Family, Food, Facebook, Fat, Fuck.

I had written all this high and mighty shitĀ about feeling bad for my mom, because she’s so worried about her weight that she deprives herself of delicious food. I prattled on about how I was glad I let myself enjoy food, because pfft, I’m clearly SO above those outdated ideas, and fuck it, we only get one trip through here, so we might as well have cake.

Aaand then my brother Facebook-tagged me in some party pics from the other night, and you know those weight-loss ads where the women are all, “I saw myself in a photo and realized I am a giant fuckoff hambeast?” Yeahhh… I’m gonna have to rebuild some of that body confidence I’d been having.

Cameras lie, though. They are tricksy and false. Basically wizards. Shifty wizards, in cahoots with angles and lighting. That’s right, I said it — cahoots.

Still, maybe some exercise is in order. We all know I’ll do whatever Shaun T tells me to.

No kale, though.

Fuck kale.

Walking around naked. Like ya do.

The other day, my amazing friend* ran a body confidence class at the sex shoppe (yep, shoppe). For “homework,” she assigned us to go home and spend an hour naked, checking out our bodies, noting the good, disregarding the bad, and just getting comfortable seeing them.

So I just emailed her and said, “Just letting you know I’m walking around naked. Carry on.”

Not gonna lie, I’m NOTICING the bad. (“Really? Those are my boobs? Huh…”) But overall, I’m kind of adorable.

Also, the heat in my house is up to like 80 degrees because brrrrr.

Also, I may have strange friendships. But they’re the best.

* FYI, the friend is the lovely and talented Yvette St. James, and you should follow her on Twitter and attend all her classes because they’re super fun and informative.

On Wednesdays, we wear our hearts on our sleeves.

So, the therapy posts aren’t going over well, which is fine, it’s a little bit weird. But I wanted to share this, which was kind of an “up day” breakthrough. Plus, it’s Mental Health Awareness Week, and I think it’s important obviously to #endthestigma, but also…It’s not CRAZY. I joke that it is, and I shouldn’t, becauseĀ it’s not. Some of us just need a minder. And this particular thing is something I think a lot of women struggle with.

Continue reading

Sexy, sexy llamas.Ā 

The oddest things make me feel sexy.

I’m wearing a shirt with llamas on it, but the back of it is scoop-cut lower than shirts I’m used to, and my hair is clipped up, so I have my neck and, like, five inches of back/shoulder exposed, with an occasional peek of bra strap, but I totally feel like I could make men do my bidding.

My llama bidding.

Shut up, don’t judge.

Residual effects of being raised by the Wakefield twins.Ā 

OK, look, I try my best to be all body-positive rah-rah. I’m working on it, and I do think I’m…cute. I do OK — I’m not hideous, I give enthusiastic blowjobs, and I don’t make my men watch The Notebook. So yay, me.

But sometimes… Goddammit, there’s a woman in my office I would make a weird Twilight Zoney pact to look like. She’s tall, but not TOO tall, and lithe and blonde and her hair is perfect and her nose is adorable. She’s a woman you’d watch The Notebook for, just so you can sit near her and bask in her beauty. In fact, maybe I just use that Notebook thing as a defense mechanism to compensate for my averageness. And oh, God, what if my blowjobs are enthusiastic but AWFUL?!

Ugh.

I know, I KNOW. I’ve already told myself that we’re all special lady snowflakes, blah blah blah. I understand my brain is not currently accepting logic — all those Sweet Valley books I read as a kid can still infiltrate occasionally. In the time it took me to type this, I kicked that gremlin in the face, put on some lipstick, and charged ahead like the fine-ass lady I am. Still not 100% on my blowjobs, but…men keep letting me do it, so I can’t be THAT bad at it.