Friday, April 29, 2011

Exercise, Death & Sharpie Markers

So I exercised the other day; with an 18 year old perfectly in shape long blonde haired life sized Barbie doll. Perhaps that's where I went wrong and why I am now convinced I should only exercise in the middle of the night. Or while wearing a burka. My daughter, The Girl, is super gorgeous and quite possibly the most exquisite girl specimen. She's also sporty and can run fast. And she's a bit of an exercise Nazi.

We set off into our new neighborhood for a quick walk around the block. Starting small and working our way up. And also to avoid me having a full on heart or panic attack. Off we go up the block, beautiful trees, barely sweating, my hair and makeup are still in place and then this, " let's go up that hill". Ummm, little hill won't kill me. Right? Walk, walk, walk. Up we go. Yeah look at me go up a hill! I can almost taste that Jack & Coke i'm going to have when we get home and it's right around the corner. So I turn to do my victory lap to my back porch and  Miss. I Can Run 5 Miles And Look Perfect goes the other way. She decides we should go further. Faster.
Now let's just talk a little about going faster when you are 215 lbs. and have been blessed by the Titty Goddesses. Faster means jiggle. Lot's of jiggle. The Universe has not yet made a sports bra that can keep my girls in their cups or in my shirt while moving faster than a leisurely shopping stroll. What people driving by must of seen probably looked something akin to two ultimate cage fighters wrestling for a championship belt in my shirt. With my hand over them. I think I saw a mother shield her small children's eyes. Now i'm sweating. Not only that, I am certain my ass will fall off at any moment. Which would be ok if it would fall off, but with my luck it will fall down to around my ankles. And stay there. Holy shit, I could literally feel my heart trying to break out of my chest so it can sit on a shady curb and rest a bit. With every car that I saw approaching I was hoping (out loud) that it was Mr. Man coming to make sure the The Girl hadn't killed me. It was never him, dammit! Where is he? Doesn't he know I am about to die? Probably watching t.v. Damn men. There I am walking fast and holding my boobs with both hands while my ass tries to drop to my ankles and thinking , "Damn, I can't punish her..she's 18 now!". Dammit why did I not think to write emergency contact numbers and a short will on my chest with a Sharpie marker just in case! I guess it wouldn't have mattered. After all of that shaking and jiggling, the EMS guy would of wondered why I scribbled a word jumble onto my chest and then he would probably post a picture of it and my battered boobies to thisFace Book page.

"Face it Cat, those boobs weren't meant for jogging!"

We walked 5 miles that night. Five. I think we went up four hills. No, it was all up hill. Both ways. My legs feel like Jell-O, I can't wear heels because my legs and feet hurt, my chest hurts and I have the start of a farmer's tan. We're going to do it again tonight, because that damn scale keeps lying and saying i'm still 215. Maybe I should start drinking water instead of a Jack & Coke when I get home. Nah, baby steps. First I conquer the hills, the hill hills...not the boob hills,  then we'll work on the icy adult beverages.

Have a GREAT weekend, Kittens! Check in with me on Face Book at:

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Boobies And Chin Hair

Can we all agree that it is a cruel joke from the universe that the older you get, the harder it is to lose weight? I remember when I was 18 and working at a hamburger place; it was not unusual for me to have a double cheeseburger, onion rings, mozzarella sticks and a milk shake for dinner. While drinking full leaded Coke all night. If I added a little weight, and believe me I would know because there is no mistaking the harpie shrill scream of a high school drill team director threatening your future ability to walk when the scale dimes you out and tells her you gained .0000025 pounds, I would just skip breakfast. Done. No pain, no sweat, no plus sizes.

Now, I am almost 40. Four-fuckity- D. I have been trying to lose 60 pounds since 2/13 of THIS year. As of today, I have only lost 12. TWELVE! I may have to kill a goat and make an offering to Satan in order to lose more weight. And it's too bad I just thought of that because I just gave my only goat away to my brother and it has probably already been offered to the bar-b-que. Hope Satan likes annoying coworkers- plenty of those around to sacrifice. Why is it that now- when I would totally appreciate effortlessly losing poundage- that the puppet masters of my reality turn off my metabolism and make it possible for me to gain a pound and a chin just by smelling food. What kind of  sadistic Jedi magic trick is that? And as if the inability to lose weight isn't bad enough, lets add some salt to the bloody wound of a trainwreck I call my life,  shall we?

Below is a FB Chat With Carrie. We get paid for this. I bet our bosses are blissfully unaware that they are paying us for this, but we'll just file that away in the That's What They Get For Having  A Crappy Dress Code file.

Me: I've had my period for like 2 weeks. Or years. Same thing.

Carrie: My boobies are sensitive. Like they need to be more sensitive.

Me: Seriously cutting into nekkid sexy time. WTF is that about?? Our age?

Carrie: Extra hormones.

ME: Ohhhh.

Carrie: And God laughing at us...

Me: He can suck it.

Carrie: God says,  "Bitches, you're done having babies? Extra periods for you!"

Me: Damn, God! We should be rewarded with nice boobies and zero periods. Men suck.

Carrie: "Oh, and here's some chin hair and vaginal a bonus"

Me: OMFG I hate you Carrie, seriously!

Carrie: Why?

Me: I can't breath i'm laughing so hard....and I just spewed the Coke i'm not supposed to be drinking onto my crotch AGAIN dammit!

Carrie: That solves the vaginal dryness problem.

Yeah, i'm an almost 40 year old woman. Lucky fucking me.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

It's Not Nice To Laugh At Crazy People...But It's Fun!

 I just want to thank you to all of your reading along and laughing with/at me and my mental instability(ies). Because of your support you :

A) Give me a creative outlet that does not involve me having to talk to myselves as much as usual. I mean, we still talk, I still like all of us, but shiny new friends are always a plus!

B) I don't have to go on a murderous rampage because of pent up stress and/or eat hamburgers and Ho-Ho's until I can't walk out of my house and the nice people from TLC have to cut me out of my room and share the video with the world. Fuckers. Probably wouldn't let me do my hair and makeup before show time either.Wonder if Coach and Ralph Lauren make designer mu-mu's. I should check into this. Just in case.

C) My friend Carrie won't have to spend $500 to bail me out of jail because of B, and she won't have the opportunity to post my walk of shame jail parade in a bright orange jumpsuit and very tacky flip flops to Face Book. She would do this. And laugh. I loves her anyway. She's the kind of BFF that would laugh if my boob slipped out of my shirt and tell me to tuck the girls in after everyone got a peek. She is also the kind of BFF that would bring a shovel and help me bury a body- no questions asked. I shall keep her.

So thanks for keeping me in business. Well, not in business, because that would imply I somehow made money doing this. I mean, I don't make cash- but I do take less Xanax and drink a little less because I get to fly my emotional freak flag here. So that's sort of a profit. Anyway- here's who's reading and laughing because they stumbled across my wee little blog and realized there is someone in the world more screwed up than they are and it really could be worse!

Glad I can help, Kittens!

United States
: 392
Germany: 4
China: 3
Canada: 1
Russia: 1
Sweden: 1
Singapore: 1

Friday, April 22, 2011

Gentle Reminder

Ok Kittens, it's Easter weekend. Yeah ! Here in Texas that means an egg hunt to find tasty candy and crushing cascarones on your cousins head...or creepy Uncle Bob's. I think it's the only day on the calendar that kids can smack an adult in the noggin and not get their ass handed to them and put in time out. So get revenge now while Jesus says it's ok. There will also be bar-b-que. Lots and lots of hot dogs (blech) , sausage, ribs, chicken, brisket and any other small fuzzy and tasty items from the animal kingdom. (Insert menacing music here).

Here's my advice for staying  Queen of the Get Healthy Parade while your friends and relatives are getting high on chocolate bunnies, marshmellows and a shit ton of roasted farm animals. Don't go. Did you hear me? Avoid them. They will make you eat your weight in ribs, cake, potato salad, beans, bread and that weird green Jell-o salad shaped like a UFO that someone always brings and noone ever likes. They will tell you to have a bit of that, a tad of this, a pinch of whatever...just a little won't hurt you. Next thing you know, your ass won't fit through the door and you have to stay the night until Mother Nature kicks you in the guts in the restroom. And guess whats for breakfast? You got it, left over Easter. Wrapped in a tortilla. Topped with cheese.

If you must go, then pack your own liquid diet. Wine, beer whatever kills your appetite. Healthy? No. But desperate times call for desperate measures. At the very least your icy cold adult beverage will be your drinkable courage so you will have the fortitude to kick the food monster in the balls. Just be careful. Don't drink so much that you get all warm and fuzzy and feel up Grandma or tongue kiss your cousin. Your brother WILL post those pictures to Facebook and add them to the next family slide show.

Eat this:


Get This:

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Does This Target Make My Ass Look Big?

I love Target. There, I said it out loud and informed the Universe. Hopefully the Target God is listening and will send some freebies my way. And by freebies I do not mean bathing suits. Please. Unless they also throw in a family sized bottle of Xanax. And sedatives. The people I live with will need both because if another damn bikini crosses my path I will shriek high enough to shatter all glass anythings  and bring air liners crashing from the sky within a 5 mile radius, pace endlessly muttering curse words to myself and force Mr. Man to lock up all available ammo. Stop laughing. Like you love bathing suits.

Anyway, so I went to Target at lunch to scope out some Easter offerings for The Girl,The Man, The Crabbit & The Dog. In my head we (me and all of my personalities) decided we would buy a little candy but make most of the basket stuff cute pens, socks, t-shirts and chew toys. Because after all, I AM trying to lose a whole person in weight (-11.4lbs. as of this morning, thank you very much) and a mountain of Peeps is not what I need stalking me at home. See, I was all prepared for the Willy Wonka gauntlet I was about to run with a plan and the right attitude. On top of that, the sun is shining, the unicorns and butterflies are out  and what could possibly go wrong with today?

Two steps into the Target and the dark clouds roll in, an emotional earthquake shakes my nerve and I think I just peed myself. Or spilled my coffee on myself. Doesn't matter, a wet crotch is a wet crotch and there's nothing to be gained by trying to explain away the wet spot. Who. The. Hell. Put those bikinis directly across from the fucking Cadbury Eggs?

I look to my left and there are chocolate bunnies and eggs, Peeps, Reese's everythings, M&M's, cookies, and cupcakes. Everything possible to make my ass as big as one of those giant pink blow up gorillas you see on car dealerships. To my right, floral this, nautical thats and sparkly red others. Two piece, one piece and uni pieces. All in sizes I am fairly certain my ankle will not fit into. Really? Are they serious? Hey Target, if ever you want to taunt me into a full on postal attack followed by an epic emotional break down, just stop selling cute flip flops ok? Or simply ask me to have a freak out. What kind of sick bastards arrange merchandise like that?  I feel like I have instantly been dropped into the retail version of The Saw. Choose wisely, or you might meet a nasty painful demise in the dressing room. Thanks Target, you officially suck.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

The Meat Karma Cometh

As it turns out, there is indeed more than one way to skinny a Cat. The stomach virus can certainly do that- at least temporarily. So can becoming a Vegetarian- which I have been trying to be- until last week. Did I fall off the turnip truck for a delicious bar-b-que or tasty, tasty slab of steak? Nope, but I was tempted recently, by a dinner with friends at The Salt Lick.  While those around me had brisket, ribs that seemed to come from some sort of large dinosaur and sausage. I love me some sausages! I had the veggie platter-which equals cole slaw and potato salad - since I skipped the beans with BRISKET IN THEM. Brisket. In the beans. On the veggie platter. The Salt Lick people must of been trying to show me the error of my high browed eating ways by tempting me with tasty moist chargrilled brisket. I passed on the meat and the beans. Was I seduced off of the salad parade by the steaks and the sausage Mr. Man grilled for him and The Girl? Oh, I so wanted that sausage he grilled- but alas- I had a salad with pseudo chicken on it. Admittedly, while Mr. Man was out on the back deck checking the steaks- I nearly lopped off a piece of sausage and ate it. I wanted to. But he turned around too quickly so I had to look super busy staring at the salad in the refrigerator... "Look! See me be good , getting salad stuff and not eating that sausage!". Sometimes I am 12 years old and not 29...or however old I am.

Lately, I have been in a stress pressure cooker. I have lots going on: moving in with Mr. Man, getting a house ready to sell, finalizing a forever pending divorce, getting ready for The Girl's prom, her graduation, her move onto college, possibly losing my job (again), classes for a real estate brokers's license, lets see what else... oh a little life altering event called not eating meat and trying to lose weight. Alot of weight. Sixty pounds. Somewhere in between the multiple trips to storage, moving from my apartment, getting rid of crap (stuff crap- not crap crap) and all the other items that make me want to run away- I found myself tired, weak and hungry on the verge of starvation and having to eat whatever I could find or I might die any moment. At any rate, The Girl and I were ragged and stopped at Chik-Fil-A. They do have salad and fruit. But yours truly had a chargrilled chicken sammich. Then I had some fish. Then a cheeseburger. And a ham sammich. Not all in one day, but in a week. This brings me to the worst way to skinny a Cat.

Eat meat after you haven't in a while and see what kind of bad ju-ju you sign up for. Lucky for you- I will tell you- you won't have to find out. I'm a giver that way. We are about to become very close and, well, maybe sorta cross the TMI line so bail now if you don't want your mind scarred permanently. If you eat meat after you haven't in a while, you lose the enzymes you need to digest meat- protease. Go Google it if you're feeling nerdy- but essentially - it breaks down protein. Meat is protein. It won't be broken down if you don't have your protease farm up to snuff. And you know what that means- the meat karma cometh. In the form of your entire system taking a crap (crap crap- not stuff crap). You're welcome. These are the things you can expect:
  • An unpleaseant full feeling (read constipated) that crescendos to a full on menstrual cramp feeling without the menstrual. (To you 3 leggers- that is the equivalent of a good swift kick to the man fruit that doesn't end for about a week).
  • Pooping rabbit pellets mixed with a shit storm of gas, and well, shit. Lovely. Keep the wet wipes handy. Just a friendly tip. Then go jump on the scale and congratulate yourself for loosing 10 lbs. and part of your small entistine. Well, don't jump, you might puke. Gingerly mount the scale.
  • A general feeling of being tired and lethargic. Or poisoned. Maybe dead is a better description.
Last night , after a ham sammich (yum) and some yard work (boo) I fealt like I might die. No really- I have had that feeling before and went to the ER- where they thought  might die. My stomache hurt, my head hurt, my joints hurt, my hurt hurt. I thought I might hurl so I went to the bathroom. No hurling commenced. Poop? Nope. So I took a shower and prayed to God (whom I don't believe in but I fealt so miserable that I gave it a shot) that he/she/it would have mercy on me and let me throw up in the shower so I could feel better. Nope. Not gonna happen. So I slowly reached out of the shower while moaning in misery to grab my towel, dried off, put on a tank top and panties (backwards and in side out but who gives a damn because I am in no mood for naked sexy time anyway) and stumbled my sad, hurt, tired , miserable ass to bed. I had the thought that it would really turn off Mr. Man if he were to come to bed and find me in a pool of puke or crap so I should drag myself with my elbows back to the bathroom and make either of those happen so I could crawl back to bed and die with some dignity. That was at 8:50 PM. That is all I remember.

Today , I feel ok but tired. I am so scared of a ham sammich or any other former furry food, that I dare say I well be avoiding them entirely. We had a meeting during lunch today to find out if we will all have jobs - they served us FUCKING HAM SAMMICHES! Holy crap, for reallies? I have no idea if I still have a job, because instead of paying attention, I was plotting my escape from the conference room because I SWEAR those piggy sammiches were staring at me. And taunting me. And plotting their revenge for my having eaten their farm animal buddy yesterday.  I'm at my desk. My manager has seen me here so I guess I am safe for now. That or security has been summoned.

Meat karma- your message has been received.