2014 Year of the Angry Pony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, maybe in 2015:

• Plastic Surgery: Where'd My Skin Go?

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

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

December 2013

September 2010

The Power of the Pajamas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death of an FCD

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dark Places in my Mind...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homework - Letter to Myself...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motorhome Terrorists

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

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

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

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

Bathroom Ambassador

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, that is all.

Sincerely,
The Bathroom Ambassador