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Secret Admirer

24 Mar

I have the strangest compulsion.

I have this bizarre desire to rekindle almost every relationship I’ve ever had.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about ex-boyfriends. Those dudes can suck a big fat one as far as I’m concerned (you might be able to tell that I’m not one of those “let’s be friends” people).

Old friends, friends that just grew apart, acquaintances from high school, you name it. I can’t even count how many friends I have hunted down on Facebook. So don’t be surprised if you get a creepy “hi! You went to school with me in the 5th grade and we totally had matching crimped hair! LET BE FRIENDS, MKAY?!!” emails from me. I take crazy pills but they aren’t helping. I swear I’m not a stalker. Much.

I think the weirdest desires I have are (1) wanting to reconnect even with ex-friends who I may or may not have threatened to take to court, and (2) feeling compelled to disclose every crush I have ever had.

And it’s weird (for many reasons) but mostly because it’s not to say “hey sexy! I thought you were super hot 15 years ago. Hubba hubba.” I don’t have any interested in rekindling THAT kind of relationship (Hi, Mr. Bee! Love you!). It’s just this sense that I’ve kept this big secret (okay, it was big in high school) and I just want to let them know that they had an admirer! Could it backfire on me? Sure! Which is why I don’t plan on telling people to their face! My 15-year-old self had enough issues. I don’t need to crush her non-existent ego with a “Who are you?” or “Um, you were disgusting.” response from a high school crush.

Side note: Holy fuck, high school was 15 years ago? I’m old.

Anywho and whatnot, I have just found it really cathartic to let go of silly little secrets like that – the ones that take up space in your head even though they lost relevance years ago. Like which basketball player you had a crush on during junior year (hint: all of them) or who you really wanted to dance with at your senior prom (hint: anyone. I didn’t have a date. {sad trombone}).

Somehow it seems like it would be like a bit of Spring Cleaning for your mind. Or Lobster Bisque for your soul. You know what I mean.

So instead of being all stalkery and hunting people down on Facebook in order to make them (and me) awkward when I declare my 15-year-old self’s undying crush on them or to reignite a friendship which would probably be doomed to end in an episode of Judge Judy, I’ve decided where better to release my secrets/demons/mental diarrhea that no one cares about? My blog, of course!!

Here we go:

M.W. – Sorry we ended our relationship with the threat of court. (See y’all, I wasn’t kidding!) Your baby looks really adorable and I hope you’ve found happiness.

J.L. – Thank you for being the only boy to ask me to dance at senior prom. That dance had more of an emotional impact than you would’ve probably imagined.

T.D. – On that note, thanks for being my “date” to senior prom! That photo of us posed with invisible dates will always be one of my favorites. (PS: How pathetic were we?!)

E.R. – Thank you for teaching me what kind of man I really deserve. And thank you for introducing me to Mr. Bee! No hard feelings?

A.L. – My one “older boy” crush in high school. If only I had not been invisible to every single boy in every school I have ever attended…

J.E. – My other major crush in high school. Please reference A.L.’s notes.

K.S. – Even though you disappeared before graduation, you were one of my closest friends in school and I wish we would’ve kept in touch.

E.E. – Sorry I stopped calling you. You were by far the best boyfriend I had prior to Mr. Bee. Except for that whole going to prom with someone else deal… {sad trombone}

J.H. – I miss you! You may be the most hilarious person I have ever met. Why don’t we ever hang out anymore?!

D.C. – I still don’t believe that anyone could be as happy as you appear to be. Lay off the pooping rainbows and unicorns, k?

Oh mah gawd, this is so fun! Why don’t you try? Post in the comments something you’ve always wanted to tell someone, but never had the nerve or opportunity!

Song title: Secret Admirer by Pit Bull

How Do We Say Thank You

8 Aug

“I love that jacket!”

Oh, thanks. It too could be yours for $10 at Le Tar-jay.

“You are just so bubbly! I love it!”

Heh heh. It’s probably the wine. Or the cocktails. Or you are crazy. One of those.

“You look so great!”

Me?! I’m a hot mess. A hot, stinky garbage mess.

See a pattern here?

Me + compliments = evade, duck, dodge, bob and weave, otherwise do anything and everything to avoid actually accepting said compliment.

For some reason, I’m guessing that some planets aligned or some shit, but everyone and their mother have been doling out the compliments like they are free condoms at Planned Parenthood.

I’ll take the cherry flavored, please.

And what’s my response?

“Uh. Um. Wow, what’s that over there?! It’s a cloud shaped like Mr. Snufflupagus in drag! Let’s change the subject, Yay!”

No matter who, what or where, I am totally convinced that the complimentee is, at best, indulging me and, at worst, making fun of me.

I mean, why would anyone compliment me? I’ve seen myself in the mirror. The empty floppy milk sacks. The jacked (and I mean JACKED) stomach…

That’s a post – and a surgery – for another day.

What is wrong with me? Are you this way, too? Please say yes so I don’t feel so broken.

And how, dear God HOW, do I learn how to say Thank You?

Song title: How Do We Say Thank You by Max Lucado

Heavy Heart

7 Apr

In the ongoing saga that is my attempt to wrangle some normalcy in my life, last week I started taking Wellbutrin.

Before I go in to the awesometastic weight loss side effects, let me first say that I had no idea how depressed I was before I took an anti-depressant.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not typically the “I poop rainbows and oh my golly, isn’t that kitten adorable and isn’t life just super-de-duper perfect. If you agree, repost this as your Facebook status!”. Seriously. Puke.

I’m more of the “Life is pretty awesome, but looked at this super fucked up shit over here! Let’s bitch about stuff now and judge people.” You know, but in a nice way.

But moreover, I knew I wasn’t my normal self. I had lost interest in a lot of things I normally enjoy…hanging out with friends, spending time with my children (sorry, kids), ((cough)) blogging ((cough)).

I was just down.

Every day. It didn’t matter what was going on. I could be driving my car in the beautiful Seattle sun (I know, right? What sun this year? It freakin’ SNOWED in the North End yesterday!!) and I would still be all “Blerg.”

Until I started taking the Wellbutrin.

It seriously was immediate. Everything didn’t bug the shit out of me like it did before. For Christ’s sake, today I SMILED, FOR NO REASON, while driving and singing like a crazy person to Ke$ha (goddamn her and her catching tunes. And that stupid “$” in her name, too).

I’m now a week and a half in and I feel great! I’m more motivated to blog and do housework.

Okay, not so much the housework, but that ain’t a depression problem. That’s more of a “Ugh, really?!” problem.

Song title: Heavy Heart by Daryl Stuermer

Crazy for You

6 Apr

You know what makes life a lot easier?

Being literate. Which, apparently, I am not.

A few weeks ago, I went to my crazy nurse (she’s actually quite sane, she is just my crazy pill dealer) and spoke to her regarding my feelings as of late. Really, I was there to beg and plead for Wellbutrin, which is an anti-depressant, but also is supposed to help you lose weight and get back that loving feeling, if you catch my drift. (Sorry, Dad)

After speaking with my crazy town nurse, she gave me a prescription. I thought (key word) that she was prescribing buspirone, which is Buspar, an anti-anxiety medication which is commonly prescribed with Wellbutrin.

Since I’m already taking Lexapro (hence, the weight gain), which is an anti-anxiety/anti-public sharting medication, this made absolutely NO sense to me. Did my crazy town nurse hate me? Was I not convincing enough at our appointment? And worse, was I going to gain more weight and keep eating everything in my house/neighborhood/the world??

Because she wanted me to be completely finished weaning Bug before starting the new medication, the script lived safely tucked away in my wallet, never to see the light of day until last week.

It was then that I read the script.


And then, I won’t lie, I googled the shit out of “bupropion”.


My crazy town nurse doesn’t hate me after all!! I guess I’m just totally illiterate.

But, come on, can you really blame me?

Buspirone? Bupropion?

It’s like the pharmacist is trying to fuck with me.

Hence, the crazy pills.

Song title: Crazy For You by Madonna

Exercising The Demons

24 Mar

I have a confession.

I started doing the Couch to 5K program.


Okay, so technically I had already started Couch to 5K a month or so ago, but upon finishing the first run, my body left me a little note on my nightstand the next morning. It read:

“What. The. Fuck.

Stop it.

Love, Your Atrophied Body”

And when my body decides to go on strike, you best not be crossing any picket lines. When I did, it promptly landed me in the local health clinic getting x-rays on my hip, which randomly decided to stop working. I couldn’t even walk upstairs, I was in so much pain.

So our lovely treadmill went back to collecting dust and being used as a catch-all for wrapping paper and random boxes that still haven’t been emptied even though we’ve lived in our house for over two and a half years now.

Don’t judge me.

But now that I have weaned Bug off le bewbs, I am free to begin my uber-healthy diet plan consisting of starving myself and exercising my ass off (literally).

If only I could get over this pesky little issue of actually loving food.

All those people who say “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” can kiss my ever-growing ass. They obviously need to eat out more, because there are some damned good things to eat out there.

And let me tell you, my Lexapro is not helping the situation. I seriously have to consciously tell myself to stop eating all day, every day. Thanks for the abundance of appetite, Lexapro. The things I do to prevent explosion public defecation…

Since the whole “starving myself” part of my diet plan is slightly stalled, the only other avenue I have is surgery exercise.

If you know me at all, you know that the most exercise I have in any given day is walking from the couch to the fridge and back. Maybe on a good day, I will walk the length of the mall. That’s exercise, right? That’s what I’ll tell Mr. Bee from now on, anyway.

So I hopped on the treadmill, Couch to 5K iPod app in hand, all prepped with club music like Ke$ha (stupiest name EVAR) and Katy Perry to inspire my weight loss.

Honestly, I need to post a photo of myself in high school or something for inspiration. So far, seeing my fat ass running in the window’s reflection is enough to remind me how much weight I need to lose.

Because that chick over there puffing away on the treadmill like a wounded buffalo?

Not sexy.

Song title: Exercising The Demons by Big Fuzz

Crazy Pills

16 Mar


I’m fat.

And tired.

And tired of being fat.

And totally unmotivated. Especially in regards to doing anything regarding the aforementioned fatness and tiredness.

Besides sleep. I’m totally motivated to sleep more.

Sure, I just had a baby, but I’m sure even you are saying to yourself, uh, you had a baby seven months ago, bitch. Get off your lazy ass already!

And I totally would. But those Cinnabons aren’t going to eat themselves, people. Priorities!

But then I had what I believe Oprah calls an “Oh my fucking god” moment. (She’s call them that, right?)

My crazy pills.

You see, I pretty much started my crazy pills (aka: Lexapro) (aka: non-shit-spewing pills) right when I was getting pregnant with Bug. So all those super fun side effects of anti-anxiety/depression meds like being tired, gaining weight, eating more than Man v. Food? I just figured all those were from being preggers.

Now that I’m finally weaning Bug (for many reasons, one of which is that he has decided that nipples are toys and attempts to rip them off with his talons/nails after eating. I have cuts on both bewbie buttons to prove it.), I’m thinking maybe some of these symptoms AREN’T baby related.

Like, prior to hopping on the crazy pill train, I was one of those girls that grazes all day long. But my grazing was a little bit at a time. Sit me down in front of a pizza and I’m eating one, maybe two pieces max.


Shiiiiiiit. I could easily polish off a half of a pizza before having to tell myself to stop. I never feel full.

And now that Bug is sleeping through the night, you’d think I’d catch up on all that sleep I’ve missed in the last year. Oooooooh no. I could easily spend each and every day sleeping.

And eating Cinnabons.

So the next few weeks, my goal is to throw myself off this weight-gaining crazy pill train and climb my hobo ass in to a new boxcar on the crazy train named Wellbutrin (plus Buspar). The first obstacle is convincing my drug dealer crazy pill provider to prescribe me said magical pills.

Strategy #1
Arrive at the doctor’s office wearing an old bikini. The shock of new body (I’m TWENTY POUNDS over my normal weight) will likely cause the occupants of the building to throw their prescription pads at me while attempting the carve their eyeballs out with rusty sporks.

In my fantasy world, sporks are made of metal, not plastic, okay?

Strategy #2
Beg. Plead. Sob. Beg some more.

Strategy #3
Beg on my knees while wearing the old bikini?

I’m too tired to come up with any more strategies. OBVIOUSLY I need new crazy pills…

Song title: Crazy Pills by Tidy Boys


8 Apr

I’m sure it’s been clear to my tens of readers that lately I have been kind of full of the writers block. Let’s be honest, I used to post at least four times a week and now I’m averaging…

(does math in head)

(still doing math)

(resorts to computer calculator only to be distracted by all the pretty colored buttons)

Okay, so let’s just say, I don’t post as often as I should. For that, I’m sorry. You know, for not posting for you and that you don’t have anything better to do then read this POS blog! Har har.

Originally, my excuse was that Cletus sucked all the energy, creativity, and ability to not open my eyes without wanting to vomit all over you right out of me.

For like four months.

It was awesome.

You know, if you use the old Pig Latin definition of “wesome-ay”, meaning “of the horribleness. See also: wanting to die and/or poke ones eyeballs out with dull spoons.”

But for the last couple months, it hasn’t been all that bad. I’m definitely in the “nom nom nom I like food” stage of pregnancy, which, let’s be honest, is pretty fucking rad. You know, until I have to get on the dreaded scale at the doctor’s office.

Oh, and how do I know that I’m officially in the “nom nom nom” stage of the pregnancy? Well, I think it hit me the other day while I was peeing and a raisin fell out from one of my belly rolls (or cleavage, because let’s be honest, Mama ain’t used to having, well, ANY cleavage). See, I had eaten some raisins like HOURS prior to this pee session.

Yummy, huh? I eat so much that I can literally hide food in my clothes and/or rolls without finding it for long periods of time.

Sexy, I know.

But besides finding Thanksgiving meals in my belly button, things have been going great around Das Bee Haus. No explosive pooping (don’t get me wrong, peeing is a whole different issue). (Almost) no reasons or situations that make with wish for Xanax. Bee is relatively not monsterish most days. I’m finally prego with my long awaited second (and final!) squishee widdle bebe. I am loving Mr. Bee to bits and pieces. Even in this shit economy, we’re doing great.

Which is all, well, great. You know, for me.

But for the blog? Not so much! I mean how much do you want to hear about how I shit rainbows and ride unicorns to the land of the blueberries every day? Even *I* don’t want to hear or write about it and it’s my life.

So while everything is peachy keen in the land of happy fuzzy love balls, you can’t really blame me for wishing and hoping for a little explosive poop action once in a while, right?

The things I do for you people.

Song title: Stumped by Caterwaul

The Impossible Dream

17 Feb

I have a silly, ridiculous, almost impossible theory to confess.

For some reason, after I have a vividly realistic dream, I’m totally convinced that the people I dreamed/dreamt/had dreams about also dreamed/dreamt/had the same dream about me.

Which leads to some really awkward conversations after some of the fucked up pregnancy dreams I’ve had recently.

For example, one of my first memorable pregnancy dreams of this pregnancy featured Arla-Shay and Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory on CBS.

As if that wasn’t weird enough, in my dream I was in love with Sheldon (which, puke) and Arla-Shay was like 9 months pregnant. With Sheldon’s baby. Because THEY were in love.

Yes, you read that correctly. I was dreaming of a love triangle featuring me, a prego Arla-Shay and nerdy, annoying Sheldon.

To say I was confused when I woke up is a huge understatement.

Since then, I’ve had a number of quite unusual dreams, but I think the thing that’s freaking me out the most is how many times I wake singing some goddamn Backyardigans song or realizing that my dream featured Bee’s favorite toys that are referred to as the “squishy dinosaurs”.

What the fuck, pregnancy hormones?! What. The. Fuck.

The other dream confession I have is almost more bizarre…

I am so controlling that I can’t even release myself in to the world of fantasy in my dreams.

That’s right, y’all. I’m married to Mr. Bee so, therefore, in my dreams I’m always married.

And now that I’m pregnant? You guessed it. Prego Dream Mama Bee.

Needless to say, this leads to horrifically boring dreams because I’m always making decisions that are based in reality. I can’t have a “sexy” dream because I’d be cheating on Mr. Bee. No espionage or skydiving for me; I might hurt the baby.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to accept that dreamland isn’t reality and actually have a bit of fun (don’t worry, Mr. Bee, I won’t have too much fun). Until then maybe I should just be happy with the dreams I’m having.

At least last night’s had dinosaurs.

Song title: The Impossible Dream by Jim Nabors

The Spirit of 2009

4 Jan

It seems like now that the new year is here, everyone is declaring their two-thousand-and-hate for 2009. For some reason, I was really surprised at all the “OMG, 2009 sucked my cornhole! Happy NYE!” updates on Facebook last week. Maybe it’s just me (and I’m sure that there is some likelihood that it is just me), but I didn’t think 2009 was all that bad.

But hear me out, people, because gawd knows I didn’t have a smooth ride of it.

First let’s remember that I spent roughly 8 months of 2009 shitting myself. On my awesome scale, that ranks right around getting my vag sewn up for 45 minutes after getting Bee ripped from my vag.

Side note: it occurred to me the other day that I haven’t written, in detail of course because duh, about my Bee birth story. It’s more of a Bee-forcefully-ripped-from-my-baby-hole story, but I’ll get to that later.

Next, to deal with my ass-exploding problems, I started pooping, I mean popping pills (legal and prescribed, just to be clear) and saw a therapist for the first time in my life.

I made new friends and lost some friends.

I/we struggled to get pregnant for 12 months. That’s a lot of sex, people. 2009 was exhausting, yo.

Mr. Bee lost so much blood that he got a free trip to the ER with a complimentary blood transfusion. Oh wait, that shit wasn’t free? Damn!

But even with all that (literal) shit to deal with, I still can’t say that 2009 was total suckage. Mr. Bee is now back to 90, okay, 80, okay 75 percent, but with all those issues I think we’ve gotten a better hold on some of his symptoms.

Through my poo issues and therapy, not only did I recognize behavior and symptoms I’ve been having all my life in response to anxiety and agoraphobia, but I also got amazing feedback on difficult personal relationships that I was dealing with.

Mama Bee’s Advice to Live By: Don’t make someone a priority in your life when you are only an option in theirs.

And even better, I came away in 2009 with a reconnection with a old friend that, sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, I really needed! The timing really couldn’t have been better.

Probably most frustrating was spending all year “trying” for a baby. As every month drifted by, I couldn’t help but think of how much bigger the age gap between kids was getting. But struggling for Cletus reminded us to be thankful for what we have and to not take anything for granted (especially how easy you think it will be to get knocked up).

So even though 2009 was filled with our fair share of bodily fluids, and I can’t believe I’m actually going to post these words, everything we went through had a purpose.

If the only lesson I took away from last year is that needles in your vagina can impregnate you, then I consider 2009 a success.

Song title: The Spirit of 2009 by Dada

Graduation Day

3 Dec

Tuesday was a pretty monumental day for me.

I found my sunglasses that I had been missing for the last month.

What? That’s not monumental enough for you? Seriously, I was almost about to go out and buy a new pair. Dodged the bullet on that one.

Okay, the real monumentalistness (trademark!) was that it was my last day of therapy.

That’s right, my fellow crazies. I am officially not fucked up enough to continue therapy.

Yeah, yeah. I can already hear you all saying “I beg to differ.” and “What the what?!”

But really, things have been going really well lately, and not just because of Cletus the Fetus either.

In fact, Tuesday’s session pretty much consisted of me saying “Yeah, things are going really well right now…” and us sitting in silence trying to figure out something to talk about.

It was kind of cool to hear her point out that I have started changing the way that I live. And she pointed out like five different things that have changed in the last few months that will help in my non-crazy future. It was pretty awesome.

What is not awesome is going to be my lack of crazy person blog fodder from now on.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not delusional enough to think that I really am not crazy anymore.

Maybe I’ll just turn every Tuesday in to a therapy session on the blog where you will be forced to listen to my crazy and then have to fix me.

Oh wait, that’s every day already, isn’t it?

Song title: Graduation Day by The Four Freshmen