Yes fellas, it’s a boob post.  Carry on.

{I want to take a moment here to tell you that I have two MIL’s- just so there is NO confusion for anyone.  One is the mother of my husband.  One is his step-mother.  His step-mom, in addition to being my MIL, has become my very dear friend and my mom-in-town, since mine is far away.  I will, from now on, call her my MILK.  Because her last name starts with a K. Not because she’s lactating.  Or lactose intolerant.  Oh Lord, this isn’t going well.}

So every year on my birthday my MILK {that just seems awkward now.} takes me on a little shopping trip for some new bras.  It is glorious.  I’ve heard you’re supposed to shop for new bras every three months.  That. Is. Redonkulous.  Who in the world can afford bras every three months? If I replaced my bras quarterly there would be a Spandex shortage in North America.

Anywho… my MILK and I were out shopping it up looking for brassieres this weekend and having a fun ol’ time.  For the first time in a while I don’t have to get a fitting.  A few years running there, I was either just finishing nursing babies or losing weight or gaining weight or whatever else causes your boobs to change size and shape and zip codes.  I have to say, I freaking hate getting bra fittings.  I’m not a fan of another woman with icy cold hands feeling me up while I try to wrangle a bra under fluorescent lighting.  None of that is remotely appealing to me.  So I was happy for no fitting.  I got a new bra this summer, I know what size it is and it still fits fine.  Even if it was cheap.

But then I start trying bras in that size.  And things aren’t working out.  I’m smooshed and coming out of places I shouldn’t be and things are just wrong.  SO I call the bra lady in, tell her I need new sizes and hope to god she doesn’t start rooting around in there trying to find the problem.  I just tell her I’m smooshed and need her to bring in the triples.  Poop.  I thought I was going to be a double.  I just want to be a double, dammit!  Sensing my disappointment, she brings me in a bigger band size so I can stay a double.  Fine.

NOT FINE.  {More on that later.}

So two doors down my MILK starts asking me what’s going on.  Oh, I just have to go to a different size I say.  “What size?”  {Keep in mind, we are in a packed dressing area on a busy shopping Saturday and she’s a full two dressing rooms away.}  “One that I don’t care to holler across the third floor,” I sarcastically respond.   All sorts of ladies giggle and think we’re cute.  Because we are.  I seriously don’t mind shouting out to the whole continental US and everywhere else that I’m a 36DDD online, but somehow I just don’t like to do it in Nordy’s.  Or wherever.  Because then when I leave the dressing room somebody is inevitably going to be checking me out to see what it looks like.  At least they will in my mind.  I’m crazy, remember.

So Jennifer or Brittany or someone who’s boobs are still looking straight ahead and not at their feet brings me my new bra.  I try it on and everything seems to be in it’s place.  So I ignore the other million bras she gave me as options and move on.  I’m ready to be done.

Then yesterday I put on one of my new bras.  And all day long I just felt a little off.  You know, when you accidentally have a pair of panties wadded up inside your jeans from the dryer and feel weird all day but don’t know why?  Then you take your pants off that night and “AHA!” that’s what it was. {Thank god it didn’t fall out when I was volunteering at the kid’s school.}  That’s how I felt.

Then when I was getting ready to unhook my bra and Houdini out of it for late night TV watching on the couch, I looked down and saw them.  It’s like they’re both trying to run and hide in my armpits.  And they look a little coney island or something.  The boobages? They are NOT right in these bras.  I ask Jimmie and he says, “yah. they are a little weird.”

So FANTASTIC.  Now I have to return bras and let some cold handed lady feel me up.  I hope she’s 72 and wrinkly.  Because when we’re both standing there comparing who’s boobs are going to win the downhill derby, I want it to be hers.



{So I wrote this today.  And then I felt like someone might see it as me fishing for validation and pats on the back and “awww you’re so much better than the self-depreciating things you say about yourself” comments.  And I felt weird about that.  So I took it down.  And then I realized it was gone forever so I asked a friend who I know receives posts via email to send it to me.  When she did the subject line was “PUT IT BACK UP MOTHER FUCKER.”  And I am marginally scared of her because she is even crazier than I am.

So here.  But please don’t say nice things to me in the comments.  Unless you want to tell me I’ve been looking skinny lately.  Because that shit is what I want to hear.}

I wonder if you’ve noticed my complete MIAness as of late.  Not only have the ol’ blog posts grinded to a stand still, but I also have been silent on pretty much all social media.  Some might say it’s because I tried using Pinterest and realized I’m completely incompetent on the internetz so I grounded myself.  That might be true.

Others might say a bit of self-examination was in order so I took some time for that.  While it is October, and I most certainly am thinking pink  (how could I not be? it’s freaking everywhere.)  I am not referring to my monthly breast exam.  But ladies, you should totally remember your monthly ritual.

Some personal situations arose that urged me to look into why I write this blog.  What am I trying to accomplish?  Am I just out to passive-aggressively trash the people around me and make them feel bad?  Do I hope to do something to change the world and make it a better place?  (While doing a sing-along with Lil Wayne and a voice-over from Michael Jackson?)  Do I have absolutely NO respect for the private life of my family, husband, children, friends, etc. and assume I can use them as entertaining fodder for a bunch of people I don’t even know?

Here’s what I came up with.  If you’re a long-time reader or you just happened here, if I know you in real life or we’ve become friends online, this is what you might want to know about me.  I write this blog because I’m an internalizer.  I take everything personally and let it hurt my feelings, and then I let it stew around inside of me until I send myself into a downward spiral and shut down.  I ride a fine line between sanity and… less than sanity.  If I somehow find a way to let it out on this blog, it helps.  Sometimes only marginally, and sometimes life-changingly (yes, I just made that word up.)

I’m pretty sure a lot of the bloggers I’ve met and become friends with over the years can say the same thing.  A lot of bloggers joke about how we blog because we can’t afford therapy.  I absolutely know that’s true for me.  I blog because I know if I internalize the things floating around in my mind and never let them out, I will most certainly follow in many of my family’s footsteps straight to the pharmacy for a healthy dose of happy pills.  I blog in the way that I do, outrageously and sometimes in a way that would make Howard Stern blush, because at this point, that’s what I’m comfortable with.

I’m okay with sharing a part of myself with the world that most people aren’t comfortable with if I can do it on my terms.  Right now, my terms are doing so in a humorous irreverent way because for me, it makes it less personal.  Most days, it would be impossible for me to tell you that just like a million other women in my world, I struggle with depression and feeling completely alone on a near-daily basis, I’m insecure about the way my family views me and my housewifing skills and I fear I’m screwing my kids up beyond blogger therapy and one day they’ll need a real one.  Or a padded room.

And let’s be real here, if I did write like that every day, you sure as hell wouldn’t be here reading this.  But if I can joke about it, tell my story in a way that’s funny and tragic and completely outrageous then most of you want to watch the train wreck and many can even relate to it.  And then we’ve formed a community.  One that even occasionally supports one another. Or tells the other one to shut the hell up and get over it!  And since I’m such a shit-show in real life, it’s kind of nice to have a community here.

If you ever go to a blog conference or look into becoming a successful blogger, the thing they pass out like Kool-Aid is that you must find your voice and stick to it.  Decide what you’re “theme” is going to be and don’t stray from it often.  Let your readers know what to expect.   I’ve always struggled with this because I talk about such random crap.  I’m certainly not a Mommy Blogger but I do talk about my kids on occasion.  I don’t do how-to’s or reviews.  I could care less about sharing a recipe with you.  (I get them all online so you can google “Chicken & Dumplings” just like I did, okay!?)  I guess if I had to choose one, I’d be a humor writer, but I most certainly am not in the same realm as the bloggess and the like.  So I’m going to make up my own category.  They do it at the Oscars all the time. Right?  I’m going to be in the category of psychotic humor with a twist of reality.  Or… whatever, you make it up.  It doesn’t really matter because I don’t expect to be getting an Oscar.  Okay, then. Good.

I know I swear too much.  I know I show humiliating videos of me being sweat-slimed by a disgusting stripper and that it’s revolting.  I know I’m not always uplifting and inspiring.  I’m angsty and sarcastic and sometimes I’ve even said things that make my family mad.  The only thing I would change on this list is that I never want to hurt my family or friends.  So I’ll be careful about that one.  But the rest of it is up for grabs.  And if I want to say fuck or talk about sex or even tell you what an asshole driver my husband is, I will do it.  And you are welcome to read Dr. Laura or Dooce.  They are far more touchy-feely and nice than I am.

This is my therapy.  And while it is public for the world to read, it is and will remain mine.  Some parts of it will be 100% true and some will be 99% exaggerated madness.  Sometimes I will write my feelings/situations in broad generalizations and you will wonder “wow. is she talking about me?”  Sometimes I will be.  And sometimes I won’t be.  But if this is going to remain my free therapy, sometimes I will have to get my feelings out.  Unless you want to pay for a shrink for me.  Then by all means, I’ll set up a paypal account.

And I’m sorry to those of you who are completely comfortable with who you are and absolutely can not relate with what I’ve written here today.  Because, I am well aware that this will just be one huge What. The. Fuck. when you read this.    (I kind of feel like Jerry McGuire and his “Memo.”  I will now change the title of this gigantic run-on sentence of a ramble-thon to “Memo:”  Because I can.)

And while I’m at it, and totally monopolizing your time and brain cells, I will say a huge thank you to those of you who are my IRL friends (and of course to my freaking amazing hubs) that come here and tell me you love me despite what a shit show I am, and to those of you who have become my friends because we met on someone’s blog or whatever and “clicked.”  I feel my best when I am writing.  Thank you for giving me someone to share it with.

The End.


Each year I try to write myself  some sort of Birthday post or note or something to commemorate the passing of another year and  successfully living through it.  Last year, I recounted the year’s birthday festivity of celebrating with strippers (totally SFW as long as you don’t click on the video. I kid.) which did a great job in summing up the whole year.

This year, I’ve been sitting at my computer for well over two hours, trying to come up with something and failing miserably while I distract myself by commenting on every. single. “happy birthday” post on facebook.  I am totally sucking this year.

Oh, I also found a recipe for beer battered fried pickles which actually sound better to me than cake right now.  So obviously I’m pregnant.  (With a phantom baby, of course.)

I just don’t have anything of value to say about turning thirty-five.  Aside from lugging around thirty-five extra pounds for the 9th year running, I really love being exactly where I am.  Sure, I’d love more money, more travel, more fun and excitement with my family from time to time.  I’d love to change some of the little things, but I actually like getting a little older.

I love how “middle-age” (though I’ m quite certain I am not dying at 70, dammit) feels.  I’m so relieved to be at a place where I feel comfortable in my skin.  Some days, I absolutely still have the insecurities and self-doubts of a 14 year old little girl.  The difference is, I also have the brains of a 35 year old woman that, once I sit myself down and give myself a stern pep talk, I can remind myself that none of that shit really matters.  And all can go back to being right in the world.

For me, this is the best part.  Being thirty-five seems to be another new level of feeling cool with being me.  There was a recent time in my life where I could let the real me out with some friends or a few close people, but I still felt the need to reign it in around everyone else.  Lately, that just really isn’t the case.  I think a lot of that freedom has come from writing this blog (and the ones before it that I grew past and then moved to here.)

This is my place to blow off steam and blow things out of proportion and be completely crazy, but it’s also my place to just get it all out.  It also seems to be my training ground to be able to do that in the rest of my life, too.  (Although, I will admit, I don’t swear like a sailor in my real life.  For the most part.  I save that just for you. Okay, maybe I do.)

And here, the part that everyone totally cares about, are my goals for the next year:

1. Get some sort of a job that enables me to be wife and mom for the most part, but a little side income earner too.  I’m thinking bartender.  I’ve always wanted to go to bartending school but wondered what kind of a person (mostly MOM) people would think I was.  And then I realized that’s just bullshit.  What do you think? Wouldn’t you want someone like me serving your drunk ass cocktails?  This is still in the holy shit, that’s a good idea stage.  I’ll keep you posted.  I think I might like it better than selling your drunk ass purses. I think I just might.

2. Take a vacation with my hubby.  It’s a sad story but Jimmie and I haven’t been on a real life vacation alone  together since our honeymoon.  And our honeymoon was two days in Victoria, BC in November (the grey, rainy time) while I was pregnant and miserable with their disgusting fucking food.  So, we’ve never been on vacation together.  This year, we are freaking going on a goddamn vacation together.  Just the two of us.  So we can drink and dance and have sex like normal married people.  WE ARE.

3.  Come up with some more life goals because right now this is all I can come up with.  So there.

Happy Birthday to me, people.  I freaking rock at being thirty-five.

i never claimed to be ‘average’

This morning my littlest bug had what’s apparently a run of the mill surgical procedure, removing the metal plate that was attached to the femur at the beginning of the summer.  You might remember me freaking out that the babe somehow broke his femur just days before we were scheduled to move.  It made for an interesting summer and moving process, but he took it like a champ and today was months ahead of when we were initially told the removal procedure would happen.

He went in like a champ and only got a little teary and nervous that last minute when they took him from pre-op to the OR and mommy wasn’t allowed to go.  We were then escorted to the waiting room where I’d spend the next couple of hours, and well… send myself into a panic attack and state of overall emotional wreckage as only I can.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I always dwell on the WCS (worst case scenario, for those of you not currently undergoing dozens of hours of therapy,) but I do.  I sat there thinking about how they were working so dangerously close to his femoral artery and it would be so easy to slip and ohmygod I don’t even want to think about it.  We were in the day surgery area which isn’t completely attached to the hospital.  Which got me thinking if an actual emergency did occur it would probably take too long to get to the actual hospital in order to actually save a person’s life.  So that was disconcerting.

I sat in a seat that enabled me to look back into the pre and post op areas, just feet from the OR.  I figured if there was something bad going on, I’d definitely be able to see the nurses and emergency type people scurrying around back there looking for crash carts and screaming “CODE BLUE, ROOM TWO, STAT!”  I wish I could tell you I casually peeked through the frosted window panes occasionally, but in all actuality, my eyes were glued to those windows all 127 minutes I sat in that room, just watching for someone to look a little concerned.  Every time the door to my area opened, I accosted the nurse with my jedi mind tricks to ensure they weren’t hiding anything from me.  I’m confident they all started to wonder if I was nuts.

Then, when the doctor came out to tell me all was well, I confirmed all of their suspicions that not only was that freaky ass mother in the waiting room possibly crazy, but someone should call Psych a freaking sap and get her admitted.  Because, you see, as the doc was talking so calmly and reassuringly about how well things went, I freaking burst into tears.

Now, I have had an interesting couple of days.  I have a lot of… emotions, if you will, running about just under the surface of sanity.  So, I’m not sure it was 100% nerves about the surgery that I was letting out.  But I released what some might consider a metric shit ton of emotion.  And made a complete ass of myself.  Everyone was quite reassuring, telling me it was nice to see a mother that cared so much about their child and blah de blah blah.  But I saw them running around the post-op, making sure all the sharp objects were properly stored.   Jimmie could barely contain his laughter as he watched me.  Oh sure, he was hugging me and telling me what a great mom I am, but I saw that twinkly glint in his eye that tells me he’s mentally going over the checklist of padded room necessities.  I know inside he was trying not to laugh and what a loon toon we all know I am.

Then we went back to post-op.  And the PA was telling us all the particulars of recovery.  And at the end, I winked at him.  I don’t know why.  It just happened.  My left eye closed in a definite winkish sort of way.  And I wanted to crawl under the bed.  But when he came back, he winked at me!  So I think we have a date now.

And Jordan is fine.  Watching Batman cartoons and sipping on a vanilla milkshake.  Enjoying the benefits of Vicodin.  Wonder if he would consider sharing.