Time to put The Pony out to Pasture?

I've been thinking about my blog quite a bit lately. Thinking about how I need/want to blog, but that I don't know what to write anymore.  In the beginning it was clear.  I was documenting all the stories that were funny or making me mad.  Life was just pissing me off and I loved to rail about it and you enjoyed reading about it, or so it seemed.  Then, it turned to more of my weight-loss journey and self-discovery.  Now, it depends on the day as to what words come out on the page.  It's more of Lost Pony than Angry Pony.  Which makes me wonder, is it time to stop this blog?  Put the pony out to pasture?  I just don't know. 

I put a post on FB earlier today stating that I was thinking about closing it down, but wanted to save the stories and asked for folks to send me some tips if they knew how to do this.  I received a few private messages asking me why I was going to stop blogging.  People were saying they didn't think I should stop.  But I have to ask myself, have I lost my edge?  Have I lost my way?  Do I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear anymore?

In this current age of everyone getting offended about everything and people wanting the hate to stop (self included), is there a place for Angry Pony?  Maybe being this Angry Pony is holding me back from everything I want in life? Maybe Angry Pony's outlook is the problem?  See, shit just got real there. It's so complicated.  AND, honestly, how many times can I talk about my FCD?  How many times can Spanx/Pranx be a topic of discussion? I mean we are NEVER going to figure out how to use that pee hole in the crotch of those damn things.  How many times can we talk about the bathroom situation at the Glass Palace and people coming to hiring events in Unicorn Poop t-shirts and mismatched shoes?  How many times can we talk about my lack of ability to lose weight?  How many times can we talk about my boobs going East and West when I lay down and my arm fat...and muffin top?  How many times can we talk about how stupid doctors are?  Admittedly, that never gets old, because seriously, buncha idiots with fancy paper in a frame on the wall.  How many times can I possibly get trapped in stall one with my bracelet stuck to the back of my tights and I'm in a bind?  Actually, that is an on-going problem, seriously.  How many dead things are going to rot under my house? How many times can people piss me off in traffic? And vaginas.  I mean, they've come up a few times.  Who blogs about vaginas?  Or shitting their pants?  (raises hand, looks around room, sees no one else's hand is up...puts hand back down)

Now, let's talk about self-discovery, how much self-discovery can the world handle?  How many Therapy Thursdays can we review?  I mean, my God, aside from the Rug Doctor, I've now added a Psychiatrist to the support team of people that keep me from losing my mind because I need to figure out why I'm such a mess.  This whole 45th year of my life has been non-stop angst.  So much change, so much turmoil, so much aimless wandering to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do with my life and how to get what I want before I'm dead.  I'm about to turn 46.  Maybe my birthday will end this crazy cycle...magically.  As if the clock strikes midnight and this nightmare is over.  But my life has never been a fairy tale, so I'm not holding out hope for that.  Besides, hope is not a strategy.

In looking back over the last few years, I have shared some really personal stuff on here.  I have also shared some seriously embarrassing stuff.  I mean, after reading the Fifty Shades of Gray books, I blogged about the first time I had sex (I mean, it was a pretty epic tale, in my mind).  Nothing has been off the table, except my bosses at work (for the most part), family drama and my sex life with Shark Bait.  But even that isn't really true, because I have made a couple vague references.  And, for some reason you all followed me down this road.  I don't know why, but I know some of you have said different stories have resonated with you or made you feel better knowing you were not alone.  For that, I'm glad.  We are all in this life together and whatever we may be portraying on FB, the reality is, life is hard and painful and sometimes ugly.  Pretending that underbelly doesn't exist is not helpful, in my mind.  At the same time, life is also beautiful and precious.  I need to spend more time remembering that.

At any rate.  I'm writing this tonight because I don't know what I will do with this blog yet.  I'm torn.  I guess I will give it some more thought. Maybe just take a long break, or a short break, or maybe I'll just chain watch episodes of Family Feud and pet my wiener while sitting in my recliner until I die. It's a crap-shoot right now.  If this does end up being the last blog, thanks for reading and coming on Angry Pony's journey.  If it doesn't end up being the last...well...I guess I'll blog some more.

Which way do I go?

10 Years With Shark Bait

This Labor Day weekend Shark Bait and I will celebrate 10 years of marriage.  On September 2, 2007 I said "I do" to the person that I was meant to find and spend the rest of my days making crazy. That poor guy.  However, I never hid the true me.  I let my crazy show.  I waved the crazy flag proudly.  He came into this relationshiop under full disclosure, with the exception of the blog name.  I'm certain he didn't know on that amazing day that someday he would obtain a blog name and that it would be used on the regular about our crazy life.  To be fair, I didn't know either, but some things are just meant to be, I guess.

In the beginning...

Looking back, I didn't think that I would ever get married.  I was pretty sure I'd die alone and that my 30 cats would eat off my carcass for weeks until someone finally found my remains.  I mean, there is no guarantee that won't happen, I guess, since I'm still alive, but the good news is, I have Shark Bait and zero cats right now, so I am less likely to be used for cat consumption.  Anyway, I met Shark Bait and he was goofy, but sweet.  He was a gentleman and made me feel safe. We dated for two years before he proposed and then we married a year later. Our wedding day was so fun and so special, I will always recall it with the best of memories.  My Dad walked me down the aisle and gave me away to this man that I loved and we were surrounded by family and friends.  Best day ever.

Best day ever...and then life started coming at us fast and furious.  Many of the problems that couples don't have to face for several years were thrust at us immediately.  I guess it is lucky that we got married in our mid-thirties, because we seemed a little more emotionally equipped to handle it all.  No matter what came our way though, we have never turned on each other, only turned towards each other.  Don't get me wrong, there are days I want to punch him in the breadbasket, but we work it out.  Shark Bait doesn't like conflict, which helps, I guess.  I try and get him to fight with me sometimes and he won't do it.  It kind of makes me mad sometimes, so I have to up the ante and get a bit hysterical.  That usually gets his attention.  Maybe by our 20th anniversary he'll learn to spar with me a bit so that I don't have to take it up to the next level.

The best thing about our marriage is that we have a comfort level with each other that some may say defies any sense of mystery or romance, but here's the deal, if I have something on my butt and I don't know if it is a zit, a bug bite or MRSA, I need someone to take a look at that.  I don't have time for embarrassment, boundaries or disinterest.  I could be dying and we won't know until someone looks at that spot on my butt that is itchy and sore.  I'm not saying this happens a lot, I'm just saying, it's happened.  Thankfully, Shark Bait is up for the task, which is good because I can't see back there and he can get a magnifying glass and really assess the situation, you know?  Also, Shark Bait can't always tell when his eyebrows are closing in on a Bert and Ernie situation.  I'm there for him.  I got that plucking action down.  It's give and take, but I know not everyone is about that kind of thing.  Especially the bathroom door thing.  Honestly, I'd like Shark Bait to close that door more frequently, but hey, whatever, everybody poops, right?  They even wrote a book about it.

I know I don't have to go into a lot of detail about the kind of shenanigans we get into, because I've already blogged a lot about it.  We'll just leave it here by saying, we're comfortable and I don't know if I could ever have that level of comfort with anyone else.  It's not that I'm scared to show my butt to other people, but it's a safe kind of comfortable that I can't really explain, but I hope everyone can experience at some point in their life.  If the butt example didn't clarify it, let me put it another way.  It's the kind of comfortable that you can totally hate your body and how it looks, but you can stand there naked in front of this other person (with the light on) knowing that they love all of you and all they see is beauty.  They don't see all the things you obsess about.  They just see this person that they love so much and want to hold in their arms.  That's the comfort level I'm talking about.  I always tell Shark Bait the only reason he thinks I'm beautiful is because he has bad eyesight, but the reality is, he sees ALL of me, inside and out, crazy and sane, good times and bad.  I'm pretty freaking lucky.  And, it goes without saying how lucky he is with me, mostly because I make sure the bills get paid and the cable stays on.  It's a love balance.

Shark Bait tells me he loves me every day, multiple times.  He tells me I'm beautiful every day.  He kisses me when I get up in the morning, he kisses me before we part ways and go to work, kisses me when we return home from work, kisses me before he falls asleep...every night.  Even if we were mad, still the kiss.  He holds my hand all the time in public and protects me in a crowd.  He's just always there.  Sure, I get after him for ignoring me on his phone or his Kindle, but in the big scheme of things, he's there. 

Our marriage is not perfect.  We struggle (mostly me because I over-analyze everything). Times get tough.  What has made it work over the last ten years is that we aren't going anywhere.  I'm not leaving, he's not leaving.  As he likes to say to me as he points to his ring finger, "bought and paid for."  No refunds, no returns, as is.  We are in this for the long haul.  He's my person, I'm his.  It's that simple.  It's love.

Happy 10 years, Shark Bait.  Remember, I love you just enough to be your forever person, to fold your underwear correctly and to tell you where all the stuff is that you lost, but not enough to give you that last cookie...even though you are always willing to give me yours.  I choose to believe you wouldn't have it any other way.  I am your Squishy.

BUY. THE. MUMU.

 I haven't really complained about my body lately, have I?  I mean, really got involved in addressing an issue?  Well, the wait is over.  Today I'm over it.

Today, I stand up and say, screw you mid-section. Eat shit and die, food baby.  And fuck off lop-sided hips.  All of you, just go to hell. I'm so sick of my straight up and down body with no womanly curves to hold up my clothes.  No booty, just a bunch of jiggly, cottage cheese thighs.  Most "plus-size" girls have some badonk-a-donk to hold up their pants and have, like, an indent between fat rolls to hold the waist of their pants up.  Not me.  Not this slab of beef.

For those of you that may not have ever experienced my unfortunate situation, there is a difference between having fat on your body and being voluptuous.  I'm not voluptuous.  I can't even get the right side of my waist and hips to hold up a pair of jeans.  Today, for example, my jeans, which are actually a bit big for me, decided they would ride up on the left hip, but below the 'ol jelly roll on the right side.  I put a belt on to assist with my crisis.  The problem with that is my freaking food belly decided it was going to push the waist of my jeans down.  So, I'm cinched up with the belt, my waistband has folded over and my belt doesn't even try to help me out and my right side is sticking out like you just busted open a biscuit can.

The belt isn't even trying

I can't operate under these conditions.  Add into the equation that my FCD (fat controlling device) is forcing the band of my bra into my body. Don't get me started on the fact that my boobs are not big enough to hold my bra in place.  The band just slides on up so that it looks like I'm harboring chicken breasts under my bra band, like they are oozing out from underneath.   All I could think was, just give in to what you've always known would be your future.  Don't fight it anymore.  You are a weight-loss failure, there will be no little black dress, just do what nature intended, BUY. THE. MUMU.  Just do it.  It's time.  We can't live like this anymore.  Our man boobs are tired of pretending to know Victoria's Secret, our hips can't support mainstream fashion and we sure as hell don't want to wear skinny jeans.  Skinny jeans for fat people.  I don't get it.  It's like diet water.  It doesn't make sense.  I look like a waffle cone when I wear skinny jeans.  Small at the bottom, big 'ol wide funnel on the top that you could load ice cream in for days!

So, I started looking for mumu's online. I found this beauty right away.

Mumu shopping. This one is a winner.

This girl looks really happy with her choice.  She doesn't seem in distress, no slippage, no busted biscuit.  We don't even know if she is wearing a bra.  I sense she might be, but again, she's adding a little air of mystery, a little, "come see whats discounted at the tent sale" kind of thing.  If you think about it, she's being flirty.  Almost luring the men in.  No one knows what's under there.  She might not even be wearing underpants.  She could be wearing Care Bear underpants and pasties for all we know.  Look at that shade of lipstick she is wearing, she's kind of a seductress. She could be hiding a wanted criminal in that dress.

If that girl can do it, why the hell can't I?  I just need to know, what is the best fabric for a mumu?  Is it a rigid cotton blend that makes you itch or can you really just go with a poly-blend?  I think the pattern is a must to distract the eye from any unflattering shape you may have.  How do you know if a mumu is the right size?  How much leg should really show?  Should you show any skin at all?  I think it is a personal preference, of course, but this girl pictured above is clearly being playful with her choice.

I've got a couple fleece blankets, let's see if I can re-create her splendor.

You don't even know if I'm wearing a bra...or if I have boobs...

Who says I can't be "playful" in this.  I could totally Instagram this shot.

Look at this, pulling the back around to the front...REGAL!

I don't know, I'm still not doing it right.  Not doing the mumu justice.  Let's find more pictures.  I need to know what is socially acceptable, you know?

Here's our sassy minx at it again.  I was right about her.

This lady really does it up nice with accessories and great make-up.

This here is what I think I'm striving for.  And, she was lucky enough to find a hat to go with.

I think what I've learned today is that wearing a mumu is okay.  And, if you accessorize appropriately, you can work it as good as any model on the catwalk.  I just need to let it go.  Stop trying to fight my body and be at one with the cards I was dealt.  As long as I can put a poly-blend tent on this body, there is no reason to fight my belly, bra or jeans ever again!  Hell, I may even start a movement!  Or, maybe I'm joining one already in progress?  I don't know, but the world is about to find out.

My weekend just filled up, mumu shopping is happening!

Can You Become Numb To Anger?

Do you remember being a kid just playing and then suddenly screaming and your parents came running to see if you were okay? And every time after that, when you screamed or cried, they'd come check on you, maybe having a little slower response-time as they got used to your shenanigans?  And then after that, pretty soon, they didn't come running, they figured you were fine.  And you were.  You didn't die, it was a long way from your heart. That spider didn't kill you (although, I have it on good authority, they seek vengeance on humans all across the world and are Satan's minions and they love the blood of children) nobody bled to death, you grew up and here you are, no worse the wear for getting socked in the arm by that little bastard, Bobby, that lived down the street from you.  No worse the wear for falling off your bike or getting shocked from peeing on an electric fence.  You're fine.  And, your parents have probably lost some sleep along the way worrying about the stupid shit you did, but eventually, they just shrugged and went with it.  They may have built up a little resistance to your bullshit.  Not that they don't care, but it's all in the day of the life of a parent raising a strong-willed child.  Or, maybe you were a little angel and never caused them any pain because you were perfect. (*coughs*) Bullshit.

Anyway, my point in going on about wearing down your parents is that I think it is a good metaphor for what I am experiencing in my life right now, which is, I fear I have developed a numbness to my anger.  Perhaps, my give a damn is busted for good.

It's no secret, I can go on a tangent about things that piss me off.  I created this Angry Pony blog to help me express those angry rants and to entertain people about the stupid shit that happens in life that really does need to be analyzed or laughed about.  In the beginning, it was funny stories, then it went to just raging about everything, then back to random stuff, and then it became a journal in my weight-loss journey and in dealing with my on-going depression and figuring life out.  Writing is how I work things out. Weird, but it's how I do it.  Well, that and eating...and petting my pony....and watching skinny girls in turmoil on TV...and sex.  But I digress.  Anyway, in the space I am in mentally right now, I'm coming to discover that while I can get angry about the stupid things in everyday life, like the asshats on the mother trucking freeway on the way home, I'm not really able to reach the kind of anger I need to affect change in my life.  That saddens and scares me at the same time.

Is it possible that I have become numb to true anger?  I don't mean the kind of numb you get from sitting on the toilet too long reading Cosmo and then you can't stand up because you can't feel your legs, but you have to get up because it hurts, but you're afraid if you get up you'll fall down and someone will find you on the floor with your underwear around your ankles, Cosmo thrown across the floor and you may or may not have left skid marks on the seat. I mean the kind of numb where being mad doesn't seem effective in any way anymore.  Some might say that anger never solves anything.  I disagree.  I think sometimes you have to get so mad about how life is going that you put your foot down and vow to make a change.  You change your life.  You hit rock-bottom and say, NO MORE.  You stop the bullshit because you are driven by this power within.  And, somewhere along the line it changes from anger to action and change and then to having a power within you that says, "you know what? There is nothing I can't do."  I don't mean the kind of power you need to sit in line at the DMV waiting to renew your drivers license or to sit on Santa's lap at Christmas.  Those are short-term, temporary goals.  I am talking long-term, change your life stuff.

I've talked before about feeling angry that I have never had "a moment" that made me want/need to change.  It's always been there, this need for change.  As an overweight infant, toddler, child, teen-ager, young adult and now full-on mid-life crisis unicorn-loving friend-of-chocolate, I've always had to fight for change.  And, my body has always fought against me.  I have always lost. In 2013, I had hope for the first time in a long time and while I started to succeed, my body betrayed me and then I succumbed to the depression again.  I think a part of me figured that was my last chance and I blew it.

My therapist says it is the years of negative re-enforcement that has caused these internal messages of "I can't" and that I need to re-program positive messages in my head.  How do I do that when I'm all, "If I read one more Pinterest pin telling me that every day is a blessing and that there is something positive in each day and we get back what we put out to the universe, I'm going lose it!"  My therapist has been trying to reprogram me for years.  It's like she's trying to take a kitchen mop and equip it to make a flight to the moon and back.  I don't think it can be done.  See there, that's my problem.  Just so you know, we've pin-pointed my problem.  It isn't hiding anywhere, it's like an elephant standing in the open prairie, we can see it.

So, am I just so tired of trying to change that I can't get angry enough anymore? I can't get down-right furious that I can't achieve this one thing in life that I want the most?  And don't tell me maybe it isn't meant to be, or that I should be happy for what I have.  I am happy for what I have, but that does not change my desire and need to be in a healthier body.  So, just do it, you say.  Stop bitching and just do it. Seems simple.  Why can't I dig deep enough to do it?  Why can't I get angry enough to do it?  Have all the asshats on the freeway cutting me off wore out my give a damn?  Where is my inner warrior?  Where is Angry Pony?

And so, I'm at a standstill. I'm at a crossroad.  I'm at an Taco Bell wanting an Oreo Blizzard from DQ.  You know what I mean?  Does anyone else feel like this?  Is anyone else so overwhelmed by all the hate and anger in the world that you've just succumbed to this place of being where you are just, "meh, whatever?"  I don't think you are.  I see all the rage on social media all the time.  But that is not productive anger, that is just spewing hate, I guess.  Totally different.  However, people are genuinely upset about what is going on in the world.  Do we all feel so helpless to change it that we just accept it and grumble?  We just live our life and take what it gives us?  We just berate stupid people in You Tube videos because that is our outlet? 

I'm asking, how do I stop being numb to the anger?  How do I find the courage and strength?  I actually encourage your advice, unless you're quoting Buddha, save that shit for Pinterest. And, the first person that quotes me Curly from the movie City Slickers and tells me I gotta figure out this "one thing,"  I'll throat punch you.  See, there is anger, but it isn't going to change my life unless I end up in prison.  Not helpful, but on the other hand I bet I could lose weight in prison...

Angry Pony vs. Dalai Lama

I've recently been friended on the book of the face by a person that posts a lot of positive stuff.  He's a very self-assured, confident and positive person and lives his life as such.  He's kind of like a Success Buddha (I think he just got a blog name).  Anyway, he posts stuff that I instantly have a sarcastic response to because that is pretty much what I do. I hold back from mocking too much, because I don't want to ruin his mojo, plus I secretly worry the universe will punish me.  I think I mock a positive outlook because it is easier to make fun of something than it is to embrace it and make a choice to live it. Some would argue that it is actually easy to be positive.  I'd counter, you talk to all the angry pony voices in my head and reason with them.  I've been seeing the Rug Doctor for years.  This isn't a job for amateurs.

Anyway, after reading some of his posts lately, I thought, how did we all decide the Dalai Lama and all these other "deep" people were the end-all-be-all of wisdom?  I don't want a history lesson, I'm just saying, I've got some time on my hands and I've got some stuff to say.  I'd like a gig as epic as the Dalai Lama sitting there being all deep and saying epic stuff where people are like, "You know what, she's right."  For example, the Dalai Lama is all like, "Not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck." Who decided, you know what, that dude is right on, I'm glad I didn't get that promotion, I'm going to adopt this attitude? I'm not saying we need a world of sarcastic admins out there, I'm just saying, I've repeatedly stated, do not wipe poop on the bathroom wall, and nobody has adopted my way of thinking. Do I need to get a robe and sit at the top of the stairway in a meditative trance and chant softly, "use the toilet paper, not your hand....use the toilet paper, not your hand..." and then if someone comes to speak to me, I'm like, "what is it my child?"  And then the person says, "Someone took my lunch out of the fridge."  I'll sit there all ponderous and think deeply.  I might even eat a Hershey's kiss and then close my eyes and exhale.  Then I will say something epic like, "Do not want for something that no longer exists, for those who required the nutrients now have them and you are richer for providing that nutrient."  That person would say, "You know what, you're right.  I didn't really need that left over spaghetti anyway because I have a Cup O Noodle in my desk drawer.  Now two people have been fed instead of just one."  And with that, the person would walk away.

You know what?  Bullshit.  This Angry Pony is going to say something useful like, "You know what I think? Sucks to be you, dumbass, that's what you get for putting your lunch in a public fridge.  If you were truly hungry, you would have kept it at your desk in a little cooler bag.  A smart man looks out for his food in this dog eat dog world.  Now, go on with that hunger and plot your revenge.  Tomorrow, you bring two lunches, one for yourself and one that has Colon Blow in it and you put that one in the fridge.  Now, your food thief will shit his pants and be easy to find and then you can sit there, eat your sammich and laugh your ass off.  Now go, your problems make me tired."  This is the kind of helpful advice the world needs.  I've got more where that came from, too.

Say I'm sitting there,  at the top of the stairs again, in a robe and some pony print bottoms, and someone comes to me and says, "Angry Pony, I don't know what to do.  There is a car in the visitor parking area and I see it there everyday, so clearly it's someone who works here.  Someone needs to do something!"  I will once again ponder this most disturbing world problem.  I may scratch a little, take a few deep breaths and then I will impart my wisdom on this person.  It would probably go something like this, "Dear able-bodied person with a whiny tone, it would appear your legs work and you are able to climb these stairs to reach me.  You have a voice in which to cry out in angst. With these things being true, why is the presence of this car disturbing you so?  Have you no purpose greater than the car in the visitor parking spot?  Have you no ability to walk by the car and go about your day?  Are you letting this material object control you? Repeat after me, 'Who gives a shit?' Set your soul free!  Go about your day and wonder not where others park, but where you have parked your mind...and hopefully you have one of those auto-lock key chain things that makes your lights blink and horn honk so you can remember where you parked since there was no place in visitor parking for your lazy ass to park.  Now, take your petty bullshit, go on-line and donate some money to a charity that actually helps people without able-bodied limbs like yourself that would gladly walk from two rows over from visitor parking!  Now go!"

You know, the world needs someone to be that voice of reason.  The type of reason that people can readily understand right now.  The type of reason that they don't have to wait 20 years to make it click or have hindsight for.  I'm talking down and dirty, upfront and honest, in yo' face wisdom.  

Seriously, because while the Dalai Lama is saying that it's sometimes good luck to not get what you want, there's another quote I saw that basically says, all things are possible and who you are is only limited by who you think you are, or something like that.  Well, that's not what our pal Dalai just said, he said it was good luck, now this other wise-ass is saying you didn't get what you wanted because you were your own limit.  Look, we've got a world of millennials out there, we don't have time for them to figure this bullshit out.  We've got to be up front and honest with these people.  We do not have time for them to self-actualize!  There's no time!  Between Pokemon Go, Snap Chat, Grand Theft Auto and Game of Thrones, society doesn't have time to make sense out of life.  They need someone like Angry Pony to say, "you're being a dumbass! Look, you put the address in the middle of the front of the envelope and yes you need to include their name, street address, apartment number, city, state and zip code! And for fucksake, the stamp goes in mother trucking upper right hand corner!!!"

Look, I'm full of advice and problem solving skills.  I may not follow my own advice, but that is only because I am so self-actualized that I think I am fine the way I am even though I'm not, but believe that I am because I know that loving oneself is the key and that when one door closes a window opens, plus I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be as long as I do not look back because that is not where I'm headed, so actually, I do know what I'm talking about because you should always trust yourself and believe in yourself. For all I know, I'm a GD Unicorn!  So, what I'm saying is,I'm the girl for this job.

I think I need to create a homepage for my advice.  I don't think I do, I know I do.  You know why I know?  Because the only thing stopping me from what I want is me and I'm not going to stop me, so therefore, that's what I'm going to do.

Stay tuned.  Coming to a website near you, bitchy advice from a snarky admin.  It's just crazy enough to work.  

*FREE! Bonus advice during shark week!

Found a Starburst in my Pocket...

So, I think I've mentioned I'm having a mid-life crisis a few times now.  I really didn't know my 45th year of life was going to be the age of discovery for me, but it seems to be.  I'm questioning everything. I'm considering my regrets of the past and maybe I am trying to right them in some way and trying to "live it up" before my time is over.  I don't know.  What I do know is that I'm spending a lot more time thinking, which I didn't even know was possible to do.  I already make myself crazy by analyzing everything. You'd think I'd have figured this shit out by now, or at the very least, discovered a cure for cancer for the number of hours of analysis I've put in.  Yesterday is another prime example.

I'm driving home in rush hour traffic.  I have the radio on, I'm on the lookout for people driving like asshats, you know, the usual.  I think to myself, "dang, my mouth is really dry, I could use a mint or something...wait, isn't there a Starburst in my pocket?"  I had taken my fleece jacket off and it was thrown over the seat, so I'm driving with one hand and seeking the pocket with the Starburst with the other hand.  Digging, digging, damn it, wrong pocket, so I make my way to the other side of the jacket. My hand is in the pocket, I can feel the Starburst, but I can't get to it. What the hell?  It's then, at that moment, that I realize, I'm in a pocket on the inside of the jacket. Well color me happy, that jacket has had an inside pocket all this time and I never knew!  All this time, it was right there.  I could have used it for so many things...but I digress. I finally got to the right pocket and found the Starburst.  As I chewed on the orange Starburst, which is my second favorite flavor, the red one is the best, I thought to myself, this whole thing with the jacket is just like my life.

I spend all this time seeking this one thing. Searching, analyzing, dreaming about it, that I don't even see the things I do have that I should be thankful for, like a damn secret pocket.  And then, I'm sad I didn't know I had the pocket for all the things I could have used the pocket for. Wasted time with stuff in the pocket. And now, sure I can use it, but what about all that time that was wasted?  I think about that stuff. Why?  What possible benefit is there to doing that?  Then I start thinking about the Starburst.  It was the orange one.  Not the red one, which is my favorite.  I can't ever just have what I want.  I wanted a red one.  Why can't I just be thankful there was an orange one?  And be thankful it wasn't the pink one, because I really don't like the pink one. Don't get me wrong, I'll eat it, but I won't enjoy it.  Some people think pink is the best, but they are wrong.  I won't even take the time to argue about it.  Red is the best. End of story. Then I start wishing I had another Starburst, because correct me if I'm wrong, who just eats ONE of them?

This whole secret pocket and orange Starburst thing really is all about my life as I know it.  It really sums it up.  I just need to be thankful for what I have, orange or red.  I need to find joy in life's daily surprises.  To sum it up: Eat the mother trucking orange Starburst, enjoy it and be exited you have a new pocket to hide future Starbursts in and don't worry about when that will be, because someday, there will be one there, and if by some chance there isn't, that's okay because you'll probably stop at Wendy's someday and get a Frosty and that will totally make up for any Starburst that did or did not happen.  Why is that so hard to understand?

But here I am, frustrated because something I want, I can't have.  And it isn't that I can't have it, it's just that the store that has the red Starbursts is at the end of a difficult road. Like, I need 4-wheel drive to get there.  I have a Cabbage Patch Kids Big Wheel that barely gets me across the yard.  I need an upgrade, clearly. Trying to figure out how to get the upgrade.  The Angry Pony 4X4 Edition with the Power Train warranty.  And, if I could, the new truck smell.

So, anyway, that is pretty much why the red hair, because I can control the change, I can make it happen.  That's why the tattoo, I decided.  My body, my life, I controlled it. And both things I did not giving a shit who liked or didn't like, because I am all about not taking time to give others the power over me.  This year has changed me.  The Presidential election, the women's march, the ending of a friendship over it.  The open criticism, the silent opinion, I take it all in and I kick it back out to you.  Now, if I can use that power for my personal mission, that would be good.  That time is coming.  I know it is.

However, until that time comes, I don't know what may happen next. My hair may end up blue and I might start doing Yoga or something, but I probably won't pierce anything. As a matter of fact, on the way home after I got the tattoo, I was kind of on a high and I said to Shark Bait, "hey, should I pierce something for my next endeavor?" He asked if I wanted to get my nipples done. I asked, "Would that turn you on?" (asked for research purposes only, I'm NOT piercing my mother trucking nipples)  He says, "I don't know...." I responded with, "look, if you don't know, I sure as hell am not shoving little rods through my nipples.  Seriously."  So, just know, there will be no follow-up blog about what it was like the day I got X, Y, Z and certainly not my V, pierced.  Rest assured, not on my watch.  There is no crisis major enough to cause that madness to happen.

With all this said, I don't know how many of you put that much thought into getting a Starburst out of your pocket, but I'd love to hear some tips and tricks on how to make the process be shorter.

Thank you in advance for your suggestions.

It's all fun and games till your vagina catches on fire...

Well folks, it's Talk Me Down Tuesday.  I had a helluva week last week, so it was very much needed. And, as I often do, I'm working it all out right here in my blog. 

Today's session started out with me running down the list of things that have been going on in my life to The Rug Doctor.  I know I'm seeing the right person because after I finish, she says, "You are doing remarkably well, you didn't kill anyone or anything!"  At least the bar is set appropriately.  I told her how I had to say good-bye to my boss of two and a half years and how hard that was.  We had such a great working relationship and she has become someone I really genuinely care about.  She had our best interest at heart and fought for us and protected us at work.  Her leaving left me feeling vulnerable and sad, but then they brought in one of my previous bosses to temporarily fill-in.  While I was happy to see the previous boss, I was full of mixed emotions.  Like someone just gave me a puppy that I knew I would never be allowed to keep.  I've never been able to keep any of my bosses.  They all keep escaping.  I mean leaving.  I wasn't holding any of them hostage, I promise.

I went on to tell The Rug Doctor that I had to wear my big girl panties all week.  Honestly, they bind and pinch and they aren't comfortable to wear.  There is no joy in sucking it up, putting the brave face forward, acting like everything is okay, like it is all for the best, like you're happy for someone getting to move on. Like change is good.  Like we have to have faith.  Bullshit.

I told her that I was brave all week.  I looked people in the eye that I know are miserable, manipulative, ugly people inside and I was polite, because that is what I had to do. And I know karma is supposed to work that stuff out, but honestly, it's hard to wait. I looked my friends in the eyes and told them I was fine.  I moved forward and did what I needed to do.  I didn't get to spend time being sad. I took care of business. What I really wanted to do was to go bury my face in my pony's mane and cry, but there was no time for that.  And then we had Shark Bait's parents over for the weekend.  There was no decompression time and so I found myself sitting in The Rug Doctor's office saying how I didn't know how I had my shit together, but somehow I did.  I gave a little shout out to Effexor and the unlimited chocolate I had consumed.

I went on to share how I hadn't really broke until last night when I was on my way home and I saw this homeless guy on the corner as I got off the freeway.  He was old and wrapped in a blanket. He was holding a sign that said he was super hungry.  Not just hungry, he was SUPER Hungry.  At that moment I was so deeply sad that I didn't have any food to give to him and that it wasn't like I could just stop traffic and go ask what he needed.  Why was it this guy I had so much compassion for? Most of the people on that corner are meth-heads and I look the other way. Was this guy talking to my inner fat girl?  Was she like, "This guy...THIS GUY is SUPER hungry!!! Feed him!!!"  I don't know.  Can a soul starve?  Maybe my soul is starving?  I think it needs ice cream, frankly. 

Anyway, the Rug Doctor went on to say that there are extremes of compassion.  On one end is Kim Kardashian breaking a nail and on the other end is the Super Hungry homeless guy.  Each of us is somewhere in the middle of that scale.  We have to keep perspective on that. We can't compare where we are compared to that person.  That person's feelings are valid and so are ours.  I told her I didn't know how compassionate I was because if there are only two cookies left, guess who's getting those two cookies? Me.  Not one for Shark Bait and one for me...both are mine."  She said that cookies don't count, that is a whole different thing.  This is a relief to know that I don't have to share with Shark Bait.  He would share his with me, but I wouldn't share mine with him.  It's not that I'm a bad person, I just have a cookie superiority complex with the belief that cookies are better served in the hands of Angry Pony.  We need cookies to survive.  Kind of like vampires sucking your blood.  They aren't bad people, they are just thirsty and you have blood, they need blood, it's just how it is.

This just got weird.

I told The Rug Doctor about the conversation I had with my mother just before the appointment today. I told her that mom told me that my grandma is going to move farther away and grandma said who cares because she's only going to live a little bit longer anyway.  My brother is depressed and we are worried about his health. Mom isn't using her sleep apnea machine, which isn't good for her heart not to use it.  Some other drama I can't mention, and that she needed to clean the chicken coop, which in itself is not stressful, but the fact that mom really would rather be cleaning the chicken coop than talk to me caused things to escalate and so I said, "Great, Grandma's dying, my brother is going to die, you're going to die because you're aren't using your machine and there I am, waiting to die..."  And then, my loving mother, in her most matter of fact tone says, "Well, none of us are going to have to worry about any of that if North Korea has their say."  I sat there stunned...what the fuck?  Clearly, I had missed a very important Facebook update.  I said, "What?"  She says, "Yeah, they are going to bomb us with nuclear warfare, we'll all be dead."  What else was left to say?  "Well, Mom, this was uplifting. You go work on that chicken coop."

The Rug Doctor says I can't spend a lot of time worrying about that.  Like I have to put a priority on my worry.  Worry about immediate imminent things, but only a little bit, because that is normal, but don't spend a lot of time dwelling on what I can't control.  I told her the worry has to go somewhere.  It comes out in my dreams.  And, I didn't want worry or stress coming out of me like it did for this woman I heard about at work.  I guess her tampon caught on fire.  I'm not lying.  I've seen the pictures of the little tampon disposal container.  It had black scorch marks on it and I saw the picture of the tampon after the fire had been put out.  Look, if some woman was so pissed that her tampon caught on fire, that is a serious health concern that I, for one, am not going to take lightly.  I don't want a smoking vagina.  If your tampon is so hot it catches on fire, as far as I'm concerned, that is a reasonable excuse for missing work.  Like, "hey boss, I'm not feeling well, my tampon just caught on fire, I'm gonna go lay down and put an ice pack on the hootch" is a totally reasonable thing to say.  I didn't know it was even a thing that could happen.  I mean, the reality is, some chick probably lit a cigarette in the loo and flicked it in the tampon container thing.  But we don't know that.  As far as I'm concerned, a smoking vagina is a legit thing.

So, that kind of rounded out our therapy session.  I mean, once you've talked about smoking vagina's, what else is there to say?  Not much, really.  With that said, I'm supposed to give myself a pat on the back for surviving this past week, I'm supposed to focus on not worrying until it's time to worry.  She doesn't think the North Korea thing is critical today, so I can store that for later. I can wear loose fitting clothing during shark week to prevent over-heating and I can try and enjoy the time I have now.  And, I can choose coping mechanisms like when I wrote that blog tribute to my mom several months back, that was my way of taking care of the worry that my mom would never know how much I loved her.  That idea inspired me, actually.  I'm thinking about starting a series of blogs saying goodbye to people or things that are important to me, in case I never really get the chance.  Like, my pony, my dog, my husband, my other family members, my friends, my cell phone, my job, my FCD, ice cream...you know, the stuff that deserves a proper tribute.  I'll think more on that because I'm pretty sure if I wrote a tribute to my job right now...probably not my best career move.  Maybe I'll focus on saying good-bye to submitting tickets about shit floating around on the floor in the mens room.  It'd be a real tear-jerker, I can promise you that.

Until next time, keep your bits ventilated and don't worry, be happy...