My inner child

So, I had an exchange today that reminded me that somewhere inside me there still lurks a fifth grader on a playground where fighting words are being exchanged. It was not my most mature adult moment.

In my defense, i must say that this whole exchange occured while I was watching the Cowboys get humiliated. That was the icing on the cake of a weekend filled with my teething son's fussing and watching my step-daughter yell, "I don't love you. I love my mom" at my husband.

Anyway, i got on Facebook (aka the devil's playground) and made a comment on a friend's good-natured jeer at the Cowboys. When I went back later expecting to see my friend reply with something hateful (but in a funny way), I instead found one of his friends wishing stomach cancer on Tony Romo.

The mature, adult thing to do would be take the high road and ignore him. However, it was such a sucker punch that I lost all ability to contain myself. So, I called the guy names and dropped an "f" bomb and wished karma upon him.

After all hope was lost for the Cowboys to come back, and I was crying (I cry about everything), I got back on there (why? why? why?) hoping I had put the guy in his place. Wrong. His response was to wish stomach cancer on me. My inner fifth grader continued and said some more immature stuff (which resulted in the guy deleting all his comments).

After calming down, I was pretty embarrassed by my behavior. With that said, the guy is lucky I don't know where to find him because when I looked down at my son and saw him in his little Romo jersey and thought about some asshole wishing cancer on someone's son (Romo) and someone's mother (me), my inner drunk frat boy welled up and wanted to break a barstool over his head.

Really, Skinny Bitches?

Skinny Bitches,

It has come to my attention that the first time I warned* you to stop talking to me about how "fat" you are, you did not listen. Perhaps the warning I gave you about my ability to reach the emergency stop button on your treadmill was too subtle. So, I'll do this all again in hopes that this time you will listen, and my sleep-deprived brain will never again have to filter out the words "I need to go on a diet" from a person who tips the scales at a buck 'o five.

Shame on you for wasting my precious time (again). I have been a skinny bitch before. So, I have been on the other side of this. However, I didn't have someone older, wiser and fatter to point out the grotesque nature of my behavior. I tried to give you the benefit of learning from my mistakes. Unfortunately, you chose to ignore my first warning. So, now I'm going to talk crazy to you.

The problem you have, Skinny Bitches, is with your self-esteem. As I (delicately) pointed out before, you know you aren't fat. Yet, you still feel the need to draw attention to how thin you are by pretending to think you're fat in front of your bigger friends. Do you not see how sick it is to force people who really may be struggling with their weight to constantly "reassure" you that you aren't fat (when you wear a size 2, for God sake)?

Double shame on you if your body bounced back after having a baby and you bitch about being fat in front of any woman who is still pregnant or who has not lost the pregnancy weight. We (collectively as a nation of hormonal, emotional, exhausted women) already hate you for having the unnatural ability to go instantly back to your (super thin) pre-pregnant self. Do not further insult us with all this "I need to lose weight" bullshit. Unnecessary salt in the wound.

My advice to you is this: get counseling and stop taking your body issues out on the rest of the female population. Last warning.

*PREVIOUS WARNING:

Skinny bitches,

Stop talking to me about how fat you are. If you peek at the number in your itty bitty shorts and it is a single digit number, shut the fuck up talking to me about being fat. You would not own shorts if you were fat. I am fat. I don't own shorts.

Speaking of shorts, skinny bitches, when I am in a fitting room trying desperately to get a pair of jeans zipped (in a double digit size, let me add), I don't need to hear you ask your anorexic twin if those size 0 shorts make you look fat. Zero isn't even a number. How can not a number make anyone look fat? You know you don't look fat. Want to know how I know that? You're trying on shorts or a mini skirt or a tube top or some other nonsense no woman who really thinks she's fat would even pick up much less put on.

Lastly, skinny bitches, stop occupying the treadmill next to mine at the gym. I take great pains in selecting my treadmill so as not to be compared to your skinny ass for 40 minutes while I sweat like a hog. Then you want to fuck it up by jumping on the empty treadmill next to me, and most of the time your anorexic twin jumps on the one on the other side. How do I look sweating my ass off walking at 3.5 mph while the two of you are running at 7 mph, flipping your blonde hair and giggling into your cell phones? I can reach the emergency stop buttons on your treadmills. That's something to think about.

New Traditions

I grew up in Arkansas. If you've ever been to The Natural State, you know that every man, woman and child is a Razorback fan. Whether or not you attended (or have ever met anyone who attended) U of A has no bearing on whether or not you can sing the fight song and call the hogs (Woooooooooooo! Pig Sooie!).

One thing that every Razorback fan knows is that you do not, under any circumstances, cheer for the Texas Longhorns (or even spit on them if they're on fire). Although the two teams no longer play in the same conference (and Texans seem to be pretty much over it), Arkansans are still very aware of a rivalry with the Longhorns that (most say) began in 1969 with The Big Shootout.

So, imagine my surprise to find myself cheering for the Longhorns last night when there was (almost) a glimmer of hope for them to come back and win the National Championship late in the fourth quarter. Not only was I cheering for the long-hated Longhorns, I was cheering against the SEC.

My journey from A (die hard Razorback who wouldn't even wear the color orange) to B (girl screaming GO! GO! GO! at the TV as Texas was headed for the end zone) began when Silas was six weeks old. There was a Longhorn game on TV that I wasn't paying any attention to until I noticed Si was glued to it (it's his thing....he watches football, I swear it on my life). It then occurred to me that it is very unlikely my son will be a Razorback fan. Certainly never the way someone who was born and raised there is. Certainly not the way I was.

Football has been one of the few things in my life that I am passionate about. Football was one of the reasons I was so stoked to have a little boy. The realization that my son was probably not going to give a flip about the team I cut my teeth on sparked the unthinkable idea that I might just have to figure out how to stop hating the Longhorns. So, I watched the Texas game with Silas and tried to give a damn about Texas winning. The most I could muster was indifference (better than, "Please, God, let them get shut out!")

As far as I knew, that was where I had left it. I wouldn't cheer against them, but I didn't care enough to cheer for them either. That was where I was until the fifth play of last nights game. And then, Colt McCoy got hurt, and my heart broke for that team. They're kids, and they have that universal love for football, and the thing they have worked so hard for has become all but impossible in the blink of an eye. So, I couldn't help but jump up and cheer when they scored the touchdown that gave the faintest glimmer of hope, and I couldn't help but be crushed when Gilbert got clobbered off his blind side and fumbled that football extinguishing that glimmer.

Texas has a way of doing that to me over and over again. Every time I let my guard down, they suck me into something else I swore to never be a part of regardless of my geographic location. This is the one area where I have managed to hold my ground.

But I give up. I admit defeat. Yeah, I said it: Hook 'em Horns!

Sassy!

I know, I suck. There has literally been a blue moon since the last time I posted anything. Surely it counts for something that I've been prioritizing my work and my family over blogging?

I'm dropping by to talk about the new lease on life that is a drastic haircut. Saturday, I took my little gift card to Toni & Guy, and I told some hair stylist I have never met before to cut 8 inches off my hair. She looked a little panic-stricken, but I assured her that I do this at least every other year. So, she chopped it off and gave me a bouncy, shiny little bob. She promised me it would be super-easy to fix in the mornings (she lied) and I flounced out of the salon feeling like a completely different person.

Cute hair always has the domino effect of making me get up and put on make up and wear high heels and color coordinate my clothing. Basically, it's the jump start to me making an effort with my appearance once I start down the path of ponytails and sweat pants.

So, let's hear it for Annie at Toni & Guy for helping me look sassy (my boss's word) again!

This too...

I must make a confession. For quite some time after giving birth to the little man, I actually felt sorry for all my still-pregnant friends who were bursting at the seems with excitement to have their babies. I was flat-out dumbfounded by women who had done it before and signed up for a second round. I just kept thinking, this is the single most exhausting thing I have ever done...the work and lack of sleep far outweigh the fun.

I also made the mistake of reading websites that said things like, "some babies don't sleep through the night until they are a year old." I can't tell you the flood of tears that provoked.

The waking in the night was one thing, but the colic was thisclose to making me hop a plane to anywhere but here.

I said all that to say this: it's temporary. He's three months old, and the bulk of the time he sleeps 6-7 hours at night. Even when he does wake in the middle of the night, I actually know him well enough to get him back to sleep within 15 minutes.

The colic went away. When he cries now, there's a reason, and as soon as I fix it, he's happy again.

So, now he's cool. He's starting to learn things, which makes the fun far outweigh the work and exhaustion.

I still don't want to sign up for round two, but I do feel the need to spread hope to people who are still in or have just ahead of them the not-so-fun stages of a new baby.

This too shall pass.

Give thanks

My best friend did this on her blog, and I loved it, so I'm stealing it. Things I'm thankful for besides family, friends, house, car, etc.

1. When I leave the house late but the traffic gods are smiling on me, and I make it to work on time anyway

2. When I don't have time to eat breakfast and someone brings in food to work

3. Dresses. Dresses are so good for my body type

4. When there is a sale and there is actually stuff in my size

5. Cable at 3 am

6. Close parking spaces at Wal-Mart and the mall. Bonus thanks if it's a holiday or I am pregnant.

7. When it's girls' night and there's great music playing at the bar

8. When people buy me diapers or formula

9. Supernanny

10. Internet on my phone

11. Funny people. They make life so much better

12. On that note, every joke Katt Williams has ever written

13. Everytime I make it to work and back to my side of town with my low fuel light on (gas is cheaper over here, and I almost always am running late)

14. When people tell me my writing is good

15. When I get in the habit of going to the gym

16. When I get a pedicure and remembered to shave my legs that day

17. When my mom and I go to lunch and she orders dessert for us to split

18. When I have no idea what to do and Michael calls his mom and she knows exactly what to do

19. When people invite me for dinner on nights when I don't want to cook

20. All the superstitious people who show up and do superstitious things every Sunday for the Cowboys games!

Shenanigans

Last night I drank a beer out of a plastic skull mug and danced to Randi singing karaoke and threw up on my dog. It's been a very long time since I acted like a 21 year old kid because I fully believe in sucking it up and staying home once you have kids of your own (and I was pregnant for a million months before that). However, my husband fully believes that if you completely give up who you were before you had kids you'll go nuts. So, he encouraged me to let loose, and he took care of our son all night long so that I could stain the patio red with vomit. I have no regrets.