Here I go again on my own

Quick re-cap, I blogged with a fab group of women for about a year over at imperfectlybalanced.com, and while we figure out what direction we wish to move, I’m back here, dribbling nonsense out the ends of my fingers, hoping to still find an audience.

A re-introduction to myself.  I’m a single mom to a teen-aged daughter.  I’m a do-gooder with a potty mouth.  A self-proclaimed domestic Goddess.  Often described as abrasive but likable and I think I’m hilarious.  My mind goes a mile a minute, and I often speak, tweet, Facebook, blog and text before I think at all.  Not Instagram though.  That requires a ton of thought, retakes and filters.

I’ve recently become a Team Beachbody Coach which excites me to NO END.  Needed to kick my generous, but well-shaped ass into gear for my 35th (oh god) birthday, so I’m striving to lose 35 by my 35th.

In these pages you’ll find random ramblings, rantings, recipes, trials and tribulations of an estrogen only household (a boat load of alliteration), how to deal with different dietary needs (she doesn’t eat meat, I devour it still mooing) and what it’s like to date while your child dates, because let me tell you IT’S REALLY, REALLY WEIRD.

If you have any questions about BeachBody, fire away!  If you’d like to collaborate on a blog post, suggest content, share the content, make people read me because I’m hilarious, please, please do.
Thanks!

 

Lisa


Real Woman

So, I’ve had enough. I’m so tired of hearing about how ‘real women’ look.  As if ‘real women’ is the end all be all to what beautiful is.  The straw that broke this camel’s back was this:

Is cheerleader too chunky?

Now, I’ve seen this posted ad nauseum across the internet.  Facebook pages, blog sites, twitter etc.  And time and time again comments such as,

  • “I like to see women with built  not skin an bone  that look is a turn off”
  • “Looks a hell of a lot better than a skinny girl. Don’t Forget Real men like Meat, while dogs like bones !!!!!”
  • “chunky is the new skinny”
  • “Maybe they aren’t used to seeing real women?”

Of course this is in direct contrast to the reaction to actual heavier women.  Where they are labled disgusting, and undesirable, called pigs, whales, cows.  And once again, women who are naturally extraordinarily thin who are told to ‘eat a sandwich’ or ‘try some dessert’ called sickly, gross and ‘not a real woman’.

So here’s the news flash.  Was she born with a vagina?  She’s a real woman.  That’s the only qualification necessary.  An inny.  That’s it!

Real women are tall, are short and are of average height.  They have big boobs, small boobs and no boobs.  They’ve had children, the don’t want children and they are still children themselves.

They have cellulite, stretch marks and an overbite.  Or maybe they don’t.  They have visible scars and invisible ones.  They have long hair, short hair and no hair.

They wear size 0 and size 28.  They love men.  They love women.  They’re indifferent to both.  They have unwanted hair growing in embarrassing places.   They have straight teeth, crooked teeth and no teeth at all.

They have flawless skin and they have acne.  They have pale skin, dark skin, freckled skin, mottled skin, scaly skin, marked skin and saggy skin.

They have bags under their eyes, sags in their belly and a droop in their ass.  They have toned thighs and flabby upper arms.

They have ugly toes, and manicured fingers.  They struggle with their self worth and self esteem.  All of them.   And they are all beautiful in their flaws because true beauty cannot be captured with a camera or caught in the reflection of a mirror.  It can’t be defined by People Magazine, or the red carpet in Hollywood.

Beauty is not measured by inches and pounds, it is not marked by flawless skin and perfect teeth.  It can only be measured by compassion and selflessness.  Who she is when she thinks you’re not looking is what makes her a beautiful woman.  Having a vagina is what makes her a real one.

And with that, this woman is out.

Ciao


I’ve moved (blogs) – Please follow along!

Hi everyone!  I’ve joined up with a group of absolutely spectacular ladies over at http://www.imperfectlybalanced.com

 

Please follow along for the ride.  My latest: http://imperfectlybalanced.com/2012/07/30/tending-to-your-garden-a-guide-to-maintenance/


A labour of love

I don’t know why they call it labour, you’re laying down through the whole thing, is an incredibly stupid thing to say to the woman who is in the throes of expelling your demon semen child, FYI.

Yesterday marked the 13th anniversary of the day I kicked my child out my womb, and I thought it would be fun to recall the hours leading up to her birth.  As voted by the people of twitter (FOLLOW ME!), a reenactment of her birth was a BAD idea. Funny, but bad.

Picture it: June 2nd, 1999.  It’s hot, I’m fat, swollen, due at any moment and still wearing platform heels.  Girlfriend looks good

So my mom and head to the OB for my final check up where I learn that effacement has begun (thinning of the cervix – hurrah for vag talk!), and I can expect the baby at any time now.  How do we celebrate?  We got to Brannigans.

To make a long story short, I had a pregnant cow on our waitress and demanded we be moved to another section because of a dispute over butter, and I still stand by it.  I didn’t ask her opinion, I just wanted butter for my fucking bread sticks.  THERE IS A LIVE HUMAN TRYING TO FIGHT IT’S WAY OUT OF MY VAGINA.  WHY CAN’T I JUST HAVE BUTTER?  The manager agreed.  Butter for everyone.

Needing groceries for the family bbq that night, we swung into Family Foods.  I’m quickly fading on the vine, walking while pregnant is exhausting. I convince my mom to grab a tub of Heavenly Hash ice cream which I started craving immediately (notable: at this point, I had never even TRIED it before), and then I toddle off to the benches in the mall area.  My back is getting sore, and I need to get off my feet.

10 minutes later, the dull ache in my back becomes more pronounced and I take the keys, get in the car and lay flat, desperate to get comfortable but to no avail.  Heels I’ve decided, were a poor life choice that day.

20 minutes later, I’m curled up in a lazy boy recliner about to shovel in my first delectable bite of heavenly hash when a wave of nausea washes over me.  Immediately soured by the thought of ice cream and distracted by my still aching back I announce I am taking a hot bath and that I think I’m getting the stomach flu.  The flu.

As I sit soaking I notice a copy of Reader’s Digest on the counter and reach over for it.  Oh look!  An article: What to expect when you’re expecting!  This will be great and informative, I think and I devour the story with intensity.  5 minutes later, I’m freaking out that I will be giving birth to a hairy, jaundiced cone head alien child and I don’t want to be pregnant any more.  BAD ARTICLE.  BAD.

Realizing that this bath is doing fucking nothing for my pain, but is making me wrinkly, and the porcelain surround is NOT COMFORTABLE AT ALL, I call a crane company to tow my fat ass out of the tub, get dressed and sprawl out on my parents bed.  I’ve now missed dinner, and the pain is getting worse.  I no longer have the stomach flu I cry.  It’s my appendix.  It’s going to burst.

At about 8:30, after watching me writhe in pain and physically lift off the bed, my mom gently whispers that maybe it’s time to go.  “Oh God,” I say.  “Do you really think it’s that bad?  Can they take out your appendix when you’re pregnant?”

“You’re in labor, Lisa” my mom says.  Right.  I knew that.  Sure.  Labor.

We load me, and nothing else into the car because I didn’t even know you should pack a bag because I’m 19 years old and that kind of shit is not something that comes up in conversation EVER. We just have to drop my aunt off Aunt off at my Nana’s and we are ER bound.  One hiccup.  My aunt stands around, yammering about I don’t know what, all I can hear is the “wohn wohn wohn” of the Peanuts teacher, and I tear my teeth off the arm rest long enough to yell “GET OUT OF THE MOTHER FUCKING CAR SHE WILL TALK TO YOU LATER!!

Sensing immediate danger, aunt oblivious slams the car door, and with me foaming at the mouth, we’re off.

The next few hours is a bit of a blur, I’m clearly in labor, 5 cm dilated and on display for every Tom, Dick and Harry to poke prod and inspect.  At one point, I even offered the dinner guy a look because hey! everyone else got to see!

Clearly, as the pain intensifies, I’m brought laughing gas and as I suck it back with enough intensity to such the chrome off a trailer hitch, I murmur to my mother that if I wasn’t in so much pain, it would be awesome.

Gas stops working, demerol is not enough it’s time to whip out the big guns.  EPIDURAL BABIES!  So I’m perched on the edge of the bed with a horse tranq sized needle posed at the base of my spine, and they give me the prerequisite warning of potential for paralysis and I say “I DON’T GIVE A LEFT NUT ABOUT PARALYSIS.  STAB ME” and they do.  And life is good.

Thanks to the God juice flowing through my bod, I sleep all night, and am gently woken at 6:30 to prep for delivery.

At 7:00AM I’m wheeled to the delivery room where I’m greeted by not my Dr.  A man I’ve never met is strapping on gloves and preparing to go elbow deep**.

I assume the position.  Mommys, you know which one.  In stirrups in your glory, getting ready to bare down.  Lawd.  At this point, the unknown Dr who is sitting on a stool between.my.knees. peeks out at me around my leg after seeing my surname and says, “Hey!  Are you related to Peter?  Our kids play hockey together!”

Instant mortification.  Peter is my uncle, and his friend now has an eagle eye view of my kidneys.

7:15 AM my baby is born and I will never go through any of that again. Ever.  She was then, as she is now: Perfect.

**TMI


Holy MOTH’er’ Trucker

The other working blog title is “Why I need a man”

Two days ago, the kid tells me there’s ‘THE BIGGEST MOTH I HAVE EVER SEEN IN THEKITCHEN‘.

Like any good parent, I go and investigate.  12 seconds in, I can’t find it and I quit.  Moths are like ninjas, silent assassins.  Or, as one lovely man told me yesterday ‘just think of it as a grey butterfly’.  Sure, I said.  An undead Zombie butterfly.  Pft.

So last night, it’s 10:30, the kiddo is just letting the dogs out and I reach for the vertical blinds in the kitchen when OUT FLIES THE BIGGEST MOTH I HAVE EVER SEEN, except it was no longer one moth.  THERE WERE TWO.

So like any responsible adult I shriek and start laughing hysterically.  The kid is outside and she hears me and yells OH MY GOD KILL IT.

Here is how it went down:

I run to the closet, grab a broom and an oven mitt.  I don’t know what good the oven mitt will do, but it seemed like a damned good idea at the time.

K (from outside): KILL IT

Me: I’M TRYING.  IT’S DODGING ME.  IT’S GOT THE FLIGHT PATTERN OF A DEMENTED BAT.

K: *scream* THEY’RE OUT HERE TOO.  THEY’RE DIVING AT MY HEAD

Me: Get inside!

K: NO!  IT CAN CORNER ME INSIDE.  I CAN RUN HERE.

Now, keep in mind it’s 10:30 at night and all the windows are open.  Why didn’t a single neighbor come and investigate?  I’m actually anticipating a visit from the police.  And I am truly sorry for my actions.

K: CALL SEAN OR DARRYL!  CALL SOMEONE.  OH MY GOD KILL IT.

Me: SEAN IS IN TORONTO AND DARRYL…well, I was 3 minutes away from calling Darryl.  Sorry, Debbie.

At this point, one of them has found its way into the dining room and I chase hot on his tails.  He hides behind the mirror, swings rapidly around the chandelier, bobbing and weaving, taunting me with his moonlight ballet.  Finally, I clip his wing with the broom and I BEAT HIM LIKE A RENTED MULE.  He dies.

Lisa 1 Moth 0

Back to the kitchen, that stupid bastard moth flew into my light fixture.  A globe fixture, and like a boss I trap him.   And he will stay there until he dies, or someone kind-hearted like you comes and frees him.

Seriously. He’s trapped. In my light. GET HIM OUT.

 

Fun Treat!  I decided to depict the event in MS PAINT!  (note the laser eyes the moth had.  It is to scale)  Enjoy!

This is how it went down. I am a warrior.


I’ve always wanted to do a duet with Urethra Franklin

The warehouse here has 30ft ceilings, the building shakes from the large trucks hustling down Route 90 and the sounds of the bustling traffic nears a dull roar at times. He was 20 feet away (I measured after the fact for the sake of accuracy) and behind a closed door yet with all that chaos I COULD STILL HEAR HIM PEE.

Self Explanatory

Now I know this is way too much TMI, but I as I sat here in awe, giggling to myself a few things crossed my mind.

  1. What a race horse
  2. His mother should have taught him not to hold it so long
  3. I am not going to be able to make eye contact when he emerges. Hell no.
  4. Did it splash back?
  5. How far back did he have to stand to prevent splash back?
  6. Was there trial and error involved?
  7. How accurate is his aim?
  8. If it’s that loud to me, is it deafening to him?
  9. Does he take pride in his own personal Niagra Falls?
  10. What in the hell is the MATTER with me?

Now don’t get all judgmental on me, had you heard it you’d have thought the SAME DAMN THING. And remember, if you shake it more than twice you’re playing with it.

On the lighter side, I also heard him turn the water on and wash his hands, so mama didn’t fail him too horribly.

**I’m afraid to tag this blog, I can’t imagine how it will turn up in searches.

On twitter?  Follow me! @MsBehavior

(And thanks for those who read along! I exceeded 20,000 views this AM.  Pipe up! I want to know who you are!)


Why I’ll never be a glitterati: OR – A guide to living in Transcona

You can dress me up, but you can’t take me out.  Here’s a top 15 list as to why I will never rub elbows with royalty.

  1. I once watched a brawl in the entrance of the Transcona Walmart.  While 19 years old, and 8 months pregnant.
  2. I have a 1-winged, weather worn broken pink flamingo wind chime in my front yard. I know this, yet I don’t take it down
  3. I believe Christmas lights should stay up year round
  4. Kraft Dinner is an acceptable dinner
  5. I think farting dogs are funny
  6. I express in a blog that I find farting dogs funny
  7. I have used pickle spears as a mashed potato vessel
  8. I went grad dress shopping pregnant
  9. I have more Red Solo cups in my home than good china
  10. There is a bumper-less vehicle parked on my property
  11. I like Kid Rock
  12. I know someone who shot a skunk while wearing a tuxedo
  13. There are more 4 legged beings in my home than 2
  14. I have enjoyed canned wine
  15. Worth 1000 words. Sweatpant skirt, plastic wine glass, high voltage box.
    ’nuff said

Any questions?  Good.