I used to get offended if I didn’t get carded when purchasing alcohol. But as I’ve continued to get older, I’ve kind of had to let that go. No more casting syphilis curses on them in between punching in my debit card code, how many times can you do that after you turn 30 before you get bored of yourself?

But do you know what offends me now? When cashiers get all worried when I pick up one of my loaded reusable shopping bags (go planet Earth!).

“Ohhhh! That’s not too heavy for you, is it? Do you need help carrying that?”

What? So I’m now unquestionably old enough to purchase alcohol without an ID, which I guess really means I look too old and decrepit to pick up a fucking grocery bag.

Do I not look like I work out? Hello? I’ll have you to know that I can do 10 whole girl push-ups on level one of the 30-day Shred! IN A ROW! It’s only taken me six months time to achieve that. Possibly because I hate push-ups with the strength of a thousand suns and refuse to do more than 5 in the second set.

Who wants to look like a she-man? My arms don’t jiggle when I wave, what other goal is there for a near middle-age woman? Other than picking up a loaded grocery bag, WHICH I CAN DO. I don’t even strain, cashier woman. Gesh.

Perhaps next time I should wear shorts (still entirely possible down here in November) instead of jeans and attempt to lift the grocery bags with my legs. While I remain stubborn about push-ups, I work the HELL out of my legs and it shows.  I frequently rub my own thighs just so I can feel the renewed tightness in them. Yes, I’m weird, but that would really show those fearful cashier women, if I picked up my canned good loaded shopping bag with my new and improved firm, toned legs!

Or maybe I should just start casting syphilis curses again. Isn’t that what old hags are supposed to do anyway?

I need to get something off my chest.

And it’s not my bra, though I am wearing one of my older, when I was skinnier 34 bras, just to see if I could comfortably wear them again. I sorta of can, so yay me. A cottage cheese & strawberry breakfast may not taste as good as cinnamon rolls, but it’s worth it. I guess.

.

.

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Okay, I’m sitting here, playing with my cuticles, trying to work up the nerve to actually say it. Should I say it? Do I actually put this on the internet, where they say Google is forever.

(Is it me, or do you find that little catch line about Google annoying too? I swear there’s no originality left in the world.)

I don’t want my words typed here to come back and hurt someone in the future, someone I love so very much. You know, when he is old enough to get on the internet unsupervised and perhaps google himself. Holy shit, what am I doing? I should shut this blog down immediately. Or never let him on the Net unsupervised, even when he’s 30.

But really, I need to work this out because it’s bothering me. Couldn’t I just do it in a private journal though? No, I can’t. Because I need outside input, I need to hear your voice too, for whatever co-dependent reasons.

And maybe I’m crazy, but there’s just something about putting certain issues “out there” to make me own them more, force me to work through it until I come out on the other side.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably preparing yourself for some dramatic confession, such as I can’t bake bread to save my life, even in a fucking bread machine. Wally is the one who has to do the homemade bread thing. That’s totally true. Now that I’ve confessed that dirty homemaker secret, what this post is really about it is going to seem very anti-climatic. I apologize now.

Sometimes I think Payton is weird.

And I don’t mean in that cute, brainy weird way. And I don’t mean that sometimes I’m the only one who understands how his mind works, that’s not weird, people, I’m just fucking awesome way either.

I mean sometimes I see Payton the way other people (kids) see him and understand how/why he could be socially rejected. That kind of weird way.

Shit fuck, people, I’m not blind. Sure my vision may be colored with infinite love, and thank God for that, but I’m not stupid either. I see these things and I find myself at times thinking involuntarily, gosh, he’s so weird.

And just to soothe my mommy guilt, let me go ahead and add the disclaimer that sometimes his weirdness is that cute, brainy, gonna-change-the-world-someday kind of weirdness. And I love it.

But the times it isn’t, I wish I didn’t have that involuntary reaction. But I see now the doors of individuality closing as he gets older. What was toddlerhood antics was then early childhood quirkiness and is now fading into tween weirdness. I feel the doorway of acceptance getting narrower. I hate that I’m falling for it too.

Why does it make me so uncomfortable? Why, damn it? Am I too normal, buying into the status quo more than I care to admit to myself? Maybe. Choosing an alternative path in raising Payton (meaning not the standard path of diagnosis/medication) is probably the most unconventional thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Look at my life; graduated high school, went to college, immediately got married after graduation, had babies after appropriate number of years of marriage, stay at home with the kids, play the good wife who doles out blow jobs at appropriate intervals, bake cookies, make homemade goodies for school parties, volunteer with the PTA. I drive a mini-van for fuck’s sake. A WHITE one, to top if off.

I? Am not weird.

So as I’ve been thinking about this, I thought maybe I need to dabble my life’s paint brush in the palate of weirdness. Turn up my own weird factor, so to speak.

Maybe I should dye my hair pink? Gack, I can’t do that. Maybe paint my toe nails black instead. Ugh, that’s just unfashionably ugly, in my opinion. Trade my mini-van in for a sports car. Wait, that’s what Wally is supposed to do in a couple of years when he begins his mid-life crisis.

I don’t even fucking know how to start uping the weird factor for myself. How in the hell am I going to get more comfortable having a weird kid if I can’t even dye my hair pink? Shit fuck again.

And it’s not even the intellectual weirdness, because I get that. It’s the public weirdness. I don’t get that.

A few weeks ago I was reading on Yahoo an article about what famous women every day women (like you and me) would want to trade places with for 24 hours. I don’t remember who was number one, but I do remember the top picks were Beyoncé and Angelina Jolie.

I guess American women just want to have a chance to screw Brad Pitt, because within 24 hours you must sleep and look who you get to sleep with if you pick Angelina Jolie.

And this is where I realized maybe I am a little weird. Because as I began reading this article, before they got to the list of famous women we’d all want to trade places with, I’d already began forming my own list of who I’d want to trade places with:

Jane Goodall

Mother Teresa (you know, alive, not dead)

Terry Irwin

Michelle Obama

Then I read the winners. I can’t even begin to comprehend the masses, what the hell is wrong with people, you shallow, flaky nitwits?

So I guess compared to the average woman, I am a little weird. On the inside. Where I can keep it hidden.

But I don’t feel like it’s enough. I need to be weirder. Or maybe I need to be more comfortable with public displays of weirdness. I’m not sure.

How do I go about doing that?

(Please pardon any and all typos. I’m sure there are plenty because I’m not rereading this one. It’s not one of those I can go back through and edit. It’s just raw writing straight from my stream of consciousness.)

So I guess I could write something on this blog this week before my Precious goes to the doctor for its repeated crashing problems.  My god, this is a Mac and I can’t even believe I have to admit to this filthy, PC-type problem.  I mean, shit, what did I pay twice the money for if it’s going to act like a goddamn PC and crash every time I open iPhoto or the boys play on Nick Jr.?

I haven’t written as much lately because I’ve been busy being all TOP MOST INFLUENTIAL BLOGGER IN MY OWN LIFE. Like last night?  I was busy being ever so important by sitting on my bed with a heating pad shoved down my pants.  What better way to celebrate the very last T-ball game of the season than coming home to your period staring back at you from your underwear, which, of course, immediately signals the uterus to cramp, CRAMP LIKE HELL WHILE YOU STILL HAVE A FEW YEARS BEFORE MENOPAUSE SETS IN!

But please don’t let the above paragraph give you the wrong impression.  This past weekend is a much better example of how I’m TOP INFLUENTIAL BLOGGER IN MY OWN LIFE.  Why, I spent the weekend influencing my marriage by having the most wonderful bonding experience with Wally.  And by bonding, I mean the way hot wax bonds to your bikini area and then the screeching and cursing that occurs when your husband rips the wax strips off of the tender areas you can’t properly reach.

Oh, and my FAVORITE part of this special moment was when Wally didn’t get a good grip on the wax strip and only halfway ripped it off.  Twice. Then he laughed at me when I cried.

Twitter?  Who has time for Twitter when there is bikini hair to annihilate?

Then there was the TOP MOST IMPORTANT INFLUENTIAL MOM IN MY OWN LIFE moment this past Friday.  Being most important mom, I schedule play dates from time to time so I can alleviate the guilt of not wanting to play charades yet again. Play dates get me totally off the hook.

At this particular play date, the school friend told me several things about P.E. and what happens out there, all of which sent me into a fit of mama chimpanzee screeching, branch shaking and poop flinging.

I would tell you more about these crazed jungle actions of mine, but somehow the information doesn’t fit in a post about my husband helping me give myself a bikini wax.  Okay, really, I have more important things to do in my own life, like shove the heating pad down my pants again because apparently 12 hours of cramps is not enough.  Don’t worry, though, I’ll tell you soon.  Right after my Precious returns from the computer proctologist and I’ve horded all the piles of poop in the jungle I can find. I think I’m going to need a stockpile.

ijaeu0 kljiou  oiuo nhiog jg iorjglkvkljfj  vlkjrg!

Let me guess. You don’t speak Pudding, do you? I apologize. It’s all I’m capable of speaking at the moment.  Here, let me translate it for you..

Jillian Michaels makes Hannibal Lecter look as innocent as a newborn kitten!

I’m on Day 3 of the 30 Day Shred.  I hope you’re proud of me – I’m typing this blog post with my nose. It’s the only part of my body that doesn’t hurt.

Does anyone else look in Jillian’s eyes during the 30 Day Shred and see that red flash of evil?  I do.

And does Anita’s abs scare the hell out of you too? Call me sexist, but that tight of a six pack only looks good on men. Every time I look at her abs I think of carving up a meaty rack of baby back ribs.

Mmmm…baby back ribs.

I haven’t had any chocolate in 24 hours.  I started walking to the pantry to steal more of Parker’s Easter candy, but as I did, I passed the fruit basket and (brace yourself!) snagged an orange instead.   I believe that’s what they call “smart choices”, but knowing that I’m forced to make those kind of choices makes my ass want to suck a sour lemon, if, you know, I could actually utilize my ass muscles without shrieking from the pain.

Shouldn’t choosing a 30-year fixed mortgage and weather-appropriate clothing for my children each morning fulfill my obligation of “smart choices”?

Being an adult sucks sometimes.

So here’s the thing. I’ve been practicing the new religion of Wii Fit for over 90 days now and haven’t lost a single pound.  Not a one.

Here’s why:

#1 I refuse to follow any diet that excludes alcohol. Into each of our lives a little perversion must fall, but this kind of extreme sadistic perversion is where I draw the line.

#2 I use weekend food such as nachos and pizza as my reward for making it through another week. Look! Another week and I didn’t list the kids on Craigslist! I resisted the temptation to run away! And I didn’t hurt anyone at the post office! Let’s celebrate!

#3 I like mayo on my sandwiches. Oh, I also like bread. Obviously.

#4 Damn, I have a life. I don’t have time to exercise every single day, and quite frankly, I’m beginning to wonder about women who do.  Who has time for workouts when there are cookies to bake?!

I swear God gave me the ability to make terrific cookies just to make me depressed. It’s the one thing I really excel at and IT MAKES ME GAIN WEIGHT.

And if that isn’t proof enough that God’s divine plan is for me is to carry around this inner tube of belly/hip fat, there’s the strange coincidence that my Wal-Mart is frequently out of Ex-lax chocolates.

Hello, God, it’s me, Heather. I know Margaret wrote an entire book of pre-teen shit to you about her period, but has anyone written to you about the early middle-age woman’s problem with post-ovulatory constipation?

There’s also the fact that my children love popcorn as an after-school snack. Popcorn is a weakness of mine. I can’t resist it.  Just like my cookies. And Friday night pizza/nachos. And alcohol, chocolate covered cherries, fudge, cake, pasta, mayo, chicken salad…

Maybe this new Divine Plan of flab has a higher purpose for me. I’m not about a punishing God, so there must be something positive and enlightening and FOR THE GREATER GOOD.

For all I know it’s God’s way of keeping me faithful to my husband.  Look at it this way, when I’m in a size 8, I attract all kinds of cat-calls, whistles, and attention from skanky construction workers.  Could you imagine what would happen if I ever got back down to a size six?

Clearly God wants me to keep these ten pounds (possibly 15, depending on the availability, or lack thereof, of chocolate Ex-lax) to keep Daniel Craig from falling in love with me after a torrid love affair we have while he’s shooting a movie here in my town.

Because that’s all that’s standing between me and Daniel Craig – ten pounds of weight and inner thighs that rub together.

Oh, let’s get real. To hell with that Divine Plan shit.  I tried on my capri pants the other week and only ONE pair fit. What would Daniel Craig say to that?

So I started the 30 Day Shred routine today.  In fact, I *just* finished my first routine and, holy crap, I can barely type. It’s feels kind of the same as when I drunk blog, only I’m not drunk.  Instead, I believe my arms are about to fall off.  And I didn’t even use weights!

Before I started the Shred, I thought I would be SO above all the other bloggers who started it and then moaned and whined about how sore they were. After all, I’ve been doing Wii Fit since New Years. Clearly I would sail through level one without a single modification.

Ha ha! God has a sense of humor after all!  Because I had to modify the modifications.

During the cardio segments, I began to wonder if I had asthma.

Dear reader, if you don’t hear from me for the rest of the week, know it’s because my body has turned into a puddle of soft, warm pudding on my den floor.

BlissDom attendees will be overjoyed to know I’ve given up my Sweet & Spicy Tuna diet.

Quite frankly, even my readers not going to BlissDom should be glad I’ve given up the tuna because, I swear to god, if I ate anymore of it, you’d start to smell fish through my blog.

Why did I give up this 70 calorie/.0.5 grams of fat delicious diet food?

It dawned on me that I read somewhere you should only eat tuna once or twice a week.  Something about mercury.  Or maybe lead?   Hell, I’m not entirely sure anymore.   Useless information such as what will or will not kill me has to leave my brain because I have to think up funny shit to say.

Who has room for that kind information and witty humor?

I just know I read something about too much tuna killing you and, let me tell you, between looking skinny at BlissDom for people who aren’t even sexually interested in me (or are you?) or carrying around a few pounds and living another day, I’ll pick the latter.

But I have a Plan B.  Zone bars!  I love me some Zone bars, especially the chocolate peanut butter ones.  It’s like eating a candy bar while losing weight!

Only I can’t find that flavor anywhere.  I searched and searched, like, TWO different stores. No one has it. Damn it!  Then I realized my favorite flavor has probably been pulled from shelves because of the peanut butter salmonella fiasco.

I thought about going with Plan C, which would be The Special K Diet.  But I’m sure there’s e.coli or a flesh-eating virus in those dehydrated strawberries because, surprisingly, those fuckers taste good in milk.  And in American, anything that tastes or feels good HAS to be bad for you.  It’s in The Constitution.

So it looks as if this whole dieting thing is going to kill me. Fuck high cholesterol or diabetes.  Striving for a size 8 is going to do it because of mercury, lead, and salmonella laced dieting products.

To hell with it.  I’m just going to be a happy size 10, and accept and love my body for how it is.  Besides, a size 10 is NOT fat, especially on a 5’8″ frame.

Even my Wii Fit, evil spawn of Satan that it is with its “eww” sound every god damn time I step on it, had this to say about my weight.

My BMI is 22.32, so I’m right where I’m supposed to be in terms of healthy weight. And yay! I’m rarely ever sick, so it’s right about that too!  I should listen to the Wii Fit, for it knows of what it speaks.

So why is it so hard to be happy with my body?  I’m not fat. I’m really not.  I don’t know why I have such a fucked up body image.  I should do some positive affirmations until I’ve transformed my view of my body.  Positive affirmations can change everything!

My body is perfect. I love my body. My body is perfect. I love my body. My body is…..wait, what’s this on Fox News?

Jessica Simpson is fat?

If Jessica Simpson is fat, maybe I should risk mercury poisoning and death by salmonella, because, duh-am, Fox News ain’t seen nothing if they think she has a muffin top.

Doesn’t that make you want to do something crazy?  Like cut the nuts off of every Fox reporter you come across and slow-roast them in a red-wine based sirloin stew with onions, paprika, and parsley, and a side of mashed potatoes?

Gesh, I’m off to find more tuna now.

It’s Saturday evening and I’ve returned home from an all-day writing workshop, my first one ever. I specify my first one ever in case you didn’t realize I am in NO way formally trained in writing. Because that may be hard to ascertain from reading my work here.

Ha! I crack myself up.

I was a bit nervous to go to the conference. I worried they would ask me questions about my writing, as if I were an actual writer.

I imagined standing at the sign in table, pinning my name tag on when three real writers suddenly jump out from behind the fake Ficus tree and grill me on my qualifications. Of course, I have none, so those real writers throw my impostor ass out on the street.

I stressed over how I would respond to such questions. Like an actor, I thought, My lines! My lines! What are my lines?! I created a multitude of scenarios in my head, convinced I had to be ready to don a mask and falsely portray myself as a writer.

Then, the most surreal thing happened.

No one asked me if I was a writer. They all just assumed I was.

How did that happen? Oh my god, could it be? I have writer presence! It must be the hair. My hair is so awesome today, it’s like a Jedi mind trick and has convinced these people I’m a real writer. Yes, it’s definitely the hair.

The first lecturer, who was a real writer, by the way, published with awards and all that real writer shit, confirmed that yes, I was indeed a writer. She said the fact that we got up early on a Saturday morning to come to this workshop separates us from the people who say they want to write and that’s it. This puts us in a class of people who actually do write. And what is a writer? Someone who actually writes instead of talking about it.

I swear she was looking right at me while saying all of that. She must have felt my writer presence too! It’s my hair. It must be the hair.

The second lecturer, who was a real writer, by the way, published with awards and all that real writer shit, did her lecture and then spoke these words, “I’m going to give you 15 minutes to write and after, we’re going to read aloud.”

And that’s when I shit in my pants.

Read my stuff out loud to strangers? As if it’s any good? They are insane. I’m not doing that shit! I’m a grown woman and they can’t make me.

Then, the most surreal thing happened.

I wrote the most awesome first page draft in the history of the world.

When I say “history of the world,” I mean the history of my own little world.

But no one knew about my little nugget because the lecturer didn’t force anyone to read their writing aloud. It was strictly voluntary.

Whew! I escaped the bullet.

The third and final lecturer, who was a real writer, by the way, published with awards and all that real writer shit, gave his talk. He talked and he outlined and then he said, “I’m going to give you 15 minutes to write out a subject for a book and then pair you up with a partner to read what you wrote.”

And that’s when I scooped some of that shit out of my pants and smeared it in my hair in attempt to downplay some of this “writer presence” it keeps giving off.

I know my hair looks great, but damn, people! I am not a real writer! Come up with a subject for a book in 15 minutes? Are you kidding me?

No escape this time. I took the bullet right between the eyes. Not only did I have to share my writing with my partner, but my subject was also shared with the entire workshop.

The ENTIRE workshop. Do you know how exposed I felt? Let me tell you how I felt.

I stood butt-ass naked on the podium with a grossly unkempt bush as I performed a flaming baton routine. Of course, a crotch that hairy is a hazard and it caught on fire because I fumbled the flaming baton during a spread-eagle handstand and WHOOSH!

That was me – a flaming crotch equivalent of the terrible car wreck everyone slows down to gawk at because they can’t look away from the horribleness.

Then, the most surreal thing happened.

People came up to me after the class, showing real interest in my story. Someone even chased me down in the parking lot after the workshop to talk to me.

This can’t be happening to me. Me, the impostor writer! That’s just funny. My hair tricked these people so much that they are chasing me down in the parking lot like a celebrity. They are clearly insane.

Before the quasi-paparazzi incident, I spoke with the third author privately and he offered up some points for my story. We talked for several minutes, going back and forth over this subject, and I must have said some really cool and intelligent shit about how I would write it because he stopped me and said, “Do you know what this is you’re saying? These are mature writing concepts.”

And that’s when I lifted my right butt cheek, farted at the author and said, “My name is Heather Hitchcock and like AA batteries, maturity is not included.”

I don’t know if I’m good enough to write this personal blog, much less a book. I do know I’m somewhat better than before because I went back and read things I wrote two years ago and, Jesus on the crapper, I sucked ass. I sucked ass so hard two years ago, it’s no damn wonder I had recurring hemorrhoids.

Is it a sign that I rarely have them anymore?

In two years, I’ll probably reread this and my breath will stink of ass from all the sucking. I’ll cringe in pain and embarrassment, and ask myself: Did I really write that crap?

Yeah, I did. And that’s the point. I wrote it. And I keep writing it, and I keep writing, and I keep writing because this right here, this solitary act of writing, this is the most fun I’ve had with myself since I discovered masturbation.

Will I eventually write myself to literary perfection so that when I sit down to write, I’m always in a nirvana of penmanship? God, I hope not. If I did, then it’s over. There’s nothing left to learn, no way to stretch myself, and my story ends.

I’m having too much fun for this to end.

Oh look! More unoriginality from the Queen of Shake-Shake. No, no, I’m not talking about tests again. Although I could because I have another story of how I fought the law and, well, I think I won instead of the law, but I’m not sure if I did.

But NO! I’m not talking about tests again. I’m talking about weight! Again! If I’m going to do something, I might as well fully embrace it. Today I will fully embrace unoriginal topic ideas by writing not only about weight, but of my yo-yo’ing weight.

Unoriginal topic at its finest, people.

And I know you are totally interested in my unoriginal experiences with yo-yo’ing weight, so I’m going to explain in detail how I go about losing and gaining weight. (this is where you roll your eyes)

Immediately following ovulation, I notice an increase in muffin top and lack of flat stomach. Hmmm, I better cut back on eating like a fucking asshole and exercise more.

The next week (the week before Aunt Flo), nothing has changed except I’m getting fatter! The muffin top is even larger, my stomach even bigger, and I covet elastic waistbands like an 80-year- old woman. By the time my period arrives, I figure nothing I do matters so I might as well eat whatever I want.

Commence with stuffing my face like a fucking asshole for three or four whole days with things like Reese’s peanut butter cups, chocolate chip cookies, Doritos, and those nachos from Moe’s.

But then! After my period, my stomach magically deflates (magic meaning my magic PMS medicine, which is an awesome concoction of Gas-X and Ex-Lax) and all the retained water is gone.

I realize there is hope and I start eating better and exercising more. This goes on for a week and then it’s all wow, look! No bloated stomach, muffin top ain’t that bad, clothes are fitting better. I don’t need to be so strict with what I eat. This frozen chocolate chip cookie dough ball won’t hurt me. Or another. Or another.

And then it starts all over again.

Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, I see a lasting affect of this hormonal eating. That “lasting affect” could also be called an official size 10 pair of jeans. Yes, it is official. I broke down and bought a size 10 pair of jeans.

But wait, I can hear some of you now. Oh, I would *love* to be a size 10! Well, that’s great. For you. A size 10 isn’t great for me. While I’m tall (5’8″), I have a small build and a size 10 means lumpy dumpy for me. And besides, just because there are other people in the world who would be overjoyed to be a size 10 doesn’t make it ok for me to gain weight.

Here’s where we fuck with ourselves though. When I went up to a 6, I thought I should be a 4. When I was an 8, I thought I should be a 6. Now a 10 and I think I should be an 8. The only time I thought I looked good was at a size 4.

Isn’t that insane? Even my doctor said to gain weight when I was a 4. Can you imagine in this culture of epidemic obesity a doctor telling a patient to gain weight? I think that he could see my rib cage through my chest gave it away, don’t you? But I didn’t listen to him because (hello?) I looked like the girls in the magazine. It wasn’t until we were trying to get pregnant that I thought, hmmm, some body fat might be a good idea so I’ll have more regular periods. I let myself gain some weight.

I won’t lie to you. Having chocolate milk shakes every day was FUN.

But it seems I’ve embraced the philosophy of body fat = regular periods so well that I have them 27 days on the dot, a day ahead of schedule! What can I say, I’m an over-achiever. (but one in recovery)

Is there a point to this story?

If you look at the top of my right sidebar, I’ve put up a food diary. Every “diet” says it’s essential to keep a food diary when losing weight, so I bought a cute little notebook for that purpose. Only no one reads my food diary but me, and apparently I don’t care about being accountable to myself, at least when it comes to eating like a fucking asshole. If I ate 5 chocolate chip cookies on Monday (which I totally did), I can write it down, but all it does is make me feel guilty and we all know how well guilt works in diets.

If guilt was all it took, we’d all be some skinny bitches, wouldn’t we?

So I’m going to write it here on my blog sidebar. I’m going to be completely honest, meaning I’ll tell you when I eat a handful of goldfish crackers while helping Payton with his homework. Ok, two handfuls. And I’ll also tell you when I clean not only my plate, but the boys’ plates at dinner. (Come on, you moms know you do this too.)

How do I know I need to do this? Because I had the idea yesterday and when I grabbed that handful of goldfish crackers, I thought, whew, I’m glad I don’t have to tell on myself on my blog today!

So I’ll be putting up everything that goes into my pie hole and I’d like to invite you to call me out on it. If you see I’m eating like a fucking asshole, feel free to comment or email me and say Hey Heather! You’re eating like a fucking asshole! Stop it!

Or

Heather, I’m so proud of you for NOT eating like a fucking asshole today!

Or!

Heather, you’re a fucking asshole no matter what you eat. No wonder Smerik Drag blew you off.

And if you’d like to make your own blog food diary, let me know because I’d love to have an open invitation to come tell you when you’re eating like a fucking asshole too.

Remember over the summer when a PSYCHOlogist said Payton had impulse issues?

Heh. PSYCHOlogist. It’s no accident the word ‘psycho is in there. To think I wanted to be a PYSCHOlogist.

Apparently impulsivity runs in the family.

I wonder what impulsive means exactly. I look it up on my desktop dictionary and it says to act without forethought. Ok. What exactly is forethought? Careful consideration of what will be necessary or may happen in the future.

You know. Because the future is so predictable that it makes perfect sense to subject ourselves to time-consuming forethought. Do you know how stressful it is to try to think ahead to the 100 different ways a decision can go only for it to go that 101st way we didn’t think of? Very stressful. And very pointless. Think of all of the energy put into forethought that ends up being wasted. Live in the now.

I’m beginning to wonder if impulsiveness is even real, at least in terms of a real problem. Say someone does something impulsive. Is there any way to prove that the impulsive act wasn’t the exact right thing for that exact moment?

I can hear the naysayers now…

But what about those dire consequences that happened as a result of the impulsive act that wouldn’t have happened if there had been forethought?!?

Yes, there is that. But how do we know the resulting consequence isn’t the exact right thing for that exact moment too? If every experience is an opportunity for learning and growth, then that’s what it is.

Almost 4 years ago, one of Wally’s clients impulsively decided to take away their account. That impulsive decision seemed at the time to have dire consequences because, holy shit!, Wally was losing his job. It seemed very dire at the time. In reality, it was the exact right action because, though I’m getting a bit tired of Mobile, this was the exact right place for us to come to.

So see, there is nothing wrong with impulsivity. Except we’re a society with a chemical addiction to certain neurotransmitters, so we love dire futuristic predictions, all of which require a thing called forethought.

Let’s look at this anti-impulsivity phenomenon a bit further…

Forethought = stress = release of certain neurotransmitter = certain feelings we call negative = more stress = more neurotransmitters = more negative feelings = eventual visit to the doctor = pharmaceutical prescription = why the psychological/medical/pharmaceutical industries tell us impulsivity is bad because if it weren’t, they would make less money.

You can’t get rich off of a sane person, which is why I don’t make money from my blog. I’m the only sane person in the blogiverse.

But what does all of that psychobabbly rambling have to do with impulsivity running in the family?

It was an impulsive act when I went and beheaded myself.

Yes, I’m tired of my blog name, but I didn’t think ahead to things such as all of the other places I’m registered under my blog name – Twitter, StumbleUpon, BlogLog, etc., etc.

What a pain in the ass I didn’t foresee.

I don’t know which is less tedious – reattaching my crowned head or going by two different names or starting new Twitter, Stumble, BlogLogs, etc., etc.

From my point of view, the lesser of three evils, meaning the one that takes the least amount of work from me, is to seize the throne from myself and place the crown back on my head, albeit crookedly, of course.

No matter what I do, it’s going to seem as if I’ve lost my head. But whatever. My impulsive act may have been rash and the consequences may be that I look flaky and indecisive to some, but I know it was the exact right thing to do at that exact time. I really loved that headless, naked Barbie in the martini glass and how else was I going to use it?

Besides, if I hadn’t acted impulsively last week then I wouldn’t have spent time trying to redefine my blog, come around full circle and come up with this newest blog header, which I think is totally awesome.

While I do love a good martini and that is the superficial meaning of ‘shake-shake’, the name does mean more than my drinking preferences. It also means to shake up how we perceive things, especially eccentric children. And at that, I am the Queen.

Ok, so I’m going to admit that I don’t really believe I’m a dull wallflower.

I tell myself that but then I read about my friend, Ali and the famous people she’s photographing or meeting, and how her butt looks good in a g-string, and pictures of her drinking with friends on her birthday. Sigh

It’s not that I’m a dull wallflower, it’s just that I lead a dull life. Let’s blame Ali for my sudden obsession with moving away to Scotland, which is really nothing more than me overcompensating for my insecurities.

But no, once you get to know me, I’m not dull. I’m a very complex and intriguing person who can go from fart jokes to deep metaphysical theory in 6.5 seconds.

For example…

I made a bold move yesterday and called the mom of one of Payton’s friends from class. She and I chatted about room stuff, homework, and other general things, including how long we had until our kids found out about Santa Claus.

It was all moving right along and I thought, oh look at me! Making a new friend. See! This isn’t hard after all! Go me!

So we were talking about Santa Claus and how we hoped we had another 2 years to pretend and blah, blah, blah, that’s when I decided to go from the Gapmom who tells fart jokes to my deep metaphysical theorist self.

“Well, I’m not entirely convinced Santa Claus isn’t real. I mean, he could be. For all I know, I am a figment of Santa’s imagination and he’s the real one. Maybe he has made me and everyone else up just so he has something to do on December 24th.”

Silence from the other end of the phone. For some insane reason, I take this as my cue to continue with the psychobabble.

“It’s entirely possible, you know. I can’t prove that I exist, so how can I prove Santa doesn’t exist?”

Dead silence followed by nervous laughter from the other end of the line.

I suppose the fact that I have few real-life female friendships has nothing to do with being dull. With a mind like this, how could I be dull?

It really has to do with the mental flatulence that comes out of my mouth in 6.5 seconds.