Tag Archives: funny

Redefining “Me”

I’ve been defined by my weight since I was ten years old. My dance teacher stood me in front of the mirror in our dance studio and used a pointer to show me the places where my body needed improvements. My thighs stuck out too far. My legs were thick. I had a bit of a “belly”.

Until that moment, my biggest concern was where the other lime green peep-toed pump was for my Barbie doll and whether my dog ate it. I was ten years old. When I laid on my bed and daydreamed about marrying David Cassidy, I never though about knocking out a few sets of ab crunches so I’d look super hot at the wedding. My world was Barbies and school and friends and, already, writing. That moment in front of the mirror changed me forever.

From that moment on, when I walked into a room of other kids I’d look at all the thighs and bellies and see which ones were bigger or smaller than mine. If there were bigger kids, I felt relieved. I looked at the skinny girls with such envy. I was sure everyone loved them. No one could resist a skinny girl because skinny was beautiful. I wasn’t skinny, so that meant I wasn’t beautiful – which meant I was ugly. Kid logic.

Big fat ugly me…or that’s how I felt back then. Now I just see a cute kid with amazing taste in boots.

Whenever someone told me I was pretty, I smiled and said thank you just like Mom taught me – but there was always that inside voice that disagreed with them. No, I’m not pretty…because I’m fat. It is incredibly difficult to change that voice in your head – especially when it’s planted there so early.

I’ve been finding it a challenge to remain positive over the past couple of days because I keep falling back to the old habit of defining myself by a number. I’ve realized it’s not enough to reach for a healthier lifestyle…I need to redefine how I define myself as well.

I’ve been derailed a lot over the past ten days. The mother of all toothaches was first to knock me down. I had an infected tooth that needed a root canal, but I needed to take anti-biotics for 5 days before I could get it fixed – so I lived in pain for nearly a week (as did those of you who follow me on Facebook…because I pretty much whined about it non-stop). I had no idea how much it could hurt to breathe with your mouth open when you have an infected tooth. Holy crap on a cracker! The gym wasn’t an option last week unless I took a pain pill – and the last thing I should be doing is using gym equipment while on pain pills. Those suckers were badass.

treadmill ooops

Then I got the root canal. Yay! I’m petrified of dentists, so this was an accomplishment on its own. No more freaky discomfort of a dental dam, no more huge needles in my face – or the nervous farting that I hope went unnoticed…I’m done! Well, at least for two weeks or so. I probably should have taken Kirby or Dyson with me as a “therapy dog” and then I would have had someone to blame the gas on. You know what they say about hindsight…

Just when I was ready to get back into the swing of things this weekend, the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse showed up. If this is your first time reading my blog, I apologize for the overshare. The rest of you know what to expect and you still love me…and I’m grateful. I love you too. And since you know what to expect, you know I’ve spent the last two days curled up in the fetal position, cursing Mother Nature and my angry uterus. In a few more days, I’ll be back to normal. (My new normal, not my former Dr. Pepper swilling, pizza guzzling, snack cake motorboating normal.)

I hate being derailed, especially when I’m motivated to go to the gym. When I joined this gym a couple of months ago, I started at 10 minutes on the elliptical – which was surprising as hell because I expected far less. Right before the tooth-from-hell hit me, I did 30 minutes. I was a freaking NINJA. A chubby, determined, spastic ninja…kicking my fat cells right in the ass.

Bad Ass Couch copy

I’m logging my food every day, but I’m not getting on the scale because I’m not working out. Also because I’m in the middle of my “ladies days”, peeps, and what woman is crazy enough to get on the scale then? I want my new normal back. Hurry up, uterus, and get it out of your system. Momma’s got shit to do!

During times like this, it’s hard to remember not to define my success by a number on the scale…or even the minutes on the elliptical. It takes conscious effort to remember that I need to pay attention to the non-scale victories as well. And I need to focus on the positive instead of giving myself grief for not being able to workout right now. I’ll be back in the gym by Wednesday. That has to be good enough for me right now.

There are many non-scale victories to celebrate – and some of these are going to seem ridiculous to you if you’ve never had a problem with food, but I assure you these are accomplishments. I didn’t use the toothache as an excuse to eat my weight in pudding every day because it hurt to chew. The 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse are visiting right now and I haven’t once baked a brownie or driven to Walgreens and emptied the ice cream case in a sweaty fury. And probably the biggest accomplishment of all: I’m not inwardly celebrating that I can’t go to the gym right now. I’m not sobbing over it either, but I’m pretty effing proud of that 30 minutes I did right before my tooth decided to be an asshole. That pride feels good.

I’m not a number on a scale. I’m not the size tag on my pants. I’m just a Hot Mess Princess…running towards positive change as fast as my cankles can carry me.

What non-scale victories have you celebrated this week? I’m all ears…share with me!

Fitbit One Wireless Activity Plus Sleep Tracker, Black

Reasons My Son Photobombs Everything

We don’t have “normal” kids. Otherwise this blog would be filled with stories of my Hot Mess children. Instead, we have two incredibly large dogs who are loaded with personality and love. And a little drool. So when Momma Kat handed out the blog memes this week and I saw this one, I knew I had to do it.


If you haven’t heard of the “Reasons My Son Is Crying” tumblr page, it’s basically a Mom being creative and using tumblr as a sort of therapy/venting tool to laugh about the roller coaster existence you have when you have a toddler in your life. I was most inspired to create my own version of it…but my son isn’t human…and the only time he cries is when someone eats a piece of pizza too close to the crust and he thinks he’s not going to get any.

My son is a 1/2 English Sheep Dog, 1/2 Saint Bernard, 130 pound Hot Mess puppy dog. Named Dyson. Yes…he’s named after a vacuum cleaner (so is my daughter Kirby, the 100% pure bred Saint Bernard with a fetish for stealing hamburger buns).

Dyson wears many hats in our family. Playmate for Kirby. Protector of the family. Arch nemesis to Sarah the cat. Turd burglar. And now…photobomber.

Here is Dyson in all his big, brown-eyed, muppet dog glory:

My big ball of love
My big ball of love



















By the way, for those of you who haven’t heard the term “photobomb”, it’s basically the word used to describe what happens when someone is taking a picture or video and someone else ducks in at the last minute and steals the focus. Sometimes it’s on purpose and sometimes it’s not, but the results are usually pretty funny.

Here are a few examples:

Mr Seal photobombing the penguins


No, that’s not me back there. Shut up.


You get the idea…

Anyway, I was in California last weekend, and one of the things on my “to do” list was to show Mom how to use the webcam on her new computer. After I created desktop shortcuts for her email and YouTube accounts (she watches Englebert Humperdink videos online…I’m not even making that shit up), I set up Skype. I had Hot Mess Hubby call us on webcam. Not only did she get to see how it works, but she got to visit with her incredibly scruffy son-in-law for a while as well. Two birds, one stone. Everyone wins. Except me because, as you’ll see in the photo below, I have to kiss a beard with a face under it.

So…in the middle of our webcam visit, Dyson hears my voice. We couldn’t see him, but apparently he was looking everywhere for me. He could hear me, of course, but he couldn’t find me. And then it happened.


Momma? Why I can't smell you?
Momma? Why I can’t smell you?

Mom and I were cracking up. It was adorable in a thousand ways I just can’t describe. Out of nowhere, this giant muppet head floats into view…and when he sees me on the screen, he tilts his head curiously and launches himself at my laptop. (I came home last night to find a giant spot of dried drool on the screen of my beloved laptop.) He was giving me kisses.

He just wanted his Momma. True to his personality, he inserted himself where he needed to be in order to find me. And get kisses.

I seem to bring out the kissy monster in this boy. He was just a 3 month old, 35 pound puppy when I met him at St Cloud’s Rescue. He was wearing the Cone of Shame and I was sitting on the grass waiting to see which puppies took an interest in me. He waddled right up to me, shoved the Cone of Shame over my head, and kissed me in the face. Between that and his adorable chubby butt, it didn’t take too long for me to fall in love.

Since then, Dyson has led a very pampered, spoiled life. If he was a human, his last name would be Kardashian. Think about it: long hair, big brown eyes, huge badonka-donk. Plus, he’s not the sharpest pencil in the box. Total Kardashian.

In his defense, though, he has a huge heart full of love – and he would never make a sex tape. My boy’s got class. He’s a snuggly, farty, unruly mess of love and devotion. He’s ever vigilant, never far away, and God forbid if I’m writing and he thinks I should be paying attention to him. He photobombs my laptop.

Momma...it's time for kisses and belly rubs.
Momma…it’s time for kisses and belly rubs.






















And what do I do about it?

I close the laptop, pat the cushion next to me, and let him flop his giant ass up on the couch. Many sweet nothings are whispered, many belly rubs are given.

Anything for my rescue puppy…who really rescued me. I can’t wait to see what he photobombs next.

My boy...helping me get rid of the menstrual cramps
My boy…helping me get rid of the menstrual cramps

















Please consider donating to St Cloud’s Rescue. There’s a donate button on their website.

What silly behaviors do your pets do? Tell me. 🙂

Foot Flashback

So this is new…















Yep. That’s my left foot. Except no, it’s not new. Not really…because this has happened before. Because my feet hate me. Or I have sucky DNA. Probably both.

I was 13 years old the first time I heard the word “podiatrist”. Dr. Russell. He was kind of cute for an “old” guy (he was probably 35). I had been walking around Sea World all day with my family, wearing a pair of super cute sandals with daisies on them, and by the time we were ready to leave for the day my two older sisters had to carry me to the car. It wasn’t the first time I was hurt by fashion, but it was the first time I was hurt bad.

I was diagnosed with tendonitis – which is really interesting because you don’t have any tendons in your arches, but whatever. I would later learn that I had plantar fasciitis, which is very common but still altogether painful and extremely unpleasant.

Hunky Dr. Russell explained that my tootsie woes were due to the fact that I was a growing teenager and a dancer. He would slap some stretchy athletic tape up on my arch and send me on my way, so that’s what I learned to do. My dance bag was never without a roll of that tape. Every time I had foot pain, I slapped that tape up on my arch and kept on going. I had arch supports in all my shoes. Later, I had special inserts made that were molded to my foot. Still no relief…and I only weighed 125 pounds back then.

By the time I was in my late twenties, I was getting steroid injections in my heels. Yes, it’s as painful as it sounds. First, because cortisone stings like a mother…and second, because there’s an effing needle in your foot – but at that point, I had run the gamut from tape to inserts to physical therapy…and none of it was working anymore. So I would wait until the pain got so bad I couldn’t take it anymore and then I’d go in for injections. Thank God I had a good doctor with a sense of humor who never openly made fun of the fact that I started crying as soon as he walked in the room.

When you have plantar fasciitis, the mornings are the worst. It was nothing for me to roll out of bed and crawl to the bathroom to pee in the morning. It hurts like hell to flatten out your feet or put any weight on your heels. After you stretch out the ligament, normalcy returns except for the occasional jab. If you’re using your head and listening to your doctor, you should wear shoes that are comfortable and supportive, which is fashion code for “1970’s spinster librarian clod-hoppers.”

I was not a good listener. Besides, black leather lace-up grandma shoes with crepe soles just don’t go with a Dooney & Bourke handbag.

After a while, I’d had enough. One afternoon as my podiatrist was stabbing me in the heels with more cortisone and I was biting my wallet to stifle the screaming, I looked longingly into his eyes and said “Give me the surgery, doc. Give me the damn surgery.” And he did. And it was goooooood. Except for one really, really embarrassing moment – but that’s a blog post unto itself, so it’ll have to keep for now.

After surgery, I was joyously pain free…until I got my first stress fracture. I was training with a group at work because we were going to walk one of those breast cancer 3 day walks. I ignored the pain at first, but eventually I was limping all the time. Everything hurt.

Imagine my chagrin when I went to my regular doctor and he told me there was nothing wrong with my foot. What?

See, I didn’t think I needed a podiatrist anymore because I’d had the surgery to relieve my plantar fasciitis. Bwahahahahaha!  Wrong!

I went to see my podiatrist. He walks in, squeezes my foot in just the right place and sends me through the roof in pain, then he smiles and says “Yeah, well…stress fractures don’t show up on xrays until they start healing. That’s why you’re supposed to come to me.”


Since then, I’ve had quite a few…and always in my left foot. In fact, I expect my left foot to just fall off by the time I’m 80. It’s always had a sucky attitude. It just can’t hang with the rest of my body.

So here I sit with my foot in this damn soft cast. Stress fracture #6. For the next four weeks, I’ll be lurching around Texas like a giant fat Frankenstein. Awesome.

The Buffalo Boogie 5K is in two weeks. I did ask my podiatrist if that was even feasible. Of course, he said no. From my own experience, I know he’s probably right – because you have to stay off your feet for these to heal. I would have argued…or at least asked more questions…but this particular podiatrist is a creep. I only went to see him today because he was the last one I saw and he had an available appointment this afternoon – but every time I go and see him I end up feeling like I need a long hot shower. You know, the kind in Silkwood or The Crying Game.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the 5K yet. This has all just happened and I need time to think logically. Right now, I’m too busy cursing my DNA/weak feet genes to make any real decisions.

Ironically, this brings to light the discussion I’ve been having with Hot Mess Hubby over the past several weeks about joining a gym again. I’ve been having foot pain (now we know why) and trying to figure out a way to get access to an elliptical trainer. We just can’t afford to buy one and I’ve been considering a venture back into gym membership for a few weeks. Elliptical is much lower impact than a treadmill.

Sometimes you have to dance with the devil even when you don’t want to. Maybe it’s time for me to join a gym. It’s either that or take water aerobics. I’d rather face the muscle-bound fitness dicks than let anyone see my in a bathing suit. Ever.

Do you belong to a gym? Which one…and what do you like/dislike about it? Help me work this out, peeps.

And don’t worry: I may be temporarily knocked down, but I’m most definitely not out.

In yo face!!!

Ladies & Gentlemen, Boys & Girls…today is a day that will live on in Hot Mess Princess history. I will look back on this day forevermore as a day of bad-assedry,  wonderment and sweet mother fuck’in vengeance. Oh, yes, my friends…today is the day that I finally struck back at my arch nemesis, the Bag Boy from Hell.

If you follow me on Facebook, then you’re well aware that I’ve been curled up and cursing my uterus for the past 24 hours – so it’s already not a good time to mess with me, right?  I had a brief window where there was no significant pain so I high-tailed it to the grocery store this afternoon. I knew I was running on borrowed time as far as the pain factor was concerned and the grocery store was wall-to-wall people. I was so focused on hauling ass through my list that I didn’t see the Bag Boy from Hell until it was too late.

“Hello, ma’am!!!” he greeted loudly as he started bagging my groceries.

“Hello,” I said under my breath. Seriously, I thought of all of you. I was trying to figure out a way to take his picture without being obvious. Then he picked up my carrots.

“OH! Carrots!!!” He bellowed it like a game show host. Even the cashier looked at him like he was nuts. And then it started.

Yes. Yes, he did. He started rapping…about carrots. Fuck. A. Duck.

“Mm…Bugs Bunny…Oh yeeeeeah! Bugs Bunny…he like carrots…uh….he like carrots…”

I shit you not.

And then it happened. I channeled all my energy and aimed the ire of my angry uterus right at his dumb ass. I raised my hand up to stop him and cupped my other hand around my ear as if I was listening for something.

“Uh oh!!! Do you hear that?” I asked with a very serious expression.

He stopped and listened with me.

And then I got him. I grinned and said, “Tupac just rolled over in his grave.”


The cashier cried out “Ohhhh, SNAP!!!” and cracked up. He stood there with my bag of potatoes in his hand, not really sure what just happened. I took the potatoes away from him and smiled. Then I held my head high and pushed my grocery cart of victory out the damn door!


It was really hard not to get all cocky and yell out “Bust a cap in yo ass!” but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. There is such a thing as going too far. Maybe he learned a little about that today.

Victory for the fat peeps today, my friends. Victory for the fat peeps.

Fo shizzle.

hmba journal













Hot Mess Bad Ass lined journal

5K Training. Hot Mess Style.


I’ve begun training for the Buffalo Boogie 5K, which is kind of exciting and a little terrifying – because while I doubt I’ll end up in the back of an ambulance like I did after my first 5K, there are still plenty of embarrassing things that could happen to me. I have that kind of luck. Like I can be totally normal one minute and then someone walks by and I trip on a hair – so if you’re in the DFW area and have committed to walking with me, you should probably wear some shin guards or some kind of protection just in case.

Regardless, you don’t need to wait for an organized 5K event in order to participate in one. In fact, I came up with this idea immediately after being humiliated in the 5K from Hell.

Are you afraid of the humiliation of coming in dead last? Are there no organized 5K’s in your area? Perhaps your budget is super tight and you can’t afford to plunk down $20 to enter one. There are a million reasons why entering an organized 5K may not appeal to you…but there’s no reason why you can’t make one of your own. That’s what I did…and that’s why I’m bringing back the Homemade 5K.



Where there’s a will, there’s a way. The only thing you need to get started…is you.

When I finally realized that diets, pills, and magic shakes weren’t going to lose this weight for me, what did I do? I paved my own way. I sat down and figured out what works for me and I did it…and I continue to do it. The Homemade 5K is that same attitude, but this time it’s about exercise.

A 5K is 3.1 miles. (3.10686 if you’re all fancy about it.)

Just because you don’t live in the Dallas/Fort Worth area doesn’t mean you can’t participate in this 5K with me. Some of you are already following the same training schedule. Why not top your training off with the Homemade 5K?

Here are a few suggestions for your route:

Your neighborhood sidewalk. If your car has a trip odometer, drive around your neighborhood until you get to 1.55 miles and make note of the location. That’s your halfway mark. Once you train for the 5K, simply walk to the halfway mark…and turn around and walk back home. Voila! Homemade 5K.

The running track at the local school. Call and find out if the track is open for your use after school hours and, if so, ask how many laps make a mile. Do the math and you’ve got a Homemade 5K.

Your living room. No, I’m not joking. Not everyone has access to parks – or lives in a neighborhood that’s safe to walk in. Using a tape measure or a pedometer, you can calculate how many times you need to lap your living room (or the entire house…mix it up) in order to walk a 5K. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Not into measuring? Do even the smallest calculations demotivate you? Fine. An average person can walk a 5K in about 45 minutes. If you’re super overweight, you should add a little time to that. (It took me just over an hour to walk the 5K from Hell.)

Oh…and it’s always a good idea to check with your doctor before starting something like this – so please use your head and your best judgment.

There are dozens of ways to personalize the Homemade 5K and make it something fun for you. What are you waiting for?

Every Saturday, I’ll post an update on my training – and I encourage you to do the same here on the blog in the comments. And when May 11th comes around, I’ll walk the Buffalo Boogie not only with those of you who are able to join me in Fort Worth, but with you Homemade 5K’ers as well. (In fact, I’m working on bib numbers for it – so stay tuned!) You’ll be invited to share pictures of you walking the Homemade 5K…and we’ll even have a raffle to celebrate when we’re done.

This isn’t something that’s going to end on May 11th, either. We’re going to keep the Homemade 5K alive and well for a long time. Who knows…maybe someday it’ll be the Homemade 10K, right? But first we have to start.




Last week, I walked for 15 minutes most days and then 1.5 miles yesterday. Today, I have a 30 minute walk on the training calendar. I’m following Hal Higdon’s 5K for Walkers training program. Don’t like that one? No problem…find one that does. The important thing is that you make this something that works for you…and then come back here and tell me about it.

Oh, and bloggers…listen up!  You’ll notice an html button on my sidebar to the right.  You can participate in the Homemade 5K by grabbing my button and pasting it into the sidebar on your own blog. Then participate along with us and be sure to let me know when you have the button up and you blog about how you’re doing!

The Homemade 5K is about making fitness work for us. If we don’t make it personal, how will we ever stick with it?

We got this.

So…have you starting training? Where will you make the Homemade 5K your own? Sound off here to get support and give your fellow Homemade 5K’ers a hand.