "don't you have an extra pair at your desk? Or some nail polish?"  Well, thank you, Macgyver, no I don't.

Feeling sticky, and frankly, chaffing like a mo-fo, I head out to get the mail.  I have to walk all the way out to the end of the parking lot.  It's a lonely walk, but it's okay.  As I'm starting back with the mail in hand, a large white van drives next to me and slows way down.  I mean WAY down and is crawling next to me.  It doesn't have any windows.  Shit. Wild Bill has come for me. I'm going to be in a hole rubbing lotion on my skin within the hour and I will be a woman suit within the week.  I pick up the pace and the van parks.  I hope whoever it is isn't waiting for me when I come out later.  I feel like prey that has been located and I will be hunted and then trapped when I am prime for the taking.  I mean, I could be totally kidnapped and who would know?  When would they notice I was missing?  Would they look for me?  Where would they start?  I don't think they would.  If I'm not there to ask, "Where's Cassondra?"  Who are they going to ask?

None the less, I make it back in safely.  Dish Guy comes over and is asking me how it's going.  I'm going over how I have a run in my nylons.  He says, "What did you say?  You have the runs?"  Then, I hear Angry Stallion over the wall, "What? Cassondra has the runs?"  Then an aisle over from him I hear Nick The Bouncer say, "Cassondra has the runs!?"  I'm yelling, "No, no, no, my NYLONS have a RUN!"  Angry Stallion says, "I'd better put that in the center chat and notify everyone to stay clear."  These are my people.  The people I am surrounded with.

Pretty soon, Pinterest Food Porn comes over and starts talking to me.  We start talking about her daughter's hair.  One thing leads to another and we are talking about little kids and lice.  I hear over the wall, "I didn't hear that whole conversation, but wow, Cassondra is having a tough day, first she has the runs an now she has lice!"  Seriously.  What is going on?  I share the drama with Valerina and she says, "Well, at least you're entertained."  I suppose so.  I mean, I do sound like a fun gal, shitting my pants and pulling bugs out of my hair.  That's fun.  It's at that moment, Cross Fit Crazy comes out trying to give away pizza.  He orders a large pizza, eats two slices and then gives the rest away.  Call me crazy, but maybe a small or personal size pizza would have been the way to go?  What do I know?

By this time, the hole in my nylons had grown and I am pretty sure I heard some ripping going on the last time I adjusted in the chair.  And to be clear, when I say "ripping" I am referring to fabric separating, not passing gas.  It's time to go home.  I walk out, all pride lost.  My skirt is riding up on one side, my bra has shifted and I have 3 runs in my nylons heading down my leg.  It's been a tough day at the ol factory.

I think tomorrow I'm gonna wear jeans or something.  I feel like I've earned it.  And, I don't need Wild Bill dreaming about all the skin on my legs.  I'd better wear the boots to be safe.

One step closer to being a tramp

I wasn't going to blog about today, but Shark Bait said I should.  He felt like I owed it to my library of blogs about my journey to add today's event to the collection. I haven't really felt like blogging about "the journey" lately as it is a bit stagnant and I am re-kindling the fire to achieve my Little Black Dress goal in December.  I'm just doing what I need to do (most days) with minor set backs here and there, but just moving forward and trying not to dwell on the past or what is holding me back.  Trying to focus on what will move me forward.  This is just daily life.  Not really blog material.  I mean, I'm sure some of you are frankly sick of hearing about it.  But, I did have what we call on the support group forum page a "non scale victory" (aka an NSV), so I will share.

Today I went to get some new shoes.  Summer is just about over and it's time to think about shoes for Fall.  I went to a place I found a couple years ago that specializes in wide width shoes.  I have always struggled with fit because my feet are so wide and I have bad knees.  The shoes are a little spendy, but they are excellent quality and last a long time.  And, most importantly, they fit.  That's kind of a big deal after years of collecting pair after pair of shoes that seemed to fit at the store and then hurt my feet or affected my knees after a few wears.  I would add tape, or padding or moleskin or something to make them work.  It was ridiculous. Anyway, this store has saved me since I found it.  Today I was in there looking for some sensible, but cute shoes for Fall weather.  I found a few that seemed to fit the bill, and were actually a half size smaller than my last visit to the store, which I thought was pretty cool.  And then, I saw off in the corner with a sales sticker on it, a pair of tall, leather, black boots.  I've dreamed of wearing such a pair of boots for a long time, but I have never been able to wear them because my calves are just simply too wide.  Last year I got brave and found a pair of tall, cheaply made boots at the great American fat girl store, Lane Bryant.  I bought them and tried to wear them, but they didn't fit right around the leg and the cheap material of the boots just slid down into a puddle around my ankles.  The boot dream died and I gave them away.  But, today, my eyes lit up, just a little.  I wondered what it would be like to put those boots on.  I wondered if they would fit.  If they didn't, I would be sad.  I mean, I was at a wide shoe store and those boots were made for someone with a larger calf size, so, theoretically, they might fit.  I picked up the boots and stared at them.  I petted them.  I smelled them.  I looked at the price and a little piece of me died inside. Holy shit they were expensive, but I had to know, would they fit?

Before I go on, I need you to understand something.  I have always said, if I ever get skinny, I'm going to dress like the tramp I am deep inside.  I want to wear a mini-skirt and tall boots. Not the "throw me down and fuck me" kind of boots with high heels, although....no, no, just the regular stylish ones.  I want my boobs pushed up to here.  I want to walk around like I'm always walking into a wind machine and that guys are always looking at my ass as I pass by.  I know, it's so primal and shallow, but when you have spent your life trying to cover your body in shame and watching all these other girls/women get all the attention in the world and get to wear anything they want, you crave that.  Okay, so maybe you don't, but I DO.  Now, as I have lost some weight, I see what is going on with my thighs and it isn't pretty.  Likely, I do not have a mini-skirt in my future.  But maybe, just maybe, I have boots in my future.  I don't have the legs for them, but I want to feel like I can wear them if I want to.  Victoria Secret helped me get my boobs up to here, now I want to wear leather all the way from toe to knee.

As I stood there, having my boot fantasy, I put them back on the shelf and walked away.  I tried some more shoes on.  But there they were, just staring at me.  I asked the sales associate, "can you see if you have those in my size?"  She brought me two boxes out and set them in front of me. I stared at them and opened the box. I pulled one out and unzipped it.  I was excited and scared.  The store was full of people. What if they didn't fit around my legs, how embarrassing.  As if sensing my inter turmoil, a larger, older lady with a walker and very swollen legs sitting across the way from me said, "I couldn't wear boots until I was 52 years old, my feet were always too big."  I nodded in understanding and smiled at her.  It was now or never. I pulled my jeans all the way up to my knees. I slipped the boot on my foot and pulled the top up.  I pulled the zipper and prayed.  They easily zipped all the way to the top.  The sales clerk squealed with delight, "Oh, they fit!! Nice!"  I put the other one on and walked over to Shark Bait, who was deep into reading something on his Kindle over in the corner.  I said, "so what do you think?"  He looked up, kind of like he was being the dutiful husband and was already prepared to say, "yes, baby, those are nice..." and then he saw what I was wearing and his face lit up and he said, "Hey, those look really good!"  It was the response I needed to hear and see, but I immediately went into insecure mode, "Do you think they make my legs look bigger?  Do you think I can pull them off?  Do they look baggy around the ankle?  What if I wear them with a skirt, don't you think my legs will look bigger?"  He said, very firmly, "No, they look really good.  They do not make your legs look big. I really like them."  I walked around and looked in the shoe mirror on the floor.  My heart wanted them. My heart needed them and the tramp down inside was screaming "I don't care how much they cost, I want them!!"  I turned to Shark Bait again and he smiled, "You're going to get them, aren't you?"  Like he would ever even try to deny me anything I wanted.  I smiled and said, "I have to."  Shark Bait understood.  And, if I dress like a slut, it's a win-win for him, really.

I left the store with the boots and my new shoes and as we walked to the truck Shark Bait says, "So how much did that cost?"  Not like he cared, but he wanted to flip me crap about it anyway.  Those boots were paid for by every pound I have lost.  Those boots were paid for by every tear I cried because I couldn't have what everyone else had.  Those boots were paid for with my hope for the future.  I think they were priced right.  And, they were, in fact, 25% off the regular price.

When I came home tonight, Shark Bait said, I think you need to blog about this.  I said, "no, this isn't blog-worthy, this isn't a victory.  These boots are made for larger calves, this isn't like I bought "normal people" boots.  I haven't progressed.  This isn't worth a blog."  Shark Bait insisted it was.  After all, I could not fit into the boots before and he could tell how much this meant to me.  So, maybe it is. So, I blogged.  So, this is today's story.  This is my NSV.

Boot Love.  One step closer to dressing like a tramp!

Man Thongs, Broken FCD and Pink Hair

Today was a typical day of randomness.  I found myself not really wanting to focus on anything and all the people of the Glass Palace made it ever so easy for me to be distracted.  I started my day talking to a friend in crisis.  I'm full of advice and, in my new "empowered" state, I am wanting everyone to be empowered.  I told my friend it was time to consider what she needed out of life and to think about what she wanted.  I was giving her permission to be selfish and put all the drama to the side.  I could see in her eyes that she was not quite ready to do this, but that she truly wanted to.  I know she will be okay, she's just going through some shit. I mean, shit happens.  It gets on your shoe and you can get the chunks off in the grass, but the scent remains until the shoe is truly cleansed. (Damn, that's some good shit right there.  I'm going to share that with the Rug Doctor.)  Anyway, I listened to my friend and dispensed all of the advice that I am so full of.  I think it helped a little.  We all just want to be heard.  We all just want to feel safe and loved.  I even hugged her, no payment required.

The day progressed and I found myself scattered here or there.  Smarty Pants came to visit me and check-in.  I flipped him some crap because last time I saw him, he was doing the ice bucket challenge in his underwear.  Like, briefs. Like, it was a lot of him to see all at once when you consider I only see him at work...fully clothed.  He then gave a full dissertation about underwear and the different kinds and how his buddies felt in those kinds.  Which brought us to the logical question, "Have you ever worn a thong? How do  we feel about that?"  Turns out, he has, once, but it was a "gag" thong.  The part where his junk hung was apparently a horse head and if you pushed a certain spot, it whinnied.  Hey, I don't judge...okay, I do a little.  Anyway, then we talked about his wife wearing a thong all the time and being at one with it.  He said sometimes she says she has a wedgie.  Wait, stop.  How in the hell do you know if you have a wedgie if you are wearing a thong?  It is a string up your ass.  It's always up there.  It begs the question, "at what point is it 'wedged'?"  Someone will have to explain that to me because I wore a thong one time (trying to be sexy) and within 20 minutes, I was so angry, I had to take it off before someone had to die.  If any of you can shed some light on that, please feel free to comment below.  I'm actually curious.

Sometime after Smarty Pants left, I started to realize two things.  One, the sneezing that had been going on has now turned to a sore throat.  This better be allergies, because I will cut a bitch if I get a cold over my three day weekend. Freaking germ incubating Glass Palace!  I found some Halls lozenges in my drawer.  It says they expired March of 2013.  That's not really that long ago, right?  They weren't gooey and stuck to the paper, so I went for it.  I have not experienced any sort of fallout from these ancient lozenges so I think I'm going to make it....that is, as long as this doesn't turn into Ebola.  I mean, I don't know what my co-workers do on the weekends or on vacation.  A girl can never be too safe.  Anyway, the second thing I noticed is that after 3 days in a row on the elliptical machine at my lunch time, my leg muscles hated my guts.  I'm walking around like a 90 yr old man and can barely get out of my chair.  This isn't pretty, folks.  I did make it to the bathroom.  I looked in the mirror and thought, what the hell?  This six-week hiatus from the gym really took it's toll, look at my gut sticking out like one of those starving kids on one of those "for just 25 cents a day, you can feed a child..." commercials. It was also at that moment that I felt my bra pinching.  Something was wrong. I went into the stall and realized that my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), which should reach my knees, was completely up above my belly shoved up against my bra.  How'd that happen?  WTF?  I broke my effing FCD!  They gave up on me.  They stopped sucking the fat in and just unleashed it without a care.  It's like it finally said, "I've had enough, I can't hold your fat in one more day, one more second, one more anything."  I pulled everything back down where it belonged, but by the time I had walked out of the stall and to the door, it was already to my ass heading for higher elevation.  I tried to reason what was happening.  I mean, I was wearing nylons, which would have created a slippery foundation for my FCD, but I had worn this combination before.  There was only one logical conclusion left...I broke it.  Like a single fat girl at a bridal shower, it broke down and ate all the cake it could cram in it's face and GAVE UP.  Now what?  I need this gut harnessed.  I can't walk around like this.  What's next?  My underwear?  Is the waistband just going to snap one last time and then slide down around my ankles? Will I have to turn to wearing a thong?  I don't think the Glass Palace could handle anymore of my rage. Also, my bra already rides up and shifts to the right all the time.  The only thing not letting me down were my nylons.  I didn't get a hole in them or snag them all day.  But what if they join the wardrobe revolution and start sliding down, too?  How am I going to get dressed tomorrow without my favorite FCD?  I'm angry, hurt...and frankly, looking a little bit like a muffin in the mid-section.

Feeling defeated, I just left the bathroom and let that mother trucking FCD go wherever it wanted to. Fuck it.  I decided to go see Stiletto Barbie and Zumba Barbie. That should make me feel better.  I arrived at their desk and found them sitting there with pink streaks in their hair.  I don't know what really happens in their cube, but clearly, left unattended, mayhem happens.  What I have come to learn over the years is that sometimes the "why" isn't important.  Sometimes joining in the crazy is all you need to do.  With that said, this happened:

Duck face included, free of charge.

They say it will wash out.  I really hope it does.  Shark Bait actually seems to like it.  He has commented multiple times that he really likes it and it is "fun."  My redneck husband thinks pink hair is "fun."  I didn't see that coming.

Anyway, I pretty much was mentally done once I became a punk with pink hair.  I called it a day and headed home.  Traffic was a mess, as usual.  And, I don't want to seem like I am judging anyone driving a Kia Soul, but you all drive like asshats.  There, I said it.  There may be some specific cases of Kia Soul owners not driving like asshats, but I believe those to be rare and undocumented voyages.  Oh, and by the way, you don't get a "free left" at a red light, dumbass.  I don't know if an actual hamster (you know, like on the commercials?) was driving that thing or what, but last I checked, you don't just pause and go at a red light.  The good news is, since I'm all about being positive and empowered (at this moment), I made it home.  In once piece.

Tomorrow I am assisting with the baked potato bar fund raiser...can't wait.  More people interacting with food.  A true recipe for stupidity, bitching and, at some point, me leaning over the table pointing my finger at someone telling them if they don't like it, to go stuff it.   <-- See what I did there? baked potato...stuffed...? never mind.

I'm Unbreakable...I am.

The last couple of days, I have had any number of things to blog about.  Like, the baby shower I went to on Saturday and all the thoughts around that.  Boring.  No one wants to hear about that emotional baggage.  Or, the trip that would never end yesterday on the way home or the start to my day today.  Eh, I'm over it. The moments of insanity and hilarity are over, and really, you had to be there.  So, what am I blogging about tonight?  That's a good question.  I hope I know the answer to that by the time I am done letting my fingers type and my mind wander.

The past week I've actually been pretty introspective.  My friend, the California Counselor, and I have been sending emails back and forth to each other talking about all the deep places in our minds.  The California Counselor is my oldest friend.  I've known her since I was four or five years old.  She is a huge part of my childhood and growing into adulthood.  She has been there for many milestones for me, whether it was in person, or from hundreds of miles away.  She is always there.  We may not talk for a year, but I think of her often and sometimes, just when I least expect it, there is an email, a text or a card in the mail.  Always offering support or encouragement.  She knows me well and her mind travels many places that my mind does. I received one of these perfectly-timed emails from her this past week.  Almost as if she knew I needed it.  I related to much of what she said and have been thinking about it ever since.  After all, I am a thinker. An analyzer...bordering on obsessing at times.  I'm deep, people.  I got shit on my mind.  I got stuff to figure out.  It's like Pinterest quotes exploded in my head.  It's a mess up there.

After considering my last blog about exchanging a day of my life and the words of the California Counselor, I have considered that the person in charge of me is me and I'm getting in my way.  So, if I can just get me, to kick me in the ass and then get out of my way, I'd "have this by the ass" as my Dad used to say.  I am recalling a certain blog I wrote at the beginning of the year...The Year of Angry Pony  http://angry-pony.blogspot.com/2013/12/2014-year-of-angry-pony.html (if you want to revisit).   I made a promise to myself that I would wear a little black dress by the end of the year...no matter what, no matter where I was at in my journey.  I want that moment to mean something.  To that end, I must get unstuck. 

This morning, I put my big girl panties on (and my Pranx/Spanx) and made a commitment to myself that I would make it to the gym on my lunch hour.  I have taken a six week hiatus allowing my body some time to mend from over-training. But it is time to return. I did make it to the gym today.  Ass Kicker lit up like a Christmas tree.  It felt right to be there.  I want to be an athlete.  I didn't know that until I got hurt and couldn't go for a while.  But I want it and I need to stop being a big baby about it.  Hey, me, yeah me, Get off my ass and make it happen.  No one else can do this but me. I am committed to shutting up the negative voices and making it back there every day, or to Cassondra's gym at home in the barn.

On the way home tonight I heard a song that really struck a cord with me.  It was on some compilation CD I had.  It's called "Unbreakable" by Jamie Scott.  I love this song and I am dedicating it to me, from me.  Here is the link to listen, if you want, or here are the lyrics:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cG-JIvyOZo

Unbreakable by Jamie Scott

She finds it hard to trust someone,
She's heard the words cause they've all been sung.
She's the girl in the corner,
She's the girl nobody loved.
But I can't, I can't stop thinking about you everyday,
And you can't, you can't listen to what people say.
They don't know you baby,
Don't know that you're amazing,
But I'm here to stay.

When you lose your way and the fight is gone,
Your heart starts to break
And you need someone around now.
Close your eyes while I put my arms above you,
And make you unbreakable.
She stands in the rain, just hide it all.
If you ever turn around,
I won't let you fall down now.
I swear I'll find your smile,
And put my arms around you,
And make you unbreakable.

Cause she's the girl that I never had,
She's the heart that I wanted bad.
The song I heard on the radio
That made me stop and think of her.
And I can't, I can't concentrate anymore.
And I need, I need,
Need to show her what her heart is for,
It's been mistreated badly,
Now her world has started falling apart,
Falling apart.

When you lose your way and the fight is gone,
Your heart starts to break
And you need someone around now.
Close your eyes while I put my arms above you,
And make you unbreakable.
She stands in the rain, just hide it all.
If you ever turn around,
I won't let you fall down now.
I swear I'll find your smile,
And put my arms above you,
And make you unbreakable.

You need to know that somebody's there all the time,
I'd wait in line, and I hope It's yours.
Can't walk away 'til your heart knows,
That it's beautiful.
Oh, I hope you know, It's beautiful.

When you lose your way and the fight is gone,
Your heart starts to break
And you need someone around now.
Close your eyes while I put my arms above you
And make you unbreakable.
She stands in the rain, just hide it all.
If you ever turn around,
I won't let you fall down now.
I swear I'll find your smile,
And put my arms above you,
And make you unbreakable.

Cause I love, I love, I love, I love you darling.
Yes I love, I love, I love, I love you darling.
And I'll put my arms around you,
And make you unbreakable.

And so, this is my song.  My anthem. I am unbreakable.  I will make the changes I need to because I need to get behind me.  I need to support me.  And, to those around me that may be struggling, I am still here for you, because I care, but I am on a journey.  I'm inviting you to come, too, however, the caveat is, you need to be able to keep up with me, or I will leave you behind.  I am not engaging in self-pity, woe is me, and all that. No more. I only have enough strength for me right now, I can't carry you on my back.  Get up and walk.  Use a walker, a cane, whatever, I'm not carrying you in my backpack. I may be unbreakable, but I need arms around me, not arms dragging me down.  I urge you, make the commitment for yourself. Stand up, come with me. I promise, it beats the hell out of the alternative, which is, trading another day of your life for time spent on earth instead of time spent living on this earth.

This is what I am going to tell myself, anyway.  It can't hurt, right? 

Countdown to little black dress - three months. 
And, GO!