this is not a funny blog -

punishment can come in all sorts of forms:
physical (anatomical)
emotional
psychological
moral
and on and on...

I've recently been physically punishing myself for my years of gluttony, which has been in response to years of emotional and physical discomfort.

In June 2008 a photograph was taken of me while attending an event. While at the event, which was an awards ceremony that I was receiving yet another commendation for my dedication to the bastardized feline association that recognizes you only if you stuff cash into their coffers. Originally they awarded you for true revolutionary marks in the breed but as in all things, it just gets down to ass kissing and one-upmanship.

Anyhow, where this is going though is that I still like a good party and enjoy attending because I did make 'friends' and this is the one opportunity that I have always allowed for a formal photograph to be taken yearly of my hubby and I. All of my years I've been pretty much against photos because I'm not a huge fan of my appearance.

Some of this stems from the 'punishment' I received as a child, statements like 'your ordinary', 'plain', 'not a beauty', 'no beauty queen' ...I even knew a boy that once said that I looked like a rat because my eyes were beady, too close together and my nose was aquiline.
I grew up a strange child, spent a confused year trying to ignore my budding womanhood by hiding it under men's suitcoats and Ace bandages strapped across my chest to try and trap my bosom. Hard to do when your hooters are honking like Canadian geese in the fall.

...I've trailed off, the pictures were returned a few weeks later and in them stood my husband who is always recognizable. His dome nice and shiny and eyes twinkling. He practically looks the same year after year just add a fresh shirt/coat, he doesn't age except for a few new gray hairs in his mustache and a few more smile lines/crinkles near his eyes.

However the woman standing next to him was unrecognizable, who was she but a bloated perspiring version of me? it was as if the movie magicians from an Eddie Murphy comedy got a hold of me and made me into one of his characters like Sherman Klump in The Nutty Professor.

For months my hormones were going absolutely crazy, the hot flashes were unbearable which I'd pretty much attributed to the hysterectomy I'd had a few years previously. This was a partial hysto - to put it lightly I erased the artwork out of the frame. My uterus was taken but those 2 delightful ovaries left behind, like miserable lumps of toxic globs.
Some of this sweating misery can be attributed to the surgery but for the most part, I believe is directly related to my enormous ass.

Back when we were first dating we used to say that we'd never let each other blimp out and be grotesquely fat! Yet, here we are a decade later and both of us are easily 100#s heavier than we were in our youth. Our health is failing, our looks not nearly what they were and certainly our sex appeal not what it was when we met. I know that I don't feel attractive when I look in the mirror. I hate that person that looks back at me, that's why I don't look at her anymore.

When we met I'd just been going through a good period in my life when my pain was tolerable, I'd been taking care of myself and staying active. Even though I still ached I was quite fit. That time has since lapsed and it has spiraled into years and years of long lasting pain, it is so extreme that I finally succumbed and allowed for one pain specialist to give me caudal epidurals.

That is the worst mistake I've let a doctor suggest and will not repeat again (and recently suggested to me again). If y'all didn't know, in those injections they are putting prednisone (anti-inflammatory)into your lower back, the lovely side effects of this medication is that it can make you ravenously hungry (even quoted from Health.com).

Did you know that individuals that are on long term medications varying from sleep medications, antidepressants and anti-inflammatories also suffer from 'Snug-Jeans' syndrome..or let's just spell it out - we get fat from our illnesses.

You take a pill to cure symptoms of one problem and instead you have another problem which then starts another problem, and then that problem (the obesity) will cause yet NEW problems..and it's a never ending vicious cycle.

While visiting a new pain specialist the month before, a rather abrupt fellow, he immediately suggested the caudal epidural which I quickly declined and he poo-pooed. I described my dissatisfaction with results (no pain relief, incorrect placement of needle insertion and future sciatic pain and weight gain) and he ROLLED HIS EYES! he said that weight gain is temporary is minimal and rare in most cases, additionally that predisone does not stay in the system that long.
Funny statement because my family doctor disagrees and says the half life and side effects stay with you a lot longer, including those hunger feelings, irritability and sudden tiredness. Why would I want these symptoms when I am already someone with chronic fatigue and pain?

That's like giving free needles to a dope-fiend!

Then the bastard says, you know if you lose weight you'll feel better.

To which I begin my onslaught, Look here Mister let me give you a little insight. Once upon a time I was fit as a fiddle and I hurt like a mutha fucker. I stayed active, played sports and lead a semi-normal life and I hurt. I hide and cry when I'm alone and I don't lead on that I'm dying inside because I don't want pity. For years I've avoided doctors because I don't want to lower myself and ask for help. There are worse things in life than some pain but when I finally ask for it, help, then I damn well expect to get some.


Whether I'm 135 pounds or 280 pounds (at my worst) I have had equal amounts of pain and I am now here, asking for you to help me.

So I'm back to punishing myself years and years later. The doctors don't really want to help us other than to put a pill or a needle into our bodies, these just cover up some of the symptoms but don't cure the problem.

I know now that I am not going to get better. I read books, look online and read other people's stories, listen to other folks experiences and all I can do is make choices that can and possibly should help me.

For the last 13 months (on and off as I can tolerate through my pain, depression and desire) I've tackled exercise both the gym when I can afford it and then just good ol' fashioned walking, a reduction in some junk food and increasing my vitamin intake (FUCK I HATE PILLS even if they are 'good for you) and have managed now to lose 75 pounds.
This week's punishment - i.e. torture, is to cleanse my body of impurities (shit myself)
if the Muslim's can do this for 30 days I'm sure I can make it for at least 3 days and push it for 5 if possible. if I can't then I'll try to do 3 days every month. Maybe that will be a healthy change.

Walking is killing me and I would definitely appreciate any donations to obtain a low impact exercise machine, every night at the 2 mile mark (45 minutes) I am weeping in pain. I don't like to cry, especially in view of others but the pain is unbearable. My knee is singing Figaro and there is no beauty in this opera.

I beseech thee to bolster my strength and stave off the tears.
and find a cure

and if anything - perhaps I'm ready to try for another picture with my husband and I'll recognize myself again.

Moo moo buckaroo

Cattle - the general public appear to be cattle.

No matter where I go or what I do - if there are other people involved in the situation I'm usually left with this complete amazement at how utterly pathetic the public is.
examples:

Driving - everyone stops because one disabled car has stopped. Back-ups happen on the road because one individual has had a vehicular hiccup, instead of pulling to the side and traffic continuing on; the entire stream of motion is completely interrupted ...

Banking - waiting in line and no one moves forward unless the teller says NEXT PLEASE. It's as if no one can make a decision without being told what to do.

Then we have the people that decide to have children only to have them complete certain tasks because they've become too fucking lazy to get off their ass to do it themselves.
Mow the grass, wash the dishes, start the laundry. My favorite - this last Saturday on a trip out of town to purchase massive quantities of cat litter - we stopped at Arby's, this particular cafe was severely understaffed. One on the drive-thru, one in the back making the food and one up front on the register. (I'll mention ahead of time the one on the register was of a different culture than you'd find in this part of Texas)

We must have made it there in good timing on our part because right after we placed our order 6 different cars with 4-5 people in each came in. WOW did I feel a little sorry for the 3 employees, ha ha - not really. It's Saturday morning, and we were in a town known for heavy military presence, a new shopping mall and the weekend had a big classic car expo. Poor scheduling if you ask me.

We have our seat and get ready to dig into our meal, watching the line start to back up and the foyer fill up with bodies and the room growing loud with the sounds of dissatisfied voices. Next to us were a family of 5, parents and 3 children ranging from about 11, 8 and 5. They ordered directly after us and were starting to look anxious when we were half way through our meal and by this time I had seen a few trays of food already go out.

Cattle.

Mom's foot is starting to tap, quickly...knee is bopping and toe is slap slap slapping and she's starting to gnaw the inside of her cheek. Her 2 youngest children have gone up to the fountain and refilled their cups for the 2nd time with soda. (oh boy I hope they have a nice long drive, the kids will be full of liquid caffeine).

Now the oldest is sticking his finger into a paper cup of ketchup and dad is saying under his breath to mom, "where is our food?" to which I am laughing with my husband because these 2 are so lazy and afraid of confrontation that they will not get up to inquire about their meal. I also think that they are especially intimidated by the employee I'd previously mentioned.

Arby's is NOT low cost, if you're going to eat fast food you could have at least 2 visits to Burger King for the one meal at Arby's. Marketing goes a LONG way..Arby's IS Different!

...another couple of minutes pass and mom finally gets her middle child's attention and says, "Can you go see where our food is?" she gives him a puppy-dog sad face replete with full pouting lip.
In typical lazy kid fashion, he got up and walked about 5 feet and looked through the employee entryway and didn't see a tray of food out on the counter and came back and said - "Nope"

The mom was SO ANGRY that he didn't complete the task the correct way she had to get her ass up and do it herself. She gave EVERYONE at the 2 tables a horrible look including her husband, obviously he should have gotten up to do this, and went up to get the food.
When she returned she was victorious and explained that indeed their food HAD been given to someone else but they remade the entire order for her.

We were finishing up (clearing our own space just in time because now a family with a squalling baby had come in) and left listening to them argue over which sandwich belonged to whom.
"HEY that's mine and don't eat that...that's MINE"

Years ago I knew a woman that had 6 children; she let them run all over her. Every time I spent any time with her I left with the most unpleasant taste in my mouth. She had absolutely no spine. She didn't even know that the kids disrespected her, living in her own little world everything was perfect and she absorbed the damages.

I tend to be hotheaded and hate to be walked on.

In fact, the more someone abuses me the more I get pissed off. I'm either going to explode or I'll bottle it up and wait until the right moment to unleash all of my anger like an erupting volcano - the bubbling lava ravaging everything in it's path.

Don't let me become a Cow! I already belch like a pig, one farm animal is probably enough.

sleepless again

While all of you sleep I'm fully awake.

I wonder to myself most of the time, Wow, how wonderful it must be to rest my body and mind from the trials of life and relax at long last. Letting my soul recharge, just as you would plug in a set of nickel cadmium (NiCd) or nickel metal hydride (NiMH) -

but I can't silence myself that easily; I keep going, and going and going until I'm disposable.

May as well be disposable because I burn myself out like the hot ember of a struck match. Flaring ferociously, immediately combustible in bright red and orange, settling into blue.
Finally the flames lick and devour everything around me just like they do the thin paper stem.

All that is left is a smoldering puff of ash.

That is what's left of me when I've finally wasted every last ounce of my crazy energy.

Ashes - extinguished but quietly ready to rekindle with just a breath.

drowned

Who knew that when the weather finally switched from scorching to soaking wet that my mood could sink so quickly. Well actually anyone could I suppose, no amount of Zoloft or Xanax can fix my mood swings.

Typically I love the rain, in fact the first 2 days of this deluge I was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and now my smile has turned upside down into a frown.

My sleeping habits are screwed completely up, my general malaise is at it's all time worst and those aches and pains I whine about are kicked up into the highest gear. If
I were a motorcycle I'd be one of those crotch rockets that is being revved up into the red-line zone and squealing with the tires burning rubber.

Mother Nature? Could you possible consider doing something called BALANCE? It sure would do wonders for screwballs like me...thanks darlin'!

Ancient Buffet

Old folks are a riot to watch, dontcha think?

The older I get, the more I enjoy watching them for the humor and the humility it brings to me. It wont be long before I'm in the same position. There are already plenty of days where I'm off my rocker and damn screwy!

I wonder how nutty I'll be?
If I will make it into my late 60s?

Recently while geezer watching at a buffet in town, we had the real treat of having a whole table of Depends reliant seated next us. It was an outing which looked like Ron Howard's old farts from Cocoon (Don Ameche and Wilford Brimley) and they were deeply enthralled with the variety of treats to be found on all the hot tables in the center of the room.

I could barely hold a conversation with the husband because I wanted to catch every word that this group of prune dependents had to speak about. They had close to 500 years of combined wisdom in the accumulated years amongst them and I was the fly on the wall to gather Intel.

What fascinating stories ...what sagas to soak my mind in...I would be clueless if one boastful fellow told another a canard, just as long as it was juicy!

The time we spent listening, we spent giggling at the group. They found such joy over the variety of food, trying to hear one another (calling in their outside voices that we'd ask children to never use inside), and even using potty humor when it was time to start saying goodbye.
Literal potty humor because one gentleman had a day nurse that demanded he go use the restroom now or she'd make him piss on the curb where she'd pull over because she wasn't going to stop at any gas stations or restaurants along the way.

The genuine affection they had for one another really brought a smile to me, it reminded me of the irascible behavior of my father in his older age.

If by chance I get to be an old fogy,I really hope that I have the same zeal for life PLUS I hope I look great when I'm ancient.

My sense of humor; I doubt it can be dented... there's far too many funny things going on to slow me down.

But gravity is a bitch and it's already yanked a few other things down so please, try not to pull my face down and make me look like an American Bulldog!

It's bad enough I have tits like a cover of National Geographic.

In the Gutter, again

Soused in sangria we sipped and celebrated being together, being women.
Some women have a biological clock that ticks, the need to have children burns in them and the ache starts to swell; before too long their 20s slide into their 30s...and those 30s start to inch into 40s and their womb hasn't been filled with fleshy beasts.

My clock is missing the mainspring (believe me, my pendulums are still there) and I have no need for children but I have a mothering instinct; but it stems with my desire to feed.

I enjoy being in the kitchen, the counters strewn with saucers and bowls, knives and forks and all sorts of spices. Knowing that my creations are going to soon land onto the plates and shortly thereafter into the waiting mouths and tummies of my friends.

My girlfriends were over and I was delighted because they were satisfied, we sat and laughed and told stories over pasta.

I serve our meals in a very casual way, despite my love of cooking I have a great hate of cleaning up afterward, so I will set out picnic plates and cups instead of sticking my hands into another sink-full of sudsy water.

If anyone wants to wash dishes and eat off of the good plates...by all means they can certainly get out the scrubbie and have at it. However, we all know that no one wants to wash dishes so let's just get sloshed and contribute another paper plate to the landfill.

The plan for this little party was dinner, drinks and then to hit the local bowling lanes. Originally we were going to attend a local festival for a margarita contest but it was in collaboration with some country music, the tickets were ridiculously priced and we opted to find something a little more affordable to do!

Heck, I can make some mean 'Rita's at home if need be for a fraction of the cost and play lousy country music on the radio, we'd only miss out on the cute cowboys in their tight Wranglers...however all of us ladies are married and faithful to our own cowboys.

Once dinner was cleaned up, we decided it was just about time to get it over with and we climbed into our cars and headed out to the bowling lanes. Bowling is definitely going to be an experience unlike any other I've had recently because it's a physical situation I haven't put myself through in quite some period of time.
Let me remind the reader that I'm asthmatic, fat and happen to have a tumor growing inside one of my lungs. Not conducive for hefting a 10-12 pound ball down the lane, prancing like a dork in rented two toned shoes that some other smelly out of shape housewife wore prior to me.

(I am grateful to be an Amazon when it comes to shoe size and believe that the set of clod stompers loaned to me where fairly new; rarely rented! Many years ago, I spent a few weeks with my sister when she lived in the Ozarks. There was a series of commercials running on the radio or the television but she kept making reference to them and really giving me Hell. Apparently there were girls used that had large feet, a phrase was stated that a good woman was the type that a stiff wind wouldn't knock them over with those feet planted firmly onto the ground)

After a lane is given to us, we traipse over and realize we're only 2 hops and a skip away from the bar AND then only 1 more hop farther from the restroom - we set to getting those shoes on.
The bartender comes over, lord help us all. She has about 6 teeth in her head and Crystal Gail hair, probably to detract from her face. The thing about living in this lil' country town is that everyone's very nice, very kind but the degree of education versus the degree of inbreeding...well you get the idea which one is higher.
She takes our order, believe it or not the Lanes have these nice laminated menus with pictures of fancy mixed cocktails like you'd see at a restaurant like Applebee's or Chili's. The girls order 'Rita's, the man orders a beer and since I'm a fish I order a Long Island

We set into the grand game, encouraging one another to go for strikes but barely picking up spares let alone hitting anything at all. my closest friend is pigeon walking across the boards, stopping short right at the line and then flipping her wrist so that she gets mad spin action on the ball.
The spin doesn't do shit for her, the ball goes careening from one end of the waxed surface all the way down the lane to the other side of the surface straight into the gutter and never once kissing the pins.

The 4 of us high five, scream and WOOT WOOT with excitement for another failure and then take heavy slugs on our straws from our tasty beverages. The same beverages that took a minimum of 30 minutes for our delightfully dumb mixologist to prepare because she kept coming over to let us know that she did not have this or that ingredient to make the particular flavor of margarita the girls had ordered.
The girls finally settled on anything she could find enough ingredients for, just so long as we were drinking and before our Sangria buzz was worn off.

The lights were dimmed the next thing we knew, we were glowing in the dark! The white laces of our shoes were alight, our bras were glaring through our blouses like beacons in the dark...one minute I was Rebekah the next I was a Buick with it's headlamps on.
The 10th frame was upon us and I urged our girls to go for a turkey! dancing behind them gobbling..."gobble gobble gobble"...Don't think they KNEW what a turkey was, but it was still great fun dancing around anyhow. I have my hands planting on my hips, flopping my bent arms to and fro with my knees slightly bent and waggling my backside..."gobble gobble gobble".

Then I step back to let my other friend take her chance, grabbing my cell phone and setting the camera on and get the warning from her, "you better not take my picture...I better not read about my big butt in your blog". to which I am laughing and snapping pictures and plotting away.

When it's finally my turn, I switch on the charm because I should let y'all know that I am secretly in my own heart, a bowling champion. On the overhead, my theme song has come on from Queen "Fat Bottom Girls" to which I'm gyrating. Dropping it like it's hot, sashaying it, flipping my hips from side to side, ya, that's right - my big ass is the center of attention tonight.

Balancing my ball(a twelve pound beauty in tangerine orange) in my right hand while cradling it with my left I ponder my next move.
Bowling is a solo dance with props. I take my initial step out and quickstep my way towards the line, hurrying until I'm nearly there and raising my arm I start my swing but I've already put too much hip into my step...I start to slide...
I raise my arm, flick my wrist and release the ball and feel my balance go totally wonkers!

Since I'm already a goofball this is the opportunity to really go for it, as I'd been taking this attempt to impress everyone with my bootie shaking dancing I go with the slip and start windmilling my arms and fall into the lane, my foot goes into the gutter!

Down for the count? No way, I stay in for the show and with hands down, fingers splayed I twirl myself around so that I'm now facing back towards the seats I belly crawl like Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video.

You know what really sucked? Everyone laughed (which I loved) but I got a strike which didn't count because I fouled!

Damn it all to hell, I'm always in the gutter!