Dear Facebook,

Don’t change anything.  Fuck all those dorks that can’t keep up with your format changes. They are probably the same idiots that fill up my homepage with their Farmland, Mafia, and Bejewell bullshit. That’s not what Facebook is about! I’m here to applaud you on what you are doing right.  For the good of society.   

I know it’s for a bigger purpose… to simplify stalking.  And I, for one, thank you and your voyeur lovin’ technology.

How else would I know that the head cheerleader has become fatter than me? And that my gaydar in high school was RIGHT ON.

Or that someone I used to do very illegal things with- the least of which was smoking pot- is a born again Christian, Bible beater that uses Facebook as a lure to  bring people into “Jesus’ arms” while quoting Christian Rock group lyrics.

Sure, I shiver at the thought of having been friends at one time with people now that go to Monster Truck rallies and watch Nascar, but if it weren’t for you, I may have made the grave error in judgement and renewed those friendships- that could have been ugly! 

Granted, I don’t want to become a fan of an old classmates Plumbing Company even though I ignore the request once a week (it may be because he has a porn mustache and in my opinion- porn mustache and plumber’s crack is just too much to wrap my mind around), but I can deal with little hiccups like that.

So Facebook, keep on keeping on.  And a lot of my Catholic friends are “giving you up” for Lent… don’t worry, they’ll be back.

What’s a woman gotta do to get some love? 

So yesterday was Valentine’s day.  I don’t pretend to like that day. I never have. But this year- I REALLY wasn’t in the mood!  

I didn’t change my Facebook status to show me and my husband and say how we met and how long we’ve been together. Corny!  Or maybe I just have a bad attitude- possibly, both.

It’s no secret that we’ve been under a lot of stress and stress is hard on a marriage- we’re no exception.

He’s working a lot and resenting it.  I resent that he resents it and thinks I do nothing.  He resents that I write this and I’ve probably already said too much.

It’s fucking butterflies and rainbows here, folks.

No gifts or niceties were exchanged.  Well, I take that back… we refrained from telling each other to screw off yesterday- you know, in the spirit of the made up Hallmark holiday.

He did call on his way home last night (11pm) and asked if I wanted him to pick up anything for me for Valentine’s day from the 24 gas station.  And what woman’s heart wouldn’t be warmed by THAT gesture?

My dad was diagnosed with diabetes this week.  That sucks for him.  He loves to eat crap.   After he got the phone call from the doctor, he said, “but I still went and ate 15 Oreos.”  Yep, that’s my dad.

This also sucks for me.  I live in an avoidance state of denial. And now, the one thing I had going for me (no family history) is gone! 

I had gestational diabetes with all 4 of my pregnancies- insulin dependant- could only eat rabbit food- was miserable.   It was for the health of my baby, so I did it.  Of course, I bitched about it incessantly.  And instead of the typical flowers and baby gifts, people brought sympathetic chocolates and sugary treats to me after the births.  God Bless them all!   

After the birth of my youngest (a mere 5YEARS AGO!), my doctor gave me the yummy “Glucola” to store in my fridge and drink before my next check-up appointment.  Ummm, said Glucola is still in my fridge.  Don’t judge. 

Fear of living my life without sweet goodness is a fear that closely rivals the fear of losing my sight and my legs- I know it’s wrong.

I’ve been eating well and exercising lately, although I did make out with a chocolate lava cake today (Happy Valentine’s Day to me- from me!) and now I’m wallowing in the guilt and have a good sugar high, but when I come down, I’m going to feel really bad!

The Superbowl party did not kill me. 

The 2 snow days afterwards, however, nearly did. 

I have been inundated with stress and trying to deal. 

I have a lot on my plate, metaphorically speaking. In reality, I’m dieting, so not really much on my plate.

I have been taking solace in watching fat people (Biggest Loser and Celebrity Fit Club) try to lose weight.  

I wasn’t stressed enough, so I decided to do my taxes.  That was dumb.

The kids are back at school and the husband is back at work, but don’t worry about me… I have a few new grey hairs keeping me company.

My son started high school this year.  It’s his first year at a public school.  He has played football and is now wrestling. His grades are decent and he claims he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He texts a lot.  He killed my soul a little when he asked me to buy him shaving cream and razors this week, so I guess he shaves, too.

This is the extent I know about his life.  Shared information is limited.

I’m pretty sure I’ve become “that mom”… the overbearing, pain in the ass, that asks too many questions and notices that he has  man hair on his arm pits- and talks about it.   

Since he’s at a new school, I don’t know one of the kids he’s friends with.  I like to blame the new school thing and avoid the possibility that he doesn’t bring anyone around me because he’s embarrassed of me.  For his birthday, I begged him to invite friends over, but he refused and insisted on only family.  I sang Karaoke, royally sucked at Guitar Hero while wearing jammie pants and drinking grape Vodka… what teen boy wouldn’t want to expose his friends to my kind of coolness?

I have aerosol cans in my house and I know about huffing.  I have a good idea why his showers take so long.  And he changes his own sheets on occasion- without me asking- IF you know what I mean.  I know what kids are like.  I am desperate to meet his friends, smell their breath and check their pupils for dilation. 

Sunday is Superbowl.  I’m Captain Obviousandrandom.  Hold on… I have a point. 

Normally, I couldn’t give a crap about the Superbowl.  This infamous Sunday in February, I  am a cliche woman- in the kitchen, stirring the chili during the game, bothering the shit out of the guys after they scream at a play, “what happened?” and running to the TV during commercials.  Sue me. 

This year, I will have ten 15 year old boys in my house watching the Superbowl.  My husband will be at work.  I have an ample supply of xanax and wine on hand and plan to be on my best behavior (read: put on jeans and not talk about boobs.)

I wonder if anyone has ever died from testosterone and if they’ll let me Karaoke during half-time?

Why wasn’t I told about this?

I should shower. 

Seriously. 

I just got home from working out.  I used to be able to come home from the gym and hang out, catch up on some Will and Grace reruns, internally wrestle wanting to eat something good and void out all of my hard work of putting on an athletic bra (that- in itself- is a workout).  As soon as the sweat patches dried from underneath my boobs, I was good.  Deodorant works- well, it used to.  I mean, I shower, eventually.  But it was nothing pressing. 

Maybe after a nap.

Apparently, there’s another reason I can add to my list of why aging can suck my ass.   

During my 3 mile step climb at the gym, I turned into a TSA bomb-sniffing dog, wondering where the hell that smell was coming from.  Body odor.  It smelled like a big fat onion.  In my mind, I blamed the dude on the treadmill next to me- he had a “Craw-fish Fry” t- shirt on… it seemed a logical conclusion.  However,  the smell followed me through my circuits and into my car and the verdict was clear- my sweat stinks.  FUCK.  First my bladder control, then my sex drive, NOW THIS?

The universe is tormenting me.

Come on, this… is just cruel…

What was wrong with “Depends”?  Isn’t this market a bit saturated- I totally meant that pun!  Next they’ll be naming kegels after me.   And crazy lonely old ladies that live with 48 cats.  

Being fat and old bites and, now, it stinks, too.   And so do I.

It’s been a long time.  I have returned to spewing random thoughts on Friday with Friday Fragments.   If you would like to link up your own, join the lovely and stable Mrs. 4444. 

• I’m still working out and eating right and NOTHING.  It would be driving me to drink if thatdidn’t add calories.   My metabolism fucking hates me. The feeling is mutual.
• Rah rah ah ah ah ah, Roma roma mamma, Gaga ooh la la… Can’t. Get. This. Out. Of. My. Head!
• I wrote a post for the other site (AimingLow.com- by the by- vote for us for Best New Weblog !) a while back about an embarassing issue… I may have mentioned a hair on a boob, and now, I’m getting bombarded with comments and e-mails  from laser hair removal clinics.   Of course, not offering anything free- pretty much just mocking me.  Thank you.  I like free stuff.
• So, I’m fairly certain I’m on the verge of a breakdown.  My last few posts were total downers and some of you could contest that I’m losing it- I agree.  However, it was evident the other day.  At the grocery, I stopped to look at my grocery list, 4 yr old, 9 yr old and 10 yr old in tow.  I notice the 9 yr old DIGGING -hardcore- up her nose!  I yell,” stop picking your nose- that’s only OK for me because I have this mother of a sore inside my nose and it bleeds massively and if I don’t pick the scab, I have no breathing canal…”  and then I saw this look of horror in her eyes- absolute panic.  She starts jumping up and down and screaming, “there’s a coffee bean stuck up my nose!”   I fell to the ground I was laughing so hard and because of an incontinence problem, I could not enjoy this moment fully if pee was running down my leg.   It was one of those laughs where you just shake and nothing comes out and you want to catch your breath, but you can’t.  It was funny.  Then, the tears started.  At first they were laughing tears… but after a moment they turned into, you’re 9 years old and you stuck a coffee bean UP YOUR NOSE? You can’t be that stupid and I don’t want a hospital bill for something so avoidable tears.  It was an ugly cry.  A serious culmination of having been in a car for- I kid you not- 6 HOURS- chauffeuring kids to and fro, having to go to the grocery store in the sleet and cold rain after I just had my car washed and just feeling fed up.   My 10 year old informed me that people were staring, then my 9 year old broke the tension by holding her other nostril down and blowing a coffee bean clear across the cereal aisle bringing to a close my mini breakdown. 
• I cannot take people that use the word “hubby” or “bro” seriously.
• I’m beginning to get the BlogHer anxieties again.  Unlike most, mine is not anxiety of leaving my kids or going away… you see, my blogging is not embraced around these parts and the fact that I don’t make money doing it is even less embraced by my nay-sayers.  I desperately want to go.  Last year, it was a great experience and I believe this year could be even better.   In the meantime- anti-anxiety med prescriptions have been refilled.
• However, the week after BlogHer, is my 20 year Class Reunion.  That I am planning.  We’ll see how that goes.
• I miss being “tagged” with silly little blog memes that most people hate.
• How hard is it to send in an RSVP for a class reunion?  I don’t want the money, yet.  I just want to know how many people I’m planning this gig for.  Is that too much to ask? Meanwhile, I feel like I have turned into the annoying e-mail and Facebook nag… like I need another reason for people to dislike me. 
• The thing I love the most about Friday Fragments?  Not having to come up with a title to a post.

I’ve never stood out.  I never really wanted to.  I was always successful at blending into the background- smiling and nodding.  

For many years, I had become entrenched, invisible in this thing called motherhood.  It suited me.  It was an inconspicuous lifestyle.   Nothing unusual or extraordinary- I was content with being camouflaged in mediocrity.   I hid behind my kids and a rather mundane existence.   

A few years ago, something clicked in me.   A novel, unfamiliar contemplation.   I longed for more.   It was unclear what, but something  was missing.  Feelings of guilt stirred in me.  My life was NOT about me and that is the life I chose.  Yet, suddenly, I wanted it to be about me.  Something.  Anything. 

I watched as life was passing me by and felt I had compromised.  Others were moving forward, as I stayed stagnant,  pouring my life into others, I left myself behind.   I had forgotten about the person that I wanted to be, hidden the person I was and settled for what was given to me- never chasing any dreams or taking any risks.  My life was swallowed up in playing it safe. 

All the smiling and nodding through the years, concealed racing thoughts- beliefs, humor, expression, feelings- some useless, some profound, some good, some bad, none shared.  I never thought there was anything worth sharing.  I had convinced myself of such. 

In a huge leap of faith, I attempted to share.  It’s the most selfish thing I’ve done as an adult.  This is about me. 

This outlet has been vital to my arguable sanity.  It has been met with much criticism.  Whether it’s worthy remains to be seen.  But it’s something that I needed.

The culmination of my complacency? An uncertainty in what I have to offer.  My hiatus from ‘me’ resulted in a lack of confidence.  Doubt exudes from my pores.  Self- deprecation is the shield that guards me from the failure and embarrassment. 

I owe it to myself and my family to feel complete and believe in myself as being more than ‘just a mom’  and not feeling guilty from stringing the words just and mom together.  I yearn to have a bigger purpose. 

I’m working on it.

Vanity is not the only reason I obsess over my weight. 

When my dad was 31, he had his first heart attack.   (Yes, first.  He would have 2 more and a triple bypass before he was 40- actually at the same age I am, now- 37.)

I had to start going to nutritionists and doctors to inform us of how fucked up our genetics were.   I knew.  I never even knew my grandpas since heart disease beat me to them.  I also had a baby brother that died of heart disease. I would eventually lose ALL of my grandparents to the disease.

But there I was, at 14, with doctors telling me to eat right and exercise and explaining the generational gap of 10 years in likeliness of heart attacks.   My dad was 31, if I wasn’t careful, I could have one at the age of 21.  All I heard was “blah, blah, blah.” It didn’t help that my dad’s cardiologist’s name was “Dr. Pepper”. 

Like any screw authority, rebel hellion, I ignored these warnings.  I ate what I wanted and didn’t really exercise.  But I was always skinny and it never worried me.  In my defense, I NEVER smoked cigarettes…  I don’t remember what the doctors said about pot. 

Thanks to the wonder that is age, birth, and an addiction to high fructose, I am not living as worry free anymore.  The extra weight I carry is hard on me.  And it goes further than just living in sweats and anything with a draw string. 

I have a constant reminder in my head that my heart may be compromised.   It scares me.

The slightest tinge in my chest, ache in my arm, or unusual shortage of breath- sends me running for Dr. Google.  He’s not a very good doctor.  I check my blood pressure regularily and go to a cardiologist, But because of my family history, I feel like I am already on borrowed time. 

Like my dad. 

He’s still kicking.  And his ticker?  He was told several years ago that only 50% of his heart is pumping blood at capacity and that it’s not even strong enough to sustain anymore operations.  

Despite the unfavorable diagnosis, he is still very active.  If you met him, you would never know that he was all but given a death sentence almost 10 years ago.  You would never guess that he depends on $2000/month in medication- about 20 pills a day- to keep his heart beating.  He would probably make you laugh by telling a dirty joke and insist on buying you dinner. And then dessert.  And then fix your leaky sink.       

He’s beaten the odds.   He is one the strongest people I know.  He and I are very similar.  We can both be ornery as hell, have a bad temper, and take care of others before ourselves.  I’m proud to be a lot like him (OK, maybe I’m not so proud of the nose I got from him), but his medical history is not one I want to repeat.