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Sometimes it sucks being a woman. A lot of times actually.

Let me be clear here folks. I will not mince my words. Being a female sucks. Puberty is a bitch, pregnancy and labor are hell and menopause and all the in between is ugly.

Men- let’s see… they go through puberty. They get boners in PE class if they see an elbow of an 8th grade girl. So what? Then when they get old and can’t get a boner from seeing a woman’s elbow, they take a pill to help with that.  I will not sympathize with the male species. Sorry.

Lately I’ve been having, female issues. That’s code for menstrual cramps worse than normal. I think I lost about half of you at this sentence. But before you completely click on over to ESPN or Maxim or whatever, Golf Digest, for crying out loud- this may be helpful for you. You probably have a wife or girlfriend who has been through the same thing. You might use this as a cliff’s notes reference guide for the future.

I had to go to my gynecologist which is in the big, shiny city. There’s a parking garage with stalls the size of shoe boxes and elevators that are slower than sloths at feeding time. There’s usually a 15 minute wait in the waiting room, on top of a 20 minute wait in the exam room while wearing a paper gown. Usually my luck is when the nurse calls me back to the exam room, I’m caught off guard somewhat engrossed in my People magazine (thank God they have those in the waiting room and not just copies of Parents or Fit Pregnancy!), and I follow her to the room where she asks me how I’m doing, how are the kids, blah blah blah. Checks my blood pressure and then has me step on the scale. I haven’t even undressed yet and I kind of have to pee. I don’t want to make her wait while I use the bathroom, so I slip off my shoes and suck in my gut and step on the scale. I don’t know why I suck in my gut, I just do. They have digital scales now, not those old fashioned types like from The Walton’s anymore. You’d think these would be to my advantage since it’s like the one I have at home.

The nurse has me read the number. I really didn’t want to see the number thankyouverymuch, but okay. It’s 1_ _ !! Yeah, like I’m going to print it. 10 pounds more than last January, 8 pounds more than my scale at home, and 15 pounds more than the scale in the Bellagio hotel bathroom in Vegas that James and I stayed at 4 years ago. ( I loved that bathroom scale.)

I felt like someone punched me in the gut.

I shit you not- this ad was in the Pregnancy mag in the exam room I was forced to read whilst in my paper gown after leaving the People in the waiting room. Below this image it said, "actual customer 4 months post partum". Bitch.

She has me put the gown on and wait. But I did sneak off to the bathroom before getting undressed. So in the privacy of my room, once I was undressed, I stood on that stupid, f*cking scale again, and I was 2 whole pounds lighter! Well amen to that!

I was sure to tell my doctor this when she came in with my chart.

I like my doctor. She’s very nice. Especially for a hoo-hoo doctor. She didn’t deliver my kids because she only started with this practice 4 years ago, and I miss my old doctor, but this doctor is a pleasant replacement.

After getting prodded (‘scoot a little further down the table please’) she sent me for blood work and an ultrasound in the coming weeks.

The lab for blood work was just down the stairs. So I sat there waiting for 20 minutes (not bad really) and was starving since it had been 4 hours since my morning oatmeal. But I was thinking that between being hungry and depending on how much blood they draw, I can count on losing another pound.

The phlebotomist was a funny guy that talked about heavy metal bands with me, of all things. I don’t mind getting my blood drawn. It hurts, I don’t look, and I hate the cotton ball with the piece of tape around it afterwards, but there’s worse, so I manage.

I’m on my way to the parking garage now, find my parking stub, drive up the swirly parking garage lanes to the top and then get the joy of paying the attendant on the way out.

Going to the doctor is so flippin’ expensive.

Because now I’m depressed since I’m thinking of all the weight I’ve gained, my ovaries and how I hope there’s no tumors on them. Or maybe I do because if they take them out (the tumors, not my ovaries) that could be a few pounds I lose right there.

So I go where any girl would. The mall. I need croissants and tea, and I need them stat.

Tea, croissants, and some makeup is all it takes to get this girl on track again. Well, not really. I was still sulking during my car ride home and then went to go cry on James’ shoulder while he worked from home today.

The good man he is asks, “Would you like some wine?” It was 2 in the afternoon, he was kind of kidding, but he knew what to say. Heaven forbid if he said, “oh you just need to go to the gym more times than you sit on the couch writing on your blog”, I would have smacked that ass hat across the room. (Ass hat is my new favorite word by the way, I will be using it more now.)

So I leashed up the dog and ran around the block listening to Adele and Mumford & Sons. Sometimes when someone is sadder than you it makes you feel better. I even gave James half my croissant.

So you see fellas (who are still reading and haven’t clicked over to Maxim yet), if there’s one thing you get from this post- just get your woman a glass of wine for God’s sake.

Here is the chart James has laminated in his wallet:

The only memorization necessary is "Here, have some wine." Click on the photo to see it full screen.

‘REAL’ women have curves. Really? So what are us skinny bitches then?

I’m not saying I’m skinny. I’m not saying that women should be curvy. I’m saying that when we say phrases like, “Real women have curves”-  then doesn’t that just make the skinny women wonder what makes them a real woman?

I know a lot of beautiful women of all shapes. Not morbidly obese. Just skinny to curvy. Short and tall.  Just your garden variety of size 0’s to 14’s.

There was a recent blogger’s Facebook wall, Mom’s who Drink and Swear, that posted a Daily UK article on a size 12 model, which featured a picture of what’s considered plus-size, and the typical size 0 model next to her. Hundreds of comments on the Facebook page ensued of different women defending their opinions on what is beautiful. Curvy women defending their curves, and skinny women defending their skinnyness, athletic women, women who work out, maintain a thin appearance- all of them. They all had opinions. Here’s what: Our culture defines skinny as pretty for magazines, and heavy as unattractive. Pretty is also zit free skin, smooth-frizzless hair, whiter teeth, glowing less pasty skin…. the list goes on. And yeah- it’s pretty much true. So why do we get so up in a tizzy over skinny vs. fat?

Why should the curvy size 14 ladies have to defend the fact that if they are 5’10” being over 160 pounds is the norm. Gals that are a natural size 2, ones that have metabolisms like thoroughbreds, shouldn’t be made to feel they are inadequate because people think they aren’t eating. It’s nobody’s damn business!

Here’s a confession. I don’t want to be fat. I’m a size 6 and it irks me that if I were to walk in to a model agency they would call me a Plus size model because I’m not stick thin. I don’t want to be called Plus Size. I’m average. Thin according to the American average. I like feeling thin. I like the way my clothes look, I like the way I feel. So what? Sue me. But I have no business being a model either. I don’t walk in to Boeing and decide I’d like to start designing airplanes.

I have tall friends that know when they aren’t at their physical best. Or, who are very comfortable being tall, curvy and full figured- not fat. Healthy, proper BMI, all the medical stats check. But their physique supports a curvy figure. Plain and simple.

I think what it is for me, I like the look of muscle. I like when I see muscle definition on my legs or arms. It says strength. It says, I’ve been working on something. I’ve been doing something. I can run a 5k, I can climb stairs, I can swing on a trapeze. It’s a reflection of all the things I’m capable of. When I see flabby flesh, squishy thighs and thick arms (on me, mind you), I think of what I should be doing. How I shouldn’t be wasting my time. That if it means so much to me, why not just make it happen?

So in closing. Skinny people- don’t look down on the curvy gals and say they need to shape up. And curvy girls, don’t look at a skinny girl and say- go eat a cheeseburger. Because I know girls who eat cheeseburgers and still are ridiculously small. Instead, say, ‘hey, your eyes are pretty in that color sweater.’ OR, ‘I love the way you smile.’ OR ‘thanks for laughing with me and not at me’.

Saying something is made real over something else, isn’t really fair and continues the ‘I’m better than you’ cycle. It’s like saying, ‘REAL SMART people wear glasses’, OR ‘REAL dancers are black’, OR ‘REAL good food is only French’. See what I mean?

THIS is what we should teach our daughters. Oh, and our sons, because if they are someone’s husband one day, we don’t want them to make their wives feel insecure about their image. That’s a whole different topic…

 

This woman is gorgeous.

Seriously? Why does she need to be considered 'plus'. How about smokin'?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm assuming she's healthy.

 

I'm concerned for this girl though.

Buy my book!

As if it wasn’t hard enough.

They say staying at home raising kids is hard work. Really? I must be doing it wrong because I think it’s the easiest thing in the world! There’s no TPS reports, no budget meetings, no politics or backstabbing. I sit around all day drink Gin and Tonics and watch TV. Oh wait… that was a dream I had. Never mind.

This is where I introduce an acronym for my new (not new, just new to us) phrase of Are You Fucking Kidding Me? (AYFKM?) My family says I’m swearing too much lately, I think it’s some leftover hostility from my 20s I never released, so I’m trying to use curse words less often, even in print.

Parenting is hard work. No shit.

Now the ‘experts’ say that raising children full time at home, makes you less healthy than if you go off and work in some actual paying job, according to the American Psychological Association’s “Journal of Family Psychology” article.

AYFKM? Yeah. DUH.

Thanks. So now I have the guilt of, “oh, I never pursued my career past the  rearing of my children, and devoting all that time to them is going to shorten my life span so now I won’t be able to enjoy my grandchildren.”

Let’s rewind a little shall we?

I’ve always wanted to stay home and raise my children. My mom did this for us kids. She was completely there for me. She packed my lunches, made dinner, did the laundry, sewed our clothes, everything. My dad worked hard at his job Monday through Friday. It was pretty much your traditional 70s/80s upbringing.

After college, I fell in love, got married and had a kid. Well it took 5 years, but still, I didn’t take the option of running away to Hollywood or Broadway to pursue my acting career. Something deep down told me to stay put since love and family was probably going to prevail longer than any waitressing acting jobs that might come.

I have no regrets about this. None.

My job at the time of getting pregnant with Emma was a glorified administrative assistant for a start-up company. What am I saying? It wasn’t glorified. It was hard ass work. I did the job of 3 people and was paid the salary of an admin, but it was good experience and great medical benefits, if I remember. So I stuck it out and counted the days until my maternity leave. (I was put on bed rest at 25 weeks of my pregnancy, but that’s another story altogether). Lucky for me the company went under while I was on maternity leave, so I didn’t have to leave my sweet pink bundle of joy and diapers called Emma, for my stingy, troll of a boss that micromanaged every trip to the bathroom I took. Now I took my boss (Emma) with me to the bathroom!

So staying home with her was a blessing. BUT, GEEZUS it was HARD. I mean, really HARD. No adult interaction, no showers, no make up, no cute clothes, saggy engorged boobie bags that looked like a cow’s, nursing bras that had been leaked through so many times I didn’t care anymore. Feeling like a zombie. Rinse and repeat….

The idea of pulling myself together enough to leave the house to look professional, spend 8 hours away from her and then to come home and have to spend half the night up breast feeding, just didn’t sound like a party.

So I admire those that do this! Being a mom is hard. A mom of a newborn especially. Heading off to work must be painful.

But, and I mean a big BUT, I can see the rewards. To get paid for what you do is a good thing.  Intellectual stimulation from peers and colleagues- good. Going out to lunch- good. Looking like a human with clothes and makeup- good.

I found this excerpt of the article to sum it up: “After interviewing hundreds of mothers repeatedly over the course of a decade, the researchers found that those who worked 32 hours per week or less were more sensitive to their kids’ needs, less likely to have symptoms of depression, and more likely to split household duties with their spouses than mothers who were not employed.” AYFKM?

And therein lies my problem. I’m depressed and don’t share household duties. Okay, I’m not really depressed. I take my meds and do fine. But I know a lot that are, and I’ve been down some dark times myself. And I always feel like I’m doing all the household duties myself. Not very well, but still.

Then the kicker later in the article:

“Additionally, mothers with higher levels of depressive symptoms may have more difficulty seeking employment or keeping a job.” AYFKM?

Fantastic. Now I’m just screwed if I did choose to go back to work. Who wants a whiny, not employed in a decade housewife to come work for them? Apparently, no one.

Here’s what it boils down to:

I chose not to work. I never regret staying at home with my children. In fact now it’s the greatest. They go off to school, I pretend to get stuff done around the house, they come home from school and I’m in a good mood since absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I’m not getting paid, I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. My children are fine individuals. I’m raising them real good.

I don’t need an article to tell me I’m depressed and overly sensitive- my husband tells me this all the time.

Pretend I never wrote this blog. I could have started with the last three sentences and have been done. But alas, I just wanted other depressed, pill popping, gin and tonic drinking moms to feel empathy with me.

(borrowed from Bluntcard) Look how happy she looks!

Here’s that full crappy article if you want to read for yourself:

Working Moms are Healthier

As if it wasn’t hard enough.

They say staying at home raising kids is hard work. Really? I must be doing it wrong because I think it’s the easiest thing in the world! There’s no TPS reports, no budget meetings, no politics or backstabbing. I sit around all day drink Gin and Tonics and watch TV. Oh wait… that was a dream I had. Never mind.

This is where I introduce an acronym for my new (not new, just new to us) phrase of Are You Fucking Kidding Me? (AYFKM?) My family says I’m swearing too much lately, I think it’s some leftover hostility from my 20s I never released, so I’m trying to use curse words less often, even in print.

Parenting is hard work. No shit.

Now the ‘experts’ say that raising children full time at home, makes you less healthy than if you go off and work in some actual paying job, according to the American Psychological Association’s “Journal of Family Psychology” article.

AYFKM? Yeah. DUH.

Thanks. So now I have the guilt of, “oh, I never pursued my career past the  rearing of my children, and devoting all that time to them is going to shorten my life span so now I won’t be able to enjoy my grandchildren.”

Let’s rewind a little shall we?

I’ve always wanted to stay home and raise my children. My mom did this for us kids. She was completely there for me. She packed my lunches, made dinner, did the laundry, sewed our clothes, everything. My dad worked hard at his job Monday through Friday. It was pretty much your traditional 70s/80s upbringing.

After college, I fell in love, got married and had a kid. Well it took 5 years, but still, I didn’t take the option of running away to Hollywood or Broadway to pursue my acting career. Something deep down told me to stay put since love and family was probably going to prevail longer than any waitressing acting jobs that might come.

I have no regrets about this. None.

My job at the time of getting pregnant with Emma was a glorified administrative assistant for a start-up company. What am I saying? It wasn’t glorified. It was hard ass work. I did the job of 3 people and was paid the salary of an admin, but it was good experience and great medical benefits, if I remember. So I stuck it out and counted the days until my maternity leave. (I was put on bed rest at 25 weeks of my pregnancy, but that’s another story altogether). Lucky for me the company went under while I was on maternity leave, so I didn’t have to leave my sweet pink bundle of joy and diapers called Emma, for my stingy, troll of a boss that micromanaged every trip to the bathroom I took. Now I took my boss (Emma) with me to the bathroom!

So staying home with her was a blessing. BUT, GEEZUS it was HARD. I mean, really HARD. No adult interaction, no showers, no make up, no cute clothes, saggy engorged boobie bags that looked like a cow’s, nursing bras that had been leaked through so many times I didn’t care anymore. Feeling like a zombie. Rinse and repeat….

The idea of pulling myself together enough to leave the house to look professional, spend 8 hours away from her and then to come home and have to spend half the night up breast feeding, just didn’t sound like a party.

So I admire those that do this! Being a mom is hard. A mom of a newborn especially. Heading off to work must be painful.

But, and I mean a big BUT, I can see the rewards. To get paid for what you do is a good thing.  Intellectual stimulation from peers and colleagues- good. Going out to lunch- good. Looking like a human with clothes and makeup- good.

I found this excerpt of the article to sum it up: “After interviewing hundreds of mothers repeatedly over the course of a decade, the researchers found that those who worked 32 hours per week or less were more sensitive to their kids’ needs, less likely to have symptoms of depression, and more likely to split household duties with their spouses than mothers who were not employed.” AYFKM?

And therein lies my problem. I’m depressed and don’t share household duties. Okay, I’m not really depressed. I take my meds and do fine. But I know a lot that are, and I’ve been down some dark times myself. And I always feel like I’m doing all the household duties myself. Not very well, but still.

Then the kicker later in the article:

“Additionally, mothers with higher levels of depressive symptoms may have more difficulty seeking employment or keeping a job.” AYFKM?

Fantastic. Now I’m just screwed if I did choose to go back to work. Who wants a whiny, not employed in a decade housewife to come work for them? Apparently, no one.

Here’s what it boils down to:

I chose not to work. I never regret staying at home with my children. In fact now it’s the greatest. They go off to school, I pretend to get stuff done around the house, they come home from school and I’m in a good mood since absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I’m not getting paid, I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. My children are fine individuals. I’m raising them real good.

I don’t need an article to tell me I’m depressed and overly sensitive- my husband tells me this all the time.

Pretend I never wrote this blog. I could have started with the last three sentences and have been done. But alas, I just wanted other depressed, pill popping, gin and tonic drinking moms to feel empathy with me.

(borrowed from Bluntcard) Look how happy she looks!

Here’s that full crappy article if you want to read for yourself:

Working Moms are Healthier

Am I too old for Cosmo?

A recent article online featured trends that women love but men hate.

I’m going to say, most women I know, don’t care for them either. Unless this article  got their stats from Cosmopolitan or Seventeen magazine, then I’m pretty sure, no one I know is sporting any of these trends soon.

Here’s the article:

Make up Women Love but Men Hate

I will be turning 40 this year.  I’m good with this. There are parts of me I would like to trade with my 20 year old self and then preserve them forever by means of exercise, diet or habits. But that’s not going to happen. If I could talk to my 20 year old self, I would say, work out because the skinny doesn’t last and the flabbier you are, the more it sags with time. I would also say to that 20 year old self, stop trying to get a tan! Ahh youth, wasted on the young, right?

Most of my friends are in their 30s and 40s as well. So last I checked, no one I knows wears neon lipstick, bold eyeshadow or  thick, cakey makeup. Where does Yahoo get their stories from? Who are these women that ‘love’ these looks?

My day pretty much consists of- my home, the bus stop, one of my kids’ schools, a PTA meeting, a trip to Target or the gym, and maybe coffee with a friend. So unless I’m sporting glitter at the PTA meeting, I’m not partaking in the latest make up trend.  I guess I could start wearing glitter to PTA meetings and then everyone will wonder if I’ve started moonlighting as one of those bikini baristas or something to earn some extra money.

This really brings out my eye color.

How's this for a natural 'day' look?

Confession-

I DO have a subscription to Cosmopolitan. I have to hide it from my kids. It’s embarrassing. And let me just say, the only reason I have it, is because I got a Groupon and the subscription was 12 months for $10. I figured I could benefit from the bedroom advice, and maybe beauty articles. Obviously, I am not the demographic this magazine writes for! I am not 20, I don’t have a boyfriend I’m looking to snag, I do have children, and I don’t need advice on a pushy boss that is out to get me. Most everything in these pages is over the top. Am I that much of a prude or am I just acting my age?

HINT- there's a few articles about sex in there.

Am I too old for Cosmo?

A recent article online featured trends that women love but men hate.

I’m going to say, most women I know, don’t care for them either. Unless this article  got their stats from Cosmopolitan or Seventeen magazine, then I’m pretty sure, no one I know is sporting any of these trends soon.

Here’s the article:

Make up Women Love but Men Hate

I will be turning 40 this year.  I’m good with this. There are parts of me I would like to trade with my 20 year old self and then preserve them forever by means of exercise, diet or habits. But that’s not going to happen. If I could talk to my 20 year old self, I would say, work out because the skinny doesn’t last and the flabbier you are, the more it sags with time. I would also say to that 20 year old self, stop trying to get a tan! Ahh youth, wasted on the young, right?

Most of my friends are in their 30s and 40s as well. So last I checked, no one I knows wears neon lipstick, bold eyeshadow or  thick, cakey makeup. Where does Yahoo get their stories from? Who are these women that ‘love’ these looks?

My day pretty much consists of- my home, the bus stop, one of my kids’ schools, a PTA meeting, a trip to Target or the gym, and maybe coffee with a friend. So unless I’m sporting glitter at the PTA meeting, I’m not partaking in the latest make up trend.  I guess I could start wearing glitter to PTA meetings and then everyone will wonder if I’ve started moonlighting as one of those bikini baristas or something to earn some extra money.

This really brings out my eye color.

How's this for a natural 'day' look?

Confession-

I DO have a subscription to Cosmopolitan. I have to hide it from my kids. It’s embarrassing. And let me just say, the only reason I have it, is because I got a Groupon and the subscription was 12 months for $10. I figured I could benefit from the bedroom advice, and maybe beauty articles. Obviously, I am not the demographic this magazine writes for! I am not 20, I don’t have a boyfriend I’m looking to snag, I do have children, and I don’t need advice on a pushy boss that is out to get me. Most everything in these pages is over the top. Am I that much of a prude or am I just acting my age?

HINT- there's a few articles about sex in there.

Literally, working my ASS off.

Yep. I’m going to the gym. SHIIIT. I have to admit, it’s the only thing to get my ass in these jeans. Cuz here’s the shiz, peeps. Why am I talking like Snoop Dogg, I have no idea.  I am on a very limited shopping budget. We are saving for a family trip to Europe this summer. I need to save my pennies and not buy new clothes. So in the effort of not looking like Mariah Carey stuffed in a sausage casing- I need to work out.

The fact is- I’ve tried vitamins, low calorie intake, the nap diet- (I made that up, it’s where you nap and burn calories sleeping. It beats eating a whole cake in one setting) and just casually walking the dog. I went up a size. Yep. So while a lot of you are saying, ‘yeah, no shit sherlock, doing nothing gains weight’, I thought if I just did like French women and nibbled a little here and there, I would fit into Chanel off the runway. Insert snort through nose disbelief sound here.

Not to sound like Dr. Oz, your mom, your doctor, or that damned annoying Jillian Michaels- working up a sweat helps you feel better. Period. Oh, and that reminds me, it helps your periods. It’s true. It’s a vicious cycle of feeling like a slug, not working out because you’re feeling like a slug, time of the month comes, you’re feeling like a slug, on and on it goes.

Exercise helps with migraines. I don’t know why, I just have less when I burn a sweat at the gym a few times a week. It lowers your blood pressure, helps your heart, helps your endorphins. And yes, endorphins are those little happy molecules that apparently all you sorry saps out there reading my blog, need more of. Including me.

I also read somewhere more exercise helps with better sex. I will spare comments on this subject. I think if James worked out too- there would be something to write here. Since I’m doing all the work…let’s just say…I’m doing all the work. Ba da bump.

Oh, what else? Cancer. Yes ladies, and gents, exercising reduces your risk of cancer. And if you’re having a glass of wine each night to help your heart, you’re upping your risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I know, that sucks. So work out, and you can off-set that factoid.

AND, it helps build bone mass so we don’t end up looking like our grandmas all hunched over. Posture ladies- it’s true. We suck at it. If we were put in a time machine and transported to the 50s we’d be fat slobs slouching around with our muffin tops hanging over our pajama jeans. You know those women’s health and fashion magazines that say standing up straight makes you look 5 lbs lighter? Well, they’re right! It does. I can’t stand to see a pretty girl hunched over. Suck in your gut, squeeze your bottom and throw back your shoulders. What are you afraid of?? Okay, I’m scaring myself because I sound like Miss Minchin in A Little Princess.

I’m not preaching here, I’m just sharing. I’ve read all the articles, all the magazines and there’s no short cuts. So enjoy, don’t kill yourself, and work out for reasons that are more than skin deep- like your brain, your heart, your uterus, your boobs, your bones. Those are good reasons, right?

Remember this from “Friends”?

Hint- I’m Phoebe.

This will not be my form of working out. Not that James wouldn't mind.

Again, not me. Don't be intimidated. Just Do It.

Medicated and Proud of it- Part 2. revisited

I’m reposting this, because I’m frickin’ going all honey badger today. Any sympathy, wine, blindfolds, ear plugs, sensory deprivation chambers would be welcome.

oh and for fun- here’s Tina Fey doing her genius interpretation of female things:

Annuale, Saturday Night Live

Oh and this is Part 1 of this post from over a month ago. This resonated with a lot of people in case you never read it.

Medicated and Proud of it (Part 1)

Part 2

I didn’t really mean it to become a series. But I never had so many positive responses to my blog before or since. So that means, a lot of you out there are messed up too? Yay. I guess.  No really, misery loves company, so this chick is glad to have a lot of friends.

You know those days where you feel so emotionally brimming you could cry? And it could be happy or sad. Like, your child gives you a sweet tap on the arm and tells you how wonderful you are. Bring on the Kleenex. Or, you witness a squirrel getting hit by a car on your way to the gym and you burst into tears like you’re watching The Notebook? Or your husband uses your car and when you get in, you see the gas light is on when you go to drive your daughter to school after she missed her bus and yelled at you for not washing her favorite hoodie, and then you drop your phone in a dirty diaper someone left in the parking lot. Seriously.

That’s everyday you say? Yeah, tell me about it.  Okay, well when I have one of those days, I also know that PMS is probably right around the corner (la, la, la, la, cover your ears, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you..sorry boys). But really. Then after the crying/laughing feeling goes away, I’m left with this knot in my stomach that extends to my lower back. Is that called anxiety? Or labor? Or too much coffee? I feel like I could use a gin and tonic before lunch. For those of you who feel this too, I don’t recommend a gin and tonic before lunch. I tried it once and just napped the rest of the day. Nothing got done. Oh wait. That’s everyday when I just drink tea and then put the kids on the school bus.

I feel like if I could just take a deep breath it would let all the anxiety go. Maybe I have ESP and don’t know it, and I’m just reacting to something bad happening in some far corner of the earth. Some atmospheric shift in the universe is sending me these tense waves of emotion.  That would be awful. Can you imagine being one of those psychics and you get those nasty visions of horrible things happening to people you don’t know and you go to the police and no one believes you. Oh wait, that was a Lifetime movie I watched. But still, I hope I’m not psychic.

I start to worry about everything. What to make for dinner. Will I have time to get cat food before going to the library and then getting home in time to meet Emma’s school bus. Will I get Alzheimers? What if the dryer catches fire while I’m not home. What if the pets can’t get out when the house is on fire? What if the organic milk I buy isn’t really organic? Are soybeans safe? What if, what if, …. Oh my gosh make it stop!!

Oh. THIS is called PARANOID. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be human or female if I didn’t have days like this I guess. Here I go sharing again. I know I won’t regret it. You like me….you really like me. Okay, now I’m just being ridiculous…

Medicated and Proud of it- Part 2. revisited

I’m reposting this, because I’m frickin’ going all honey badger today. Any sympathy, wine, blindfolds, ear plugs, sensory deprivation chambers would be welcome.

oh and for fun- here’s Tina Fey doing her genius interpretation of female things:

Annuale, Saturday Night Live

Oh and this is Part 1 of this post from over a month ago. This resonated with a lot of people in case you never read it.

Medicated and Proud of it (Part 1)

Part 2

I didn’t really mean it to become a series. But I never had so many positive responses to my blog before or since. So that means, a lot of you out there are messed up too? Yay. I guess.  No really, misery loves company, so this chick is glad to have a lot of friends.

You know those days where you feel so emotionally brimming you could cry? And it could be happy or sad. Like, your child gives you a sweet tap on the arm and tells you how wonderful you are. Bring on the Kleenex. Or, you witness a squirrel getting hit by a car on your way to the gym and you burst into tears like you’re watching The Notebook? Or your husband uses your car and when you get in, you see the gas light is on when you go to drive your daughter to school after she missed her bus and yelled at you for not washing her favorite hoodie, and then you drop your phone in a dirty diaper someone left in the parking lot. Seriously.

That’s everyday you say? Yeah, tell me about it.  Okay, well when I have one of those days, I also know that PMS is probably right around the corner (la, la, la, la, cover your ears, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you..sorry boys). But really. Then after the crying/laughing feeling goes away, I’m left with this knot in my stomach that extends to my lower back. Is that called anxiety? Or labor? Or too much coffee? I feel like I could use a gin and tonic before lunch. For those of you who feel this too, I don’t recommend a gin and tonic before lunch. I tried it once and just napped the rest of the day. Nothing got done. Oh wait. That’s everyday when I just drink tea and then put the kids on the school bus.

I feel like if I could just take a deep breath it would let all the anxiety go. Maybe I have ESP and don’t know it, and I’m just reacting to something bad happening in some far corner of the earth. Some atmospheric shift in the universe is sending me these tense waves of emotion.  That would be awful. Can you imagine being one of those psychics and you get those nasty visions of horrible things happening to people you don’t know and you go to the police and no one believes you. Oh wait, that was a Lifetime movie I watched. But still, I hope I’m not psychic.

I start to worry about everything. What to make for dinner. Will I have time to get cat food before going to the library and then getting home in time to meet Emma’s school bus. Will I get Alzheimers? What if the dryer catches fire while I’m not home. What if the pets can’t get out when the house is on fire? What if the organic milk I buy isn’t really organic? Are soybeans safe? What if, what if, …. Oh my gosh make it stop!!

Oh. THIS is called PARANOID. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be human or female if I didn’t have days like this I guess. Here I go sharing again. I know I won’t regret it. You like me….you really like me. Okay, now I’m just being ridiculous…

Medicated and Proud of it- Part 2. revisited

I’m reposting this, because I’m frickin’ going all honey badger today. Any sympathy, wine, blindfolds, ear plugs, sensory deprivation chambers would be welcome.

 

oh and for fun- here’s Tina Fey doing her genius interpretation of female things:

 

Annuale, Saturday Night Live

 

Oh and this is Part 1 of this post from over a month ago. This resonated with a lot of people in case you never read it.

Medicated and Proud of it (Part 1)

 

Part 2

I didn’t really mean it to become a series. But I never had so many positive responses to my blog before or since. So that means, a lot of you out there are messed up too? Yay. I guess.  No really, misery loves company, so this chick is glad to have a lot of friends.

You know those days where you feel so emotionally brimming you could cry? And it could be happy or sad. Like, your child gives you a sweet tap on the arm and tells you how wonderful you are. Bring on the Kleenex. Or, you witness a squirrel getting hit by a car on your way to the gym and you burst into tears like you’re watching The Notebook? Or your husband uses your car and when you get in, you see the gas light is on when you go to drive your daughter to school after she missed her bus and yelled at you for not washing her favorite hoodie, and then you drop your phone in a dirty diaper someone left in the parking lot. Seriously.

That’s everyday you say? Yeah, tell me about it.  Okay, well when I have one of those days, I also know that PMS is probably right around the corner (la, la, la, la, cover your ears, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you..sorry boys). But really. Then after the crying/laughing feeling goes away, I’m left with this knot in my stomach that extends to my lower back. Is that called anxiety? Or labor? Or too much coffee? I feel like I could use a gin and tonic before lunch. For those of you who feel this too, I don’t recommend a gin and tonic before lunch. I tried it once and just napped the rest of the day. Nothing got done. Oh wait. That’s everyday when I just drink tea and then put the kids on the school bus.

I feel like if I could just take a deep breath it would let all the anxiety go. Maybe I have ESP and don’t know it, and I’m just reacting to something bad happening in some far corner of the earth. Some atmospheric shift in the universe is sending me these tense waves of emotion.  That would be awful. Can you imagine being one of those psychics and you get those nasty visions of horrible things happening to people you don’t know and you go to the police and no one believes you. Oh wait, that was a Lifetime movie I watched. But still, I hope I’m not psychic.

I start to worry about everything. What to make for dinner. Will I have time to get cat food before going to the library and then getting home in time to meet Emma’s school bus. Will I get Alzheimers? What if the dryer catches fire while I’m not home. What if the pets can’t get out when the house is on fire? What if the organic milk I buy isn’t really organic? Are soybeans safe? What if, what if, …. Oh my gosh make it stop!!

Oh. THIS is called PARANOID. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be human or female if I didn’t have days like this I guess. Here I go sharing again. I know I won’t regret it. You like me….you really like me. Okay, now I’m just being ridiculous…