Panic! At The Steph

So Excited, I Lost My Tights

Gracie was nominated by her Art teacher to be in a county art show tonight.  It’s being held at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens and there will apparently be hors d’oeuvres there.  I just had to Google “hors d’oeuvres” to spell it correctly so I’m assuming my skinny jeans won’t do as attire.

The black dress pants I had selected were a bit, umm, small on my broadening-by-the-day-because-it’s-the-holidays-and-I-haven’t-been-to-the-gym-since-I-had-to-wear-a-unitard-at-Hallween ass.  As I rifled through my closet for something stretchy, another skirt was eliminated because of its smallishness.  Bastard.  I was getting so desperate, I was rifling through my closet archives which consists of a tacky faux leather gay cowboy shirt a friend sent me, the shirt I wore on my very first date ever, and my high school letterman jacket.  Finally, I found a skirt so stretchy, John Goodman could wear it and I put that bitch on.

It fits but a bit of my leg could possibly show in between the skirt and my boots.  If you’re a friend of mine on Facebook, you know I accidentally participated in Movember but with my legs and underarms.  It is hella windy here today.  I don’t want to be mistaken for a Sasquatch and get kicked out of the Botanical Gardens so I went searching for a pair of tights to slap on to cover my freakishly mannish body hair.  I know for a fact I had at least two pairs of opaque tights in my dresser drawer.


Those are female legs, according to Pinterest, but they are not my legs.  Both of mine are hairy.

I found no tights but I did find thigh highs I do not recall ever buying.  A lacy red pair, a lacy black pair, and a pair of plain black.  They’re new in the package from Blackheart.  I have only been in that store once, in Arlington, Texas last summer with my girlfriends.  I know I didn’t buy them then because it was summer in Texas and the last thing on your mind during summer in Texas is stocking up on anything that will suffocate your legs further.  Plus my friends would have demanded to see me in the thigh highs.  Been there, done that, and don’t plan on doing it ever again.

E…  you have some ‘splainin’ to do when you get home from the airport tonight.  Also, I’ve thrown out all your socks and put the thigh highs in your drawer.  Good luck getting dressed at 5:30 in the morning.

In the meantime, I’m going to the Botanical Gardens with au naturel legs and letting the Sasquatch hairs fly.  Wish me luck.

Selfishness, Stupidity, And Ebola

This isn’t my normal “thing”.  This isn’t my comfort zone.  My instincts are to make jokes and go into hiding for the rest of the year.  My panic button wants to cancel our Orlando Halloween vacation, tell E’s brother he can’t fly in to visit us for two nights next week and basically go full-on Charlie Daniels “A Country Boy Can Survive” mode.

Just a disclaimer:  This is an impromptu spilling of my guts.  I don’t work for Fox News or CNN.  I’m not exactly breaking journalistic ground here and I’m not trying to.  I’ll link to a story if I think it’s necessary but otherwise, this isn’t a thesis.  No footnotes, no outline here.  You know the basics of the story just like I do.

When this whole thing started, E was so secure in the thought that our government, our hospitals had this shit handled.  I wanted to believe him.  I really did.  E works in the healthcare field, he knows the workings of a hospital.  He’s done this for 23 years now, in some form or another.  But even when the ebola tally was one guy in Dallas from Liberia, I told E that people are, at their core, selfish.  And selfish makes you stupid.  And stupid is really hard to contain.

Stupid causes you to break quarantine to go get yourself some soup.  A Doctor, a highly educated American, employed by NBC to report on ebola, broke quarantine to get out in public and buy soup.  Let that sink in for a minute.  Yeah, yeah.  She sent a man in to the restaurant to pick up the soup.  She sat in the car, wearing huge sunglasses.  She knew she was wrong because she was wearing the huge sunglasses in an attempt to disguise herself.  She knew she was wrong but she did it anyway.  And this is a Doctor who has been on the front lines of this awful outbreak.  She has seen the hell and darkness and death it brings yet even with all that, it was too much to ask her to stay in her lavish home for another week or so.  It was too much to ask her not to risk exposing anyone.

The man who went in to pick up her soup order had obviously been around her, rode in the car to the restaurant with her, I’m assuming.  Now he’s touched the door of the restaurant, he’s touched a counter, he exchanged money or some form of payment with the cashier, who has touched countless items in the restaurant by now and come into contact with possibly hundreds of customers since.  You can tell me all day long that the good Doctor didn’t put anyone in danger, you can tell me the “scientific, medical” facts that CNN just confidently gave you, of how one actually contracts ebola.  I have just one question for you:  Would you go today to this restaurant to eat?  Would you let your child go to this restaurant to eat?  Or even use the restroom?

I could look at the odds, I could look at the scientific “facts” and the reassurances from our government that this is contained and the rational side of me would accept it.  I desperately want to accept it.  But the government does not have a handle on this.  You can’t look at the second nurse, allowed by the CDC to board a commercial flight while running a fever after caring for an ebola patient, and tell me our government has this under control.

A friend of mine ranted (his word) this morning on Facebook about the needless panic and the chances of one actually contracting ebola.  It was nice to hear a rational voice in all this scariness.  It did make me feel a bit better after a night of truly worrying about this.  Worrying about our Halloween vacation in the very populated Orlando area next week.  Worrying about my brother in law flying in next week for two nights.  It’s easy to let fear grip you in the dark of the night especially as a Mother.

That brings us back to that “stupid” thing.  Landon is getting his Remicade infusion as I write this.  His nurse has just gotten the I.V. in and we’re underway for the next 3 hours or so, getting meds into Landon that he needs every 4 weeks to control his Crohn’s Disease.  Landon couldn’t get his flu shot on Monday because the Remicade lowers his immune system for a bit after infusion so we had to put the shot off until next week.  If Landon gets an illness, runs a prolonged fever, a hospital visit complete with blood transfusions is pretty much routine for us by now.

Yet Landon’s teacher has to send emails, pleading with parents to not send their child to school sick.  Screw the other kids, the parents need their days off.  They need their breaks from their high maintenance special needs kid, other kids in the class be damned.  This is the reality my family lives in.

As the mother of not only a special needs child who happens to also be very medically vulnerable, I know the selfishness of other people.  I have witnessed church “friends” bring their toddler to the church nursery, knowing they were running a low grade fever, knowing Landon had a blood disorder which had already landed us in the hospital many times.

And some wonder why I have a very hard time trusting other people?

I’m not declaring an ebola apocalypse.  I’m just saying that this isn’t over.  It is not contained.  How do you contain selfishness?  How do you contain stupidity?  And our government, the very definition of selfish and stupid are the ones responsible for its containment after their inaction/missteps have only added to the count?

Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical right now.

Alabama Football Gave Me STD


If you’re watching the Alabama vs Florida football game right now, you know that the Florida defense has caused three turnovers.  Three.  Two of those times has resulted in Florida getting points on the board.

At this point in the game, every time our offense has the ball, I curl into the fetal position (no joke) and half scream, half cry “Hold onto the damned ball!”

I am a nervous wreck.  I’m so flustered, I just told E “I have STD!  I’m going to be at dinner tonight and suddenly scream “Hold onto the damned ball!”

As soon as I saw E’s face, I realized what I said.  He laughed and said I had to write a post about it.

Of course, I meant Alabama is going to give me a case of PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  But who knows?  I still may get a STD by the end of the day.

God willing, Alabama will hold onto the damned ball for the rest of the game and we will prevail but if you hear screaming at 3 a.m., it’s just me and my STD, yelling “HOLD ONTO THE DAMNED BALL, BAMA”!

Y’all have a great weekend.  Roll Damned Tide!

Let David Beckham Know I’m A Free Woman Now

How was my weekend?  My weekend sucked big, hairy man balls.  It was sweet of you to ask, though.

We were supposed to go to the local high school football game on Friday night but at the last minute, Landon developed a headache so I stayed at home with him.  Gracie and E went to the out of town football game, only about 15 minutes away.  This happened.  I’m sorry it’s a bit blurry.  That’s probably due to my tears.


There will be consequences, you husband stealing, fugly child creating, shit weasel of an English whore!

Seriously, if you know David Beckham’s phone number, hook a jilted sister up.  This whole sordid affair really hurts but I ain’t got time to bleed!  Can you tell I just watched the original Predator tonight?  I did.

I hope y’all had a great weekend with no surprise bastard children from England.  If you did, please, please tell us all about in the comments.

I Love Jesus But I Drink A Little.

I ain't no quitter!

I ain’t no quitter!

My friend “Beth” messaged me last Thursday night while I was at the gym.  I’ve omitted some details for privacy reasons, but otherwise shit went down like this:

Beth:  Are you blessing the Lone Star State with your beautiful self this summer?

Me (already suspicious because she called me a blessing and beautiful in the same sentence):  I am.  I’ll be in Town XYZ on the 25th, staying 6 to 7 nights and then I’ll be through Dallas/Ft. Worth.  Will y’all be there?

Beth:  Cool…  the kids and I will be gone until the 27th.  I was worried we might miss you.

Me (relaxing a bit because that sounds harmless enough):  Sounds like it’ll work out.  You up to hosting again?

Beth:  Sounds good.  We may have to have one night without kids because we have decided that you need to meet Bob, Jenny’s brother.

Me (I’ve done the math on my calculator by now):  Is this a trap?  Is he an AA volunteer?  Fed?

Beth doesn’t text back right away, which makes me even more suspicious so I attempt to nip this shit in the bud.

Me:  No interventions!

Beth:  No, quite the opposite.  He is just a hoot.  He still hangs with Vinnie Paul from time to time.

Me (I decide to play it cool for now and investigate later):  No way!  Cool.

Beth:  He was very close to Dime while he was alive, has some of his things.

Me (God, I’m so smooth!):  Can’t wait to meet him!

I filed the conversation away until last night when I was talking to my friend “Lucinda” on the phone.  I grilled her, demanding to know if she’s in on this intervention thing.  Instead of instant denial and pledges of eternal devotion, she just giggled uncontrollably, which for her usually means “Hell yeah, I’m in on it”.

I attempted to trip Lucinda up and mused that I don’t recall Jenny ever mentioning a brother, much less a super cool one who hangs out with Vinnie Paul, the co-founder of the group Pantera and brother to Dimebag Darrell, God rest his soul.  Lucinda resumed giggling uncontrollably when I mentioned Dimebag Darrell, which convinces me this is a setup because Dimebag Darrell is nothing to giggle over, damn it.

I then emphatically stated that I was not falling for this fuckery and would just hide out at her house the entire time I was in Dallas.  Lucinda, most assuredly thinking only of the damage I’d inflict on her alcohol supply if I was holed up at her house 24/7, then decided to play Good Cop and searched Facebook for “Bob”.  She claimed there really is a “Bob”, complete with long hair, tattoos and rock dude type pictures with other rock dude types.

I smell what’s cookin’ and I don’t like it.  I want to state my defense up front.  Firstly, I only drink on days that end in the letter “y”.  Secondly, exactly how many shots make one drink?  What am I working with here?  Thirdly, it needs to be understood that I am incredibly shy in most social situations and merely hold onto alcohol with a deathlike grip much like Bob Dole clutches his security ink pen.  Quit laughing, that’s actually mostly true. Lastly, the following should not aid in any way in the case against me:

• Light beer

• Desserts with hard liquor as the main ingredient

• Meat marinated in alcohol

• Those little chocolate bottles filled with liquor

• Liquor made to look like blood, contained in fake blood bags, syringes or test tubes, served by fake nurses at Halloween

• Seasonal beers, year round but especially fall brews

• Hard ciders

• Screw it, the whole month of October is off limits

• Liquor added to coffee

• Alcohol consumed while I’m wearing a swimsuit

• Alcohol sipped through those really long, curly kid straws

• Fruit soaked overnight in alcohol and frozen

• Beer consumed during research at Brew Fests

• Holiday celebration alcohol, including but not limited to eggnog

• Thirsty Thursday at the ball park

• Liquor used for medicinal purposes

• Alcohol consumed on Saturdays during football season

• Liquor in tiny airplane bottles

• Any drink which can only legally be prepared by a licensed bartender and is flammable

Well, shit.  I’ll miss y’all.  Will you at least write to me while I’m in rehab?  Thanks a lot, “Bob”.  Ass hole.

Karma Is A Hateful Bitter Bitch

“Well, it had already not been a very god day and just now I’m pretty sure I firmly made it onto the neighborhood prayer list.”

That was my Facebook status a couple hours ago.

E has been out of town, our crazy ass cat has been missing for about a week now, we just fought a war against fleas in our basement with what I’m sure are canisters filled with stuff on the government’s “Shit Terrorists Buy” list and a spider got to second base with me in my kitchen earlier today.

Okay, let’s back up.  I’ve been drinking and I’m now listening to Judas Priest, for frame of mind reference.

Our crazy cat, Snow Ball, went missing a week ago.  He adopted us a few years ago.  We tried to integrate him into our household but he made it clear he wasn’t a house cat.  Snow Ball also didn’t like being touched and after the second time he scratched my hand, the deal was sealed.  I’m not a cat person anyway.  Nothing personal, cats who may be reading this.

Since then, Snow Ball has been happy to be the neighborhood cat and even calmed down enough that he allowed petting.  After a while, Gracie and E could cradle him in their arms like a baby and he tolerated it.  I sort of like my face so I never tried that Faces of Death maneuver with him.  We would take him to the vet for checkups, shots and monthly treatments, feed and water him, and even installed a pet door to our basement so he could be sheltered in extreme weather.  The arrangement worked for all of us.

He was our greeter every time we came home.  He’d run halfway up a tree then just hang on, like “Hey, look what I can do”!  He’d stalk the Jeep as we drove down the street and hide between bushes like we couldn’t see his snow white ass.  He’d jump through the cat door while I was doing laundry and take about a month off my average expected lifespan every single time.  He’d stalk our poor dog, Allie, while she was trying to take a dump in the yard.  Snow Ball wouldn’t hurt Allie, he’d just stalk her through the monkey grass and then jump out at her.  The poor dog still can’t do her business without looking behind her in paranoia.  Just a few weeks ago, Snow Ball left a huge hairball/miscellaneous-pieces-of-shit-wad on the hood of my Jeep, right in front of the driver’s side like a little “Fuck you!”

Fine.  I kind of miss the damned cat.  Are you happy now, cat readers?

E warned me before he left town to be on the lookout for cat carcass in the basement.  Between the fleas (which seem to be gone) and a possible dead or dying cat, I’m a bit jumpy when I go to the basement now.  I know if anyone will find Snow Ball, it will be me.  That bastard is going to choose a day E is out of town to be found dead and half decayed in my laundry room like a final little “Screw you.”  I know that sounds selfish and cruel but that’s the kind of relationship Snow Ball and I had.  Don’t judge me.  He’d expect the same damn thing from me and would be disappointed with anything less.  In my attempt to preempt and foil his final middle finger (claw?) to me, I’ve been opening the garage door with the opener every time we get home, just praying that if anything’s dying in there, it’ll have some last breath decency to limp out and do that shit outside.

I am truly a kind and loving person.  I just feel the need to reinforce that right now.

Let me rewind a little further in the day.  Be patient, this all comes together in the end.  Hopefully.

Earlier today, the kids and I were about to leave the house for dinner.  I had on shorts and a bra and tank top combination that makes my boobs look like two distinct and totally separate missiles, ready to launch.  I’m not bragging here.  It’s fact.  I don’t know what it is about this combo, it just IS.  I hadn’t put my Foo Fighters tee shirt on yet so those babies were sticking out there like great majestic twin peaks.

Like this but without all the grass.

Like this but without all the grass.  And not bumpy.  And no one has ever died by falling off of them.

I was drying my hands with a towel when I saw something dark and small jump down my tank top.  Then I felt something small inside my bra.  I threw the towel across the kitchen and started the search.  Yep, there it was, frantically trying to climb up my peaks.  My traditional Die, Spider, Die! dance was unsuccessful so I proceeded to undress in the kitchen to recover the little bastard, all the while yelling at Landon to stay out and “Look away!  Look AWAY!”

After the kill, I looked up to find Gracie staring at me like I’d lost my mind.  I showed her the spider carcass so she wouldn’t call 911.  She just nodded slowly and calmly while giving me a tiny little smile, which I’m assuming was employed to not upset the crazy person she calls her mother.

After dinner, I went to the gym.  When I got home, I opened the garage door with my opener and performed my now common Dead Cat Test.  When nothing staggered out, I nervously and quickly ran into the basement to start the dryer, then ran back to the Jeep to collect all my shit, which included my purse, the mail, the small cooler I keep my bottled water in when I go to the gym and my keys.  I entered the Jeep through the passenger’s side, which hardly ever gets used during the week and when parked is right under our deck.  After the spider/boob invasion earlier today (have I mentioned I’m a bit jumpy?!), the thought of walking through a spider web fleetingly crossed my mind but there wasn’t one.

As I had my hands full, walking up my sidewalk to the front door, I recalled the time E walked full-on into a big ass spider web which covered and stubbornly clung to his entire head and has freaked him the fuck out to this very day.  I didn’t see this go down but I heard all about this massive web attack immediately after it happened.

So, as I’m walking up my sidewalk, recalling this traumatic spider event in E’s life, I finally started to relax after my very jumpy, paranoid day and I laughed out loud.

Did you read that?  Are you still with me?  I.laughed.out.loud.

And that is the exact moment when that bitch Karma showed herself in all her nude glory and I walked right into the giant spider web which stretched across my entire face like plastic wrap (the good kind, not that generic foolery) and would not relent and let the fuck go.

The cooler, mail, my purse and keys went flying, scattering all across the sidewalk and lawn.  I immediately started trying to claw the web off my face, imagining the horrors it could contain, all while initiating my Die, Spider, Die! dance for the second time in a day and shouting obscenities at the top of my lungs, much like this:

We live in an older neighborhood with a lot of elderly people.  One in particular is an older lady who is gracious enough to watch our house when we’re out of town.  Her strength is noticing details.  Every single detail.

If I went missing one day, E wouldn’t be able to tell the police what the hell I was wearing.  My comfort, if you want to call it that, is knowing that Ms. Jan would not only be able to tell the police what I was wearing but also the bra color she saw me take off at 5:00 p.m. through the kitchen window as I was doing my first Die, Spider, Die! dance earlier today.  She would also be able to reliably and faithfully tell the police that on top of performing the above Ace Ventura bat dance, I also yelled “Motherfucker!”, “Holy shit balls!”, “Oh my God, you bastards!”, “FUUUUCCCCKKKKKK!” and sadly, used the good Lord’s name in vain (which I almost never do) at the top of my lungs tonight in our front yard.

After Landon helped me find my keys in the yard, I immediately burned all my clothes in an attempt at some kind of Scorched Earth Policy against the spiders and took a shower which, once again, Ace Ventura accurately depicts for me.

I’m still inspecting my boobs to make sure there’s not any sort of bite marks on them. I look like a mad woman, feeling myself up all the time, trying to make sure both of my breasts are the same size and one isn’t swelling up to the size a damned football.  Every blemish on my face could be approaching death from the sidewalk web attack.  I keep flexing my wrists like Spider Man to make sure webs won’t shoot out.  If I hear one weak “meow” from the basement, I will lose my shit.  All of it.  Every last bit of it.

Did I mention it hasn’t been a good day?

Hips don’t lie. And neither does my ginormous ass.

I’ve been on a “journey” (I hate that fucking word when it comes to most anything due to its abuse by millions of women everywhere but there it is) with my weight for years.  I had lost almost 100 pounds, total, as of last summer.  I lost it after several years of amazing victories despite myself.  There were also amazing defeats, obviously, which is why it took several years but this failure takes the cake.  And Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  And pizza.  I have gained back, as of Monday, 42 pounds of that weight.  I have gained almost half of what I lost in total.

I was talking with my friend Kari on the phone yesterday for a good while and although we didn’t linger on my epic weight “journey” failure, I realized after I talked to her that I felt much better.  It was like confessional.  It’s like I’m not trying to be a closet failure anymore, I’m owning it.  Don’t misunderstand me.  If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you’ve seen my pictures.  You know I’ve put on weight since last summer.  Of course, we all try to choose the best photos to post but there’s no hiding weight gain like that eventually and even if you can, the scale will wake you up with the cold, hard, brutal numbers when you finally take that step to face reality.

As therapeutic as the conversation with Kari was, I feel the need for more confession.  I haven’t wanted to write blog posts lately.  We were on vacation in Orlando all last week but it’s more than that.  I’m angry at myself.  I hurt myself more than any enemy ever could.  I sabotaged myself in a way no one else could ever do, even if they tried.  I don’t exactly feel like coming here to make my regular four readers laugh, as much as I love you all.

Kari and I also discussed the “flavors” of different blogs.  Some are funny.  Some are serious.  Some will send you on a downward spiral into hell from which it could take days to come back from.  I don’t really “do” serious.  My teenage son is autistic, has Crohn’s, G6PD, migraines and epilepsy.  E and I have nearly lost both of our children, on more than one occasion, to medical issues that Doctors told us “almost never happen”.  I’m kind of done with serious.  I’ve had it with drama.  There is enough drama and sadness and tragedy in this world already.  I don’t want to put more sadness out there.  I don’t want anyone to walk away from my blog more depressed than they were before they came here.  I want to make you laugh.  I want to make your day better.  I don’t want to be the shit on your shit sandwich or your Debbie Downer.

But I’m human, too.  I have to unload this burden so I can move on.  And I know this isn’t the worst thing to happen to anyone.  Please don’t think I’m not sitting here feeling like a giant (literally) ass hole.  Because there are women out there at this very minute being told they have breast cancer.  Or that their child is dying.  Or that their husband has decided to leave them.  There are people burying their last parent today.  I do have some perspective on this.

I started a very intense diet (again) on Monday.  Due to the added weight and high impact exercise I should not even have attempted in the last few months, my knee is jacked up now but I will start low impact exercise today and get back in the gym.  I am happy to report that I am down 4.6 pounds so far this week and that’s a start.  If any of you write that off as “water weight”, I will come to your house and sit on you while eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut, fuckers.  I’m not even kidding.  Okay, I would only eat a rice cake but it’ll still hurt you like hell.  So just don’t do it.

Thank you for reading this.  I feel so much better, like after I get good and drunk on wine with my best friend Sylvia and then spend the next couple hours literally blubbering and ugly crying on her.  Yes, she’s a Saint and it’s only happened once (the blubbering and ugly crying, the wine thing has happened a lot.  A LOT.) but it was very purifying and this blog post has done much the same thing for me.

This is not a weight/fitness blog, obviously, but I will keep you updated on my progress every once in a while.

Love yourself, no matter what your struggle is right now.  Be kind to yourself today.  I love you all.

And The Winner Is…

I’m sitting on my couch at 4:00 p.m. Central Time, eating a piece of banana nut bread, the only thing I’ve had time to eat today.  The local weather is on the TV, which I turned on all by myself.  I usually have to get assistance from my autistic teenage son.  Feel free to unsubscribe from my dumb ass now. I’ll totally understand.

We will be on weather watch for the rest of the night, probably into the wee hours of the morning, for tornadoes.  The weatherman advised me on this morning’s news to, among other things, “keep a whistle around your neck so rescuers can find you in the rubble, keep running shoes on at all times, and wear a helmet, any helmet”.  That’s not a very bitchin’ way to get your Monday started.

Schools dismissed early today due to the impending weather so the kids and I did some errands and then came home to prepare.  The weather radio is ready to go, cell phones charged.  We have extra bottled water in the basement, blankets and comforters and winter coats ready.  If you’re Southern, you know what the helmets, coats, blankets and comforters are for.

My friend Kari messaged me a while ago and asked if we were okay.  I told her the above info, in a nutshell, and I also told her this:  “Kids are okay, surprisingly, considering we saw “Tornado Alley” at the IMAX theater yesterday.  Are we the worst fucking parents on Earth or what”?!

We have found a winner, folks.  We are the only parents on Earth who thought seeing “Tornado Alley” (in huge mother fucking IMAX form) was a pretty good idea in April.  In the South.  We suck.

It’s going to be an ugly night, even without a tornado, here in Birmingham.  Say a prayer for the towns already suffering from this outbreak, along with the rest of us who can’t do much as we watch this awfulness coming at us.  Y’all stay safe out there.

International Bad Ass

Warning:  The word “ass” and a couple of its variations is used in this blog post a lot.  Like a metric ass ton.  It’s just called for.  Roll with it this one time.  Okay, we all know there will be lots of other times but just roll with it, damn it.

Remember that little fear of heights thing I blogged about here and the accompanying proposed zip line excursion?  Well, I won’t say that I conquered that fear completely in Roatan, Honduras but it failed in making me its bitch and I gave it a kick in the ass and balls it won’t forget for a long, long time.

I did it.  I know it’s not a big thing to some of you.  Maybe you’ve scaled Mount Everest or jumped out of an airplane when you didn’t even have to.  This blog post isn’t meant to impress you although I think you’re bad ass and I can only aspire to live as fearlessly as you do.

This blog post is meant for the weak kneed people who stay in the shadows, watching the excitement take place around you and without you.  This post is for the people who are automatically handed the camera to take pictures of others doing exciting things because…  well, you’re a pussy and everyone knows it so you may as well document THEIR bad assery for their next Facebook profile picture.  This post is meant for people like me, like I still am in many ways.

This adventure has given me hope that I can do other things I never imagined I would do.  I have gained 40 pounds over the past eight months and have been feeling a bit mousy.  I didn’t feel mousy after this was over.  I felt exhilarated and that zip line gave me the kick my ample ass so desperately needed.  I’m excited to think of all the other phobias I can conquer in all different cities now and that just inspires me to lose the weight, even though that obviously didn’t stop this adventure.  The fact that I did this while feeling incredibly low and mousy just means that I can accomplish bigger, better things when I’m feeling my best again.

My son and I were only maybe two of three people (if I recall correctly) who zip lined upside down, with assistance, of course.  I am giddy that I did this and I hope it inspires the piss out of you.

I will do full reviews of each excursion in the coming week, including a more in-depth review of this zip lining  trip.

In the meantime, feast your eyes on Steph:  International Bad Ass.  There’s talk of a possible movie and it’s surprisingly not even a porn.  I’d like Kate Beckinsale to play me because she’s hot and and a total bad ass.  We’ll see how it goes.   Also, I have to apologize to my husband because I think the zip line dude and I made it to at least 3rd base, based on the photographic evidence.




I think I should have a Caption This contest for the look on zip line dude’s face.  And check out my cool Def Leppard tank.  Bad assery exemplified.  I also must point out that I kept my sunglasses on, albeit askew, even upside down!  There is nothing I can’t do now!

Now y’all go out and do something bad ass this week.

Namaste My Ass

We went to the mall tonight to have a quick dinner, buy some shoes and a few other things for our upcoming Spring Break cruise. My husband decided to park in the parking garage.

Normally, parking garages freak me out but if I’m driving, I’m distracted just enough to ignore that panicky “Oh sweet Jesus, I’m surrounded and trapped by thousands and thousands of pounds of concrete” feeling.

Tonight, not so much.

I swear this garage had the lowest clearance I’ve ever seen in my life and my husband couldn’t find a parking space right away. Finally, I saw an entrance to the mall and told him to stop. I bolted from the Jeep and didn’t breathe normally until I was at the top of the escalator, inside the mall.

I feel stupid. I feel weak. I want to control these panic attacks. I try to tell myself how silly it is. I’ve felt that slightly panicky “I don’t like this” feeling before. I usually make some attempt to forge through it. Sometimes I win, sometimes the panic wins. I had not taken my medicine all day so it’s my fault. I maybe could have pushed back and gotten through it with the extra controlled substance help.

Anyway, while I was trying to keep myself from Wolverine-ing out of the Jeep with my bare hands, I was thinking of deep breathing and zen meditation and relaxing.

What a load of total bull shit. Namaste my ass, mother fuckers. Hand over the controlled substances.


What makes you panicky? What makes you feel out of control? Tell me in the comments and help me feel less freakish tonight.