Random musings of a mother gone mad

Does My To Do List Make My Butt Look Fat?

Posted by on Oct 11, 2012 | 8 comments

I recently made the most astonishing discovery.

This is going to change the shape of buttocks everywhere!!!

To-Do Lists are fattening!

Yes. Your To-Do List can make your butt look fat. As in…

does this make my butt look fat

to do list makes my butt look fat

It actually makes sense. Your ass is a reflection of your mind. If you’ve got a lot of shit going on in your head, your ass is going to try to get your attention. In a BIG way. And it’ll just keep getting bigger ’til you finally pay attention.

It’s your body’s way of squealing on your mind. Your body really doesn’t like being messed with.

Your To-Do List is a snap shot of what’s actually going on in your head.

to do lists make your butt look fat

Whoa! I’m no electrician but those wires look dangerous. 

And by the way: how many items on that To-Do List do you actually WANT to do? Because THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS “HAVE TO DO” ANYTHING. 

but but but

Yes, I know, my little Poppet.

This should be GOOD news! You don’t have to do anything.

You don’t. I repeat:

You simply do not HAVE TO do ANYTHING. Nobody can MAKE you do anything. You are not a child. You are an adult.

You get to choose EVERYTHING.

And if you insist on fighting me on this I am going to have to come over there and kick you in the shins REALLY HARD!!!!

YOU GET TO CHOOSE EVERYTHING, including what you BELIEVE.

A belief is not a fact.

BELIEF: I have to do everything  

FACT:  I don’t have to do anything. Ever. 

Now what? Do you still want to hold onto that belief? Because it’s not working for you. In fact, it’s actually hurting you. And look what it’s doing to your ass!!!

The belief that you “have to do everything” makes your butt fat because the belief makes you feel bad (frustrated? angry? resentful?) and so you procrastinate, but you still feel yucky and you don’t want to, but that list is staring at you, and you HATE it and you just want all those crazy wires out of your head so you can have some PEACE AND QUIET IN THERE.

And so… you EAT.

And then you CRY.

And then you repEAT.

See how this works?

Cry + Eat + RepEAT = Pumpkin Butt

Put that list down Poppet. Untangle those wires in your head. Rest.

And then decide what it is you WANT to do on that list. From a place of wanting, truly WANTING — that’s the only way to do anything.

Let me know what you BELIEVE in the comments below.

*******Hey… if you want to learn how to re-wire your brain so that you can shrink your Pumpkin Butt, get your Pumpkin ass in THIS CLASS! 

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I Am a Blast at Parties

Posted by on Sep 21, 2012 | 0 comments

Every once in a while I get the most sought-after, incredible invitation in the mail. It’s to one of those fancy shmancy parties, where I can get all excited and involved and distracted. It’s an experience like no other, where everyone agrees with everything I say, they put their arms around me and tell me I’m absolutely right, about everything. All eyes are on me. And you all know by now that it’s all about me (except when it’s about you). 

It’s a party where I am the guest of honor. I even get to wear a tiara. And a ball gown. 

Here’s the invitation: 

pity party invitation

 I get the shakes just reading it. And to top things off, all the depressing people are going to be there. How could I not go? Now my palms are sweating with anticipation. 

my private pity party

pity party invitation

I am in high demand at parties such as this. I am an excellent foot-stomper and I am a master at self-indulgent behavior. Self pity can really get my limbic system’s juices revved up. (Oh, and nobody does tears and snot like me!)

Then again… 

There’s such a big price to pay the morning after. I wish there was a pill for that. 

A pity party hangover is a real bugger — it hurts my head. Yeah, even though it can feel so good to go to the party, when it turns into an all-nighter, holy &%$@ what a mess there is to clean up the next day.  It’s a cryin’ pitiful shame. 

A while ago I sent a letter to the Queen of Distraction and asked her to take me off the Pity Party invitation list. She wrote back, slightly miffed. It started with something like, My dear Royal Subject… and ended with … how dare you?!

Leave it to me to piss off a Queen. But hot damn, her parties were really beginning to suck. 

Although… 

Every once in a while, the Queen will still send me an invite, hoping I’ve changed my mind, and to be truthful, there are times I really would like to go. I just love to pretend I’m five years old and get all dressed up like Cinderella, going to the ball to stomp her delicate feet in those delicate glass slippers.  

It seems to impress a lot of people. You, too, would be so impressed if you were lucky enough to get an invite to watch my magnificent performance. I draw quite a crowd, which is probably why the Queen keeps inviting me: she knows a crowd-pleaser when she sees one.

Wait… maybe you’d like to go?  Would you like to take my place? It can most certainly be arranged… you can even borrow my glass slippers (I don’t know what was up with Cinderella and losing one of her slippers: mine stay on pretty tightly, as long as I grip firmly with my delicate toes.) 

This is such a good idea. I’m sure the Queen won’t mind if I politely decline; of course I have the perfect excuse to not go:  

my private pity party

If you or someone you know wants an invite to the party, let me know! 

Hey, guess what? I have an invitation for you: JumpSTART to 2013 is back… well, it can’t be “back” because that would make it JumpSTART to 2012 and that one’s already come and gone — and it was a barnburner! If you’re trying to lose weight but can’t figure out what the hell you’re missing on this weight loss journey, check out JumpSTART… no more pity parties needed!  

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Bite Me!

Posted by on Sep 7, 2012 | 0 comments

Does your food talk to you?

when food talks

I said no!

food can't talk

That’s what I thought.

Why oh why do we give power to inanimate objects? Food can’t talk — it doesn’t have lips! 

When we say things like, “the cupcake was calling my name,” we hand our power over to the cupcake. 

Oh, and another thing: food is not your friend.

Lin Eleoff, theworstmother.com

Nope, sorry, food is NOT your friend, Silly! It doesn’t tell jokes, it can’t comfort you: It doesn’t have arms, for goodness sakes. 

Food is not my friend?

Oh dear. I understand. That can be difficult to accept. Because, if food is not your friend, if it cannot talk to you, if it cannot comfort you, then what the hell is it? 

I’ll tell you what it is my little Cupcake… it’s an AFGO: Another Freakin’ Growth Opportunity. You know them well, right? 

What is the food on your plate there to teach you? What is your struggle with food covering up? 

Our bodies are hard-wired to fight, or take flight, whenever we face a harmful or stressful situation.  Have you ever worried about going to a party because there would be a lot of food there and you didn’t know if you could control yourself? Because the food would grab you by the throat, pry your mouth open and jump in? 

But that’s the crazy thing, because food cannot harm us, either. It doesn’t have a knife, or a gun! But still, we run. For some people, the running takes them straight back to the refrigerator. 

It’s a temporary fix. A band aid. A trick we play on ourselves.  

Besides, the refrigerator is on to you. 


Once we realize that food is an AFGO, we can get curious about the opportunity it presents for us.

That’s the good news. It’s all good news my little Chicklets. There is no bad news. It’s not necessary to kick yourself in the shins for having had a love affair with food. 

You didn’t know any better. And now you do. 

Put food in its place and use it to feed your body. 

Then figure out what it will take to feed your starving mind. One thing’s for sure… it’s not food. But of course you knew that already, because food has never ever ever never solved a problem, found a cure, paid a debt, saved a marriage, or erased the memory of a bad childhood. 

Only you can do that. 

Now that’s what I call power. 

Go get it.

___

Pssssst: JumpSTART to 2013 is now open for enrollment. If you’ve been trying and trying to lose weight and wonder what the hell you’re missing, I know exactly what it is. Get your ass in this class, Poppet. It will blow your mind. 

 

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This is what doing nothing looks like. Do it.

Posted by on Aug 18, 2012 | 1 comment

Hey… it’s the weekend, and I’m in disguise because I don’t want anyone to find me.

I’m enjoying some ‘me’ time, which basically means I’m just sitting here, in a seemingly vegetative state, not doing anything. I’m fighting those thoughts that try to convince me I’m being unproductive, lazy, and ineffective. Instead, I’m trying to embrace it.

I don’t want to read, do yoga, meditate, go for a walk, or think about penguins.

I just want to do absolutely nothing.

I don’t want anyone to see me doing nothing because then they’ll ask me to do something; drive here, cook/burn this, help with that.

But at the risk of sounding like I’m repeating myself, I’m going to repeat myself, except I’ll just spell it so it won’t seem so repetitive…

T-O-D-A-Y-I-W-A-N-T-T-O-D-O-N-O-T-H-I-N-G-E-X-C-L-A-M-A-T-I-O-N-P-O-I-N-T

Zilch. Zip. Niente. As in…

NOTHING.

Capeesh?

I don’t even want to talk.

And I absolutely refuse to use any of my secret powers.

I know I’m not suffering from Walking Corpse Syndrome because I don’t even feel like walking.

It’s not that I’m tired. I don’t feel sick. In fact, I feel perfectly fine. Scratch that… I feel GREAT!

And still, I want to do nothing.

I want to slow down to zero today.

Because, this is what ‘me time’ looks like for me, today.

me time

See? There's me in time!

I’m going to make like a corpse and not move a muscle.  

This is going to be so fun!

I have amazing ‘me’ skills, don’t you think?

If you want to learn how to do corpse-like impersonations, like me, go HERE.

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Things Go Better With Broccoli

Posted by on Jul 30, 2012 | 10 comments

Everyone in my family makes fun of me because I serve broccoli with everything. I don’t understand it because I think this makes me the Best Worst Mother OF ALL TIME. I figure it this way: no matter how junky the food my kids may be eating, broccoli cancels out the ill effects.

the worst mother

That’s how powerful broccoli is. It trumps everything. It’s a Ninja food. (FYI: whenever you put the word ‘Ninja’ in front of something it elevates it to a very high level, as in:I wear Ninja lip gloss; I write a Ninja blog. I think Ninja thoughts. My feelings are very Ninja. I am a Ninja’s Ninja.)

So, I really don’t care if my kids are sick of broccoli. I can’t help it if they don’t believe it’s all about me and what I think is best.

And I think that broccoli goes best with:

Chocolate ganache.

French fries.

Pancakes. (I actually serve broccoli and pancakes for brinner, which is a combination of breakfast and dinner: love love love it when I can kill two birds with some broccoli + _______ in one pan.)

Doritos.

Key Lime Pie.

Skittles.

Hot Pockets. Scalding lava hot.

McDonalds.

Yes, I have even been known to bring broccoli to McDonalds to justify serving mechanically separated pink plastic chicken to my children. And shame on you Jamie Oliver for trying to cause such agonizing mental anguish to the children of America! The world was a much better place when we believed that Chicken Nuggets were made of real chicken and real nuggets. (Fine. That was so sarcastic, unlike this blog post, which is real. Very real. Like broccoli.)

So, I have no sympathy for the non-Ninja naysayers (my children included) who would try to thwart my efforts to keep my family healthy.  Unless they’d like their sympathy with a side of broccoli, it’s not gonna happen.

The only way any of my kids won’t ever have to eat broccoli again is if they become President of the United States. And even then I can see myself being helicoptered to the White House, as the First Worst Mother, with my secret broccoli recipe (steam in microwave for 4 minutes, 22 seconds — handed down from generation to generation of broccoli connoisseurs), charging into the Oval Office and demanding that the Commander in Chief scarf down my love-laced broccoli dish, shaped in an oval, or else. 

Just because you become leader of the free world, it doesn’t mean you no longer have to listen to yo’ mama!

broccoli in my teeth

Please let me know if you have some other good broccoli food combinations: remember, it doesn’t matter what the nutritional value is — broccoli turns everything into a Ninja food!

Oh… and it doesn’t matter if your kid becomes President of the United States: the emotional scars caused by Jamie Oliver will always be there. No amount of broccoli can fix that.

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Hey Fat Ass

Posted by on Jul 25, 2012 | 0 comments

Is your ass fat?

I don’t mean fat fat, I mean fat.

As in… fat.

You knowwwwww what I mean, right? 

fat fat fat

Hey… don’t get all cheeky with me.

This is not a trick question.

Are you fat? Or do you prefer to say you’re “heavy” or “overweight” or skinnyfat? Maybe you have just a little fat.

Do you have fat cheeks? Do you still have babyfat?

Do you have fat fingers? How about your handbag… is it fat?

When’s the last time you told a big fat lie?

Or went to a big fat Greek wedding?

fat fat fat

Fat. fAt. faT. fat. FAT. Fat. kFat. Fhat. Ffffffat. FAtty fat fat.

What the fat?

fat fat fat

Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffine then.

What is it with words that begin with the letter F?

PS: I love a fat ass. There’s more to kick! 

Need more kicking? I’ve got the perfect shoes for that.

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