The Human Salad Shooter

WARNING: B.U.T.I. (Blogging Under The Influence) 
(I didn't say the influence of what...it could be Beethoven)

First of all, I want to apologize to anyone that just ran across this blog thinking you would learn something about actual salad shooters or humans.  If you continue to read, you're in for a terrifying surprise.  Let's consider that the disclaimer of the day.

Now, I need to talk about a situation that is completely out of control.  My body.  No, this isn't about my body and it's twisted relationship with SPANX.  No, this isn't about my boobs, belly or butt.  What haven't I discussed in a while? Poop.  (Everybody poops, BTW, don't even fecking roll your eyes at me or wrinkle your nose. It happens.)

As everyone knows, for the past 47 years, 48 if you count those developing months inside the womb, I've been trying to lose weight.  And, now my knees hurt like a mother trucker and so it is extra important. Like, being important isn't enough, we have to make something extra important. Where does it stop? "So GD Fecking Important??!" Anyway, it is THAT important. #importantToInfinityAndBeyond

 What I'm trying to say is that I've done KETO, Paleo, LCHF, South Beach, etc. diets before and now all the sudden my body is like, "lettuce is the enemy!!!!! Abort, Abort, Abort!!!" Spinach, my guts hate it, Romaine, Iceburg, weeds from your front yard, all of it, my guts hate it!  We aren't talking that I get a little gas, heartburn or air bubble. I'm talking about war, people.  We are talkin' down in the trenches on a night that won't stop the monsoon of 100 planets, we are talkin' down in those trenches with water up to our ass crack and leaches stuck to our private generals.  That's what I'm talking about.  That serious.  A seriousness that must be immediately considered an act on terrorism.  Terrorism on your intestines, your sphincter muscles and your wall behind you.  It's coming through, people, the salad has left the fire hose of your intestines and we are putting out a five alarm fire.  Unbatton the hatches, I beg you, for the night terror is coming!!!

To recap, if I eat salad, it shoots out the back door.  I'm basically a human salad shooter.

So, thanks Mom and Dad, genetics, the universe and every ice cream cone that made me this way, now I can't even eat healthy to lose weight.  It's like a maze there is no exit to.  IT'S A  TRAP!!!!!!!!!
It isn't like I never eat salads and veggies and stuff, even if I am eating a few cookies or french fries at the same time.  But now, when I remove sugar, my body becomes like that little girl in Poltergeist.  So, now what? You PaleoKetoLowCarbSouthBitchDiet experts????  I guess it's like some people are gluten intolerant or lactose intolerant, I'm just health intolerant.  "Oh, I'm sorry Pete, I can't eat that broccoli, it doesn't have lard and preservatives in it!  I don't know how you barbarians survive!"

I don't even know what my intestines want anymore.  One day it's a hostage situation, three days later Tsunami warning. Look, this is A LOT of information, but what I'm trying to say is, I might only be able to survive eating Doritos, chocolate and copious amounts of Cheez-its.  I should probably get tested, you know, to see which, if any vegetables are consumable by this body.  This body that tries to be all mysterious and shit, but just ends up looking like every other body on Maury trying to find out who dey baby daddy is. Are you still with me on this?  Is it making any sense?

I had a lot to say about this earlier, but I seem to be getting side-tracked in my mind and I can't quite make sense of what is happening up there.  I mean, I know what's happening down there, I got four anti-diarheal pills holding back the gates at the Jell-o Pudding factory after all the vats exploded and a chocolate tsunami happened and then tried to break down the gates of the factory. OMG, my whole childhood is coming back...being the only girl...surrounded by dumb teenage boys...too many references, too many jokes, too much..... anyway, like I was saying, not sure what is going on up there...in the ole think tank. 

In conclusion, I'm probably still gonna try and eat healthy, but if you see Oreo crumbles on my salad, back up off me because I got problems of my own and bitch ain't noneyo bizness.  Unless you read my blog, which is everyone's business whether they wanted it to be their business, but it's their choice to read, I don't mind meld anyone or hold them captive with words like erotica and throbbing.  Nope, I use words like poop, lard and boob.  So, why y'all still here, I have NO IDEA.

I think it's time for me to go and find an appropriate song, play it and sing along to it while I video myself singing and then going through my contact list and sending it to people.  You've been warned. I suggest you go add and activate appropriate Angry Pony blocking tactics right now.

Dear Doctor...

It's been a while since I have felt like a little personal blog therapy.  I felt like I had two ways to go with my writing therapy tonight.  I could go "old-school Cassondra" and make this the biggest rage-infested rant, or I could feel the feels.  I know you all wish I would go old-school, it's always a good time, and maybe I'm closer to that than you think, but tonight I am feeling heavy angst about the state of the human condition.  I'll share my therapy with all of you in case you have ever felt like this in life or relate to the struggle of dealing with the health care organization.  If you came here for hilarity, the state of my uterus, stall number one at the GP or what Shark Bait is up to, you'll have to wait until next time.

Dear Doctor...

Dear Doctor, my name is Cassondra.  I'm 5'6" tall and I'm obese.  My blood pressure and pulse typically fall within the normal range and my temperature is normal. I don't know if you have noticed any of those stats yet, or if you care.  I'm here because I have a problem or am unsure about what's happening inside of me.  I notice you.  I notice your face and your eyes.  Is there any softness there?  Is your handshake firm?  Do you have time for me or are you mentally already on to your next appointment because you know that you just need to tell me to lose weight to fix my problem?

Dear Doctor, I haven't always been this broken.  I haven't always been this scared for my future, but I have always been heavy, since birth, really.  You don't know that, because you don't know me.  I haven't always had this incredible pain in my knees or this heartache due to the situation I'm in.  I've had much better days and although I was never a cheerleader or homecoming queen, I didn't just let myself go.  I have fought this body my entire life.  It's okay, I know you don't know that.

Dear Doctor, I'm not lazy or stupid.  I'm not trying to earn a spot on My 600lb Life.  I don't eat fast food everyday.  I don't eat a whole pizza at a sitting. I actually love to be outdoors and be active.  I can't right now, because it hurts.  It hurts me physically and it hurts me emotionally more than any pill can numb.  Yes, I've talked to a bariatric surgeon.  Yes, I've had surgery.  I was amazing for a short time.  I worked out so hard because I wanted it so bad, so bad that I broke myself.  I know you don't know that because you didn't listen when I told you already and I know you didn't look at my history before you walked into this room.

Dear Doctor, I do know I need to lose weight.  I've known since I started kindergarten and the kids teased me horribly. I've known every moment since then.  With every breath I take, I know I'm fat. And I am painfully aware that I don't want to be fat.  I know you don't know that.  You probably figure that I am one of those that say "Big is beautiful and I'm comfortable in my skin and society needs to accept me."  That's not where I am.  I know my weight is a problem for my body and I know that beauty is more than a face and a body.  Yes, I'm married, but that doesn't mean I'm giving up and don't care what people think, or for that matter, most importantly what I think. But you don't know that. You just see this obese patient with a problem that you can easily attribute to my weight.  You think to yourself, "if she hurts that bad, she can just lose weight, why is she wasting my time?"
You've never said it out loud to me, but I can see in your face and in your treatment of me that you are thinking it.

Dear Doctor I don't expect a miracle, but I'd like you to take some time and help me figure out my options.  Please don't just write me off and pass me off to someone else.  Please don't assume that someone else will help me.  Please see me.  Please see in my eyes that I am close to tears and I am losing hope.  Please be the one to make sure we have checked every option and possibility.  If you miss something that is critical or potentially terminal, it's no big deal to you.  You can go home and say, "She just needed to lose weight, what did you expect me to do?"  But you can't see the possibilities, you can only see the cellulite.  I know you've noticed the cellulite, because you've looked me up and down the whole time I've been here and spent a lot of time talking and staring at my stomach as you do. My cellulite should not be the reason you don't see the underlying medical condition.

Dear Doctor, please know that I understand you believe you are being kind with words and phrases like: body habitus, a lot of tissue, people of your size, as big as you, etc., but I see the judgement in your eyes and dull expression. I understand I'm a liability, so it's easier to pass on looking for anything beyond my dress size.  The horror, you might find something and then you might be put in a situation to recommend surgery, or perform it and, well, as you've stated multiple times, I'm high risk. People of my size always are.

Dear Doctor, I didn't just spend my co-pay and time away from life to come here and be ignored, rushed or disregarded because of my size.  I don't know why you became a doctor. I don't know why you are irritated dealing with patients. I don't know why it's okay with you that you adjust your level of care based on my weight on the scale.  I don't know why you think it is okay to only spend five minutes with me and brush me off.  I waited a month to see you.  You have a set of skills, right? Why do you become a doctor and then withhold healing? You wasted my time, you took my money and left me with no answers, no direction and no hope.  Oh, and pain.  Did I mention about the unrelenting pain?

Dear Doctor, I know when you walked out of the room and moved on to your next patient-victim you didn't see me cry.  You didn't see me walk into work and witness my friends asking how it went and what are we gonna do about my knee?  I have to tell them, again, there is nothing we can do until I lose weight.  No one understands, they tell me to get a second opinion.  I'm already on my third. You don't have to see their faces, with all the compassion and empathy, tell me they're sorry and that they wished there was something they could do.  And, I look at them and say, "it's okay, it's my fault, I have to lose weight," and then I feel hatred for myself  because I've been unable to accomplish losing the weight.  After all, if it hurts that bad, that would be my motivation, right?  If I'm not losing weight, it must not be bad enough, right?

Dear Doctor...My name is Cassondra. I'm not perfect. If I was, I wouldn't be here. I'm asking you to listen to me and what I'm saying. I want you to look at my eyes. I want you to look at my medical history and ask me questions.  I want you to consider you have the power at this moment to be my hero or the biggest waste of a doctor's education. I understand you can't always fix the problem, but you sure can care about another human life, regardless of said human's condition.  Like I said, if I was perfect, I wouldn't be here, but I can promise you this, I'm worth your time.

Adventures of Fatty McFatterson

It's been almost 21 years since I started my career at the Glass Palace. I can still remember my thoughts as I walked around there the first week or so after getting hired.  I remember seeing the older ladies with their walkers or dragging their oxygen tanks behind them.  Other ladies that wore masks and were quick to tell you that if you wore any perfume or scented lotions, you could not come near them since they had allergies.  I remember how every payday Friday or every sunny Friday how the one lady mysteriously needed the ambulance called.  I remembered seeing all the people that were severely over-weight and I thought, well, I guess being fat was part of the criteria to work here, but then right after thinking that, I thought, OMG, what have I done?  I don't want to end up like this!  What if that happens to me?  I'll just be careful. That won't happen to me.  It can't.

Fast-forward to 20 years and ten months later.  I'm fatter than ever.  I've been battling Call Center Ass all of these years.  I only wish I weighed what I did when I started at the Glass Palace back then.  But, how could I?  I just go in and sit all day.  I've done the working out thing at lunch and after work and dieting and all of that, but nonetheless, here I am.  Here I am with knees that are so angry.  One of which needs a new kneecap, but I'm too fat for surgery.  I remember jumping off hay trucks and training horses and climbing all over that farm the whole time I grew up and through my 20's. I remember my Dad saying, "Babycakes, you better be careful jumping off those hay trucks like that, it might not hurt now, but someday those knees are going to give out on you." Well, Dad, if it makes you feel any better, you were right.  The pain is so bad, I can barely make it from my desk to the bathroom and from the office to my truck.  I just want to cry.

I went to an Orthopedic doctor and he gave me cortisone shots in each knee and told me that I needed surgery, but that I can't have it until I get my BMI in check.  It's so frustrating because I truly do know I need to lose weight and am trying, but I am so overwhelmed with the constant pain, I just feel like giving up.  I sent a message to the ortho-doctor again today and he basically said my primary doctor will have to refer me to a pain specialist because as long as I'm Fatty McFatterson, it's a no-go on the surgery and there is nothing else he can do.

I sent the following message to my primary doctor today:

"I am having severe pain in my knees, specifically intense in the right knee. I have seen Dr. Pepple in Orthopedics at the Everett location of the Everett Clinic. He says I need surgery, but we can't do that because I'm Fatty McFatterson and my BMI is too high. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I can barely walk. He said to talk to you about getting a referral to your Comprehensive Pain people, or whatever they are called. Maybe they can help me until I can lose enough weight to be operated on." 
(The doctor didn't really call me Fatty Mcfatterson, but he was thinking it.)

I don't know what the hell a pain specialist is going to do for me.  So what, they just get me a medical marijuana card and send me off to go smoke some weed until I just don't give a shit anymore?  Do they prescribe medication that is going to eat my liver, kidney's pancreas and whatever other guts do stuff in there until I need to be on dialysis? Then, I end up in a wheel chair taking the para-bus to the treatment center a couple times a week, but the good news is, I'm in a wheel chair and I'm stoned, so I don't know that my life sucks.  I probably will watch a lot of The Price is Right and People's Court.  Anyway, I don't know what the pain people are going to do for me. 

The hardest part of all of this is that I am so completely and utterly disappointed in myself right now. So hopeless, so frustrated, so angry.  Truly angry that at 47 years old, this is where I am. I'm almost one of those ladies from 20 years ago.  I'm there. I'm one polyester pair of pants away. Like, I could order some online tonight and have them by Friday.  That close to there.

Let me paint the picture for you.  When I walk, I'm basically Jabba the Hut, who's tail doesn't work to support him anymore, and he has two legs, both gimpy and he's walking like he's on hot coals and is dragging one leg and he needs a cane, but is trying to sneak up on Bambi because he's hungry.  That's what it looks like when I walk.

I'm so fat.
 
I'm so fat that if I sat on a saint bernard dog, it would get lost up my ass and we'd have to call Search and Rescue to find it.
 
I'm so fat that my Spanx could be used as a parachute for a truck that skydives from a plane.
 
I'm so fat that even Jabba the Hut swiped left when he saw my profile on Tinder. 

I'm so fat that I hear sobbing at night, but it isn't me, it's my clothes in the closet having anxiety about what I'm wearing in the morning.

I'm so fat that I can't go on an African Safari because it's too dangerous.  Poachers might mistake me for an elephant and try and steal the ivory from my tusks.

I'm so fat that when I go on a whale-watching cruise, everyone takes pictures of me instead of the whales.

I'm so fat that my skin looks like someone used a blow torch on me and tried to melt my skin off.

I'm so fat, I can only put an inch of water in the bathtub because when I get in, it might over flow.

I'm so fat there could be a village of people living in my belly button.

I'm so fat that pigs are envious of my jowls and assorted chins.

I know none of this is Rug Doctor approved self-talk.  I know it.  But I'm mad. I'm sad. I'm over it. I hate myself. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate my hair, hate how my clothes fit. Hate it all. Why am I drawing on eye brows and putting on lipstick? Why bother? I'm a hideous creature.  I thank the Lord above that Shark Bait has bad eyes-sight. I don't care if all these thoughts are true or not, it's how I feel.  I keep trying to force myself to love this body, but it's about as easy as forcing liberals to love Trump.   

And, to be clear,  I don't need condolences, pity, a pep talk, an ass-chewing, kind words or diet ideas from anyone.  I'm not asking for that.  I'm saying, this sucks and I'm disappointed in me. I cried all the way home tonight. Maybe I should keep all these feelings to myself.  But maybe, just maybe there is at least one other person that walks around pissed off and angry and this dialog is going through their head, too.  Maybe not because they are Fatty McFatterson, but because of life choices, finances, relationships, family.  I don't know, it could be a million things, but you're just angry inside and you don't see any way out.  You're trapped.  If you are one of those people and you are reading this, I get you.  I don't want to hug it out with you or anything, but I get you. You're not alone. I don't know what we are going to do about any of this, but in the darkness know that you are not alone. It could be a stalker, a criminal or just some crazy-ass admin, which is creepy, but yeah...not alone.

What we could do is to start a support group called Misery Loves Company and meet weekly to tell each other to fuck off because we're all a bunch of fucking losers and we're sick of it, but we also want to get high so that we don't hurt or care about any of it anymore.  But we don't because we have to go to work in the morning, because if we don't we'll be homeless and then that would suck even more, so here we are, miserable...but with company.  I'll bring cookies and celery sticks to the first meeting.

I try and joke about the darkness as much as I can to keep things from getting too far out of hand, but when I go to bed at night, I look over at Shark Bait, we kiss and say "I love you" to each other.  Then Shark Bait tells me to have sweet dreams, which never happens, because that's not how I work.  And as he falls asleep quickly, more and more I have been thinking to myself, "will I ever see him again? Will I wake up in the morning?  Will I die in my sleep because I've ruined this body?"  I've seen a lot of people go through some pretty major health struggles lately and I have to wonder how long I can keep this up.  I mean, I've watched that show, My 600-lb Life.  Is that the next step for me?  I mean, I'm not there now, but who knows?  Maybe the pain specialist tells me to smoke weed and eat Doritos and that is all there is to my life?  We don't know.  Some might say that is a self-fulfilling prophecy and maybe it is.  I don't know anymore.  I just know, years ago, I wouldn't have predicted I would be here.  But here I am.  Leading the glamorous life of Fatty McFatterson.  

The Rug Doctor might say that I'm doing the best I can based on my circumstances, but I'm not.  I'm not doing the best that I can.  I'm not good enough.  This day is going to suck. She would say to be kind to myself and that I have the power to access the positive pony voices.  By the power of Grey Skull, I assure you I do NOT have the power.  Unfortunately, all the Angry Pony voices are queued up and are ready to fight. The problem is, I just don't know what they are fighting for anymore.

Anyway, that's where I am tonight...because...I'm so fat. 

Me and the skinny bitch I apparently ate soon after this photo was taken.

Snowpocalypse 2019

I'd just like to start today by saying that this whole snowpocalypse situation sucks.  I know, state the obvious already, right? Well, it's bullshit and I'm sick of it.

I've been in captivity for too long and I'm over it.  I'm not good at being caged (to be clear, I don't have practice being put in an actual cage, none of that 50 Shades stuff going on here...more like two pair of  RayBan Shades).  I must have been a zoo animal in my previous life, or like a bitch living in a cage at a puppy mill mass producing puppies with matted up butt-hair, a blind eye, fleas and peeking through cage bars watching the evil humans do as they please driving back and forth in the snow in their 4X4 trucks. Bastards.  Of course, this goes against my previous belief that I was a skinny mini-skirt-wearing-crack-whore in my previous life and that is why I'm fat in this life.  Who knows, maybe I've been both.  I could have had a lot of lives.  We don't know that I haven't.

Anyway, it's been a snow shit show for two weeks.  I get this isn't a world's record, but still, in my life, it is way more than enough.  Let me give you a glimpse into what's been going on during Snowpocalypse 2019 in the hood.

First, let's start with humanity losing their mother-trucking minds.  I get it is a big event for our area that is not used to such weather.  I get it.  But calm the hell down. Seriously.  First of all, did you need all the bread, eggs and milk, Sharon?  No, you didn't, but you hoarded it like you were going into a bomb shelter for months. And the vegetables?  This is not cause to take all the vegetables, even the weird shit.  No one likes beets and squash that much.  Look, there are certain kinds of foods that help us through uncertain times like this...macaroni & cheese, hot chocolate, popcorn, soup, Oreo's, Doritos, chicken wings, cheese, pizza, wine (if you're into that) and possibly brownie bites that have big kid medicine in them.  These are the foods that are critical for survival.   Yeah, bread, eggs and milk are important, but geez, not hoarding amounts by each person!

Secondly, driving in the snow.  Washingtonians, as a general rule, know that they suck at driving in the snow...or the rain...or the sun.  We have a percentage of the population that have a 4X4 mentality and drive like asshats, another percentage of the population can drive in it, they just don't want the 4X4 people driving them off the road or they decide not to go out on the roads because they don't feel it's necessary or safe. Totally legit. The remaining percentage of the population is scared of their shadow, let alone driving in this stuff. These are the people I can't deal with.  The hysteria.  Sweet 6.5 pound baby Jesus, just stay home then, okay?  Or, be reasonable, don't create hysteria and then continue to feed it. Ugh.  Chances are, we are going to live through this.  I do concede that if one watches the news, it's pretty easy to get riled since they do stupid shit like have 24-hour coverage about the snow.  I mean, Monday, I'm minding my own freaking business, watching The Bachelor during what could arguably be the most boring season ever and we finally get to some drama and some mother trucking news alert interrupts Sydney getting all up on Colton about not giving her enough and she was going to leave.  Well, we missed all of it to hear Lori Matsa-freaking-kawa or whatever her name is, tell us that it's still snowing, which she had just finished telling us less than 30 minutes prior.  GUESS WHAT, LORI? WE ALL HAVE WINDOWS IN OUR HOMES!!!! Unless we're in prison and if we are, we don't give a shit unless it affects us meeting out in the cafeteria where we need to meet up with Big Troy to trade cigarettes for a nudie of our girlfriend.  Other than that, NO REASON to interrupt my Monday night mindless drama fest, got it?  I actually was watching the news the first night of snow and the reporter walked up to a guy building a snowman and said, "So, what lead you to making a snowman?"  The snow, you dumbshit, THE SNOW!!!  I needed 24-hour coverage for this kind of news? 

A little closer to home, Shark Bait and I have experienced the loss of his portable tarp shed over his 1940-something Willy's jeep thing.  We will rebuild, but what a pain. Then, our hot water tank crapped out last Sunday.  Do you think our rental company gives a fuck?  Honey Badger gives more of a fuck than they do.  Bastards. Meanwhile, we have been living like hillbilly's bathing out of warmed up water on the stove.  Poor Shark Bait decided, screw it, he was taking a cold shower.  I told him, "look, I already washed my hair in the sink and it was ICE cold, I wouldn't do that, you'll never get your penis to come out again..."  Does he listen to me?  Nope.  In he goes.  He comes out a very short time later and his eyes are bulging out of his head and his nipples are practically poking my eyes out from across the room.  No comment on his boy parts, but you've seen turtles hiding in their shells, right?  Just saying. Nothing almost poked me. (I guess, the "no comment" part was a lie, woops.)  Anyway, we also experienced a power outage, which I can't really complain about as we were back up and running within 2 hours I think.  Oh, and the mail.  We were 4 days without mail.  How am I supposed to browse all the fat girl catalogs that come in?  How am I going to throw away all the NRA propaganda that comes for Shark Bait that he never opens?  How am I going to know what the grocery stores have on sale that probably isn't even on their shelves anymore?   The suffering we've had to endure at Snowpocalypse's hands is insurmountable.

In other news, I have been suffering from a bad knee flare up for a while now, which took a horrible turn after a night of bowling.  Who knew? Not me. Anyway, so I'm walking around in this snow all super-careful because I know if I go down, it's going to be all she wrote (I don't know who "she" is or why her writing has to stop...?).  None the less, Shark Bait took me to an appointment last night and while I was trying to get around the back of the truck, I was hanging on to avoid slippage and I didn't see that he had the trailer hitch on.  WHAM! Knocked my allegedly good knee right into it.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.  Upon arriving home, I iced both knees.  I was in so much pain, I was sick to my stomach.  I finally went to bed.  Shark Bait comes crawling in and slams his knee into my really bad knee.  I yelped in pain.  I don't know who I pissed off, but this is so beyond not funny at this point.  I don't know how I am supposed to get around, but I'm in bad shape. 

None of this knee stuff is helped by all the sitting around and snacking on crap during snowpocalypse.  I'm watching this body blow up like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Maybe If I'd had some beets and squash I wouldn't be in this situation...?  No.  Not true.  I was fat before this happened, that's right.  It's good to keep perspective. 

So, if all this snow could go away, that'd be swell.  People can go back to having normal traffic accidents, the news can go back to telling only half of a perspective on the events of the world that doesn't involve snow, the people can go back to bitching that they need a vacation even though they haven't been to work for two weeks.  We can start creating new meme's about new stuff, or just keep doing it about politics and whatever the next news event of the week is.  Maybe I can drive my truck out of the hood and go where I need to go.  Maybe, the maintenance people can finally  get out to my house to replace the hot water tank so that I can take a real person's shower.  And finally, maybe I'll stop making inappropriate Snapchat's and scaring my friends by posting them on Facebook.  Maybe.

Be gone, Snowpocalypse 2019.  Be gone.

I can't sleep...

For the third night in a row, I can't sleep.  No clue why, other than the man-cold I have. Shark Bait said he couldn't sleep either, but that only lasted like 90 seconds.  I was like, hey, he can't sleep, I can't sleep, we should totally get busy.  And then I was like, we both have man-colds, we can't do that, that's gross.  Geriatric sex is one thing, but common-cold geriatric sex, that's not a thing.

Anyway, so then I started thinking about boring stuff so I could maybe fall asleep.  It went something like this:

What am I going to wear tomorrow? I don't know.  Jeans? Meh, I don't really have a pair I like right now. I should look for a pair online...no, you're poor, stop it. What about a dress? Okay, but which one?  I just wore black today, 90% of my wardrobe is black right now, but the blue one hugs my back fat. What shoes would I wear?  Or would I wear  boots? Tough questions.  This isn't helping.  By the way, I think I need a different shampoo.  The shampoo I got at Costco doesn't seem to be making my hair shiny like the bottle says.  Buncha bullshit is what that is.  If you say it has Moroccan oil in it, it really should shine that mop up, you know?  I wonder if I should take it back? I've been looking at myself lately, I am looking old.   I need a make-over.  Am I a narcissist? I probably take too many selfies. Do fat narcissists exist? Probably. That's it, I'm never taking a selfie again.  Who wants to see my mug all the time? No one.  I still can't sleep. I should read a book.  What kind of book? I don't know, maybe I need to read a romance novel.  I haven't read one of those in forever.  Maybe I need some escape in my life, you know, like one of those king and queen medieval times ones where the men come and are all large and in charge and the innocent maiden is all bound up in a corset.  You know what is gross about that? They have all this sex in those books and the people literally had chamber pots back then.  Gross. Her kitty must have smelled awful.  Like, they bathed once a month or something. It isn't like they used condoms.  So primitive. How come I never thought of that before when I used to read those stories?  What the hell is a matter with me?  I've been jaded by life.  My sense of romance is apparently GONE.  Or is it? I mean, maybe...Shark Bait and I are kind of like, "are we ever gonna do it again?" and the other answers, "yeah..." This is depressing, I need a new train of thought...

Let's think about something else. I'm going to get a new pony.  When? I don't know, but when I do, it's going to be magical, and I'm going to live on a farm and have a cute house and an arena and a cute barn and I'm probably going to win the lottery.  Who are you kidding, you aren't winning the lottery. What if you really do have to live in a cardboard box or you're homeless?  Or, what if you have to live in an old people's home and you are all alone because Shark Bait already kicked it and then there you are, all alone and you can't really speak and some mean nurse comes in, her name is Jean and she is mean to you and burns cigarettes in your arm or spanks you whenever you wet the bed. Jean's all upset because this is the life she has carved out for her and her daughter never calls and her husband is a cheating son-of-a-bitch that gambles all their money away.  Jean didn't ask for this life and now she has a bout of diverticulitis and she really has nothing to be happy about.  And, then, there I am, just laying there waiting to die.  Okay, okay, calm down, we are just trying to go to sleep here, not start crying.  Think about something else...

Why am I still awake?  We had a reasonable dinner.  Chicken breast with some salad with veggies in it. That is a pretty healthy choice.  I should eat like that every day.  I should write all my food stuff down or put it in my MyFitnessPal app. Why don't I do that?  Because I'm a lazy loser.  Hey, none of that negative talk.  Why are the neighbors dogs barking? Probably some creep in the hood.  I hope they don't come and break in and kill Shark Bait and I in our sleep...if I could go to sleep.  I wonder if that gluten-free, dairy free brownie thing I made is making me stay awake.  It had pure maple syrup instead of sugar in it.  I wonder if maple syrup is like an anti-sleep serum and I'm never going to be able to sleep.  I could take some Xanax, but then I can't get up in the morning.  Now what?  I could go out and blog...or look on Facebook.  No, don't look at FB, you'll get sucked in.  Next thing you know you're posting all these  stupid meme's and ordering some new version of Spanx and some new fangled vitamins that help you lose weight and help your memory.  I could look on Pinterest for bullet journaling ideas...no that's dumb.  I could Google some stuff that I can't at work...but what?  I can't think of anything right now.  Speaking of work, I totally need to finish those expense reports tomorrow.  I don't want to go to work tomorrow.  What am I going to wear tomorrow?  Is it going to be cold again?  The problem is, if it is cold outside, it will be hot inside and then I'll sweat like a whore in church on Sunday.  And what shoes will I wear?  I need more brown shoes.  Like a pair of shorty brown boots.  I should look for some online...

Maybe I'll go blog about all my thoughts and that will make me tired...? I kinda want another piece of brownie. No. I could get a drink of water. Then, sure enough, when I do get to sleep, I'll have to pee.  Just keep working those mouth sweaters you have going on right now and buck up.

I'm still not tired. I'll just look at FB for a few minutes.  Wow, my blogging is at the all time low of lows.  Good Lord.  I need a blog intervention.  When did I start sucking this bad?

Does anyone know of any good romance novel titles?

2018 Finding the Calm

It occurs to me that I have not done a 'year in review' retrospective blog for 2018.  I usually do one every year.  I had a blog brewing in my head a couple of weeks ago, but I can't say for sure where all those thoughts went.  I just went and read 2017's year in review blog about it being my mid-life crisis year.  I can't say that 2018 was as tumultuous as 2017, but I think it had some decent high-lights.

For the most part, 2018 revolved around my baby-making parts rising up in an epic battle against the rest of my body.  I went through a process of trying to treat the problem and then finally deciding the baby-making parts had to go.  This process was all-consuming for a huge portion of my year.  I won't re-live any details about it as I have a few blogs that detail all the drama. I know, lucky you. Going through all of that did mean my life was in a holding pattern much of the time and I don't really do well in that situation.  I am the type of person that needs to always be seeking to move forward. I suspect because I'm always trying to lose weight, I am always looking for progress in some way.  It's exhausting, honestly.

With most of 2018 being uneventful, I think where I find myself now is the real story.  In spite of the stagnant path of the past year, I have come to a place that is more peaceful than before.

As you know, my weight battle has always, always, always and did I mention, always at the forefront of my mind.  I think after healing from my hysterectomy I really wanted to get into the swing of things and get back to the gym and really intensify the focus.  The reality is, I returned to work just in time for summer to fade away and Fall to come into full swing, immediately followed by the holidays.  I found myself beating myself up and trying to come up with a plan when I finally just stopped and said, "enough."  What if...what if I just I accept who I am RIGHT NOW and live each of these days as best as I can and not be miserable every time I look in the mirror? No one else is beating me up, except me.  I mean, I'm sure there are still some judgy people out there, but I don't base my worth on their opinions. Because, fuck them and their glass houses.

And so, I canceled my gym membership that was holding a ransom on my inner guilt.  I would sign-up again when my body was ready.  Right now, my knees are not ready.  I also went out and purchased some clothes that fit me right now instead of torturing myself in the ones that would fit better if I lost 10-20 pounds.  I bought some things I might not normally wear because I shouldn't dress like that.  Fuck that. I looked in the mirror and did not love what I saw, but I accepted it for now.  Not forever...for now.

I had been growing my hair out most of the year as well.  Why?  I don't know, partly to hide the face  that has become so fat again, partly trying to recapture the past maybe.  Well, I put an end to that, too.  I went back to a shorter style that makes more sense. Crappy looking hair doesn't hide anything, just advertises it like a billboard.  Anyway, let go of some unhealthy thoughts and cut that dead stuff off.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I get my body still looks like a Stay Puff Marshmallow man, and I'm not saying I'm in love with it.  I'm not.  But today I accept it for what it is and know that I will do the best I can to make it better.  I don't have an epic plan to change it, but I will change it.  It might not happen the way it does for everyone else, but I'll figure out something.

Being in this calmer place scares me because I always feel like if I am not agonizing over a plan or what I'm going to do or setting a goal, that nothing is going to happen.  Like, things will never get better if I stop being vigilant about worrying or being engaged.  What if I become a "tomorrow" person.  Nothing will ever get better right?  Is being a tomorrow person bad?  Is it better? I don't know that any of us  can answer that, other than I have survived all the past tomorrows that have become the today's.



Tomorrow
Tomorrow is going to be the best day.
Tomorrow is when everything is going to be okay
Tomorrow is when all our dreams come true.
Tomorrow is when you'll become a better you.
Tomorrow you'll get a better job, a better car, a better place to live.
Tomorrow is when your partner will give you all they have to give.

Tomorrow is when you'll get rid of those that suck the life from your soul.
Tomorrow is when you will find the one that makes you feel whole.
Tomorrow you'll have a new plan, you'll make a fresh start, you'll make your dreams come true. Tomorrow is the day you will finally say, "I love you."
However...
Tomorrow is not promised, it may not come.
Tomorrow you may not wake up, your life may be done.
Tomorrow it may not be you, but that someone you love is no longer there.
Tomorrow is the day you had planned to visit them and show that you care.
Tomorrow is always one day away, that day you believe the best is yet to be lived.
Tomorrow may be the day you regret all the things you never did.
So, what if...
Maybe we live in today, be present and enjoy what we've been gifted.
Maybe we live today and allow all the pressure of tomorrow to be lifted.
Maybe we decide today is the day to make a change for the good of  "what's best for me."
Maybe we decide that today we are good enough and that where we are is exactly where we are meant to be.  ~Cassondra Zuver

So, for 2019, here I am.  Me and my pony. Taking one day at a time and more time to enjoy the day.

Things we can look forward to Angry Pony discussing in 2019:

• Why do people always use the door that says: Please Use Other Door?
• Why does auto-correct change words that I type that are actual words to other words?
• De-cluttering my life (which also includes Shark Bait's life)
• Why are doctor's afraid of my Google MD degree?
• A bunch of other stuff....I'll try and blog more funny stuffs, I've been remiss in my duties.

Bewitched by the Dress

So, first of all, I'm still on my high from wearing a dress today that had pockets.  It's really a pretty big deal.  Like, I had my hands in there whenever I was walking and I felt so...carefree and whimsical. I felt as if  I should have no cares in the world as I sauntered around like a girl in a douche commercial walking in the park on a summer's day.  I even thought to myself, with that sort of freedom it is good that men don't wear dresses with pockets.  I mean, the access they could have to their junk...productivity would be at an all-time low, from a corporate standpoint.   As a woman, I just want to put lip gloss or a feminine product in there and know that I can be hands free with my lip gloss safely riding at my side ready for use at a moments notice.  I think they call that "peace of mind." 

Anyway, I'm coming off that high, but also I have been agonizing about an experience I had yesterday.  It all started with this dress.

I saw this dress a week or so ago in a Torrid catalog sent to my home.  I was all a-twitter and thought,"that is so cute!"  I figured it probably wouldn't look very good on me because I do not have the model's curves.  My curves are in different places.  Like, where her hips are, those lady lumps are sticking out the front where my stomach is, or are lower on my thighs.  And, don't get me started about her boobs.

Well, fast forward to yesterday.  I needed to take my wedding ring in to the store where we purchased it at the mall so it could have its semi-annual check and rhodium plating done.  I had to walk right by the Torrid store.  This dress was hanging in the front window and I knew it was a sign I should go in and try it on, you know, just to see.  It wasn't going to work, I knew it, but I just had to put this curiosity to bed. 

I walked in and acted all casual, like the dress didn't matter.  I cruised around looking at other stuff, the clearance rack, you know, played it cool.  I didn't need the dress.  No. Big. Deal.  But nothing interested me like that damn stripey dress.  Before long, there I was, standing on my tippy-toes trying to get a hold of the freaking hanger without looking like a desperate bridesmaid trying to catch a bouquet.  It was on the upper rack where only giants can reach, but I did manage to get two different sizes to try on.

I took some other stuff in the dressing room as well.  None of it really rocked my world, but I had saved the best till last.  I put on the bigger size first, assuming it was the way to go.  It kind of hung on me like a sack.  It was longer than I thought it would be and I just looked at my reflection sad and disappointed. I tried to talk myself into it and make it okay.  Like, this could work.  Finally, I took it off and tried on the smaller size.  Hey, this is form fitting, it actually looks a bit better than the first one by being snugger.  I turned around and looked at my back-side.  Oh my word, my ass looked fantastic in this dress.  I ran my hand over my ass and was like, damn, girl!  Not that my ass is anything special, but in that moment, I'd date me with that ass in that dress.  Then I stood facing front analyzing if the dress was flattering with the stripes.  It kind of was.  I didn't have the curve-in at the waist like the model in the picture, but I didn't have anything bulging out or cellulite showing through either.  I looked pretty good, I thought.  I started to get excited.  Could I be brave enough?  Could I wear this and have the confidence?  The dress left no room for imperfections.

And then, the nightmare began...I turned sideways.  That's right, I stood there side-ways looking at how I looked from the side...in the mirror...at my side...in the mirror...  I looked like I was smuggling a sack of potatoes in my mid-section.  And then, it kind of hugged the front of my thighs.  At that moment, I wished I was a Flat Stanley, like people only saw me from the front.  I was horrified, but I still tried to make it okay.  I thought, well, people will mostly be walking towards me, or behind me thinking, "look at that ass...".  Most people won't be looking at me from the side... What about when I sit down?  What happens to the potato sack?  Will it shift? Will it rest on my muffin top?  I just didn't know.

I so wanted the dress, and it is such a stupid thing to want a dress that bad.  I don't know if I wanted the dress more or just to be able to wear something that a thinner person could wear.  This is when the inner dialogue really got serious.  I thought, you know what, who cares what I look like from the side?  Will anyone else notice?  Yes, they will.  Or...maybe they won't?  Maybe I should just own it?  You know, some big girls really own it.  I wanted to own it, but was I brave enough? I usually dress strategically enough to cover some of the bumps...and potatoes.  I mean, it isn't like people don't know I'm fat, I'm not a fucking magician.  It's just, I don't advertise curves that don't exist and I don't let my belly hang out.  My ass though...I had to admit, it looked good.  Not like Kardashian or Beyonce booty, but you know, not too shabby for a girl like me.

I tried on the bigger size again.  No, it wasn't the same.  I tried on the smaller one again.  The potatoes are still there.  I tried on the bigger one again, could I make it work?  Would I be more comfortable?  No.  I tried on the smaller one again.  I wanted it.  I wanted to be that confident. I wanted to wear what I wanted to wear and not be held back by bad body images.  I wanted to accept this body in front of me for the moment, with the understanding I will continue to try and make it better.  I tried on the bigger one again.  No.  No.  It's not the one.  I put on the smaller one again.  I begged myself to make peace with my potatoes. 

I couldn't.  I left the dress.

But, I can't stop thinking about it.  I feel so stupid for continuing to think about it.  I don't know why this one has me so bewitched.  I think maybe it's my mind making it a big deal for a reason I don't quite understand.  I told The Rug Doctor today about the dress.  She was proud of me for liking my ass and excitedly asked, "So, did you get the dress?"  I said, "No.  I couldn't do it."  She looked kind of disappointed, but then nodded her head and said, "okay."

What should I do? Embrace the potatoes and buy the dress? Or, be happy that I have the common sense not to make a spectacle of myself?  Should I be confident and damn anyone that looks down on me for an inappropriate fashion choice?  Or, make peace with the fact that the dress just isn't for a girl with this body shape?  I don't really give a shit what people think of me, but at the same time, I don't want to feel so completely exposed.  And, abs shouldn't be made of potatoes, but mine are.

Is this the dumbest blog I've ever written?  I'm not sure.  Is this like a real growth moment?  I don't know.

Seriously confused.

#sidepotato #idtapmyownass #stripeddressgotmelike  #areyoureadyforthisjelly