squishy little fat kids

How in the world do we live in a society that has a 3rd grade child over 200 pounds?  Unless that little pork chop is 6 feet tall, his mother should be kicked in the face.

I think.  I don’t know.  Far be it from me to tell anyone how to raise their children, I still get annoyed when my idiot dog poops on the floor, but at what point in your child rearing do you look at your giant fat kid and say “man, I’m doing a great job”?

I understand that it is difficult to break into the whole “healthy living“.  And I’m far off from the exemplary person in that regards – I’ll out-eat just about anyone in a “junk food off”, and the other day I was at a football game and ate copious amounts of red meat, fatty meat, Doritos and beer.

But I also know how to counter that – with a run, or a bike ride, or a good session at the gym (maybe even a purge? JUST KIDDING).  I didn’t take any class on it, or get help from a personal trainer, I simply wanted to go to the beach in a bikini and feel comfortable, so I took the opportunity to teach myself how to maintain my weight and react to the negative factors on my diet with exercise and healthy eating.  85% of the time.  I’ve given advice to my friends about what can help them – but no one can force you to do the work, cook the food, or count the calories.

At the end of the day, its simple math.  You lose weight when the calories burnt is greater than calories consumed.  There, I broke it down for you in one sentence.

The mother of this little giant fat kid says she’s not a bad mother, and the kid is fat because of genetics.  That might be true, I would love to give her the benefit of the doubt and be able to say that she loves her children.  Interestingly enough, both her and her husband are also obese.  I’m sure there is a percentage of people with “thyroid issues” but I find it hard to believe that your thyroid is forcing you to eat a bag of cheese doodles in front of the TV instead of going for a walk.  And I’m pretttttty sure your thyroid isn’t whispering “eat that gallon of ice cream”.

There are so many shows out there to help aid in weight loss.  And they’re entertaining, but they’re also extreme.  Again, I’ve done enough research to know that it is NOT good for your body to lose 25 pounds a week, or go from a completely sedentary lifestyle to working out for 4 hours a day.  Unfortunately, when people go from one extreme to another, they’re merely replacing the addiction they had for food to an addiction of exercise. 

Neither is good for you.

There is a middle ground.

If you’re motivated, you can find the middle ground.

If you can’t get motivated, there’s a deeper issue.  And that’s sad, I wish that no one was in a position where they felt sad about something and turned to a substance to fill that void.  Studies have been done on several occasions equating food addition to a drug addiction, because it sets off feelings of pleasure when you eat a Big Mac.  I guess I just don’t fully understand a food addition because I’m able to indulge, and then go back to a normal diet.

The amount of morbidly obese people in our country now a day is staggering.  The amount of obese children is out of control; and its partially due to lack of education and lack of funding, but at the end of the day, when you have a child, you’re supposed to take care of them and teach them.  If all you know is to over eat and live an unhealthy life style, its concerning – to say the least – about where we’re headed as a country.

I bet ya’ll thought I’d be b-tching about the holidays today, eh?  Oh I don’t think so.

Oh, Turkey Day

So I’ve said on several occasions I adore my friends.

Thanksgiving is a legit day off for me – like, I’m not dipping into my vacation bank, I’m not working from home, I’m not banging in sick, legit. So I was hoping to sleep in.

Starting at 7am my phones rocking with Happy Thanksgiving texts.

Shouldn’t complain, right? It’s endearing that my friends text me in general, more so on the holidays. Especially when I’d rather stay home and eat paste then drive from house to house today.

But c’mon kids. At least give me till 8! Sigh.

journey!

No, buddy not the Journey you were thinking of. Yes, I’m just a small town girl. Sometimes I AM on a midnight train, but it rarely goes on and on and on. In fact, it ends after merely an hour.

But, on my way home today I was thinking. You know how people always say “life is a journey” or “life is a gift”? Both, I assume are true, I just find it interesting how people’s paths cross.

Today, a chic I work with ended her time at my company. So it signified two things: the end of her journey at my company and the new beginning at her new place. Which is exciting! I wonder though, should I have spent more time getting to know her, and what her deal is? Or should I be focusing on the people that are constant influences in my life? What about the people who were blips in the road on my journey? What are they doing? Should I look people up?

Do. I. Even. Care? How do we know who is significant and who is not – and is it even up to us? Do the people that matter make sure they matter, or do you have to push them towards impact.

Good Lord. Well, what I really go out of tonight is my friend is doing a “Race to Finish a Case” and wants me to be the girl on his team. Alls I know is, my teammates better be ready to sack up, cause I’m a ringer and I’m in it to win it.

What Fresh Hell is This?

Oh. Thanksgiving Week.

First of all, let me just start off by saying that I don’t need a holiday to remind me how lucky I am.  Good family, good job, my sheer brilliance and extraordinary good looks, my humility, great tolerance for the ole sauce, ya know (blah blah blah). 

I DO, however, need a federal holiday to get the day off, so I’ll take it.

As usual, though, the week before Thanksgiving, the shakes start to set in. 

Not the “yay-I-can’t-wait-to-see-my-family-eat-a-lot-of-turkey-and-have-a-great-time” shakes or the “man-i-was-out-late-last-night-and-need-a-bloody-mary” shakes, but the “Jesus-H-Christ-Thanksgiving-is-already-here-I-haven’t-had-a-chance-to-get-a-therapist-up-to-date-of-the-bag-of-crazy-my-family-is” shakes.

Aside from the Gates of Hell opening and Lucifer‘s dog snapping at my heels, another tell tale sign the holidays are approaching is the litttttttle extra touch of neurosis in the conversations I have with my dear Mother, and the littttttttttttle extra grin on my friends face’s when they ask me what I’m doing for the holiday.

Please, don’t get me wrong – I love my family.  And I love spending time with them, but there’s a limit.  There’s only so long I can smile at my extended family before it starts to crack.  In the recent years, there has been some tension between a few family members.  You’d almost think my family was Protestant the way they avoid conflict, so its simply been festering.

This year, is different though.  I’m mandated to go to Second Thanksgiving (yes, I’m being forced, against my will, to eat a second meal, and nope, we’re not Greek, just annoying), but I got the green light from Poppa Bear to behave as I see fit.  I quote:

As far as expressing ourselves and saying what we feel, I see no reason not to espouse your feelings when given the opportunity.

and

So if you feel the need to tell them, please do, whether you filter it or not is up to you.  I personally believe it would not be a bad thing to do, especially  if you feel it would “clear some things up”

And if I don’t follow this advice, he told me to:

lighten up a little – Or Not, Soak a Tampon in Vodka, Insert and Enjoy

(honest to God, this is an excerpt from an actual email my pops sent me this morning. including that last bit)

The way I’m interpreting that is “say whatever you want, you’ll put on a show for us”

Let the games begin!  Perhaps this holiday season will be fun after all.  I mean, I wasn’t planning on boozing this week, but I kind of feel like it is in order.  If anyone would like to volunteer to DD for me, so I can REALLY put it out there, HMU.

By the way, this was my response to my dad:

If the opportunity arises, you can rest assure I’ll be able to convey my feelings towards them and the situation they’ve created as coherently and intelligently as possible, and I’ll try not to use the 25 cent words so they can all follow along as best they can.

Told you I was brilliant.

“Occupy My Balls Street”

Just when I think my ex boyfriend WON’T say something to make me laugh or surprise me…..”Occupy My Balls Street” comes out of his mouth.

So this OWS nonsense is coming to head in NYC with the protesters getting restless. I’m the first to say that I don’t follow the news, politics, anything but it gets my feathers ruffled when people bad mouth the NYPD.

I have a lot of friends that are cops. I know that to the core, NYPD is a strong group of good men and women. Are there bad eggs? Yes. But there are bad eggs in my office, doesn’t mean my whole company is corrupt.

Facebook is essentially an electronic soapbox. And I like to argue. 98% of the time I’m just arguing to argue but once you start bashing NYPD I actually have a position and a passion about what I’m saying.

Involved in a pretty solid back and forth on a friends “status” about OWS with complete strangers, the police were brought up…as if on cue, my old boyfriend texts me something silly, like a picture of his foot or car or candy bar.

Me: not now, I’m caught up in a back and forth on occupy wall street and the NYPD (he’s a cop)

Ex: Occupy My Balls Street.

Ha you jerk. Since you put it that way, let’s all watch the JETs game. OWS will be there tomorrow.

My day is ruined.

Scratch that.  My WEEK is ruined.

Ever since Gwyneth Paltrow became British and turned into a f-cking snob, dissin on my U-S-of-A the Brits have pissed me off.

Sure, the accent is cute.  Sure, Pierce Brosnan is f-cking hot.  Sure, every time I think of British people I picture a little red phone booth and rain, which is kind of cool, but the past few years the Brits we’ve come across have been a touch entitled.

You lost the war – move on.  Get your Earl Grey tea and your flat Boddingtons beer and stop whining. 

Now I hear the fella in Walking Dead is a Brit FAKING an American accent.  Great, my whole week is ruined.

U

S

A

U

S

A

U

S

A

say it with me people.

Bad. KITTY.

My cat is a sneaky little sh-t.  I took my pooch for a stroll the other day, and when we were rounding the corner I saw little Simone and thought “hey, that cat looks familiar!  Wait…”

The little jerk was CAUGHT.  She must have slipped out when I took out Pee, or maybe I didn’t pull the door all the way closed, but she is an indoor goddamn cat and should not be running around town! 

She knew she was in trouble.  She walked up to my poor doggie, smacked her in the face, turned and hauled ass back to my apartment door, running inside like nothing ever happened.

I wonder if she’s ever done that before.  Maybe she’s at the beach right now, a cocktail in one paw, shades on, smelling the ocean.

Bad. Kitty!

if you look closely you can see the boxes I've yet to unpack. Will and Grace was on, that takes priority.

 

what. the. hell.

In my moving, I didn’t change my old address in time, and had the post office put a hold on my mail.  Most of the mail I get is crap anyway (bills) but I never want to miss my birchbox (ladies, check it out now, thank me later), and I had a chair I ordered I was waiting for.

So I have the hold, and I have the change of address.  On the instructions, it tells me I have to go pick up my mail – which I do, but there wasn’t anything there for me, so the post office guy told me to just give the mail carrier a call before 9.

Now, I didn’t realize I would be talking to my actual mail carrier from my old apartment, but once I realized who I was on the line with, we started chatting:

Mail Man: I’m sorry to see you guys leave, it was nice having you on my route!

Me: Thanks, I hope things are going well.  That woman was driving me insane.

Mail Man: You’re not the first person she’s run off that block.

Me: Laughs

Mail Man: You had a package, but she refused it.  Then she asked me what your new address was.  She wanted to know if you were going to pick up your vacuum.  Also – did you ever clear your food out of the fridge?

shut. the. front. door.

Me: So I see she’s still a flaming bag of crazy

—end scene—

I’ll Take Brie, please.

Thanks!

Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about?  Okay, I’ll ‘splain.

I came to the shocking realization this morning that I am part of the rat race. 

You heard me.  The rat race. 

I don’t know how this happened, but as I walked to work this morning, I turned off my headphones and looked around – it was a beautiful day, you know.  Guess what I saw?  A bunch of other people doing the Exact. Same. Thing.

Even walking in the same direction.  And not looking where they were going.  It was as though no one saw the person next to them, and if they did, it was because they stopped short in front of them and tripped them or something.

What the hell happened!  Every day I do the same thing.  Literally.  I wake up, 6:25AM, get in the shower, dry my hair, walk my dog, drive to the train, sit next to the same old man every day, get the same cup of coffee from the same place and walk down the same street, to the same office, doing the same mundane thing over and over and over and over again, with 10 million other people.

I won’t get into my ride home, I don’t want you to fall asleep.

In all honesty, I truly cannot complain.  I’m fortunate enough to have a home, a dog with a waggy butt, a job in a solid company (says a lot in this economy, apparently).  I have good coworkers and a decent paycheck, a supportive and loving family (lets not delve too deep into that bag of crazy now, though), and a solid group of friends.  I’ve got both my legs, my health, my bike Hondo, a car I like driving, and enough scratch to get some beers and a nice dinner once or twice a week if I so choose.

I gain pleasure from the stupid joke my friend emails me mid-day, or a picture of my nephews doing something silly, or the smile the woman at Tim Horton‘s wears after she starts making my coffee before I order it – she knows what I like.  It brightens my morning when the old man I sit next to on the train says “Good Morning!” when he sits down and “Have a nice day!” as he gets off the train.  And I just love how every morning the guy giving out the AM New York paper by the 1 train tells me I’m pretty, and the door man at the Empire State Building tells me to have a wonderful day.  Even though my dog pees on the floor sometimes and barks at my friends when they come over, every time I open the door she grins and wags her tail like she hasn’t eaten in three months and I’m a T-Bone.  My cat purring is probably the most relaxing thing I’ve ever heard, and I love the sound of a freshly opened bottle of beer (shut UP I’m not a drunk).

…now, is that the American Dream?  What if that’s all we get?  What if I want more? What more could I want to get?  What if I DIDN’T have a job?  Or didn’t have enough money to pay my rent?  What if I started doing something else?  Maybe I’m destined to work in Sales Support for a Financial Solutions company for the rest of my life.  Or maybe I can be Chandler Bing and quit my job at 37 to become an intern somewhere at my dream job.

Crap, I don’t know what my dream job is!  Yikes.  I guess I’m just a mouse trying to get some cheese – and I want Brie.  Or Bleu Cheese.  Or swiss.  Or Land-o-Lakes white american!

Apparently I’m Helpless

I guess its my own doing – admittedly I’m a little flaky, a little scatterbrained, and I write things down in 15 different places and still forget what I’m supposed to be doing, but…

I’ve slowly been putting my apartment together. It’s a lot of work! I can’t even imagine what owning a full blown house would be like. If I ever buy anything, now I’m leaning towards a condo. Or something with maintenance. Or, living with someone extremely handy (I’m partially Misogynistic, not in the whole “I hate women sense” – cause I’m a chic – but I think that we tend to have gender specific skills – with exceptions, of course. I’ll get into it later, you might hate me after reading what I think. My friends don’t see eye to eye on that point of view all the time, but we’re entitled to our opinions. I make a mean lasagna, but have no desire to put up shelves, that’s a mans job).

ANYWAY. So we all know I’m not good with a screwdriver. I’ll get the job done at the end of the day, but it’ll take all day. Literally. It took me 8 hours to put up blinds (they’re straight though!), another 8 for my curtains (they’re straight too!). I’m not talking, like 25 windows, I’m talking 5 sets of blinds, 2 sets of curtains.

I’m proud of myself though! My FF friend came over the other day, and started poking around, looking at my accomplishments. “YOU did all this? By yourself! They’re straight! And they’re even the right size!”

I can’t tell if he was being a d!ck and mocking my lack of handiness, or if he was seriously that surprised I’m not entirely handicapped.

And thinking about it, I really don’t know which is worse.