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WTF Friday: Episode 6

The Bloggess, Liquor Store Doctors, and Leprosy

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Welcome to the sixth episode of WTF Friday at 3 Monkeys and a Martini!

As you may know, there has been a no-pants saga which has recently ended due to the purchase of several ill-fitting pairs of Target pants.  Hey, they may be too long and they may Add-A-Dick-To-Me with their lumpy crotchness, but they are pants.  And they are all mine!  Muuhhuuuaaahha! 

It is truly amazing what a pair of pants (and a new sweater or five) can do for your self esteem.  I've even showered in the last two days!  And I plan to go out of the house... in public... to buy food.  And I am not even going to go to Walmart.  "Whoa, slow down!  Don't get crazy on me," you may be saying, but my new pants have created a monster.  I may even slap on some mascara and bronzer.  Look out Mr. Martini, I am on the prowl.  Meeoow!

But seriously, I think my Target pants have helped me become somewhat acceptable.  Or at least not toxic.  I say that because I woke up to this in my in-box this morning:

The Blogess Follows Me On Twitter

Her highness The Bloggess, follows me on Twitter!  WTF?  Have I made it or what?  Nevermind she follows like 18k other people.  And nevermind she will never read my blog. And nevermind the fact that this will never result in a dime in my pocket.  It is still pretty damn awesome.  I still think pants are overrated, but maybe, just maybe, these new pants will open some doors for me.

Speaking of doors...

Aside from that nugget of awesomeness, I have been feeling quite crappy.  I went to a "doctor", which is an indication of the seriousness of my feeling of crappiness since I only go to a doctor when a human being begins to protrude from my vag.  This "doctor" was actually a Voodoo Priestess/nurse practitioner/wholesale meat distributor whose office was located in the back of a liquor store.  Hey... I have a high deductible.  I gotta do what I can to save on healthcare costs.

So I see this woman right after a man with what appeared to be leprosy jumped off her examining table.  I tell her my ear hurts.  I have a sneaking suspicion she has yet to wash her hands as she grabs a used Kleenex to wipe off her ear-looky-inny-thingy.  I am fairly certain at this point my ear is going to hurt a hell of a lot more in the days to come, judging by the left-over ear on the floor from the leper guy who just left.  I tell the kids to cover their mouths, and for all that is good and holy, do not touch ANYTHING!  As a reward for good behavior, you will receive a Purell bath upon exiting this facility.  Hope you have no open wounds.

Turns out, all the backaches, headaches, coughing, swollen glands, and ear pain are benign symptoms of nothingness.  See, there is clearly nothing wrong with me.   Silly me.  "Use wam compress on both side of head.  Gargol wit sal wotor" she says.  Gargle with frickin salt water?  What, am I Amish?  What the frig ever happened to Zithromax?  I came here for one thing, and one thing only.  Drugs.  And judging by your clientele you have access to the good stuff.  Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme. 

So yesterday I spent the bulk of the day on the couch with a heating pad pressed up against my ear, one of those self-heating backache wrap things tied around my neck, a bottle of Tylenol stuffed in my bra, and I guzzled sal wotor once an hour until I puked.  And guess what?  I still feel like crap. 

Ironically, I just received a follow-up call from said Voodoo-meat distributor nurse.  I said I still feel like crap, and consciously coughed into the phone.  Her response, "Oh... take cuple mo day to feel bettah."  Thanks.  Bitch.



The Target Mirror Box Of Horror

I got some pants... and a dose of reality

So I did it.  I bought some pants.  That's right y'all!  I took a moment yesterday, piled the kids in the cruiser and took 'em to Target.  Why Target?  Because it was a one-stop-shop.  I needed some apples.  And toilet paper.  And a baby-proof latch thing.  And I figured, hell, while I'm at it, I'll get some pants.   I wanted to go to the fancy maternity store, but that would have required dressing for the occasion, (i.e. wearing something that didn't already have a ketchup stain on it, and a nicer pair of pants).  So now that I have Target pants, maybe I'll get to the maternity store.  Likely not, but whatevs.

In any case, I learned a couple things yesterday while clothes shopping for the first time in like 3 years.
1) Even cheap clothes are over priced.
2) Liz Lange (the in-house Target maternity "designer") has clearly never been knocked-up.
3) Whoever designs the clothes for "women" sized chicks, are not in fact, women.
4) I have some body issues.  Which was not helped by the fact that my 5 year old literally pointed and laughed at me when I took off my skirt to try on pants.   Dick. 

So, I've gained a bit of weight during this pregnancy.  Like 25 pounds already.  And there is no stopping in sight.  For those who don't know me in real life, I am 5' 2" and built a bit like a hobbit.  So any extra poundage is visibly noticeable almost immediately upon scarfing down that plate of pasta.  And it has been this way my whole life.  Because I am a larger small person, I have had serious self image issues since I was a little girl.  And it all started when some jackhat doctor told me I was obese when I was 12.

That little comment set off a lifetime of self-image issues, culminating in a decade long "battle" with anorexia. I use "battle" in quotations because at the time it was not a battle... it was a way of life.  See, you starve yourself in an effort to get to a point where you like what you see in the mirror.  The battle is not with the lack-of eating part of the equation; rather, it is in the liking what you see part.  But everyone acts as though the disorder lies in the eating part of any eating disorder.  That you must simply learn to have a healthy relationship with food.  They would be the same assholes who call 12 year old girls obese.

The disorder part stems from a magnanimous lack of self-esteem that drives every thought, every decision, every choice that you make.  And that is not something that can be solved overnight with a magic pill, or with therapy, or with success (i.e. starving yourself down to a size zero).  I tried all three.  You don't simply wake up one morning and think "wow, that single grapefruit a day has really made me beautiful.  I think I'll have a ham sandwich now, 'cause I'm a hottie potatie and I'm all better".  You may finally wake up and think, "Damnit, I'm having a ham sandwich because this eating celery sticks thing blows", but you still live forever with the fear of being fat and ugly.  That never goes away. Never.

Maturity helped me conquer those demons a bit, but it was entirely by default.  Looking like a Top Model no longer is the most important thing when you've got little people who rely on you for their very survival.  The constant fear of being fat and ugly that once literally consumed me has become really small, pushed deep down, and is weighted down with cement shoes of things that really matter... like being able to pay the bills, keeping my kids safe, and being a good role model.  And it helps that I have a husband who makes me feel beautiful everyday.  Just having him by my side as my life partner is a constant reminder of my success at conquering this disorder.  When I left my first husband, he said to me in reference to my now-husband, "Do you think he would have had anything to do with you when you were a fat cow?".  Those words stung more than a stab to the heart.  But I can say without a doubt, "Yes, assface, he would.  'Cause he is.  And he thinks I'm beautiful even with some extra poundage".  Our two (almost three) children are evidence of that. 

So, I realized--standing in the mirror box of horror at Target with a five year old laughing at my pants-less cellulite laden ass--that I definitely need to get to the gym once this pregnancy is over.  And I should maybe start being a bit more conscientious of what I consume (what, you mean macaroni and cheese has carbs?  Shit!).  And although I now have to wear a tent as a winter coat, it is all fleeting.  It is not me.  I am a beautiful girl with some extra weight.  And you know what?  It doesn't define me.  It doesn't consume me.  It doesn't determine my self worth.  Not anymore.  These two little monkeys do.  And it is for them that I will hit the treadmill.  Not so they can have the hottest mama at the school play (although, I'll be honest, that is a motivator).  Rather, it's so they will have a healthy mama who has many years of playtime left.  So I can give them the time they need to become men.  Real men.  Men who don't value a woman by the size of her ass, but rather by the size of her heart.  Men who know a good thing when they see it and will stop at nothing to get it, keep it, nourish it, and cherish it.

Men just like their father. 


WTF Friday: Episode 5

An (Almost) Pants-less Moving Day


Man, it seems like a decade since I last had a second to write.  And I have missed it so much.  I have even been punishing myself by being a twitterhole since I've been such a bloghole lately.  What is a twitterhole or a bloghole?  Someone who rarely participates in either.  And there is always hilarity going on in the blogs I follow, and the antics from the people I follow on Twitter make a pants-less life worth living, so I've been really punishing myself. 

But we were moving.  And as you likely know, moving S-U-C-K-S.  Like, a lot a bunch.  And one would think with all the experience I have, I'd be good at it.  Yeah, not so much.  You may have read my last post about needing pants.  Let's just say on the day of the big move (which was actually more like 64 hours) I found myself with literally no pants.  None.  Mr. Martini and I had gotten up at 5am to make one last packing push before the movers got there, and upon looking around, panic ensued.  I think the words were, "Why the falafel haven't we packed yet!!!??!!" (except I never say falafel).  And a frantic, sweaty, panicked, craze-induced frenzy of dumping drawers, and toys, and file cabinets full of junk into random un-marked boxes began.  During the madness, I had found a clean pair of yoga pants (ill-fitting of course, but clean) that I quickly pulled aside and put on top of a box while running to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth.  When I exited, my pants were gone, and there were about 400 newly packed anonymous boxes standing tall as a disheveled Mr. Martini continued throwing random crap to and fro. 

"Where the hell are my pants?", I yelled.  Now mind you, I had already thrown the 3-day-old-funked-up-pants I had been wearing into some other random box filled with dried flowers, some hood ornaments, kitchen utensils, an accordion, and Twizzlers; which was of course, no where to be found.  And by that time, neither was Mr. Martini.

Ohhhh shazam!  You can imagine the fury.  I mean, come on!  I had just recently written about my lack of pants and how mad it makes me.   And now you literally take the only clean pair of ill-fitting pants I own away on a day when strangers will see me, and I already haven't showered in three days?  So I did what any gal in my position would do... stormed around the house in my under-roos swearing like a sailor, throwing things around like a spoiled 3 year old.  Oh yeah... and the reason I was so pissed was because I also had to give a presentation at my son's school that day.  Score!

My husband doesn't read my blog, but he had been made aware of the no-pants post.  He KNOWS!!! When I finally confronted him, his sweaty, befuddled look told me everything I needed to know: "I don't know where the hell your pants are, and to be honest, I don't give a damn."  Luckily I found the three-day-old-funked-up pants I had been wearing, so I slapped those on.  I Fabreezed myself before heading over to the school, and stopped at the store on my way for cupcakes.  I figured if a smelly, un-make-uped, dirty, almost pants-less mom walked in to my school with cupcakes, all I'd remember is that she was awesome.  So I gave it a shot.  I think it worked, although I did try to keep my distance.


This move was surprisingly smooth.  Our movers were super fast and even charged less than they estimated, and that NEVER happens.  We even got the house mostly cleaned out for the new owners. But because we don't like to do anything the easy way, like a bunch of dumbasses we had the power shut off just so we would have to scramble around in the dark with flash lights trying to hide things we couldn't illegally dump (sorry about that broken crib you guys will eventually find in the potting shed... and the four full trash cans.  And the garage full of paint. Oh, and that broken jogging stroller... Whoopsies ;) 

So, we're all moved into our new house, which I love.  I have never actually said that about a house that I live in, so that is kind of a big deal.  We even had a lovely make-shift Thanksgiving dinner, and we are slowly unpacking all the random boxes of crap.  Life is starting to normalize.

And guess what?

I still haven't found any damn pants. 

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