Somehow Still Alive

Holy shit, what was I thinking!?

My overweight, underheight, arthritic body that voluntarily clutches itself into random muscular spasms went ice skating recently at the request of my darling, beloved child. I obliged because I am The Most Awesome Mother of the Universe - a title I humbly hold close to my cold and withering heart. 

I was going to take her to The Mall for this but I found a rink that was much closer and not quite as overpriced as all get-out. 

I've only been ice skating two times in my life prior to this - the most recent of which was just a smidge over twenty years ago. Again, I ask the universe, what in the exact hell was I thinking!?

Oh. Right. Let's talk about something. I'm tired of sitting around doing about as much as a ninety-something year-old lil-ol-lady. I want to liiiiiive!! So I'm carrying that over to my miniature human. If there's an experience that she wants, we are going to create some awesome fucking memories.
Memories > things. 

And I present to you, her experience. 

We drove ("werrrrrrrr this is taking foreverrrrrrrr"). 

We stood in line ("Stop touching it. Stay over here. That's going to fall. On you."). 

We put on our skates ("I can't stand uuuuup!!! I can't waaaaallllk!"). 

We got on the ice ("wooAaoooh! I can't ev-he-he-en!!!!").

*Trumpets blairing as Our Savior swoops in*

"Does she need this {PVC "walker" thing}?"

"OHMYLORDTHANKYOUYES!!!"

Fun was had by all. Until....

Ehhhhhh shitballs. My ice skates were about forty-thousand times too damn small myfeetaresostupid. And I was feeling it. I changed my skates and went back on the ice. But my feet were still feeling those other skates. Memory of an elephant, those two. 

All-in-all, our trip included only one slip (hers, not mine), a lot of out-of-shape sweating and heavy breathing, and happiness and excitement.

We just got settled in the car and were leaving the parking garage when up from the back seat arose such a question...

"Can we go ice skating again?"

What have I done?!

Do you see this shit right here? Skating against the flow of traffic. Girl dances to the beat of her own drum. Rules? What rules? Bwahahaha!

I'm Pinterest's Bitch

I thought I would brag for a minute about a few things. I have good taste. Every once in a while, we have an appetizer night where we make finger foods. Usually it's pigs in a blanket. Seafood salad in a blanket. Something else in a blanket. Because food makes you sleepy.

We decided (mostly it was my husband's idea) to have a buffet for Christmas Eve. And instead of the usual "football party food" (his term, not mine, because food=food) that we normally do, he wanted to class it up a bit. Shit. I'm going to have to take a bath. Since Pinterest is my companion, I know it wouldn't let me down.

I present to you, our Christmas Eve Buffet! (Of course, these are the owner's photos because I haven't actually cooked or taken photos of this stuff.) Links are provided so maybe you'll go and get the recipes yourself.


Garlic Herb Roasted Shrimp


Crostini with Prosciutto, Goat Cheese and Fig Jam


Fried Mozzarella


Crash Hot Potatoes

And last, but not least, a vegetable tray or a salad with ranch dip/dressing.

Breakfast for Christmas Morning will be...


Mimosas


And Breakfast Hash

I'm still not working on Resolutions

They can go fuck themselves.

I've decided that I want to be a successful blogger. My hands automatically started typing "suggestive." I wish I could be my smart-assed, sassy self right now and roll with the whole suggestive thing but my brain is just clunking around in my head right now bumping into all kinds of paraphernalia and being all rude about it.

I just noticed an enormous spike in my visitors. Today. Whaaaat? Why are you here? Where are you coming from? What do you want with me?! ... How can I make you stay? You can cross showing my boobs off your list. I'm not doing that. Leave me comments, people!

So the news is that I am committing myself. Sadly, not into a hospital. Not yet anyway. I know, your dreams are crushed, aren't they? I am going to post at least once a week. A good, quality post. Every week. This doesn't include the Menu Plan Mondays that I do sporadically (thank you Clueless word-of-the-day) or the photo dumps I take do. But I know you will be curious as fuck about the whole weight-loss thing. I know I would be.

So leave me some comments. Let's shoot the shit.

This is NOT a fucking resolution

Get your act together. I've been thinking lately, and boy is that a horrible thing to do. Every year, every month, hell, even every week I think to myself, "It is time." And every time, I look at myself in the mirror and think that I should just live with it. But now, I have a sense of foreboding. A sense of impending doom. That I just have to bite the bullet. Take the bull by the horns. Stir the pot. Shit or get off the toilet. Do you understand what I'm getting at? Do you??

Because I do. Because I'm the effing genius who decided to write a 40 Before 40. With goals. And a due date. And the days keep on going by. That date gets closer and closer. Even though it's 5.5 years away. I'm figuring this will take that long to complete.

Today I am making a concrete plan for one of my, ahem, items. It is such a large undertaking. I have to break it down into miniature goals. I just cannot NOT do it this way. It isn't going to be easy. It isn't going to be fun. At all. And I know the benefits will be worth it all. But can we just go ahead and shoot me now?

Oooh, alright. Fine.

Human beings are animals. Filthy, dirty, ritualized, animals. Our bodies are hard wired to store fat so that during times of less abundance, we can stay alive. Mother nature needs to hire an electrician because this shit is just too old now. Guffaw! Yeah. Right. Your fat, lazy ass got you here in the first place. Unlazy yourself.

So. Here's the problem. I'm 40 pounds overweight. My goal is to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight. I have 5 years to do so. But, the sooner the better, right? January is when this starts. I know that shitty song is ringing in your head like an earworm and you don't even know the words. But everybody is doing it.

The plan is breaking it all down into bite sized goals that are easier to swallow. January? 5 pounds.

Action: Get off my lazy ass. Tone It Up. Yoga. Bicycling. Jogging.

Jogging.

Jogging.

Heeeeey while I'm at it I may as well start training for a full 5K run.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Or not.

And no. I'm not taking pictures and posting them here. Not yet anyway. Shut up. I know you just want me for my body.

Better at this than you

Another December has arrived and since I really enjoyed doing this last year, I'm doing it again. Suck on those taters. 

Shitballs. I'm going to start throwing up red and green peppermint flavored tinsel. I was already behind with day one. I had to retch myself over to the computer to find something - anything - that will somewhat entertain the child. 

Nope. She isn't enthused at all. Not one bit. 

And then we had to go and pull out that damnable elf. The elf that is never on the shelf. WTF is up with that? The little shit should be called Elf Anywhere But on the Shelf. 

By the way, we were wrong for two years. "Cal" as Ivy named her in 2012, is actually named "Cow." Which is completely appropriate. And because Cow is such a bitch, she brought chocolate, soap, and a stupid ball that lights up. Thank you Hallmark for making and marketing this unnecessary shit. I fell perfectly into your trap. Fuck you. 

Mental note for next year, ditch the damned book because, even though it was demanded of me to read the book, the rules set forth in said book will not be followed. 

And because I am The Mother of All Mothers and better at it than you, Ivy entertained herself on the iPad with The Cow. 

And because that stupid elf isn't enough, I planned a little craft session because I really need a hole in my head. 

Read: I did everything in my power to have an ABSOLUTE ZERO type of mess. And.  It. Worked. Because, again, I'm a better mom than you are. 

It is also preferable for your ass to not be prepared at all and to do things on a whim. That kind of spontaneous shit is on the very top of a perfectionist's list. Yep. 

The beginning of the season wouldn't be complete without holiday cards. I decided this would be the year (after never doing this) that I would send out holiday cards. And hell to the no, I couldn't just write the addresses on them. I had to go and draw on them. 

Consider yourself trumped.

Sassily yours,

My ass