No, Means F**k Off….

A couple of months ago, I was in my old hometown having lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in a number of years.

As we chatted about life,  she told me about her employment lay-off that happened over a year ago.  After struggling, still struggling, to find another full time job, she started driving for Uber and Lyft as a way to make ends meet.

“How’s that going?” I asked

“It’s fine,” she said.  “For the most part, everyone has been cool and I’ve only had a few issues.”

“Like, what kind of issues?”  I asked.  “Creepers?  

“Yeah,” she said, “definitely some of them.”

She told me about a young guy she picked up from a not so great part of town.  She doesn’t like driving over there, but no one does, so the shortage of drivers means more opportunities for her to make some much needed money.

The ride started out quiet, but as she drove, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, something waving back and forth between the driver and passenger seats.  When she looked, it was the guy waving a twenty-dollar bill.

“No,” she said.  “You’re all set.  The app is linked to a form of payment and that’s how you’ll be charged.  We don’t take cash.”

He continued to wave the twenty.

“We don’t take cash and we don’t carry cash.  I have no cash, at all”  she said, at this point fearing she was about to be robbed.

“What else do you do?” He asked.

“This is all I do.”  She said.

Then, he asked if she wanted to suck his dick.  For twenty-dollars.

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“WOW, a whole twenty-dollars?  I said.  Do you think it’s because you’re getting old and you’re not as hot as you used to be?”  

“Probably,” she laughed.  “I told him I was old enough to be his mother, but he didn’t care.”

“Ah, well, maybe he has some kind of poor, old lady, mom fetish.”  I said.

“You suck!”  She laughed through her signature cackle.

“Not for twenty-dollars, I don’t.” 

All joking aside though, it was a scary experience for my friend.  She told this guy repeatedly and without an ounce of ambiguity, “No,” and “You are making me uncomfortable, please stop,” before pulling over in a busy parking lot and telling him to get the fuck out of her car.

To which he replied, “Seriously?”  As though she were being unreasonable.

She also told me about another man she picked up from the airport.  She said he was nice looking, dressed well and for the first few minutes of the ride, made polite small talk before launching into his troubles with women.

He said he was shy and sensitive, which he repeated….over and over….as he talked about his struggles with dating.  Then, he told her that his biggest fantasy was to just lie in bed naked with a woman and talk.

When they arrived at his home, he invited her in to fulfill his fantasy.  In exchange for a great review on the ride share app.

0-1.jpegShe declined.

I told her she probably dodged the kind of bullet that results in being chained up in a basement, before being deposited into a dumpster.

At one point my friend sighed and said, “I knew what I was getting into when I decided to do this.” 

A statement which can be applied to virtually everything, if you are a woman.  We are practically born a cautionary tale.

“She knew what the risks were when she went to the grocery store for milk after dark.”

“She should have known what she was getting into when she decided to go for a jog in a park.”

“It’s her own fault, really.  She answered the door.”

“Ah, well, it’s the price she pays for, you know, existing.” 

It’s bullshit.

Women want to be able to walk safely through life.  We want to go to our jobs, go out with friends, walk through a parking lot, have a drink in a bar, call for a ride, take a bus, a train, a plane….all the stuff of basic living….and do so without the risk of being harassed, molested, raped, murdered.

So, this one is for you fellas in the back.  The guys who hear “NO” and think it means, “I can be forcefully persuaded.”  

Let me put it out there in words you might better understand:

l. No woman who isn’t advertising her sexual services for pay, wants to suck your dick for twenty-dollars, or any dollars.  No matter how cleverly you try and work the request into a cheesy, lame, awful pick-up line.  

In fact, I’m going to go ahead and speak for all women-kind when I say….no woman is particularly interested in sucking your dick.

Ever.

We may offer it up when engaged in mutually consensual sex, but it’s not on the top ten list of things we like to do.

So if we don’t directly offer it, kindly keep your chump change and your penis out of our faces.

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2.  A short skirt isn’t an invitation.

Would you like it, if every time you wore one of those stupid t-shirts that says something like, “I Make Inappropriate Choices When I Drink” or “My Pen Is Huge” (eye-roll), someone bigger came along and forcibly violated you in YOUR orifice?

How about I just walk up to you and kick you directly in the balls?

Or, would you prefer I grab hold of them and squeeze until it makes you want to cry from both humiliation and pain?

That seems a fair exchange for an unsolicited slap on the ass, or a boob grab, no?


3.  Remember that time you were working as a pizza delivery guy and you showed up at that Malibu beach house where that sexy housewife answered the door and then invited you in for a threesome with her equally sexy neighbor who just happened to be hanging out topless and spread eagle on the kitchen table?

No, you don’t.  Because it didn’t happen and it didn’t happen for any of your buddies either.

We don’t hang out naked with our girlfriends in locker rooms/saunas/hot tubs, getting all hot and bothered with each other hoping you’ll burst onto the scene dressed like a plumber.

We aren’t wearing sexy lingerie under our workout clothes, waiting with bated breath for you to take us behind the gym, or more realistically, Target.

In other words, if you saw it in a movie.  No.  Just no.

When Debbie does Target, she really just wants to go in there for one thing and come out with fifty things….none of which include you, your commentary, or any of your DNA.

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4.  If you’re just standing there, you’re guilty by association.

In college, I worked at a popular local restaurant in Virginia Beach.  A male manager named Matt bombarded me on the regular with offensive comments.  He also couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

Once, he came up behind me and kissed me behind my ear and then bit me on the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise in the shape of his teeth.

Another time, he approached me while I stood with a group of my co-workers in the dining room, waiting for the restaurant to open for the evening.  As we all stood chatting and laughing beneath a giant paper mâché dragon that decorated the room, Matt walked up and said to me, “Why don’t you go slip on a pair of black panties and dance with the dragon for me.”

In the early years of my professional career, it wasn’t unusual for me, at times, to be the only woman in a room full of men who called me sweetie and honey and never once used my actual name.

Once, prior to a financial planning meeting with an all male executive team, a female Admin who was sitting in on the meeting, told me afterward that before I’d arrived, one of the local VP’s had asked the group if they’d all met me.

A few said they hadn’t, and in response the VP told them, “Wait until you see her.  She’s hot.  You’ll never be able to tell her no.”

I was humiliated.  I had worked hard on my presentation and the research that backed up the financial requests of my department.  At the time, I was the youngest and the first female in the organizations history, to have been promoted into the upper level management role I held.

In the wake of that meeting, I wondered how much of it I had earned through the hours of hard work I’d put in and how much of it had been handed to me because I was a good looking token.

In both of these examples, the other men in the room didn’t say a word.  Many were men I trusted, considered friends, and/or even professional mentors.

Over the years, I would learn to identify, by their awkward and nervous shuffles and the way they averted their eyes, which men found the behavior of their male counterparts inappropriate, but none of them had the, um, balls, to speak up and say so.

I know the good guys are out there.  Step-up and speak-up.  We need your advocacy and partnership and support.


5.  No means fuck off.

It doesn’t mean maybe.

It doesn’t mean….please keep on harassing me and/or groping me, because I’m right on the cusp of saying yes.  I just need a little more pressure to get there.

It doesn’t mean….no, but I’m kind of hoping you’ll slip me the date rape drug.

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Want to know what does mean, yes?

YES

It’s really not that hard.


It’s 2019 and we’re still debating whether or not a woman should have complete control over her own body.

There are many who still grouse about how young women dress these days and people who say things like, “cover up, it’s too distracting for your male counterparts.”

We’re still teaching young women that they are responsible for a man’s behavior.  While teaching young men that they have no accountability for their actions; that women are a free for all.

Too many shrug and say, “Ah, well, boys will be boys” and “That’s just locker room talk.” But when a woman expresses/explores her sexuality, she’s a slut who had it coming.

When women are assertive, we’re told we’re too bossy, too frigid, too much, a bitch.  And to be fair, when men aren’t, they are too soft, too much of a pussy, a bitch.

It reeks.  And not just the typical stench of misogyny, patriarchal ideology, oppression and abuse of power.  It reeks of weakness and desperation and fear, really.

I think it’s the fear that strength of character will become more important than strength of power and force….and not just when it’s fashionable, or convenient, to say it out loud, on public platforms.  But because it will become, fundamentally, the right thing to do when everyone is watching and when no one is watching.

Imagine a world where the shit actually rises to the top and is skimmed away and discarded, immediately.

And if that were the way of things, imagine all the actors and musicians and sports figures and religious leaders whose names we might have never known, but who might have been replaced by better talents.  People who never got a chance, because the wrong kind of people were taking up all the space.  What might they have accomplished?

Imagine all the politicians and lawmakers and businessmen who would have never had an opportunity to impact public policy.

And imagine what might have become of the victims, if they’d never been victims.

It changes everything….

Chicks Before….Well, You Know….

“Somebody asked me if I knew you….A million memories flashed through my mind, but I just smiled and said I used to.”
~Unknown

About a year ago, my best friend and I broke up.

It’s not the first time we’ve been angry with each other and it’s not the first time we’ve gone a long stretch without speaking; each of us too angry, stubborn and self-righteous to extend the olive branch that would bring us back to one another.

But in the past, it had never been a question of if we would reconcile.  It was just a matter of when.  We were drawn to each other in a way that made the idea of going through life without the other, inconceivable.

Ours was a friendship that was forged in our childhood.  We’re cousins, but our biology wasn’t what bonded us.  In our family, familial bonds are tenuous at best.  Not even a wedding, or a funeral are guaranteed reunions.

We chose our friendship and we worked to maintain it.  Even when the adults in our lives were falling apart and fighting and cared little for their collateral damage.

So in many ways, we were each others refuge.  Not just from the storms in our family, but through the storms of adolescence and all the ups and downs that come with being teenagers and then young adults.

We had our own language that consisted of facial expressions and single words that just between us, could convey an entire story.  And we had so many stories that made up a crazy, beautiful tapestry of life and love and loss and friendship and growth and adventures.

We were each others witness; keepers.

This break-up though, is different.  At least for me.  This time, it’s for good.

The title above would suggest it was a guy who came between us, but in truth, he was just a catalyst.  We are deeper and more complicated than that.

For a long time, we had been walking roads that seemed to run parallel to one another.  Our roads weren’t exactly the same, we each had our own goals and obstacles to overcome.  But we remained close enough to hold hands as we helped each other over and around and through.

But eventually, our roads began to diverge.  As we headed in fundamentally different directions, I tried to pull her onto my path.   Not because hers was no good, or because mine was so much better, but because I could clearly see that we were headed toward very different horizons.

We had grown up with one another and then we had grown out and away into very different people.  Our relationship lived solidly in the past.  It required that we constantly double back to the place where our roads still ran side by side in order for us to find one another again; back to the people we had been before we’d become wives and mother’s and had to make difficult decisions about careers and family and finances and all the other grown-up hard stuff of life.

But you can’t stay in the past.  You can visit it and reminisce and then you have to return to the present and keep pressing forward.  And I had to admit that the people we’d become, had stopped being the others keeper and witness a long time ago.

In these last several years, our friendship had begun to feel like something I was holding tight to so that it wouldn’t escape.  I was exhausted by it and as this last year has passed, I’ve wondered what to do next.

The idea that if you love something you should let it go, seemed too simple and easy, but then again, if it felt that way, I thought there was a reason for that.

And then, the other day, while driving, I heard a remix of the song 99 Red Balloons and I thought, “Yes, this makes sense,” as I sang along….

It’s all over and I’m standin’ pretty
In the dust that was a city, 
If I could find a souvenir
Just to prove the world was here
And here it is, a red balloon
I think of you and let it go….

Some People Have Family Home Video’s. I Have 500+ Pages of Police Reports and Body-Cam Video….

“Does anyone else hear banjo’s?” ~Me

Life has been weird.

A year and a half ago, my brother and I, along with our respective significant others, entered into a legal battle with our mother, who I haven’t spoken to in more than ten years.  Our fight was over my niece, Lele; the child of my middle brother.

The case has now mostly concluded, if you’d like to read about that hillbilly drama, click here:  The Legal System Sucks or, just scroll down to my prior post.

But if you’d like the Reader’s Digest version, the long and the short of it is this, my brother and I are now the proud parents of a seven year old.

Over the course of the last year and a half, my time has largely revolved around the case.  Every day, there was new evidence to review, conversations to be had with our attorneys and a near daily deluge of new issues created by mother, all of which had to be addressed and managed.

Essentially, my mother didn’t have a respectable case to put on, so her strategy was to attempt to drain me financially; to rob my family of our financial future….and let’s just say the court allowed her to do it.

Meanwhile, we did our best to stay on the high road.  We accumulated our evidence and prepared to present our case.

In an effort to help minimize some of the mounting legal fees, I did a lot of the administrative work for our attorney’s.  I indexed transcripts from various hearings and depositions.  I created detailed timelines and summarized dozens of records, from police reports, to more than 40 hours of jail/prison calls.

It was mentally exhausting.  But it’s done now and so it’s time to box this mess up and carry on.  Which, is sort of a metaphor for the first 30-odd years of my life.

I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy dissecting my childhood and adolescence and early adulthood.  I’ve tried 1:1 therapy and group therapy.  I’ve had both male and female therapists and I’ve tried a few psychiatrists/psychologists as well.  But I’ve never been able to connect to counseling.

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I couldn’t understand the incessant need to draw parallels between my “trauma past” and my present.  I already knew about those parallels.

I had crappy communication skills and when I fought, I fought to win.  I spewed mean things, like really mean things that were intended to cut to the emotional quick.  I brought bombs to verbal debates.  

And yeah….I did it, because it’s all I knew.  I never learned the art of resolving conflict without drawing blood and/or causing permanent emotional trauma.

I knew that the way I responded to life wasn’t healthy or productive.  I knew right from wrong.  I never felt good about myself in the aftermath of a blow-out with someone I cared about.

So, self-reflection, got it.


As I got older, I stopped trying to hide my past and I became pretty open about my experiences, regardless of the audience.

You might talk about your idyllic upbringing on a maple syrup farm in Vermont and gush about how much you’ve come to cherish your relationship with your mother while we’re out to brunch for the first time….I might (most definitely will) talk about how my family got kicked out of church when I was a kid and that time my mom hit me so hard in the face, I saw actual stars.

So, ability to talk about it….check!


I could acknowledge that crappy things happened to me, but that in the grand scheme of things, I was still a person of privilege.

Perspective?  Yup.


I have sat with it.  I’ve acknowledged it.  I’ve mourned it.  I’ve felt all of the feelings for it.  I’ve analyzed it, accepted it, honored it….all the stuff.

I didn’t need to keep talking about it.  I needed to know what I was supposed to do with it.  I had been carrying around this load of emotional garbage for so long, I honestly didn’t know how to function without it.  And it was fucking shit up.

It was making me ugly and mean and jaded and really, just an asshole, but not the kind of asshole people like.

What I needed to know and what NOBODY told me in all the talking and talking and talking….was that I could just let it go.  That I could cut the shit, and stop being such a jerk, and just choose to be happy.

The revelation came after a rough session in couples counseling with my husband.  So, maybe therapy was helpful after all.  But, I don’t know, I think the Aha! was born more out of annoyance than therapeutic progress.

Anyway, I was talking to our therapist about something specific that was triggering me in our marriage.  A slight I felt was real.  And it was.

I wanted, desperately, for her to understand that this was a feeling I was having that was relevant to the present and not deeply rooted in my past.  But she wasn’t having it.  As I was word vomiting she said to me, “He’s not your mother.”  

And all hell broke loose.  Out of me.  It’s possible I levitated.  I got up and left, declaring I was done.

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From there, I did exactly what I always did.  I ran and took my garbage with me.  I disappeared from my life and my husband and into myself and my garbage.  I waged a war in my head with everyone until I was exhausted.

And then, something clicked.  My feelings and thoughts mattered.  I knew this.  But no one could hear me through the filter of my garbage.

And that wasn’t going to change until I made peace with it and let it go.

So I did.

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Of course, it’s a lot easier said than done.  It requires taking a giant leap of faith into life; over and over again.  And sometimes, it’s scary and it’s hard.  Especially when you know you’re showing up without any of the tools you’re supposed to have.  It’s kind of like bursting into a crowded room, naked.  But the alternative, is not showing up at all.

And I wanted to show up.  I was married to a really great guy, like truly THE BEST, who was trying so damn hard to understand me and show up for me, even when I made it nearly impossible.

We had started a family of our own.  I was a mother and I worried every single minute that I would mess it up.

I believed I would ruin everything.  I knew I would self-sabotage and drive my life into the ground and there would be no coming back from it.  I didn’t want that, of course I didn’t, but I couldn’t figure out how to exist among the mess.

Forever, I had been trying to figure out how to live and behave and communicate through and/or around the garbage.  I had been waiting and listening and even asking for instructions on how to do that.  I thought that’s what therapy was for.  To teach me how to live like a normal person, but within the confines of my dysfunction.  I don’t even know if that makes sense.

It never occurred to me that I could just pack it up and put it away.  Yes, it’s still a part of my story, but I don’t have to lug it around.  And there is so much power in that.

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I have managed to break the cycles of abuse and dysfunction and addiction that I grew-up with.  I decided it wasn’t the way I wanted to live, and then I set about figuring out how to live the life I wanted.

Simply put, I decided to be happy.  And I think it’s the best way to honor the part of me that spent way too many years being afraid.

I read once, that “happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed.  Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace and gratitude.”

I don’t know about all that.  I certainly don’t love every minute and I’m not always willing to extend grace, but I am grateful AF.  Because, I have a lot to be grateful for.

So while I’d like to sit in self-righteous indignation for a little while longer (I never said I was perfect), I’m going to pack this stuff up too and let it go.  The question is though, where do I put it?  Not metaphorically.  I mean literally.

Should I tuck away the body cam videos with our collection of home movies?  You know, so that we can all gather together someday and reminisce while we watch my son blow out his first birthday candles….and then watch my mom stand on the front lawn, barefoot on a cold December day, the remnants of Halloween decorations and that one, cracked, plastic Santa that’s been there since 2001, visible in the background, while she tells a police officer she suspects one of my brothers of throwing a brick through the back window of her car….only, the brick isn’t anywhere to be found, until she magically discovers it lying at an angle that makes it obvious it was either planted, or it’s just part of the neighbors landscaping.

Would the police and court records related to the all those calls about dogs running at large and a missing ferret, go with the old mementos I saved from my first fur baby?

FYI on the ferret, I hope he made it out of there.  Or, I hope he was at least a meal for one of the pets starving to death in that house.  I’m not sure which I hope for more.

Do the various cards and letters I’ve saved over the years, go with the stacks of JPay communications I subpoenaed from two different correctional facilities?  (JPay is prison email, if you don’t know….and really, if you are going to follow me here, you’re going to have to learn my language).

You know, I think I’ll just leave it all in a nondescript box to collect dust in the deepest recesses of our basement and hope it’s one of those things the kids just arbitrarily dump off at Goodwill or something, after I’m dead.

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I Love Pampered Chef….and Other Lies I Tell at the Post Office

“My life is just a series of awkward and humiliating moments separated by snacks.” ~Unknown

This morning, I stopped into the post office to pick up some bread and milk.  Just kidding…I stopped to mail a package.

Anyway, there was only one person working at the desk and a relatively long line.  After about five minutes, the woman in front me turned and asked if it would be OK if she stepped out of line for a moment to set her heavy looking package on the counter.

I smiled and told her I didn’t mind at all.

When she returned, she informed me that her daughter had just recently moved to Arizona and she was mailing her a box of duplicate Pampered Chef items she’d accidentally purchased more than once, while at different parties.

I thought about telling her the last thing my mom mailed to me were treasures from my childhood….covered in green mold and mostly broken….but I didn’t, because I’m working on improving my small talk skills.

“Obviously, I love Pampered Chef.”  She said.

“Me too.”  I lied….for literally no reason.  “I have so much of it.”  (Lie)

“What’s your favorite product?”  She asked.

“Fuck.”  I said.  (Lie)

I have one thing from Pampered Chef.  A pizza stone I bought when a neighbor hosted a party at least eight years ago and I doubt it’s the pinnacle of their product line.

What I actually said was, “Just one favorite?!  There are so many.”  (Lie)

She told me she had a lot of favorites too….including some kind of pan, that had some sort of foam thing and maybe a heart, I’m not really sure, I wasn’t really listening, but then she said her prized items were the knives.

That sounded good, so I told her I would have to agree. (Lie)

Apparently, those knives are pretty damn special, because she informed me she is the only person in her household allowed to use them.

I told her I was the only person in my household who ever cooked and that I doubted anyone in my family would even knew where to find a knife, let alone what to do with it if they did.  (Lie)

Then she asked if I purchased often and if I knew a consultant, or just attended regular parties. Then, I panicked.

I knew that if I told her neither applied, I’d probably end up leaving there with a business card, a catalog and possibly a commitment to host a party in the very near future.

So, I told her I had a consultant.  (Lie)

“That’s great!  Good to have the connection.  Is she local, what’s her name?”

“Fuck.” I said.  (Lie)

“No, not local.”  Her name is Wendy.  I’ve known her since college, she lives in Kentucky.”  (LIES….ALL LIES).

Then she gave me her card and told me that if I was ever interested in attending a local party and meeting some new people, to give her a call or send her an email.

“Awesome!  I definitely will!”  I said with enthusiasm.  (Lie)

Now, I have to find a new post office.

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I Love You Target, But We Need To Talk….

“To be honest, I’m just winging it.  Life, motherhood, my eyeliner.  Everything.” ~Unknown

Along with just about every other suburban mom, I worship regularly at the church of Target.

My Target recently went through a small renovation to make way for the implementation of even more self-checkout aisles.

Personally, I hate self-checkout.  If I have to go into the store, do all the shopping and then do all the work of scanning and bagging my purchases, I feel like I should be rewarded with a discount for having saved the business the cost of an hourly associate.

But today, I needed to make an expedited Target run for three specific things.  For me, an expedited run means that I quickly grab the things I need and then swing by Bullseye’s Playground.  Because c’mon….I don’t have that much self-control.

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The section had been largely picked through and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find anything to add to my basket, so I headed toward the check-out, feeling a little disappointed, but then deciding that my cost savings justified a stop at Starbucks on the way out the door.  YES!

My Target has something like 127 check-out lanes, but rarely do they open more than two.  Most of the time, I don’t care, because  there is ample reading material and a wide snack and beverage selection to keep me occupied while I wait.

But today, I just didn’t have the time.  I decided I would have to proceed with self-checkout.  I approached the register and began following the instructions on the screen. Then, my eyes shifted upward and I caught sight of something so horrifying, I almost dropped dead.

It took me a second to realize that the swamp monster staring back at me, was MYSELF; reflected back at me through the over-sized security monitor Target found necessary to perch above each register in self-checkout.

I get it Target, it’s a crime prevention thing.  I know that when I pull into the parking lot at this particular Target and spot a KIA parked among the Volvo’s, luxury SUV’s and mini-vans, I hold my purse a little tighter and sometimes jog into the store.

And I read the police blotter for this area.  I know what kind of community we live in.  All those damned by-law violators and that kid who keeps having pizza’s delivered to his neighbor as a prank….total degenerates.

So, I get it.  I really do.

However, why is it necessary for me to have to see myself, on a screen the size of a small TV, and without some kind of selfie filter to soften the blow?

Do you not know your target audience, Target?  What mom wants to see the enormous bags under her eyes, in HD?

And I swear, my hair looked far less greasy when I left the house this morning, than it looked on your shiny screen, so do you think you could tone down the brightness a tad?

Also, according to my mirror at home, I look a lot slimmer in the “I Love Twinkies” t-shirt I’m wearing today.  Which, by the way, I purchased at your store back in 2005 if that gives you any indication as to how deeply my loyalties lie….so, please, consider adjusting the camera to a more flattering angle.

Thanks to your cruelty, I felt like I had to return the Cadbury Cream Egg I planned to eat for lunch.  Now I’ll just go hungry and you lost a sale.  And good-luck finding that egg, because I most definitely didn’t put it back where I found it.

Lastly, do you know what always makes a person look better?  A black and white image.  I don’t think you need to be able to see the exact shade of my freckles (fine….age spots) in so much vibrant color.

Honestly, Target, I’m not happy.  But, we both know I can’t quit you.

I’ll be back….probably later today, because I saw you were switching out the seasonal items in Bullseye’s Playground, but this is officially your first strike.

5,999,999,999 more and I’ll start shopping Walmart.

You’ve been warned.

Valentine’s Day Isn’t For Everyone….

“All you need is love.  But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.” ~Charles M. Shulz  

So, my son is now a first grade and I’ve learned that a lot has changed since I made my way through the public school system.

I grew up in the 80’s and 90’s when people didn’t care all that much about your feelings, so this whole, everybody get’s a Valentine thing is new to me.

When I was in elementary school, I loved Valentine’s Day.  I spent days preparing my tacky Valentine’s box with construction paper hearts, feathers, stickers and paper doilies.

On Valentine’s Day, we placed our boxes on our desks and walked around our classroom depositing Valentines and treats into the boxes of our friends and our enemies?  Well, they could go right on ahead and choke on a box of those chalky conversation hearts for all we cared.

Personally,  I never gave a Valentine to a kid named Olin who had a harelip.  Not because of the harelip, but because he cut a chunk out of my hair in Kindergarten and I never let go of a grudge.

I also refused to deposit a Valentine into the box of a kid named Bobby, who used to pick his nose and wipe it on all the girls.  To this day, anyone with the name Bobby makes me want to vomit.

I spent years campaigning to blacklist a girl named Roberta, who beat me up, EVERY DAY, on the playground in second grade.  That is, until I told my gramma, who arrived at the school one afternoon during dismissal and confronted Roberta using a variety of clever obscenities none of us really understood, but delighted in repeating whenever possible.

Example:  “If you ever lay a finger on my granddaughter again you hussy, I will kick your ass so far up around your neck, you’ll have to spread your butt cheeks to sneeze!”

Not only could we exclude our classmates, but because nobody actually looked at the Valentine’s we were passing out, we were free to send hate mail too.

I got a few and I gave a few.

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In middle school, we gave up the Valentine boxes and instead we got to purchase candy heart lollipops for fifty-cents in the cafeteria, to be delivered, with a note, to anyone we chose.

Throughout the week of Valentine’s Day, our classes would be disrupted by a knock at the door and the candy courier would walk in and announce who the lucky recipient was. Which of course made the rest of us feel like ugly, unlovable ducklings.

My friends and I sent candy hearts to one another, but mostly I sent them to myself and claimed they were from a secret admirer. I wanted the candy and I wanted to make the other girls jealous.

I also sent one to my seventh grade science teacher, because he was smokin’ hot for a middle-aged science teacher and I hoped to woo him away from his wife and kids, apparently.

In high school, candy hearts were replaced with single stem roses. The concept played out the same way. The roses were purchased for a dollar and delivered throughout the school day. Tables were set up before school, in the hallways between classes and during lunch, allowing ample opportunity for rose purchases.

Girls with boyfriends ended the school day with a dozen roses by final bell. Girls without boyfriends told everyone it was because those girls put out….because it was really the only way to save face when walking through the dismissal crowd without a single rose.

Honestly, all of it sucked. There were years in elementary school when my friends and I got into huge fights over Barbies and who got to be the teacher when we played school. We teamed up against one another and if Valentine’s Day happened to fall during a rumble, things could get ugly.

“Nobody give a Valentine to Laura….she’s bossy and she’s got a knock off Cabbage Patch.”

In middle school and high school, the number of candy heart lollipops and roses you received were symbols of how popular and well liked you were compared to others. Clearly, there was something wrong with you if NOBODY thought you worthy of fifty-cents or a dollar.

So, I think it’s better that kids these days are expected to spread kindness equally on Valentine’s Day.

They’ll have plenty of time as adults to be biter and cynical when the day ends without a bouquet and takeout for one.

And by then, they can acquire alcohol.

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I’m Melting….

“Let’s open a store called FOREVER 39.  We can sell wine and yoga pants.”

As often as possible, I attend a yoga class.  Though I never thought of myself as the type of person who could ever achieve a zen-like state….I’m pretty wound….all the time….I have to admit that yoga does wonders for me.

When I really focus in on the practice, I can feel the stress and frustrations of the day, or week, melt away….and I get my best night’s sleep post class.  At least I did until yesterday, when I discovered that my face is falling off my head.

If you’ve ever been to a gym before, you might have noticed that the regulars tend to have a favored spot, or bike, or other piece of equipment they gravitate toward.

My gym is no different, but no one is a bitch about it.  So, when I arrived for yoga last night and found a new person in my typical spot, I just chose another, settled into Lotus pose and waited for class to begin.

My usual spot is near a half wall, that’s kind of like a long, narrow shelf.  I like it there, because I can use the wall to cheat during some of the balance poses.

My new location was directly beside a wall of mirrors that runs the entire length of one side of the gym.  I didn’t think much of it until I found myself in Prasarita Padottansana, which is a wide-legged forward bend.

We can pretend this is me….she’s OK….I guess.

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Typically, I keep my eyes closed during my practice, unless otherwise instructed to open them.  It helps me to block out the activity around me so that I can fully concentrate.

For some reason though, I decided to open them while bent over with the mirror at my back.  The first thing I noticed was that the position made my ass look like a billboard and I wondered for a moment if it would be possible to write supercalifragilisticexpialidocious across my rear.

The second thing I noticed was that my cheeks (face cheeks) appeared to be on my forehead.  It was legit frightening and after I gasped in horror, I did what women have been doing for centuries….I took a look around the room and compared myself to the other women.

This was only moderately helpful, since I was flanked by two, fresh faced twenty-somethings.  But, I did notice that a few other ladies had pools of skin dangling from their hairlines as well, so I was at least relieved to know that the only thing dying was my youth.

Yes, I am aware that things change as we age, it’s just that I would prefer to defy nature….because I like to set goals that are high and largely unattainable.

Having lost all ability to focus on the original intention of my practice that evening, I settled on a new one.  Trying to force my skin back into its original location by making a series of faces.  This did not work.

Then, I was reminded of the Golden Girls and that episode where Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia are discussing how long each woman waited to have sex with someone new, after their husbands were no longer in the picture.

Dorothy says, “You know, when you’re twenty, everything stays where it’s supposed to.  Now, when you lean over, it looks like somebody’s let the air out of your face.”  

#TRUTH

Dorothy then challenges an incredulous Blanche to look over a mirror and see the effect for herself, which she does with comical results.

Anyway, I’m not sure what to do about this.  I’ve seen too many seasons of The Real Housewives of (insert any city) and the evolution of Kim Kardashian’s face, to go anywhere near Botox.

So, is there some kind of fruit, or plant, or cream I can use that will magically turn back time?   I’m looking for a relatively inexpensive, quick fix.  I’ll even accept a potion brewed by the devil, whatever is going to work.

But if there is nothing that can be done that does not involve a scalpel, or a needle….if I am to accept that this is just the natural order of things….then I guess I’ll have to accept it.

But you can bet your ass I’ll bitch slap the new girl at yoga for my spot back.

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10 Things I Swore I Would Never Do When I Became A Parent….

“I would rather die than let my kid eat Cup-a-Soup.” ~Gwyneth Paltrow

I admit it.

Before I had a kid, I was 100% one of those judgey, know-it-all jerks who made grand proclamations about all the things I’d never do when I became a parent.

Which was pretty bold considering that, for years, I’d known nothing about raising children.  Like, literally nothing. 

Was it acceptable to put Kool-Aid into a baby bottle?

Did you wait to change a child’s diaper until it had reached maximum capacity?  I mean, diapers are expensive and if you can make a 24 pack last 24 days, that’s practicing good economics….no?

And, it’s not that big a deal to leave a toddler in the car if you’re just running into K-Mart for ONE thing, right?  So long as the kid is strapped down somewhere and unable to reach the lit cigarette resting in the cars ashtray?

What can I say?  I didn’t have the best maternal example.

It wasn’t until books and television taught me that I was basically a degenerate, that I began to form loftier opinions about things.

The police never showed up at the Seaver residence because Maggie was in the backyard with an ax hacking up the lawn furniture after a fight with Dr. Seaver.

Mrs. Walsh, of Beverly Hills 90210 never hissed at Brenda, “I am going to kick your ass so far up around your neck, you’ll have to spread your butt cheeks to sneeze!”

And not one of those chick’s from the Babysitter’s Club, had to take their earnings and immediately spend it all on candy at a sports bar/grocery store called Smokies before their mother could steal their wages.

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Smokies #ICan’tMakeThisShitUp

So, it’s really thanks to the likes of the Tanners, the Camden’s, The Huxtables, Mr. Belvedere and Beverly Clearly, that I became self-righteous AF.

10 Things I Swore I Would Never Do When I Became A Parent

1.   Let my kid eat a hot dog

Fast forward six years:

Me:  Hey Snugs, want to have a hot dog and mac & cheese for dinner?

Snugs:  I had that yesterday!

Me:  I know, but it’s your favorite!

2.  Leave the house in my pajama’s

Post Kids:  Ok, I’ll never leave the house in my PJ’s without a bra.

A few more years post kids:  Well, if I’m staying in the car and just going through the teacher assist drop-off line, it’s not like anyone will notice I’m not wearing a bra.

3.  Let my kid buy school lunch

Me….Every Day:  Oooh, buddy!  French toast sticks are on the menu at school today and tomorrow, it’s nachos!

4.  Allow screen time

A hot minute after giving birth:  Get ready!  To Wiggle!  

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5.  Forego my personal hygiene

Post Parenthood Google Search History:

  • How many days in a row can you use dry shampoo?
  • How many days in a row can a person go without showering before the smell is too great to mask.
  • Is Listerine an acceptable alternative to teeth brushing?

6.  Give-up my corporate career for family

My employer (a year ago):  You haven’t made a career move in five years and we’re going to eliminate your current position.  You’ll need to either move up, or move out.

Me:  Cool, should I go ahead and start packing now?

I know I’m supposed to be leaning-in and pulling up a seat the table and bursting through the glass ceiling and blah, blah, blah, but I was over my career.  OVER IT.

I didn’t want to spend my time traveling all the over the place, working insane hours, while someone else raised my kid, all for the privilege of helping to stuff the already bulky pockets of the executives and shareholders of corporate America.

I decided I didn’t want to pull up a seat their table.  I decided to build my own table.  I’m sorry if this isn’t the choice I was supposed to make.

Actually, no.  I’m not sorry.

7.  Participate in the Elf on the Shelf

Before my son was born, I considered the tradition to be an unnecessarily stressful addition to parenting and the holiday season.

Actually, I think I was just really jealous that I hadn’t thought of that bajillion-dollar idea myself.

After my son was born, I jumped right onto the Elf on the Shelf bandwagon and I’m not getting off anytime soon.

Quite frankly, I participate in the tradition for one person and one person only….and that person is me.

My childhood had all the magic of life at Spahn Ranch with the Manson family, so it makes me feel good to sprinkle my son’s youth with wonderment.

Also, that little Sprite gives me a whole month off from parenting….and I’m not going to lie, I can use the break….especially during the holiday season.

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8.  Formula Feed

To be clear, it never crossed my mind to judge another mother for the way she chose to feed her kid.  If it hadn’t been for Hamburger Helper, Chef-Boyardee and Tang, I might not have survived my own infancy.

So, fed is best, as far as I’m concerned.

But I had a lot of guilt about being diagnosed with cancer while I was pregnant and so I felt like if I couldn’t breastfeed, I would essentially be a worse mother than Susan Smith.

Mom guilt.  Am I right?

I wanted to breastfeed, but I couldn’t.

To make a long story short, my son was born premature, I had to finish chemotherapy and it wasn’t safe for my son to breastfeed while I was pumped full of R-CHOP.

I tried to “pump and dump,” but my body was all, “F-You.  I’m not cooperating.” 

Since starvation is, in fact, the worst of all options, I decided that what was best for my son, was formula.  And what was best for me, was to stop torturing myself.

PS….to that lady from the online La Leche support group I reached out to for advice on stimulating my milk supply, the lady who told me I should really consider stopping cancer treatment because, Breast is Best!

I still know who you are.  My social media stalking skills are on point and oh honey….time has not been good to you.

 

9.  Subscribe to a parenting philosophy

Me, today:  I’m the I Don’t Give a F*ck Mom.

The IDGAF mom is the one who can’t even commit to the long term implications of a bumper sticker, let alone a parenting philosophy.

She’s the one who sometimes feels like she’s got her shit together and other times, get’s stuck in her sports bra.

The mom who roots for other mom’s, (except that bitch from the La Leche support group….I never let go of a valid grudge), because she knows that parenting isn’t actually a competition.

We’re all just doing the best we can to roll with the punches of parenting and life and in the end, we all want the same thing.  Nice kids who are healthy and happy and who go on to be productive and kind members of society.  That’s the only trophy we’re going to get.

10.  Allow my kid to throw a tantrum in public

I really thought I would have this one down.  I assumed that I was the adult, the one in charge.  I thought my firm, but loving approach to child rearing would be thing that would separate me from the mom with the toddler sprawled out and screaming on the floor at Target.

I thought that right up until the time my son was about three and I told him it was time to leave Chuck E. Cheese and he looked at me and said, “Over my dead body.”

Ok, so he didn’t actually say that, but trust me, his wails and feet stamping and fist pounding on the Skee Ball machine made it clear that I could suck it.

So, now I just like to tell myself that he’s strong willed and that strong willed children become adults who change the world.  I high five myself and hope that he’s at least a good dictator someday.

Then, I take another helping of humble pie with a side of crow, pull up my yoga pants and tell myself that, at the very least, I’m still way better than that La Leche lady.

 

The Gazelle….

“Running is fun!” ~Psychopaths

About three years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio and truly, it changed my life.  I have always enjoyed physical activity, but in the past, I had a habit of joining big gyms, for like five minutes.

Then, I would get super bored, because I didn’t know what I was doing, and then I would quit….four years later….because canceling a gym membership is the tenth circle of hell.

But after I had my son and completed my cancer treatments, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck.  In addition, my anxiety, which had been a minor issue for me all of my life, suddenly started to attack more often and more viciously than it ever had before.

quote-anxietyI talked about it with my doctors and also a therapist I had been seeing for a while.  It was normal and typical for cancer survivors to experience symptoms of PTSD and anxiety.  Medication was an option, but I didn’t feel like it was a good option for me.

I just needed some way to release that energy from my body.  I began to recognize its build up.  I could feel that it was trapped, but I didn’t know how to go about getting it out and it made me feel manic.

On the advice of my Oncologist and my Cardiologist, I decided to start working out again.  Their suggestion was based more on the physical benefits I would get from regular exercise, but I thought maybe it might be a good way to exorcise some crazy while I was at it.

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At first, I bought the book, Fitness for Dummies, thinking it would help me understand how to properly use the equipment at the gym and create a worthwhile routine for myself.  And yes, I could have just asked someone, but no I could not.  (See post, I’m Known as the Death of the Party).

Anyway, I quickly realized that I was just on my way to falling into the same old failed routine I had gotten myself into so many times before.  So, instead, I turned to my community Facebook page for local moms….because if you want to know anything from where to get a good bikini wax, to what that noise was over on Main Street at 4:37am, that’s where you go….and I posted something like the following:

“Hey ladies.  I’m looking to join a new gym.  Somewhere with maybe small group classes and trainers who tell me what to do.  And if they are mean, even better.  I need someone to shout my ass back into shape.  Thanks!”

Within minutes, I began to receive a flood of responses. Eventually, I chose a new, women’s only fitness studio that had been open for just a few months.  I chose them, because I loved their body positive message.

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After my first class, I knew this time would be different.  Exercise has been a game changer for me, both physically and mentally and it’s a literal lifeline I can’t do without. And it was thanks to joining my gym, that I came to know my friend Gazelle.  (I call her this, because she has the body of Gisele, minus the height, and she runs like some kind of prancing, dainty, woodland creature).

Gazelle doesn’t teach at my studio. I know her through a game of six degrees of separation that includes both a personal and exercise related connection.  It was through that combination that I came to attend a cardio-kickboxing class she was hosting to raise money for charity.

The class kicked my ass.  In a good way.   So I began following her around to other gyms, where I take her class as a drop-in whenever possible.  She’s amazing.

Fitness is her full time job.  She has a degree in Exercise Physiology, but instead of working in a clinical setting, she likes to teach.  She gets up most mornings around 4:00am to begin her day, which includes a variety of classes taught at several different gyms.  I’ve seen here around noon-time when she’s already five classes into her day and you’d never know it.

In addition to her workload, she’s an avid runner and she’s constantly trying to get me to take it up.

“Hey, want to go for a run today?  It’s going to be so nice out!”  she texts.

“No.  Running is dangerous.”  I say.

“Running isn’t dangerous! What are you talking about?” 

“Um, have you never seen Dateline?  Or 48 Hours Investigates? There’s like a 90% chance I’ll be murdered.”  I tell her.

“We’ll be together though.”  She says.

“No, we won’t. I’ll quit after three minutes and tell you I’ll catch up. And by the time I’m attacked, you’ll be too far away for me to trip you as a sacrifice to save myself.”  


“Want to go for a run?  The foliage is beautiful!”  She tries again.

“Imagine how much better I’ll be able to see it while walking.”  I say.


“Let’s go for a run today!  Just a short one!”  She begs.

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Oh wait.  No, I wouldn’t love to.”


“Ok, I know you’ll probably say no, but how about you give running a chance today?”

“No.”


“Run?”

“I can’t, I hate it.”  

“Have you ever tried it?  Like REALLY tried it?”  

“Yes, that’s how I know that with every stride, a part of my soul dies.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I know.”  


“Hey friend, great day for a run!”

“Evolution.”

“What?”

“If God wanted us to run, he would not have killed off the Dinosaurs.”

“That makes zero sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.  Think about it while you’re running today.  Alone.”


I’m just not a runner.

There have been many times I’ve gone out and invested in expensive, top of the line running shoes, devised a training plan and envisioned myself crossing the finish line of the Boston marathon.  But then, I just end up gardening in my expensive, top of the line running shoes and watching the marathon from a bar on Beacon Street.

And I can always tell who the real runners are vs. the people like me who go out thinking, I’m going to pound out some miles and then end up walking three minutes in, because running is stupid.

Real runners seem to glide, their strides steady and light, their facial expressions stoic, their breathing, steady.

When I run, I look like a sack full of rocks being dragged across a bumpy road as I desperately suck wind.  My facial expression says, “This sucks, I’m bored, I hate every minute of this and it’s only been half a block.”

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I will hike for dozens/hundreds of miles carrying a 20 pound backpack up and down mountains for days and I won’t complain, even once.  I will bike ride for hours.  I will Spin and Barre and Booty Build and Muscle Pump and Namaste every day of the week….but I cannot bring myself to jog a lap, let alone a mile.

So I will keep on telling my friend no.  And she will continue to ask.

I will offer to drive alongside her in my car, while she runs.  Promising to shout out inspirational quotes, throw paper cups of water at her and play Eye of the Tiger at the highest volume setting for as long as her little legs will go.

And she will attempt to trick me into running by using words like “fun run” and promising a “yummy lunch” afterward.  And I will tell her that her idea of “yummy” includes a plate of twigs and crab grass and my idea of “yummy” includes cheesecake.

3Ps

Though it probably doesn’t sound like it, I do appreciate her persistence.  I know that it comes from a good place.  She’s rooting me on, because she thinks I can do it.  She has faith in me and my abilities.  Running is a passion of hers and she wants to share it with me.  Motivation is part of her job and she is really good at it.

It’s just that in my case, there is no will to find the way.  But her constant nagging has encouraged me.  I work out harder, because of her.  I push myself every workout and when I think I’m at my max, I push just a little bit more.

But if you ever see me running, you should probably start running too….because chances are, a zombie, or a serial killer is gaining on me.
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Last Night, I Ate an Old Cadbury Cream Egg For Dinner & Nope….I Don’t Feel Guilty….I Don’t Feel Guilty At All

“People who love to eat are always the best people.” ~Julia Child

About a month ago, I got an email from Meetup.com letting me know about a new book club for women that was forming in my area.

If you’ve never heard of it, Meetup.com is a networking site that allows users to create and join interest groups in their local communities.  There are thousands of groups to choose from.  Everything from outdoor sports groups, to book clubs, parenting groups, exercise, volunteering, artists, dating, business related groups and so on.

I created an account about ten years ago when I moved to the Boston area from a small town in the mid-west.  It seemed like a good resource for making a few friends in my new home state.

Only….I’m a complicated person.  I think my personality falls somewhere between hermit-like and introverted.  I am also very socially awkward.  I don’t know if I have some form of social anxiety, or, chronic verbal diarrhea, or what.  All I know is that I’m more of a wall-flower than a social butterfly.

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I’m the kind of friend who will almost always return your call with a text message without having:

1. listened to your voicemail; they give me anxiety and so I delete them immediately

2. sent the text before you’ve even finished leaving your voicemail

I will decline every invitation to a Pampered Chef, or Scentsy party.  Because I will always have plans to do something like, make my own laundry detergent, or de-pill my sweaters while listening to NPR or Relaxation Radio on Pandora. But, I will absolutely buy something if I can do so via a link that doesn’t require any human interaction.

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I will call you 47 times in a row, not because it’s an emergency, or because I’m trying to be a creep.  But because I can’t leave a proper voicemail message and so I will hang-up and try again, many, many, many times….before eventually giving up and sending a text instead.

So yeah, it’s not easy being my friend.  Which is probably why I have so few of them.  But, for all my faults, I’m a ride or die chick.  The women I count among my besties, I love so much, that I would 100% help them hide a body and my only question would be, “How deep do you think we need to dig this grave?”

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Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

Way back when I first signed up for Meet-up, I joined a book club for women.  They were a lovely group of ladies, but it just didn’t work out.  It wasn’t them, it was me, so I did what I always do and just stopped attending.

They were concerned for a while.  Was I sick?  Was I dead?  Eventually they realized I was just an asshole and they unfriended me on Facebook and we all went our separate ways.

But, it’s been 10 years now, so when I got the notice of a new book club Meet-up, I thought….maybe I might suddenly be the type of gal who enjoys socializing with a large group of women I don’t know….this, by the way, after declining an invitation to a family members Sprinkle.  Actually, I haven’t officially declined yet.  I’m just going to wait until the last minute and then say I’m sick.

I know, I suck.

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The details for the Meet-up said the inaugural gathering would be held at a local Mexican restaurant.  I’ve eaten there on a number of occasions and they have some seriously good street taco’s….and I’ll pretty much do anything for a street taco.  And I mean, anything.  So, you could probably argue that a taco was the reason I signed up and confirmed my attendance.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I found the groups organizer, introduced myself, made some comment about the weather, because that’s my go to small talk tactic and then I found a seat where I awkwardly smiled and said, to all I met, “Can you believe this weather?” even though there was nothing remarkable about the weather.

When it came time to order, I picked one of the street taco selections, obviously, while the rest of the ladies ordered some kind of salad with a “hold all the good shit and can you put everything but the lettuce on the side?”

When our food arrived, I wasted no time digging in.  As I was hoisting one of the taco’s to my mouth, one of the women said, “I wish I could eat like that.  You’re so brave.”

 

Um….brave?  I’m taking down a taco, not a terrorist.

I took an enormous bite, using the side of my hand to shovel in the parts that were trying to escape and looked up.  My eyes clearly said, “Bitch, please,” as I slowly chewed, before swallowing and then saying, “Street taco.”

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Which, to anyone with an ounce of sense, would have been a reasonable explanation, correct?

But she kept going….“I do, I envy you.  I would feel so guilty.”

Me:  I guess I just prefer to eat my calories, rather than drink them.  (I’d seen how many margaritas she’d taken down and I can be a passive aggressive douche canoe too).

Her eyes said, “Bitch, I will have you black-balled from this book club.” 

But I wasn’t scared.  One of the benefits of having been raised in a largely dysfunctional and abusive household, is that I don’t really have any feelings.

And because I love nothing more than a super awkward silence, I decided not to say anything else and instead, I just sat there and exaggeratedly ate the shit out of every last taco.

No way was I going to be shamed out of the pleasure of perfectly seasoned steak, tucked into a double layer of soft, warm, corn taco shells, because Karen wanted to do that whole “Oh, I ate 150 calories today, I’m going to have to work extra hard at Globo Gym tomorrow morning,” dance that some women seem to enjoy.

Because, I feel guilty about a lot of things….

The time I filled my 6th grade math teacher’s water cup in the toilet.  In my defense, she was really mean to me though and I was basically raised by wolves.

The time in elementary school when a friend dared me to call the number on a poster about a lost dog to tell the family I’d found him.  And when the woman answered and I told her I had her dog at the public pool, she immediately began screaming and crying with joy and then I hung-up.   Side note:  I feel like maybe this was the reason God gave me cancer and I can’t say I blame him.

All the times I said my grandma died, because I wanted to take advantage of my employers bereavement leave policy.

That time in high school when I hit my friend Patrick with my mom’s minivan….and while he clung to the hood, I accelerated and then quickly hit the break, sending him flying through the air and into a concussion.

All the times I use the handicap stall in a public restroom, because I like the extra space.

All those times in my twenties I left a first date, in the middle of the first date, without saying goodbye.

But food?  Eating?  No.

I love food.  All the food.  I’m just as happy tucking into a boiled hot dog at a baseball game….with a soft pretzel covered in so much salt that I instantly swell up and don’t pee for a week….as I am a gourmet meal, at a fancy restaurant, with fancy drinks with my BFF Marie, while we catch up on life.

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I grew-up believing there were only three food groups:  Chef Boyardee, Betty Crocker Meal-in-a-Box and Hamburger Helper, so when I discovered the world was a literal oyster, I made it my mission to enjoy every bite.  For me, food is fun.  It’s a simple pleasure that is meant to be enjoyed.

Never will I ever buy into that line of thinking that a woman should only eat a thimble full of food in public.

If you want to eat lettuce and air, that’s your business, but I’m ordering something I can’t buy in a bag from the grocery store….and my own desert (I don’t like to share)….also, I’ll totally take your leftovers if you don’t want them.

Needless to say, I’m dropping out of book club.  I don’t think I can mesh with the type of women who lure you into a club with the prospect of street taco’s, only to make you wonder why they didn’t just hold the meeting around the salad bar at Whole Foods.

Oh well, there’s always next decade.