Game on team

I hope you start to realize, the world isn’t as dark and gloomy as it seems – it just needs a little illumination, then it looks a shit ton nicer.
I had begun to think, the world is hopeless.
On Christmas Eve, a conversation I had with a friend was the last piece of ah-ha that I needed.  Hope is right here, but we have all forgotten that we are allowed to have it.
I suppose I should tell you why I needed this ah-ha Oprah thing.  After feeling awakened in my soul, a joyful feeling of purpose, I kept being haunted but the eyes of the people I love, who are struggling with their bodies.  I hoped other people could tune into the latest fad.  Undieting is the new black.  Join me I said.  I joked about zipping around in a Buick when underneath you own a Ferrari, who wouldn’t want to cruise in a sleek sports car if the opportunity was as easy as I had found it to be?  I wanted to give it away, this new found well being.  So of course, I blasted to the masses – feel better!  Get in that bikini!!  If I can do it, let me be your coach.  It is free, just listen and try.  Would it matter?
It might not, but it might.  Why not try.  I can’t do much, but I can certainly give a shit.  It all starts with sending a little love.  I can’t do it for you, but I am one hell of a hand holder.
What if this “diet” this instinctive way of life was what we were intended to do?   What if our God was upstairs smacking his forehead because these people he love are miserable in our human bodies, when the answer is right there?
I was struggling to figure out if helping others find happiness through loving themselves was a possibility.  Leading a diet group in hopes of finding a world full of love and understanding?  Sounds impossible, and yet what if? What if everything we hoped for in life, feeling joyful and happy, was even a remote overlooked item in a world where we have everything we ever wanted, yet nothing at all, all at the same time.
The times we are living in feel unnecessarily troubled.  Doesn’t have to be that way, if we just start getting more aware and more intuitive.  Do good for you, be good to you.  Then worry about the world around you, maybe we would all see things a little differently.  I sure do.  Billions of people living in darkness, complaining about blindness, and suddenly we remember we all installed the clapper back in the 80’s.
All better.  See that, that is hope.
Teensie bit more self care and less care about the people around us.  If you can’t breathe from struggle, how can you truly do what is helpful for anyone else?  That oxygen mask?  Baby it is right up there, chin up.  Get that bad boy strapped on and then you can look around.  If you are suffocating in struggle, the air you provide to others is polluted with toxic energy.  Deep breath, clear head.  Less judgement, more mercy.  It’s worth a shot.  Because, quite frankly we’ve become a bunch of judgey assholes.  Being nicer to yourself isn’t just a suggestion, I don’t think anything will change until we start practicing kindness to ourselves.  It matters if you like your body so if that starts with a “diet” so be it.  It has noting to do with the fact you will look amazing, but admittedly it is a nice perk.
So what if?
If I could help by throwing out some loving kindness, I would.  What the hell else am I doing, these kids practically raise themselves.  But first, I was going to have to be sure it mattered.  That people become more intentional, more self aware.  So I started trying to help people with the concept of instinctive living, it is hard to get you to do that unless there is some incentive. So up went the douchey bikini selfie.  Lots of people were intrigued.  We covered the fact I’ve had a lifelong struggle with weight.  We all want to be better.  Look better, feel better.
Check it out, ab muscles.
Through feeling better myself, things began getting real.
Shit just got real.  Like real true feeling and emotions.  I think a part of why I drank, ate, and tried so hard to not feel is because I never could get back the feeling I remembered, but had no words to express.  What was I missing?  My heart.  My faith.  An inner intuitive connection to faith I had before God had a name in my vocabulary.  Trying to say what I was searching for was like saying “I want to smell purple again”.  Maybe you felt it too, back when you were bitching at your mom with your fat toddler legs happy as hell in your Huggies.  I felt something as a child that I wanted to feel as an adult but, what?
Hope – I had hope when I was little, I had a connection with something bigger than me.  Wake up, get up, lift your shit up fun world feelings.  Someone had my back, things were fantastic.  Then, I started the struggling with how I felt about myself, the chubby years.  Gone, with the jeans that were always too tight, that memory in my mind seems to get vague and disappear.  Hope left, and I am not sure where the it went.  I’d say I was about seven.  I know because I broke a mirror, and I thought “shit, I’m screwed until 14”.  Not surprisingly, I had a mouth on me even at 7, but I am surprised I knew the math.
It seems impossible to feel it, because I don’t have a way to express it, it’s like telling you about the smell of purple.  Can’t explain it.  Or find it.  It is just something different than I can’t “put a finger on”, but I can’t forget either. We are taught so much – which is a perk of the higher thinker.  Groovy, “look at the big brain on Brad”.  But, teaching leads to questioning, which leads to doubting.  The more I learned, the farther away I got.
What I want people to get is not a bikini body or better kids or even finding their purpose in life.  I want people to have HOPE.  The more I wrote, and worked on this “project” the more one thing came clear – just the fact that I felt called to start working with people, that I needed to give them hope, told me someone bigger than me was involved.
My face hurts from all the angst I have been feeling over what I am “supposed” to be doing and where is it coming from?  It’s not my idea to do this and I am not yet fully understanding why I feel so compelled to be here.  My purpose, the message, isn’t something I can put into words, but it keeps whirling around in my heart and the words that keep coming up in my throat about to choke me from wanting out is HOPE.  Mercy.  Love and kindness.
For you first, world around you next.
Second Monday of 2016.  Reminder team – It’s Game Day.
Grab your mask, we are going in.  It is time for some inner love to begin.
p.s. thank you to a favorite Y2 yoga badass (Jen) for the lesson on oxygen and the awesome quote above.  Transformation can only happen with both 🙂

HOLY no. You did not just say that.

January is a bitch of a month.  Last thing you want to do is push someone off the edge.  If you are not saying something nice, zip it.  Save that shit for February.

January – last week was the beginning of personal resolutions, the big first day of the year.  This Monday – it is time to rally for the team.

I propose we start Monday fresh.  Let’s call Monday the pep rally for the struggling.  If you gave it your all last week and thought this week was going to get real.  It might.  So what do we do?  Let’s all rally, let’s make next week more fun.

If you hadn’t noticed, you will, change isn’t really that fun if you truly are struggling.  But with the right support – you got this shit.  I am hoping we can shhhhh and let others do their thing.  The judgey assholery seems to have picked up speed.  Slow down, just do you for a bit and let others work their thing out.  Monday – smile.

How in the hell can someone change with all the negative horseshit floating around.  It’s time we just sit back, and give people the chance to figure their shit out.  Don’t get angry at people because they aren’t dong it your way.  God ain’t mad – don’t let them piss you off either.  If you think you can change someone by judging them, well baby no.  The only way someone will change is if they feel they need to.

With all of us so concerned with the welfare of others we forget that the only thing worse than doing something wrong is the judgment you are laying down.  Settle down, if you truly love them just show them kindness.  Bam – nothing else to do.  Love and be kind.  Let’s make that the resolve so that the people who are struggling feel a nice little cusion of hope.  It’s game day – let’s make a new resolution in January – spread hope and love like a motherfucker.

You may eve have been tempted, what with all the excitement, to get your own shit together.  So you can now just worry with that.  Optimism is in the air, feels just about right for a change.


That is what I realized we all need, if you are battling demons like I did for 44 years, if you weren’t making resolutions this year, you might have forgotten that other people are still doing some work.  It’s is ok, but let’s take some positive shit and throw it their way.  Can’t hurt.  If you ain’t lifting people up, just keep that to yourself until February.

I’ve found a whole lot of happy by just looking at how I can support people.  There is nothing I can do for them, but being a soft place to turn is my best feature.  I can’t be judgey, I did too much shit wrong.  I know if you are struggling, you have your own worst critic on board.  Don’t mind me, I’m over here working on my own shit.  If you want to feel better though, I’ll tell you about rehab.  In March.  No way would I do that in January.  In January everyone is looking sort of miserable, what with the personal change and all.  Maybe the best thing we could do is resolve to not worry with what needs change, but to worry with making it ok to be not ok, to say “you are fine”.   Smile more, judge less.  They will figure it out.


Smile.  It’s gonna be alright.

What you announce January first is rarely the change you need anyway.  The real struggle is what you are desperate to hide, and not have to change.  I’ve never been a fan of January.  It’s the worst feeling to see others with trivial flaws put it out there and still not get love or support.  Looked scary.  Especially because my flaws were so overwhelming there wasn’t a calendar month to even list them all.  And of all months, it sure can get gloomy.  Try depressed about what a failure you are and add gloomy.   In January.

January is a short month, and the weather tends to be fantastic.


Ok, so different kind of resolution is in the air.  Let’s just make it the month to smile, you had a week for excitement and motivational Facebook messages, now let’s just put our head in the game quietly and the ones who have taken January off for working your shit out, let’s get some happy going.  A smile is bigger than any word you can offer – it says “you are still fantastic, you are ok.  You are fine.”  Love is the winner if we apply it with reckless abandon.  You got this shit.


So maybe at work.  The people you see trying.  They were all pumped up but the second Monday of resolution season might feel a bit like wtf.  Last week was pre-season warm up.  Let’s make second Monday the big push.

Did you notice?  People are going to change shit they just want to change.  Good for them.

Ah, interesting you are thinking.  Come to think of it, I DID notice Jim in Accounting seemed awfully bright eyed and bushy tailed, did I see a gym bag??  And Nancy didn’t reek of Wild Turkey, she seemed pretty perky herself.  What the fuck Jim??  What the fuck Nancy??

Well friend, change isn’t easy.

If you didn’t notice the Jim’s and the Nancy’s of your world making big leaps toward “not how they normally roll”,  I want you on your toes.  I need to send out a plea for you to be aware, if we are alert and super careful, this shit could just continue!  Change is hard.  If you haven’t had a personal inventory item that nags at you, lucky.  I had several.  The ones I struggled with never did make it to resolution season, those I fought every day.

If we show people that there is hope for seeing someone change without judgey assholery, it might just make the daily demons easier to tackle, if and when the time comes.   2016 is a great year to stop being hateful in hopes of making people perfect.  Personal perfection in others is not your job.  Judgement when someone already feel guilt, well that feels like shame.  If you want to help them, just smile.  Be nice.  Show and tell doesn’t work with the struggling in January.  This ain’t kindergarten.

Trying to be a better you?  Respect.

No, hell no not you, you are FABULOUS, did not mean to imply.  If you don’t need to change, how about just lifting up with that smile.  Look at you, adorable.  Keep that on, it becomes you.

Here we go!  On Monday – it is a momentum lifting opportunity.


Tread lightly, you never know who they are, what they are battling.

Or at least try not to put your foot up their ass or shove a twinkie down their throat.  The more you smile, the more that will move them through the tough times.  Maybe tougher than you can imagine.

Now let’s put our best foot forward and get on with it.

January, oh bleary angry ornery month of change and shit ass weather and onset of holiday depression month, I used to not understand how important it is, of all our other 11, you are a month that should scream love, sets the tone for being ok to struggle, love will get easier the longer we do that and not hate or judge, it just needs practice.

I hated January but I think it got a bad rap.  We just didn’t know how hard everyone was working innerly, so it’s easy to let inner struggle become outward angst or sadness.  When possible, just smile.  Even if you don’t feel like it, you never know who you just gave another day of resolve.


You can do it.  Whatever you want to change, you got this shit.



Stay-cation is the best.

Truly, it is.  If you are quirky ass writer and need to get away with the husband, and still have time for your selfish writer hobby.  Sort of like a working vacation.  Corbett is watching sports center so I have a chance to do business.  Guess this is like sending the wife to the spa when there is a meeting.  Maybe?  Not really but, it’s fine.

Stay-cation is the best!  You should try it!

Provided there are no kids staying at the resort.  Because a stay-cation resort is your home.  And if the resort allowed children under the age of “came from my uterus” let’s face it – it would just be home.  Or as I call it, the Thomason House of Pain.

I love my kids, but every once in a while – no, please.  No more.  I need to get shit done, or I need to think straight, or I need to not have to hide in the bathroom to have a clear thought.  I need a relative to take the wheel, Jesus I will need you to stay with me so Grandma Sara, you take the badger.  Jesus meet me at the writer table on the back deck.  I’ll bring the snacks.

Originally I thought, let’s go somewhere.  Romantic.  Just the two of us, my husband aka Hot Man Meat and I.  Somewhere fantastic or at least a Holiday Inn with a bar.  Writing aside, we just need to get away.  But the selfish in me also would love a place to write now that I am digging it.  You would not believe the things I have written in my mind!  You laughed, you cried.  You hugged your kids closer and understood the theory of relativity.  Kidding, just seeing if you are paying attention.  I have had lots of material though, just couldn’t find the time to jot anything down.  And jotting isn’t my jam.  Come with me into the quirky writer zone.

Writing, finding my purpose, and finding a place and time to do that shit. – Fall of 2015.

When you’ve had the fall I have had – I just needed to breathe.  To reconnect with the husband.  To spend a little time working on my project.  It’s hard for me to do any of that with so many people around me who are needy sweet faces.  Who can be total jackasses who have zero respect for “I am busy”.

The last time all the kids were to be out of the house at once was summer camp season in July.  Of course, I picked that week to be gone.  Like to Africa.  On paper that was a fantastic timing situation.  I am the go-to.  I am the mom.  Moms you get me, no matter how much your partner helps, there is something about a mom that screams “no one can soothe your soul except me”.  So no matter what, mom is ground zero for all things angst, all things urgent, all things “drop your agenda because bitch this is your kid, do not pass go, get to them.  Heal them.”.  It’s easier to be away when they are away because I also suffer greatly from the “mom guilt syndrome”  I need to be there.  What if they need a fucking hot pocket??

The type of mom I am, I cannot miss a thing.  I cannot and I will not, because at the bare minimum, I am present.  I may not ever be close to perfect, but I am here.  I want to be here.  One of the reasons I knew I had to quit drinking was that I found the only time I gave myself permission to not be on point was when I was drunk.  I had long stretches when I was ok, just a normal alcoholic.  The minute it got overwhelming, that I felt no one was happy despite my 110% mom-ing, I’d pull an old method of turning off my “I give too much of a shit feature”:   I would go from anxiety ridden, to depressed, to bender.  It was the only way to “turn off” this sponge I have for a soul.   When someone says “I feel you” I give new meaning to that.  I do, and sometimes it is overwhelming.  I give a shit about every emotion – happy, sad, lost.  If someone is feeling, I am feeling.  And I want to fix it.  Or I want to sleep the fuck through it.

It’s been wonderful but painful, knowing that about me.

I’ve found myself because I have to, I can no longer drink and I certainly can’t ignore it.  When you can’t dumb down the anxiety with alcohol you sort of force yourself into acceptance that you can’t do everything for everyone and maintain your sanity.  I still struggle, but it is the times that there aint no faking not being available for emotional support that I come face to face with the demon of my inability to not give a shit.  Up until now, even if I said I cared about something, I easily let go of anything outside the emotional needs of my family.  Real Estate?  Wasn’t worth it.  The feeling of someone needing me was way harder to turn off than my phone.  So I have given up on everything even semi-selfish even when it probably was worthwhile.

The problem began this fall.  I decided “motherfucker this does matter, I truly want to write.  I have shit to say, I have a itch that it’s time to scratch.  No more someday, that is today”.  The family was supportive.  They understood that this writing “project” was something I felt mattered.  They were all “good for you, you need to do this!!”  But needing to “do this” means I have to be unavailable from time to time.

The family noticed.  For the very first time, because it truly mattered to me because it is the only time I have ever said “take a number, I cannot help you right now”.  Maybe I created this selfless mother monster, but I had to make a choice when I finally found purpose outside of being mom.  Or wife.  Or Rebecca.  Writing, it has really become important to me.  I even moved to Corbett’s old office space so I would have a writer nook.  First hour I was there, Brooke spotted my car and she came up.  I mean, how much do I love that????  Really I do, at the heart of this writing matter is that my kids taught me to love, and by loving them I have grown to understand unconditional love.  Thereby love myself.  Thereby, have the courage to write.

Writing.  In my first post we covered how I thought it should look.  But even I had no idea how fucked up my writing process is.  It is impossible for me to write.  Yet here I sit, still doing it.  But I am on stay-cation and the husband is happily watching TV.  Not sure this ever would have gotten to this blog otherwise.

I find I am a quirky motherfucker when it comes to writing.  I am sure we covered this, but I have ADHD.  It isn’t the “cannot concentrate” it is the inattentive type which means I hear anything and everything.   As my doctor said this is really not a disorder, it is a gift.  It means that I have to know my place in the world.  I make a shitty accountant.  But a badass mother of 5.  Or air traffic controller.  I am sure we all fly a lot safer knowing my ultimate destiny formed the path of motherhood.

Try to get something past me, no you cannot.  I can do 3rd grade math and hear a toddler hit the dog from 4 rooms away.  Nothing slides by me even when it could or should.  Now my dog would never bite a toddler, but if Lola decided “bitch I have had it”, you best believe me swooping across the house would come in handy.  We don’t have to worry because a ripple in the house energy, mama is on it.  Even if I am in the laundry room, Badger could be asking Corbett for something and I will hear her before he does.  DADDY DADDY DADDY…  as I am writhing in anxiety.  Over something that does not even concern me.  She would have survived, he would have heard her.

It is a problem for my sanity but not for life, for life it comes in handy (ish).  As long as I am not doing something that requires serious focus.  Like writing.

Mostly because I am a quirky ass writer.  As I started focusing on what I want to write about, I have had many moments of losing my shit because I can’t find a place quiet enough to get my words out in the written form.  You see, I compose in my mind.  By the time I am typing it means I have it and out it goes.  The problem arises as I am doing the typing.  One blip and gone – the whole motherfucking whatever – gone.  I will walk around the house with headphones on (nothing I am listening to, I am mentally writing) and do all kinds of housework.  No one pays me a flying fuck of attention.  No one.  For anything.  No squabbles, no I am hungry, no Mom can you.  I will compose some masterful wordy whatever and when all is certainly clear, I hide to write.  If it’s a quickie, maybe I will go in the bathroom, sit on the tub, and tap out an email to myself.  Maybe I will have something more significant, so I will go to the farthest point away and I will begin to transfer the horseshit in my head to my computer.  I type extremely fast because the words are all there.  Would be all there.  Uh-oh.

It is sort of funny, but it seems someone has installed a sensor in my ass that the MOMENT I sit down to type, (not write we covered where the writing part goes down), to type.  Well the people in my home get a memo, or a silent alarm goes through the house saying “BITCH SAT DOWN, ATTACK”.  Ok it’s not funny, and really if this is in fact what has happened, I would like to have the sensor removed immediately.  Maybe I should call someone to be checked just. in. case.

I wish I were exaggerating, (yes I can do that from time to time) but in this regard I couldn’t be more serious.  I could go outside the house, act like I am leaving, sneak in the back door, go into my little dressing room (see footnote), and the second I get set to let my thoughts fly….  MOM.  Here it comes.  Mom, did I tell you about the girl in my class who lost a button on her pants and mom, did you know that Ms. Branum can sew?  And mom her button we found it later it was in….”  It’s this type thing, nothing like the house is burning down.  Nothing like I’m starving and need to be shown the microwave and the hot pocket recipe.   No.  It is just clear, someone is sending me a sign.

Stop writing.

I cannot possibly think this writing could work.  Man, if you think I am shitty with texting you back it’s just that I am a quirky motherfucker.  I need to think it out, then I reply and 9 times out of 10, I forget to transfer the information.  What I think we need here is a mind reading app.   Have they invented those yet?

You say “hey, siri!  there is your answer – speak it then Rebecca!” nope, doesn’t work.  OR “hey, jot it down on paper as you go about the house!  How bout those things?”  Nope, doesn’t work.

Here it comes the level of quirky motherfucker of my writer brain.

Speaking/Hand writing barriers:

  1.  I don’t need my kids worried I am having a nervous breakdown.  We went though rehab in 2013.  If, at this point in my life I began dictating ramblings walking around?  I think they would get nervous.
  2. I can’t really speak the words, it doesn’t work that way.
  3. And to top it off, for some reason, hand writing, is a no.

Speaking it for dictation (love that word), no.  The only way I can let my thoughts fly is typing.  I can’t get lost in the way it looks, which as we talked about – ADHD.  When I write I start fixating on how I am writing.  Same deal – If I am (speaking even if the kids weren’t around), talking to myself seems awkward and I’d start trying funny accents.

Point – wouldn’t work.  Have to type it.

So here we are.  I am unveiling my truth to you.  We may not talk a whole lot here because as much as I have funny shit to share, Facebook is my only hope for these stories.  I can sum shit up too – as a “blog-ish” writer I find that is damn near impossible.  I’m sure you have noticed.  Blogging is probably not the best venue for my “writing”.

Do I let it go or do I plow right the fuck through?

Just thought I’d share.  If nothing else, I can write this stay-cation off as a business trip, correct?  Aw fuck never mind that would require record keeping which is in the vicinity of accounting.  LOOK, squirrel!

Ok see you next week (I have made a promise to myself that I will write on this blog at least once a week and this week I did TWO, go me).  Well, I only did two in rapid succession because that last one?  That fucker took me 3 weeks.  Do you know how hard it is to get the shit DOWN when I’ve mentally written it 20 ways from Sunday, and then go back and edit.  Oh my brain hurts.  I picked a bad lifetime to quit drinking.  It’s fine.



NOTE – “dressing room” sounds really fucking uppity so do not get that impression please.  It is simply a room that we rigged to create a master “suite” (so to speak).  If I ever get the remodel done on our house, I will not have a dressing room.  It will be a dressing area in my fabulous motherfucking master closet.  Much more uppity.


The Instinct Driven Life

I wish I had known to ask myself when I was 10 what I was good at.  Waiting until you are 44 to follow instincts is difficult.  Infants have better instincts than I do, well than I did.  I am getting really good at this shit.  I think I know what I want to do with my life.  And I finally learned how to maintain my body, the vehicle my soul trots around in every damn day.  But the purpose, the thing I was meant to do – that was the last step in figuring my shit out.


Granted, there are people who know when they are 5 what they want to be.  What it is they want to DO when they grow up.  Have an inkling, or totally know.  You’ve known those type kids, it’s in their brain hard wired, and off they go and you’ll be damned, sure as shit.  They sure as hell became a police officer, or a nurse.  Just seem to KNOW long before college, or at least younger than 44, they need to do that thing, to become this, or study that.  I don’t know how they handle the pressure, I suppose the nap time comes in handy.

When someone asks a kid “what do you want to be when you grow up” that is sort of implying that:

  1. They will need to pick a lane on the occupation track; or
  2. Growing up is going to happen

Me?  Not so much.

My deal was this:  neither #1 nor #2 felt like it was going to be happening, so I didn’t really stress too much.  I enjoyed a little of everything and not much of any one thing, so picking one thing to focus on seemed a perfect way to be miserable.  Not for me, thank you very much, now may I be excused from this interrogation, I have a lunchroom obligation.  And no offense to you, frazzled stressed out angry adult, you make it look super fun and all but… growing up??   Is that a rule?

Let’s just say, I feel we need to rephrase that whole line of questioning.  So going forward, I would like to propose, “what do you find super interesting?”

For me?  Totally science.  Mind you, I have no idea what Mr. Hoodock was laying down in the 5th grade science, but I clearly remember my fascination with his class.  He ate a peanut butter sandwich every day at his desk and he did this thing where he took a bite and then took a gulp out of of the small square carton of cafeteria milk.  Then he chewed.  Who does that???  Don’t knock it, at some point I realized the best damn thing in the world is a mouthful of pretzels with a swig of milk.   Delightful.  That man was brilliant.  Thank you Mr. Hoodock.  Teachers were fascinating.

My friends fascinated me.  I was far more concerned with the people around me than I was with the shit up on the board.

Who can care about the plot when there is so much going on with character development happening in the scene?  Plus, I felt it my responsibility to work the room if things got stale.  I hated seeing people uncomfortable, and let’s face it math can get intense.  Had enough of that nonsense at home, I liked to keep the energy light.  Laughter worked.   Even if I was the one being drilled by the teacher for being a dumbass, someone had to take it and man, did it get a laugh.  I laughed at myself too, it’s the best laughter, I still do.  Don’t assume I’m degrading myself, I certainly am not.  I am highly intelligent-ish but I can’t care to get things right that do not interest me.

If you asked me the right questions, I could have told you more than you thought humanly possible about the most random dumb shit.

Book learning wasn’t happening so much, and sure my mom was disappointed.  Sure I got in trouble for grades and  sure she cried after parent teacher conferences.  Twice a year, I’d hear the sounds of “mom is home”.  High heels approaching.  And, brace myself.  Here it came:  “Becky, why won’t you apply yourself???  Your teacher says you are one of the brightest kids in the class but you just won’t APPLY YOURSELF”.  I can hear it, the speech clear in my mind, especially the 3rd grade one.  I didn’t really care about the applying myself, didn’t wanna, but wait.  He said I was bright?  Mr. Parks?  Mr. Parks was hysterical, loved Mr. Parks.  Once I heard that?  I think 3rd grade was one of my banner years. Give me a reason: right teacher, right motivation, I am in.

Otherwise, I’ll be checking out the scene not the studies.

Important to note, do not mistake me for the class clown.  Wasn’t.  I would have probably tired harder for that title but.  No.  Competition was fierce.  Chaz Hampton moved in around 5th grade and I can’t compete with that.  Plus, that was more disruptive, and I wasn’t trying to give Barb a breakdown, and teachers got respect.  In reality I was more of a fluffer.  I like to get the vibe just right, not too serious, not too disruptive.  Still do it to this day, I keep the fucking peace and lift the energy up (so to speak).

Fluffers matter, we need those.  Life is more enjoyable with a fluffer.   (Or at least that is what they tell me.)   Cannot stand people looking droopy, sad.  Energy, has to be up and if not, has to be addressed.  Can’t relax if someone isn’t “happy”.  Even I know that was innuendo overkill.   But such a slow pitch, low lying fruit…

People fascinate me.  I got steady C’s on my report card but we are talking straight A in people observation and managing the working environment.  Now, there was one subject I totally enjoyed.  Up to a certain point anyway.  Health…  Loved health class, problem with that learning started when health class and learning about the body looked less like this:


and more like science.  Math got involved.  Slim Goodbody was fantastic, Cell Biology was not.

But if I would have known that all those elements in cell biology were needed to study the body, maybe I would have paid attention.  I did not pay attention.  But I do know that my 8th grade science teacher was really a nice soul.  I really, really liked Mr. Toole, can’t remember a thing he taught me though.  At some point I found out he won the Jersey lottery, that is fantastic.  Points for kindness matter.

The body is amazing, and it is never too late to learn about yours.  YOURS, not bodies in general.  Your body and your brain are fantastic.  The brain is fantastic-er.

I got intrigued with the brain around my second year of college, and full on knew, ok THAT is what I wanted to know about.  THAT was what finally made me hit the books hard – because I wanted to more than my mom or my teachers or my report card wanted me to, and I couldn’t get enough of that world of wonderful information that is neuroscience.  Unfortunately by my second year of college, it was a little too late to pick up on the important pre-requisites for studying neurochemistry.  Come to find out, basic chemistry was very important back in my senior year at Independence High.

Independence High, senior year and Ms. Geer for chemistry.  Oh how Ms. Geer would like to know, this “dingy” cheerleader would regret all the times she refused to know the answers.  What Ms. Geer would say was “RE-beccah…  you are the biggest aaaihhh-head I have evah seen”, but that was a front.  My “cheeerleadahhhh” uniform as she called it was an easy mask for the fact I couldn’t give a shit about what she was teaching.  But had I given a shit, Ms. Geer would have seen me study like I did in my very first physio psych course I took at Winthrop.  Taught by a professor, Dr. Johnson.  No one made A’s in his classes, and he made a point to let us know that, especially his physio psych.  He taught the hard shit, the brain involvement biological shit.

Dr. Johnson was a huge prick (love the pun, but it’s true) who didn’t like giving A’s and he didn’t like blonde dingbats.  But not only did I make A’s – I got to know Dr. Johnson.  I took every single class he taught.  I never made less than an A because I couldn’t NOT learn all he taught.  No matter what the material – I was intrigued.  He encouraged me to apply to the UGA Neuroscience program – but first I had to get those pesky Bio 301/Chem 301 classes.  I tried.  Too late.  Could have I gone back, dropped back to 101 level coursework in science studies and punted?  Maybe.  But at 20 years of age, who had time for that?

The key in life isn’t to ditch what you are good at or what intrigues you, it’s to find the fit, the right way to go about pursuing it.   If you do, your purpose might be right there under your nose.

I’ve spent my whole adult life feeling purpose-less, unless you count the 13 back to back “Mother of the Year” titles I’ve held since 2002.  (I hate to brag.  And please, would you stop touching the crown and the sash?  Thank you).  I mean, yes motherhood is purpose.  Being a friend and a mom and a wife.  All great stuff.  But I have missed WANTING to study things, and maybe I never would have missed it had I not gotten a little taste of it back in the Dr. J years.

Recently I got intrigued by studying the brain and the body again.  I love it.  Still don’t have the basics, but I am working my way backward.  Because I can, who says I can’t go back to school at 44?

Ok I am totally not going back to school.   I am using this powerful tool called my brain, my instincts, and the University of Google, and I am discovering ways to help others through tapping into basic no brainer shit – Instinct.  We all have it and yet we try so hard to ignore it.

I accidently found out what happens when you tune out anything other than instinct for my own body and for the first time since I began self-feeding, I am not fighting being chubby anymore.

See guys, don’t let me staying just slightly not slim all my life fool you.  It has been my greatest struggle, and if you know me, you are aware I’ve battled the best of the struggles.  Way before I knew I would struggle with alcohol, I knew struggling with food was going to be a problem.  Ever since being able to button my own pants (just after the Huggies) I knew I was not going to be thin.  Chubby.  I have always been chubby, or on the verge.  If my brain wasn’t so vain, I would be obese.  I’m an obese person trapped in a “looks matter” world.

Yes, I have battled being chubby.  Chubby fighter.  If I was fit, it was not just intense exercise, it was constant high alert about what I was eating.  I may have looked great on the outside but inside?  I was a hot mess.  One wrong move, fat pants.

Goal weight on a diet is really attractive, but basically a cheating whore.  Looks amazing.  Friends are envious.  You may think you will enjoy your goal weight, and that beautiful (whore) will stay with you forever.  But you better pay it a lot of attention.  Otherwise, one day you will come home from a business trip and that whore will have given you a disease.  Fat pants syndrome.  Sort of like the clap, but way harder to treat (from what I hear).  Ain’t no penicillin for the fat pants.


I used the program Bulletproof to get “food sober”, once I got the shitfood out of my system I simply used my own instinct (and google) to find out what my brain and my body needs (based on cravings) to look and feel the best I have ever felt.  I’ve been chubby or battling the chub all my life.  Just because I am rarely “overweight” doesn’t mean I haven’t tried every diet or eating disorder out there.  I cut my teeth on melba toast and pink sweet and & low packets – guys, I have been on a diet all my damn life.  Failed them all.

Fall of 2014, then Jan 1st 2015 (one week after starting Bulletproof – Christmas day 2014 was day one).  And me, yesterday in my tightest shorts and look ma, no muffin top!!  Even in the hardest to reach back fat area.  NOTE:  In the fall of 2014 I was not eating twinkles by the dozen, I was watching what I ate just like usual.  Running a few times a week, yoga at least once a day, if not doubles (Jan. 1 was the end of the 62 day challenge – and you know I nailed that shit.  This year?  I did the challenge but my son was in the hospital week one – did not even keep track, never could have done that before, I would have found a way to workout even with a child in the hospital – that was the depth of my dysfunction with dieting and exercise)  No matter what I did, I was creeping up to chubbier and chubbier.  Dec 24th it was an unfortunate feeling good about myself moment that made me look at the scale – highest weight ever. 7 pounds over the weight I was the day I went in the hospital to deliver my 3rd child.  Well fuck.  That was a problem.  My today photo is legit where I am any given day.  To illustrate since many have forgotten how much I have battled this shit, I went in and put those XS shorts on, turned to the side and snapped the photo.  After a week of craving FAT, eating ribeye or brisket but mostly just going after the fat, and after a week of not even thinking about what I am eating (other than the meat craving) because it’s been so crazy.  I ate half a bag of sweet potato chips editing this shit show, my writer’s snack.  And I made it to yoga, 3 times I think?  Our take away?  My life in no way revolves around eating.  Eating makes my life revolve in a happy, peaceful, sane way.   (Late stage edit, so carry on, had to be sure you knew where I was coming from.  Chubby Fighter expert level)  Started at 132.  I am now 110.  Body composition night and day, metabolism is kind of badass.  And this is from a girl who heard kickstart metabolism and said “I am horse and buggy motherfucker, there is no starting something dead”

So when I woke up one day with ab muscles and realized I have no idea how many calories I eat or how many calories I burn, and yet I’ve gotten to this ideal body weight…

Even when you are “done” with where you want to go body-wise, when you take your photo with your shirt hiked up, you will still look like a douche  (with ab muscles)

**Had to take the photo in the dark.  I’m still not used to looking like a douche, even if it is to inspire others.


It got my attention.  Ok motherfucker, no roll of fat over my jeans?  Jeans that fit in my flat ass and chicken legs without looking like a can of crescent rolls after it scares the shit out of me?  (every damn time)

I was still losing weight?  I had to think about calories so I didn’t lose any more???  Let’s investigate.

I said, I need to understand what just happened here.  Where is my muffin top?  What is this hard area below my neck – it looks like a body, but not any body I’ve worn before.  I could not be more serious about the weirdness of this being my body.  It still feels alien, I wake up and touch myself and I get happy.  (Settle down, not in a teenage boy way, in a “I did not know this magical feeling was under here” brand new body way).  Well maybe that is like a boy.  Never mind may we continue?  You guys need to clean up those minds.

Anyway, it was significant-level what the fuck.  So, I applied that level of dedication to my cause: I’m going to figure this shit out.   Why had I made the progress I did, when all else has failed me in the past?

I did research, I studied.  The only thing that freaks me out is had I KNOWN there was a chance doing what I did would result in douchey selfies in a bikini, I probably would have tried harder.  And probably would have failed and went straight back to this:


It makes perfect sense.

I needed to alert my people.  My people are the chubby fighters, the food strugglers.  We know who we are.  Diet addicts.  Professionals.  If you think you’ve tried them all?  Bitch please.  I had moved on to the Blood Type Diet by the time you were eating pork rinds on Atkins.  I have tried every diet, every eating disorder.  100 mile weeks running.  Let my guard down, one cheeeto?  Next thing I knew, fat pants.

No one wants to wake up miserable.  No one wants to cry because with all the diligence, you still can’t get a better body.  This has nothing to do with vanity, and everything to do with loving the body you live in.  It’s not supposed to be such a focus in our lives, and yet try to let your soul shine in a body that feels horrible.  Not really that easy.

THIS worked because I followed instinct.  I forgot I was dieting.  I ate what I needed.  I didn’t think I was “working out”.

Did you know the word diet is a noun?  No shit.

It worked because I let it work, because if you are doing it “right” you don’t even think about “bulletproof” after the first couple of months once you are grooving (and out of Oreo/shit food detox, that part stings – ain’t gonna lie).  I’ve only thought about food intake when I start looking scrawny, or get concerned friends (it has happened, and I have been side eye skeptically judged, I know that.  I almost can’t believe the irony, no one worried when I was killing myself running, all the while barely taking in calories.).  Hey, newsflash I am not trying to lose weight, I’m 44, this bitch needs some fat in her face, I’m not into fillers.  (Botox, totally all in)

I did yoga.  No cardio.  I did not run nor did I kill myself with cardio.  I didn’t know enjoying what my body did for exercise was important, I now believe it is very important.  If you are miserable working out, is it going to help?  What if that was part of the winning ticket?  I only tried that because I physically had no choice, I couldn’t run.  I was forced in all kinds of acceptance last year.  Accepting lead to simply enjoying what I do for exercise, which led to a new kind of peaceful relationship with my body.  Which led to having the best body of my life.

Which led to douchey bikini selfies.

We know that yoga is awesome, but I have to confess – I never believed in it for getting in shape.  It was more of an accessory to me, I thought running was the only way to get in peak shape, and the only reason I didn’t run anymore was because physically, my body will not let me. Had to let the running body go.  Wasn’t ever happening.

Read this twice, I did not view yoga as a workout – it is simply something I love to do.  I couldn’t “workout” intensely because I could not run.

Did you read that twice??  Let’s review what bulletproof diet (noun, not verb) looks like:  I did not know I was still on a diet.  I ate the foods I craved in the best possible way to deliver my body the nutrients in the craving.  And I did not know yoga was a “workout”.

I had no idea that would lead to finding the best body I’ve ever had.

Ever, even when I was Miss. Runing Every Day USA, I was not in this good of shape.  I was more the shape of a muffin.  You think I am liar liar pants on fire?  Well you decide.

Left Side? 10 years ago running every damn day, dieting. Right is now. No dieting, yoga. Let’s not dwell on the fact I still have a jean skirt from 2006.  This was 60-70 miles of RUNNING – training.  Speed workouts, never ate sweets.  I did not eat cake ON MY WEDDING DAY.  The photos to the left are ON MY HONEYMOON.  I was on point bitches, ON POINT.  Made Corbett run 10 miles a day with me.  Damn near killed my new husband.  It was fine.  I didn’t want to lose my runner body, I had races to win.


Orange – Runner / Pink – not a runner

Photos don’t lie.  The photos on the left were the best shape of my life (constant calorie counting and running) photos.  The photos of the body I had given UP on.

Knowing how this struggle has affected me, I would not fuck with you.

I promise I can help you.  I can’t sell you anything and I can’t tell you what to eat.  This is like college – the professors are sneaky as shit – you copy my paper, you fail.  Different tests.  But we have a kick ass study group starting soon, come hop into the Facebook group.  You will figure your shit out too.

Key is you have to enter in like a newborn not knowing what body to expect.  Or you will work too hard and negate the gift.  You simply cannot go in for the bikini selfie, go in to feel better and end the emotional dieting rollercoaster.  I had no idea how much calorie negotiating I did every damn day until I don’t do it anymore.  And the end of workout guilt and anxiety???  I thought I sucked at math until I looked back and realize I didn’t suck, I was using all my brain power for mental cardio/calorie negotiations.  That is some on-point constant computation skills.  Every. Damn. Day.


I didn’t know how much I struggled until I didn’t.  I get it.

Instinct – we gravitate toward what is good for us.  If you hate it, probably not the best option out there, find another activity or don’t do a damn thing.  You are better off walking your dog than doing 30 minutes at the gym on a step machine or treadmill.  I will argue to the death at this point because I have seen what happens when you truly LOVE what you are doing to move that body your soul is living in.  If your soul is being destroyed by diets and cardio hell, do you think your body is going to respond???

But yoga, I apologize.

I was so wrong about you, when we met, I hated you only because I thought you were wasting my time.  Thank GOD I accidentally loved it more than I thought it was worthless, or I would never be doing yoga today.  Ah yes it was an accident.  Farrell’s fault.

I was never going back to yoga because I had tried many, many a studio.   That shit was too serious.  People were too serious.  Instructors had those soothing yoga voices.  Inhalllle, Exhalllllle.

Plus, why bother.  I can stretch at home if I want to stretch and if I want to sweat, I can look my daughter in the eye first thing in the morning before she is right with herself.  Oh yeah, you will break a sweat if you do that – make eye contact with Badger, bitch you are going down.

You look her in the eye?  Badger will attack.  That is cardio.

That is another blog.

So I accidentally found Yoga thanks to a friend.  And I accidently love yoga thanks to the studio that fits my style.  I found yoga at Y2.


I went to Y2 because of peer pressure.  My friend Farrell asked me to go with her to yoga, I said no.  Absolutely not.  Reasons above.  To yoga-ish.  Pointless.  Don’t like seriousness, they seem to not like like fluffers.  Not my jam.  She asked me again.  I said no.

So I went to yoga.

You know that friend, you find yourself at a topless biker bar at 2 am, or at yoga.  You never know, but they have a way of making things seem like an ok idea at the time.  I went to the obligatory one class.  She said we were taking a class with some dude named Tanner.

He walked in and yelled at us.


It was as if I had just arrived at the mothership.  Tanner, you had me at “shut the fuck up”.  Yoga had me.  Y2 had me.

I laughed.  A lot.  It was the laughter that hooked me.  I was still lost with what limb should twist to which side, but it was fun.  Kick ass music.  The dude said some hysterical shit.  Made the room uncomfortable and yet SO comfortable, as much as we laughed there was a time for silence and a time for quieting the mind.  It’s funny how someone saying awkward hysterical things makes the discomfort of your own silent mind less of an intrusion.  How can I quiet my mind?  Find a place that gets it stirred up to the point of exhaustion.  A happy mind is a tired mind.  A happy body is a tired body.  I feel peaceful when I can get the giggles out.

Truly, yoga at Y2 can fluff and ruffle and quiet my mind all at the same time.  Found my people.  Y2 is my mecca – I have actually come to love even the more “yoga-ish” classes.  I have learned to enjoy the beauty of peaceful workouts.  There are instructors that would never tell me to shut the fuck up.  And I have come to love those classes too.  I go in and I am home.  I love the people, the serious ones, the not so serious ones, we are all the same and we are all different.  You can walk in late or leave early and no one gives you side eye, it’s life.  But don’t leave during savasana (rude).  And if you talk too much, you might have to shut the fuck up (with love).

4 years later I walk in with amnesia as to what I can and cannot do, I will try something and fail and try it the next day just the same.  Every practice is like my first practice, every class is exciting, and every teacher is different every single day.  I can fall on my face or take out the second row doing a handstand.  I walk in happy and I walk out new.  It’s the only workout I have never dreaded, that means something.  My mind is happy to have it, and so is my body.

Now it is all I do, and because of bonus anecdotal genetic testing, it is clear yoga isn’t just what I love, it is the single best thing for MY body.  No wonder I gravitate toward sweat, I found out genetic information that says “you need to do that shit more than most people, you gene mutation on 2 legs”.  Won’t get into that but it is fantastic science brain shit.

Not only do I eat what makes me happy without guilt, I workout when I can doing what makes me happy and I have no guilt about it “not being a real workout” because it is.  Because it moves my body, and I love it.  You start doing more of that?  Your body will respond too.

So where am I going with this newfound purpose of instinctual living?  I want to help people.


Hell yes I am starting a group!  The ones who have found this and are trusting the process are making every minute of my life exciting.  I feel almost selfish – the intrinsic value of purpose is something I can’t appreciate enough.  Seeing them “get it” is magical.

How could I not help?  Why can’t the world be more like that?  Am I going to say “thanks, I have mine.” and watch a bunch of people start diet season and cheer them on from the sidelines like “it won’t work, but good job!!  Go you!!  go on with that Paleo!”?  Nope, I’ve found a way to help people study their shit too.


If you want to join in we’d love to have you.  I’ll be posting a whole separate blog on that subject.  And if you are curious, join us at Y2 Sunday (Jan 3rd) at 1pm.  I’ll make it fun – I’ll fluff the shit out of this subject, it doesn’t have to be hard if you do it right, and where you are going will be worth it.


Find your purpose find your passion.  Find your body.  I just met mine.

It’s never too late.  I’m 44 and feel like I just woke the fuck up.

Ms. Geer and Dr. Johnson would be so proud.  You don’t need to hire someone to tell you what to eat, all the information is in you.  You had it down pat as an infant, stop overthinking your shit now.  Hey, if I can figure this out surely you can too.  I damn near failed Ms. Geer’s senior chemistry class.  Had she not shown me mercy and slid me a D, I would probably still be back at Indpendence High School.

You have all your life to go back to dieting and killing yourself at the gym.  Why not try bizarro dieting, doing the opposite of what you think is right.  Instincts are badass, and so are you.  Stay tuned for the new blog, and this blog can go on being about everything that is not “that”.  Like bitching about my kids and dealing with husbands on their meriod.

It makes me happy starting this project, it feels like fantastic purpose.  I still have the wife/mom gig, sure.  But it feels good to want to make a difference.  Group effort starts with one, together we can really have fun and rock this shit out.


Time to apply what I’ve learned, we are not failures nor were we put on this earth to be miserable in our own skin.  We are simply over thinkers.  This is an emotional journey for people and diets are energy sucking soul destroying dicks that set us up for failure.

Instinct driven life, you can do this too.  Once you apply it to the food you shove in your beautiful face, you cannot imagine all the other things you start to tune in to as well.  Shit food doesn’t look good.  Neither do shit relationships, shit burdens, all kinds of shit is no longer is appealing.  Don’t put shit in the shrine, and don’t let your life feel like shit.  You are instinctual, use that gift.


I KNEW over-thinking was not the best idea and damn if finally, I have totally redeemed myself.  Suck it book learning.  I am real world figuring it out.  Come join us, we have a nice little group on Facebook, come knock I will let you in.  Bulletproof-ish.  Big on “ish”.  That is where doing you comes in.  Very important.

Asked for a sign – whether or not it was my purpose to help others, and I got a gift.  My friend Bev gave me a gift that very next day, and thanked me for helping.  For herding my “BP Cats”  See – the mom thing comes in handy, I can’t do much, but oh boy hell yes I can herd me some cats 🙂  Love is a good thing, yo.




(formerly fastchicken.  or runnergirl.  I like being a Namaste chicken much more.  After all, it is the way of my people to honor whatever the hell you have going on.  I don’t have to get you to love you, and I believe this world will become better if we all just try to give a shit.  Unconditionally.)




















Say Anything.

This started yesterday with therapy, and sitting in shit for a while.  Doesn’t sound appealing?   Oh shit stew is delicious.

If you throw in some moments with real friends and put a large amount of real emotion on top – you get something special.  It’s not on the menu, this is build your own.  If you let shitty days and shitty times and shitty everything marinade, good can come of it.  Swear to God I would not shit you.  It’s not what is bothering you, it’s why it’s bothering you.

Have someone ask the right questions, and say exactly what you feel.  You get information.   Up to you what you do with it.  It pairs great with shit stew, fyi.

I had no intention of doing any post right now – as we speak I am hiding from my husband.  Straight up hiding because he is in a twist, or on his meriod, or just not really a ton of fun (ok he is being total asshole, oh my god really??) and I was already in a funk.  It’s best, the hiding.  When I hide, I write myself an email.  I used to drink but writing is way more badass and I have really learned some insightful shit.

So I was hiding.  Writing.  Been a really craptastic week – don’t even ask because it’s just so much, but bottom line is, my life.  It just is not a whole lot of fun anywhere I look.  Life looks that way sometimes.  What you see is smiling and happy, and what you don’t see is holy motherofgod I am barely hanging on.


Photo taken after a session in a bathroom where some of us gathered, bitched, laughed, and just screamed FUCK IT.  No one here looks like they are about to lose their shit.  But some more than others needed that good old fuck it scream.  (Bottom left may still be screaming, Clarice).  Happened.  In a country club bathroom.  It’s fine.

Started thinking about yesterday.  Many things about yesterday are festering on my mind.  I talked to Ryan (best therapist ever, holla hell yes he is, don’t argue.  We can arm wrestle over it) and a lot happened in therapy that I wasn’t really expecting.  Mostly because a lot happened after writing and posting this week that I was sort of not sure of why it didn’t feel like my thing.  That was supposed to be a fun thing to talk about, but even that got weird.  The fuck is wrong with me?  I intended to put on my happy face and shove down any self doubt, and figure it’s just not worth talking about – let’s talk the fun writing shit so I could get to the real horseshit I needed to get my head around.

Started great.  Usually does.  Got emotional.  Now this might come as a surprise, but I cry all the time about things like videos of kittens, or squirrels, or diaper commercials.  Or when my kids do anything – I choke up.  I AM a very emotional person but when I started talking about writing, and connecting with people, I sort of lost my shit.  I am not really a sad crier, if I cry because I am sad – straight up man the perimeter, we have something wrong.  I wasn’t sad – or was I?  It hit me in an emotional way.

Because as much as I throw out shit like this from time to time:


I also will throw out things that really matter.

I honestly can’t remember how the blog came up, but yep I did it, it’s out there.  I started talking about, yeah I think it’s good, I love that I make people laugh, I’m enjoying the writing, (that part, all good).  He said “so what made you do finally do it?” and I rambled about the journey leading up.  The Jill story, the just not being afraid, the realization that I love love love to write, all the little universe things that said “you should”, the bathroom floor moment of almost chucking it in the fuck it bucket, all that but then the topic of why people want to hear the real me came up. That I really don’t know why anyone would want to hear anything I say.  I said – well, maybe that I am real – it’s all I know and that is something I always want to keep, and one of the reasons I don’t want to start overthinking things.  Being real – it matters.  One text in particular hit me, that there is something powerful in what you say even when 99% of the time you are saying you are a mess.

Blogging, writing.  Even when you write on FB, if you are honest and real it can help people, and that hits my “do it” button.  Lift them up.  Give them hope.  Support.  I said the very moment I realized it’s not just writing stupid shit about my kids or my world, I realized I had something to give, was when I got a text from someone who I believe in, and had spoken about on the old social media.  Just running my mouth about someone who is amazing.  Had no idea it mattered.  Who listens to someone who can’t even do her own life right???

She said – oh fuck it this is a blog and shit, let me copy and paste that bad boy:


That was powerful.  And scary.

All goes back to feeling overwhelmed with something I say going “out there”.

I mean we really covered this, Ryan and I.  In depth.  OVER AND OVER.  The reasons I do or don’t do all the things I do or don’t do, or start and not finish, or simply just refuse to do and have no idea why (writing, blogging).   It really boils down to my greatest fear – of being a dissapointment.  But I had that.  I really wasn’t afraid of that, promise – swear – pinky swear.  So what is going on?  Then it sort of hit me – I was feeling like what blogging does, is it becomes saying “something” instead of just saying anything.  Things get misconstrued.  (big ass word 5 points).   I want to just write.  Not because I’m a blogger and there is “monitization” to be had or that shit.  It doesn’t matter.  It matters that I can blurt out what I feel about Tiara or things I believe in.  I don’t want to edit.  I don’t want this to be right.  Word count?  Have we met me?  Why does that keep needing to matter?  He said it doesn’t.

It matters that it comes from my heart.  My crazy ass big huge authentic heart.

Right.  That is right.  I said I don’t want to care about things like how many views or audience, I hate when people ask.  I don’t want to care.  So he said, (ready for it??)

So don’t.

Being the bang up therapist he is – he gave me a tool – “Ok, so what will you tell people when they ask what you are trying to do with your blog?”  I was like, good fucking question I have no idea, I don’t want to want to do anything with it.   If it were trying to do something, that would be taking something I love to do and making it into something I have to do RIGHT.

I’m sure my husband the jolly angry elf outside would appreciate some help, but I don’t want this to be a job.

I feel like John Cusack in “Say Anything”:  I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.

I think Lloyd then said something like “I basically just want to hang out with your daughter”.  My next line is:  I basically just want to hang out here and write shit, and pretend it is not going anywhere.

It’s ok if you don’t understand me.

When I posted about the Elf.  I’m not sure I would have written ALL that if I hadn’t been writing and sending it out to the great unknown.   I said to Ryan all the sudden, there were all these words, points trying to be made, where all I really wanted to say was, um…  Hey guys.  This elf situation is stupid.  Why are we trying so hard?  If you are trying to not fuck up the elf, or parenting, or life, there is no way to do it right all the damn time.  We are fuckups somedays, badass crust-cutting park skipping football playing superstars the next.  We cuss, we fail, we rock it out.  It’s like we are afraid to be ok to just be ourselves.  Why do we wait for our kids to get to a certain age to let them know, we are just doing our best but can be utter disasters, it’s the trying that counts.

Exhausting.  AND I did’t say the one part I felt like screaming.  Why?  I have no idea.

He said, ok so what would you have said?  Well, maybe all those words.  But definitely,  I would have said, “HEY.  Guess what??  Your elf is a lazy motherfucker.   So are you.  So am I.  Stop trying so hard to do everything right.  You are fine.”

Ryan just had his first kid.  I surely hope I don’t frighten him.  I probably do.


Ok guys just checked the scene and I am outta here.  Looks like Corbett is feeling less grinch, more jolly.  He is eating a snack.  That is a good sign.  Blood sugar on point, I roll.  If you come by the house, don’t let the shiny balls and shit fool you – somedays it’s the same vibe inside, but some days it looks a lot like, well not shiny balls.

With love and laughs and possibly screams from a bathroom,






Liar liar.  And put some damn pants on.

If I did have pants on, those bitches would be ablaze.  Likewise, it would also have to  be about 20 below.  I am not a big fan of pants.  (Unless they are pajama pants, and yes I am that person who wears them to the Teeter)

I don’t like to lie and I don’t like to wear pants.  11 months out of the year I straight up preach honesty and truth, being your own person.  Do things your way and stop comparing and contrasting.  Tell your truth, own your differences.  Don’t wear pants if you don’t want to, it’s freeing.

Unless it’s December.  In December, I start lying my ass off and wish I was a better at all things Christmas.  My cards get ordered around the 15th.  I haven’t even started shopping.  December brings anxiety especially about the lies we have to tell.  About Santa?  No, I got that shit down.  Running up the credit card and hiding the bill?  Nope do that all the time.  We are talking December 1st and 24 days of trickery.  We are talking…

Elf on a Shelf.

Have you guys seen Pinterest?  There is some serious knocking it out of the park EOAS antics going down.  I mean, nicely done.  That looks fantastic.  But it’s a lot of work, and even a creative mind runs out of bullshit at some point.  Or energy.  Or both.  Once you start with this guy, you might feel Grinchy as hell, but just like how you cannot stop Christmas from coming, you cannot stop the elf from showing up.  And being expected to do fantastic elf things, for 24 days straight.  You are under contract.  Kids don’t forget.

So even if his flight is delayed due to a connecting flight issue and bad weather somewhere in Canada, he is on his way.  As soon as I find him.

The question starts right about the minute they take their costumes off on Halloween.  When is Elvis coming?  December 1st.  Is he coming for sure?  Of course.  How do you know?  I emailed him.  Did he email you back?  Not yet.  The questions, the confusion, the tangled web of lies.  And then it’s November 30th and I haven’t even gone on the search for the damn elf. If I had my shit together, I would put it somewhere easy to find.  But I don’t.  So I won’t.

I started dreading it then it hit me, this may be it.  Oldest kids are well aware there ain’t no guy in red shoving his fatass down our chimney and the elf is no threat, he gives not one shit if they are good or bad because they found out long ago that I bought him at Barnes and Noble, I am the elf.  I am the fat man.  So they act like fools with no fear of a lump of coal.  The youngest, my little Badger, she still believes but that kid is too analytical to buy this much longer.  Her questions go deep, I can’t keep up.

Sounded sweet.  This whole elf thing.  Kept hearing moms talking about “our elf did this and our elf did that”.  Finally I was like “what the HELL are you talking about??”  I had to ask.  It was bound to happen anyway, but my elf process started with a simple question:  What the hell you talkin’ bout Sheila?

It’s what?  Your own personal elf??  OH, ok I get it.  So you just move it around?  It writes little notes??  That’s adorable!  Keeps tabs on the kids, I love it.  No shit that’s genius, direct reporting to Santa.  Awesome.  Your youngest hates it, she’s scared of it??  Why?  Oh yeah, I guess it is kind of creepy in a way, a tiny elf doll flying around your house while you sleep.

I’m totally getting one.

I purchased a box at a book store containing an Elf on a Shelf.  It was great, our own special Elf zipped down from the North Pole and he will leave on Christmas Eve, until next year.  Kids named him Elvis.   Mom points were scored.  It was so much fun!  For about 2 days, then it was like, this sort of feels oppressive.

Our elf is magical, mischievous, and he REALLY hates whining.  (I added that last part because if I am going to lie to their little faces, I’m throwing in something for me.  Tiny sensitive ears.  Hates noise.) Unfortunately, our elf Elvis also seems pretty damn lazy.

Every year as my youngest gets smarter, my lies get bigger trying to cover up me royally screwing it up.  Often I wake up in a panic because I forgot to move the damn elf, then I lie lie lie lie my way around the obvious which is, this whole process is such a pain in the ass.  In case you don’t know, the playing elf thing is like playing tooth fairy on crack.  If you thought you were in a twist because you forgot, or didn’t have cash for a tooth, wait until December 20th when you are holding a creepy doll trying to do something you saw on Pinterest at 3am.

We couldn’t even find him this year so I struck with a preemptive lie.

Guess who is coming tomorrow??  Elvis!  Now Summer, he is on his way, but he might be a little late.  He had a layover in Montreal.  Bad weather.  Connecting flight issue.  We could have stopped with that but Summer is a thinker.  Why is he flying on a plane isn’t he magic?  “Yes!  Of course but, OH I forgot to tell you!  Get this, this year they had to put restrictions on elf travel to the United States.  The FAA had to crack down, last year it was a mess.   Airspace and radar issues.  I’d pull up the article but my phone is downstairs.”

Downstairs in HELL where I’m going for being such a liar.

Some of us are good at the elf thing, some of us have really shitty game. Let’s face it – it is how we do parenting in general.  Differently.  For every Pinterest post with some mom doing fantastic fun elf things, there is a me type mom phoning shit in and hoping your kid isn’t a big talker.  Your elf is hysterical and does some crazy shit, my elf is lazy.  We love him anyway.

“Mommy mommy Elvis didn’t move 😢”

WHAT?  You know what guys, I bet it’s all the fighting and whining, it makes him depressed.  2 days later…  Again??  He didn’t move?  Oh man Elvis, pull yourself together.  Finally after 3 days of not moving, we decided he may have a headache or was exhausted from all the infighting.  Who knows.  We laid out vitamins, Tylenol, a little medicine cup of espresso, and promised we would try to be kinder to each other and keep the bitching and whining down.

It worked.

Here is our lazy but sweet elf Elvis.  Note, he is not too lazy to find earplugs.  HATES whining. 😂

(Wow, that close-up is a wreck.  Elvis also got into the chocolate last year and somehow managed to not shower or change his uniform).  It’s fine.  I haven’t flossed since my last dentist visit.

Parenting methods in general, it’s best to not compare.  Oh you helicopter parent?  That is cool, but I really just buzz the tower once in a while over my free range chickens.  You don’t allow TV?  Amazing, that is awesome.  I took my son to Straight Outta Compton**.  (Great fucking movie BTW see below for a bonus ruffling uptight feathers moment)

We do things differently.  Not necessarily right or wrong, good or bad.  (Unless you are an asshole or a bully, then you are probably teaching assholery.  That is bad.  The world needs less of those.)

The temptation is to feel inadequate when we see bang up “doing it right” parenting – but why?  Are you a bad parent because Betty Lou makes her own organic gluten free vegan bread and you fed your kid a bowl of Chex Mix for breakfast?  Nope.  I don’t get you Betty Lou, but I’m impressed.  Go you Betty Lou, but I am going to stick to the bread on sale at the Teeter.  Making bread sounds like many steps.  Maybe I will try it.  Someday.  Maybe.  Probably not.  But I’ll pin that shit, just. in. case.

We could probably learn a life lesson from this pain in the ass plush toy we really try hard to make something… well something we are not.

Not everyone can orchestrate spectacular and cute elf antics, not everyone can even care to.  It is ok to not all be the same.  Apply that to all the other shit we get judged for as parents, and we are good.  No one is doing it any better than anyone else.

Your elf is a lazy motherfucker?  Well so are you, and so am I.  You are doing just fine.  Your kids will hate you for something, if elf disappointment is all they have to go on?  You win.

Since this is possibly the last year, I hope I can pull it together to at least give it one last best effort.  I may try to do some fun things with Elvis.  I may not.  But, I am not going to feel a bit bad if he doesn’t move, that guy has a shit ton going on.  I certainly won’t come out of the box with something fantastic.  Same reason I don’t wear real pants the first day of school to walk my kids in.  Why put on airs, I can’t keep them up.

That is just not the way I roll.

So, wish me luck.  The next 23 days with this creepy flying Santa spy, I’m going to try have a little fun.  But not every night. Let’s not get crazy.

BTW, Elvis did arrive yesterday.  Not in the morning when Summer woke up.  No worry.  Glad I had already told her he had a delay with his connecting flight in Quebec.  Or did I say Montreal??  Anyway, it was ok.  He sent a text letting me know he got in super late and decided grab breakfast and run downown for his elf work permit.  He did stop by and leave a note.  ✔️

Elvis is quite the bullshitter.

So with that, 2015 elf season and lying my ass off has begun.  When she figures out it was me all along I think she will be sort of relieved.  She didn’t get screwed, she got mom!  All good.  Don’t let the elf stress you out.  Don’t let parenting stress you out.  If you are doing your best, you are doing it right.  Shitty elfing and all.

This year if I hear “Mommy Sally’s elf Nutmeg got in a snowball fight with the TOOTH FAIRY!!!!  Elvis never does that.  Can we get a new elf?”

Nope.  I picked him, and besides we can’t just fire him he, that would make him very sad.  He is doing his best.  We just have to love him the way he is.


^^ And look.  She already forgot “Elvis” had a rough year. She remembers the good parts.  “Best Elf Ever”.

Bam, mic drop.  Take that Nutmeg.


Rebecca, aka “Elvis”


** P.S.  Bonus Straight Out of Compton funny story:

I was telling another parent at Blake’s soccer game that I was either the best mom of the worst mom because I took him to a 10:30 showing of Straight Outta Compton.  As we were discussing and laughing, a parent from the other team on my right loudly and in my direction said “I think we should pray for values”.

What???  I’m surprised I didn’t say anything.  What I wanted to say was “pray away because if you dial up my God he’s going to pissed off at you for judging.  He knows me, we go way back.  He’d say it’s fine.  She’s a good mom.  Wish she’d wear some pants though.”


Let’s pretend this is how the Blogging always begins.  

I have this notion of what a blogger looks like.  Basically, they look like not me.

They are WRITERS, hello.  Super cool. Insightful.  Witty.  Polished.  When they write, it’s because they want to share themselves, they love to write, they write really well or they try to at least, and they’ve always known that deep down, they are a WRITER.

Checking those qualifications…  Nope, I’m  not so much a writer.  I do love writing, sorta.  Ok, I love to write, but I don’t love giving a shit if it makes sense.  So that’s a problem.  I think that’s fairly important, if you are writing for something like a blog.  I heard that somewhere.

Blogger.  Writer.  Intimidating have their shit together type individuals.

Writers probably sit on the back deck of some sort of house with a cup of coffee, a dog, maybe a cat, a laptop, and a peaceful serene mind all set to write something profound.  Or funny.  Or just, I don’t know, scribble coherent thoughts perhaps?  Maybe they jot shit down, outline.  There may be drafts.  I think they wear comfortable yet put together clothing, and might have a sweater.  They are thinkers, planners, and know it gets chilly on the back deck.

Again, not seeing much writer behavior here.

As we speak I’m on the bathroom floor listening to my dog drinking her 5th bowl of water.  Kid started puking. Now he’s sleeping on the bath mat. Here we are. It’s fine.

I had no intention of starting my first blog post on a bathroom floor.  I mean, I may not have a deck and a sweater, but I was going to attempt to do more of a writer thing.  I tried, serious.  Had a writer snack, my laptop, a pencil.  On point.  Even had a great first blogger type post in the works!  I think it was, it was a “why I’m writing” deal.  It’s downstairs, honestly can’t remember where I was going with it.  Definitely wasn’t going here.

Maybe we will start over tomorrow.

I’m thinking good blog writers shouldn’t  start with a post about not a damn thing.  Proof positive, we shouldn’t really expect much writing, sooooo let’s go ahead and agree this will be a fun place to not really give a shit about format or content.  There are real writers for that.

Afterall, we are pretending that this is how THIS one is supposed to start, it’s up there ^^ in the title.  It’s all good.

Welp.  I just had a moment.

Check it:

Dog ate my potato. That was my writer snack.  A bowl of disappointment doesn’t seem like the best writer’s snack.  

But here I am, no snack.  I feel it’s not easy trying to be a writer with no peaceful back deck and no idea what I am doing.  It’s late.  My phone also died.  Laugh, we really need to. It’s ridiculous.  I really thought this whole post would be gone.  Small miracles, yo,

But I’m back in my writing mode.  Blake is in his bed. It’s some ungodly hour.  

Guess what??  I re-read my supposed to be official first post.  This on the fly one, it’s staying, it makes more sense.  Well no, I bet it’s a mess, it is more “supposed to BE the first post” type makes more sense.  

Go with me.

See, it’s all just supposed to be.  This whole situation is some bang up irony telling me, as imperfect as my style it, it actually might just work.  The blogging.  Writing.  

Guys, it’s sort of perfect.  

I read through my coming out of the gate “I am a blogger” post, it was about why I’m finally writing.  I am finally getting good at being absolutely unapologetically me.

This has taken roughly 44 years, but I feel like I’m enough, and it’s ok to not be perfect before I feel safe taking risks.  Oh I’ve taken risks.  I have always been open, honest, I own my shit.  But feeling safe, to genuinely feel proud of failure or fuck ups, worthy of success or approval, that has been a process. It’s a new thing that I don’t feel bold on the outside but chicken shit on the inside.  I wasn’t afraid to start a blog because of failing me, I was afraid of failing you. High expectations paralyze me.  My greatest fear was ALWAYS disappointing someone who decided to love me.  Know the big concept that changed that?  

Unconditional love.

How do you learn it?  You give it.  You allow people to give it to you.  Over time it gets easier, and suddenly it really takes hold.  I see people who have always known it and people who might never understand it.  Bravery begins when you know no matter what, you are fine just being you.  Your people ain’t going anywhere.  

Not easy for the perpetually unworthy feeling, but the best people to teach it are kids and dogs and lifelong friends.  A stint in rehab and coming home to everyone loving you even more.  Oh, therapy, that helps too.  I’m a lifer in therapy, kids might not have a college education but mom is staying out of the liquor.  

When can you take a risk?  When it matters not one shit.  Guarantee not one person who loves me now will love me one single bit more or less if I’m good at this.  Or suck at this.  I am free to just be average, or better yet, just be me.

The puker and my writer snack eater, they were both major players in me being ready.    If you are reading this, hey hey love, you were too.  Thanks for being a part of the process.

I don’t HAVE to be a good writer to write.  I even said that an hour before the whole bathroom floor scene.  I was ON that floor starting this blog because I finally learned, through being at my very worst and my very best, I don’t have to be anything but who I am and I am enough.  Thursday I decided to start this process, no more dicking around I’m doing it.  Why?

Sounds like no big deal, it all started when I did a 3rd row handstand and damn near took out the second row in a packed studio of people I love.

I fell in that epic way where people feel bad for you.  Caught the eye one of my best friends Jill as I laid on the floor.  Sort of looked nothing.  Not disappointed.  Not embarrassed at my shit show.  She was like, see you are fine.  Fine?  I’m on the floor.  My ass is hanging out.  

Hit me.  She said fine.  Didn’t say get up asshole, stick to the wall next time, you embarrassement.  She probably forgot about it by the end of class.  However, that little moment meant something to me.  

I felt ready to fail right in front of God and all his followers, smack dab in a studio full of people who I really admire.  It was like unintentionally testing being an embarrassment to my people.  On the floor with my legs and arms sprawled, probably with a full on ass cheek hanging out I was failing, loudly out in the open.  I knew I didn’t have a chance, that fall was probably happening and I did it anyway.  Been going for 5 years guys, 5 fucking years.  First not up on a wall chicken shit really scary handstand.  First time I was ready to fall.  Nailed it.

That was growth bitches.  

I’ve been a long time screw up but never felt safe, always felt the need to make my screw ups better, to make someone proud, to wait until I knew I would succeed before I would ever try.  Not sure why my knee jerk was to start feeling inadequate the minute shit went wrong last night.  Glad I have therapy Friday.  Poor Ryan.

Bathroom floor writing. Hell yes writers write in bathrooms on the floor if their kid is sick.  They do now.  Plus, being a good blogger seems exhausting.  I have puking kids and all, I can’t take on polishing every word.  Sort of like that handstand, you might want to expect it will be a little while until it’s easy to look at, and there’s a good chance my ass will be hanging out.  I’ll get the hang of it.

Namaste, it’s fine.  You are fine, I’m fine, and so is my blog.  

To my kids.  My husband.  My sweet dog.  My friends.  You all inspired me to start this blog.  You stuck with me through some major me sucking at life times.  You are still here.  That’s a gift I do not take for granted.  Your unconditional love was being given, but just like that, it all got delivered, I full on got it.  I have it.  

I’m here because you still here are too.  



The real first post was not meant to be.  It’s fine 😊   I’ll post that bitch next anyway.  I will even edit it, hell yes I will. I’m a writer now, so I guess we will call it a draft.

Sonofabitch, I got this.