Norman Fucking Rockwell

Am I the only parent that finds the "decorating the tree" night one of the most stressful nights of the year? Shit everywhere. Kids bitching. Ornaments breaking. I mean really, am I the only person who has, and is inducing, PTSD in my family around this event?

My OCD ass wasn’t able to attend the ceremonious tree picking today (God knows, a girl's cut and color is more important).  Without intense parental guidance my three kiddos brought home a tree that even Charlie Brown would cringe at.  As the day went on the boxes of Christmas bullshit piled into the living room.  Every year I lie to myself and swear I’m going to organize this shit.  After the exhaustion of the holiday it’s more of a “fuck it” approach as I sloppily cram irreplaceable collector ornaments into bins.

As the “mom” it’s my job to organize the shit out of this event and make it look like Norman Fucking Rockwell.  The night starts with a simple pep talk to the kiddos explaining the severe ramifications of not looking happy as I paparazzi the event with my keen eye so I can post that shit to social websites and look like supermom.  My youngest, who has turned “pissing Mommy off” into an art form quickly decides he no longer wants to participate.   The older boys take on the delicate task of adding lights to the tree.  Otherwise known as “Throw that shit at the tree and light it.”  This results in a clump of colored lights in one corner and half lit white lights clumsily thrown across the top.   After a few deeps breaths and understanding that they have the decorating talent of toddlers we move forward with the ornaments.  That’s when shit starts getting real.  I can always count on at least one ornament breaking and it’s usually the oldest and most valuable.  Half way through the process my husband finds me hiding in the kitchen with a bottle of wine (I’d go for shots but shit... I’m breast-feeding).  Then comes dinner.  I, of course, spent the day in the kitchen making our traditional meal for this blessed event. 

NOT.

As the kids start complaining we remember we have to feed them more than once a day.  Blackjack Pizza is on speed dial. Our kids and our relatives visiting from China get pizza for the second night in a row. “Fuck it, order enough for breakfast too.”  Fucking genius: two meals in one.

Last year my blood pressure what so high at just the thought of going to the tree farm my husband fed me a pot brownie left over from a friend’s party.  (I can say that shit now that it’s legal… well, in a few weeks.)  That was the best fucking night ever.  My husband asked me to trim the tree so it would fit in the living room.  He wanted about six inches off the top… three feet later I was in hysterics.  Never ask a stoned moron to do hedge work.  That was one fucked up looking tree and it was the funniest thing EVER.  Kids didn’t quite understand but someday they’ll figure it out. 

So, Christmas 2012.  Boo fucking yah.  I had the pleasure of informing my delightful children that Santa is a sham this year.  Since that façade is no longer necessary I think gift cards are in order and mommy is going to spend this month on her fat ass keenly awaiting the arrival of 2013.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

3.2.1... YOGA!

Yoga.  Yoga is not an exercise that is conducive to the CrossFitter lifestyle for oh-so-many reasons.  Serene music opposed to death metal jam.    Words like “Chaturanga” and other un-comprehendible bullshit instead of “Lift it Muther Fucker!”   “Final Savasanawhathefuck” meditation instead of laying face first in a trash can vomiting your brains out while gasping for air.  But you know what... I can be all serene and shit.  Bring it on!

Where to start??  Holy shit balls it was hot in the room, and humid as a muther fucker.  Like 120 fucking degrees.  I had ass sweat before we even started. In the class, women... women... and more women.  Skinny, bendy women wearing tight pants and tiny weenie little bras.  I REALLY was not in my element.  I immediately cased the room and assured myself I could kick the shit out of each and every one of them.  I’m talking bar fight, not WOD (first un-yogi thought).  We hadn’t even started yet and I was miserable hot, sweating in unsanitary places and ready to pick a fight with the first peaceful minded bendy bitch that looked at me.  

Of course, being the shy, wall-flower like girl I am I picked a spot in the front of the room.  Ya know why?  Because I really don’t give a fuck!  If I’m going to suck at something, I’m going to suck it BIG with pride in the front of the whole fucking room.

Within minutes I was really fucking light headed (I’m pretty sure I was sweating cerebral spinal fluid and about to die).  Then, some anorexic chick with a figure of a prepubescent boy, wearing ass tight, white pants, put her mat next to mine.  Might I just mention... note to all yoga loving babes who are reading this (very important):  DO NOT WEAR WHITE!!!.  I could see this chick’s vag and she hadn’t even started sweating yet.  Quadruple fucking EWW!  The first thought that entered my mind.  “OH my god, I’m gonna end up writing about this chick’s snatch on my blog.”  

Soon, the yogi-riffic (skinny bitch) instructor came in all happy and shit.  We all assumed “Child’s Pose” while she told us the secrets to peaceful bliss.  Then it began...

I didn’t find any part of this practice enlightening.  If anything... I was really mad.  Mad that I’m the least flexible person ever.  Mad that I was so fucking slippery I couldn’t successfully grab an appendage and maintain grip.  Mad that I’m a fucking CrossFitter (I think I’m invincible) and I’m getting my ass kicked by stretching!  Mad that my inner yogi screamed “FUCK!”  when I fell from Warrior II pose (not in my inside-voice).  

Another note to all yogis, male or female:  WASH YOUR FUCKING FEET.  It’s really fucking nasty to smell someone’s stanky feet when you’re face is all up in their shit.  I’m face down on the floor doing some stupid superman shit and this chick’s nasty bunion covered piggies we’re invading my breathing space.  Nasty shit.  

Since I’m so full of advise... BLOW YOUR FUCKING NOSE.  The last thing I want to hear when I’m all serene and shit is your booger whistling dixie while you’re performing your Darth Vader breathing.  Not cool.

Now I’m going to return to my white pants yogi friend.  It was like a train crash.  Completely horrific but I couldn’t stop staring.  Her VAGINA was right there.  Just a thin piece of white fabric which had now become see through due to excessive sweating (I think I literally just threw up my chicken kabobs from dinner).  I will never think of “Happy Baby Pose” the same ever again.  Oops... just puked again.   

Might I mention... I used to do yoga four times a week until I got a fucking life and started CROSSFIT.  (This has nothing to do with me getting my ass handed to me at yoga and NEVER excelling.  Nothing.) ;0)

OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Deadlifts and Duct Tape

Moments into today’s WOD... panic set it.  FUCK!  I didn’t change my bra!  

I wander the house in some pathetic, non supportive boobie garment that does NADA for support.  But... there I was, attempting to run 500, with “The Girls” out of control.  Not fucking funny.  I resorted to self support - otherwise known as running holding my titties.  I have no shame.

Then the real horror set in.  Today’s WOD is deadlifts and box jumps!?!  Double fuck.  Doing a box jump with big knockers and no support is like taking a baseball to the titties with every jump.  In other words.  UNcomfortable.  AND... today is one of the few days I get to shine.  I absolutely suck at 99.8% of CrossFit... but I have a shit heavy deadlift.  That equates to me NOT sucking at this WOD.  I had to take action.  I refuse to be defeated by a large set of bosoms.

This is where I got creative.  Trying to hold my boobs and manage high box jumps wasn’t going to cut it.  I lack coordination and skill so I need all the balance I can get.  


Duct tape?  Hell ya!


Pride?  Naw.  This shit was functional.  The “straps” were a critical component for boobie control.  As you can clearly see, that alpha boobie (reference A Little Nip Tuck, Lift and Suck) is being a spiteful little bitch and eking her way out of the contraption.  In all... this was a  great solution.  Fuck vanity.    

I rocked this WOD in 6:48 

21-15-9 

185# deadlifts

20” box jumps

I should patent this shit.

Ass Scab

I wrote this a while back.  It came up during today's warm up so I had to post it.  (Shout out to Carissa!)

I’ve coined this lovely term for a special condition that is most unique to the CrossFitting experience.  All you need for your very own condition of ‘Ass Scab’ is an Abmat and dozens of sit-ups.  This pesky condition sneaks up on you... typically when you’re in the shower - when that hot water hits the fresh abrasion.  The adrenaline of the moment (shit tons of sit ups) allows the condition to go unnoticed until it’s too late.  If you’re lucky like me you’ve already developed an unsightly ass callus to defend against the Ass Scab.  (God only knows what kinky shit my massage therapist thinks I’m into.)  A fresh Ass Scab will leave you uncomfortable for days... worse case scenario, a strange gait and difficulty sitting.  

But.. it’s all worth it because beneath the unsightly chub of my muffin-top midsection I’m pretty sure there’s an eight pack of killer abs.  YEAH! 

The Rapture

The morning after... the sleepover from hell.

I thought it was a good idea.  I was the first to brave a group sleepover with a bunch of six year olds. I’m a fucking moron.... an exhausted one at that.

It started all right.  I filled them with pizza and Sprite.  No biggie.  The Ex came over to help chaperone the beasts.  That was a fucking failure.  He stood, catatonic, on the outskirts of the chaos.  A deer in headlights that didn’t lift a finger to help.  

The first movie was a failure.  The panic started creeping in as anarchy began.  (Once again, The Ex sat there... drooling).  I saved the day with Kung Fu Panda.  Mid movie I served ice cream cake.  More sugar!  All was well until the movie ended.  The kids were fucking riled up.  All of the sudden they were all Bruce Lee (minus coordination, skill and proprioception).  Once the pseudo violence began The Ex curled into the fetal position.  

Let me step back a moment.   Once the pack was established this was the breakdown of five:  Loud Kid, Narc/Softie, Know-it-all, Wallflower and Psycho Birthday Boy (mine).  

Did I mention... we also have four dogs right now.  One is a vicious three-legged dachshund who loves to attack children.  Just to add an element of surprise and danger she was randomly released from her prison in the bedroom.  I caught her, several times, eyeballing the fresh meat, ready to take a bite. 

The Softie kiddo has an “attentive” mommy (who might I mention, isn’t fond of me).    Of course, as luck might have it, Softie took a knee to the face during the Kung Fu fighting.  There was no apparent damage and blood hadn’t been shed (typically my requirements for intervention).  Within 30 seconds my cell phone beeped - his mom was picking him up in 10 minutes.  FUCK!  A pack of ice and a little bribery later... good as new.  Not.  

So,  one down... four to go and 13 more hours of hell.  

Loud Kid, I predict, will be the chubby, beer guzzling frat boy who has an affinity for getting naked in public.  (Don’t get me wrong I like all of these kids - I’m just honest).  At one point I caught him naked, underwear on head, streaking through the basement.  What did I tell ya?  

Know-it-all, well, he knew everything and was kind enough to inform me of my mis-guidance.  In his superior state he DOES NOT have to listen to rules and threats are mere suggestions of the invalid kind.  That shit didn’t fly and little dude lost his cake privileges (Ashley - 1, Know-it-all - 0).  He then informed me, “I don’t like cake anyway.”  (Reset... 0-0).  Since rules didn’t apply to this nimble little kiddo I found him hanging from the second floor banister on several occasions. 

Wallflower... did nothing of interest.

Psycho Birthday Boy.  Well, he’s fucking crazy but I’m used to his bullshit.  

8:20pm - Kids call parents and pretend they are going to bed.

8:30pm -  Ex was excused.  I think he was crying.

9:00pm - Diabolically bad RockBand with temporary breaks between fighting for instrument domination.

9:40pm - I naively thought that leaving the crazy bastards in a room, they would just fall asleep.  Not the case.  

10pm - Me (mentally) chanting... “I will not be defeated.  I will NOT be defeated.” 

10:30pm - Blatant begging for peace and quiet. (Repeated many times)

10:34pm - Praying for ascension!!

10:40pm - Rearranging living room into sleeping space because all the kiddos migrated upstairs.

10:50pm - Exhaustion and narcolepsy kicking in.  Flashbacks of infancy as I try to soothe four exhausted, sugar crashing kids.  

10:51 - Final decision made.  I DO NOT want more kids.  

10:55pm - One down, three to go.

10:56pm - Two crying (one is me).

11:20pm - Four asleep.  I decide to sleep in living room to 1) avoid the possibility of one sleep walking into traffic 2) to keep them safe from three-legged Cujo in case she escapes.  

5am - First kiddo ready to eat, play and drive me crazy.

Morning spent cleaning urine out of new wool carpet in living room.  Fucking priceless.

Excising a Dysmorphia Demon

This one is some deep shit... if you came to laugh, today is not for you.  I contemplated not posting this.  Then I thought... FUCK IT this is MY blog!  I don’t mind people knowing who I am and what I think.  So... if you choose to move ahead.  Hold on.  This one hurts...

I feel like an ocean of panic; an ebb and flow of fear as consistent as the tides.  I’m worried about this surgery.... I’m more worried about what’s leading me to it and where it will go from there.

I’m well aware I have a dysmorphia issue.  What I see in the mirror is not representative of what the rest of the world experiences in my presence.  I find my reflection an assault on the eyes.  I see an ugly monster.  I see obesity.  I’m choosing to intervene on a portion of that vision in order to find long overdue acceptance.  But I’m a realist...

Since I was a small child I can remember the deep seeded hate that I felt toward my body, mainly my stomach.  I’ve tried unsuccessfully to short circuit the emotional pain emanating from it.  The only time that I have loved and cherished this piece of flesh was when I carried my son.  I wish I could find that love for it now... it was his vessel into this world.  Instead, the moment he was given the space to breathe his own air... I once again saw it as a malignancy; something to be hated.  Now that it’s surgical removal is imminent... I can feel the malignancy traveling elsewhere; finding a new target to hate and obsess over.  Last week’s phone call to the doctor’s office, the agreement to move forward, created a shift.  Since setting the date to go under the knife, I’ve felt the dark cloud shift.  The malignancy stretched and grew... uprooted itself and locked in on a new target.  An area that is not being modified is set to take the emotional wrath of something deep, something angry, that still lingers trapped inside of me.  I’m fascinated by this awareness but yet have no control over the irrational response when I find myself once again going under in a sea of self loathing.  

The neuroses I experience and manage every day are far louder than those around me encounter.  I try to hush the dysmorphia noise by exercising but no matter what I do I merely tire it temporarily, I never exhaust it into submission.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to silence the beast that that has tormented a large portion of my existence.  

I now know that removing this flesh will not attenuate the problem.  What I’m looking forward to is waking up one morning, after 34 years and loving my tummy.  Not awaking to a fanny pack of lard that is a reminder of a misfortune of genetics.  I want to put on jeans without a floodgate of tears unleashing years of repressed angst. 

So this, my friends, is the initial reason for seeking cosmetic surgery.  I would like to silence this misguided orchestra that’s playing a disorganized symphony of dysmorphia.  I’m now recognizing that I need to find the space to allow peace and acceptance into the limited time I have left in this shape.  I want to approach this surgery with love for the alteration, with love for the years of health I have been afforded and will continue to have.  I do hope, in releasing these words into an environment of unpredictable eyes that this post... this vulnerability, will reach someone else with the same suffering and they too will try to find a moment to accept and love with or without surgical intervention.  

Underneath a facade of sarcasm lives something troubled.  I hope by releasing this blog (and potentially disappointing those looking for a laugh) a small portion of my ‘issue’ will break free, piercing a festering wound and initiating some healing.  Catharsis... Here I come!

I guess this is now bipolar Ashley.... who knows if you’ll be crying or laughing when you sign up for this blog!  Geez, I exhaust myself.  =D

A Little Nip and Tuck, Lift and Suck

Let’s talk about boobs... They come in all shapes and sizes.  But... after birthing a child and breast feeding, most come in one shape - 'tube socks with tennis balls.'  Some are not lucky enough to have the tennis ball addition and I simply call those 'fish tits.'  Bras have come a long way and manage to hide the rolled up titties and form them into two seemingly perky lumps.  But God forbid you unbuckle the beasts... next thing you know they are headed for the floor.  If you lay on your back... they are lost in your armpits.  This is unfortunate but natural.   I’m not sure which is spotted more frequently - Big Foot or perky after-baby boobies.  So that get’s me to my topic of the week and many weeks to come... plastic surgery!

I was going to share my deep thoughts, fears and inner turmoil about my body image... then I started to puke in my mouth.  Instead I’m going to stick with the raunchy, boundary-less Ashley you all know and try to love (or maybe just accept... or maybe just tolerate from time to time).  

I’m signed up!  July 26th.  Not just a little something-something, but the whole shebang of cosmetic redo.  The girlies are being lifted, one of them is a little overzealous and she needs to be reduced to match her sister.  I have to throw a ‘what the fuck’ on this one?  I considered having one augmented but that would look all fucked up to have one fake and the other natural.  They are considerably uneven.  I’ve thought of allowing the alpha booby to remain larger but she has a bad habit of yanking my V-neck shirts to one side and trying to travel out of her designated bra space.  

Next is the tummy tuck.  This one is the BITCH of the bunch.  Go ahead and YouTube “tummy tuck surgery” if you’d like to not eat for a week.  It’s horrific.  I’m sure you’re all asking, “Why do it?”  Well, I don’t know if it is genetics or one VERY large baby but I didn’t fare well with pregnancy and the endeavor tore my abs (legit fix-up needed).  Someday I’ll manage a honest T2B (reference Pathetic Little Piggies blog).  I also had a C-section.  I remember the nurse prepping me for surgery.  She said, “The scar will be so low that you’ll wear a bikini again.”  I’ll never forget that moment.  I thought, what a delusional bitch.  My stomach looks like it’s been clawed by a wild fucking animal.  This shit is nasty.  I never had a washboard stomach but the after baby image is one straight from Freddy Kruger, scars, scars and more scars.  Might I also throw in a three inch deep, horizontal, belly button.  

Giving birth, or maybe some random emotional trauma soon after, lead to my thyroid taking an extended vacation as well.   Actually, more like witness relocation.  Dunno what happened but he doesn’t seem to be coming back; I’ve exhausted most treatments and I’m unable to lose the extra inches.  Every time I get a lead as to what’s wrong with my thyroid I head into a serpentine labyrinth that begins with false hopes and ends with... well, no results.  

That segues me to liposuction.  This is one I wanted to avoid but the shit just ain’t coming off with exercise.. diet and/or starvation!  This procedure will be performed on my ‘flanks.’  (Great, now I’m a fucking piece of cheap steak.)  I do have a legitimate concern here... what happens if I gain a little weight after my midsection has been sculpted to perfection?  They say that once the fat is gone, it’s gone.  That means that the remaining fat will work overtime.  What if I gain it all in my upper back and I look like a fucking linebacker?  A linebacker with huge arms to boot!?!?!  Those of you who have ever seen me, my legs are... well great.  Not much fat there.  My one genetic blessing are these long, thin legs that lead to a “what the fuck happened?” midsection.  I will not sign up for a lifetime of tight leggings and oversized sweatshirts - my dependable fashion for the past three years.  

So, it’s time!  Time to say “fuck it!” and do something 100% for me.  Time to take a shower in natural lighting. Time to stop hating on those skinny bitches who have what I want... a fucking waistline!  I’m doing it... I heard someone say (post tummy tuck), “Who cares if it hurt?  I looked fucking awesome.”  So, I’m signing up for some serious pain... maybe even narcotics anonymous after many cocktails of painkillers but hell, I’m going to feel like a sexy bitch... something long overdue.