A week in Crazytown. Population 1.

Warning: This entire post is going to be TMI.

Okay, check this out. Despite what my family seems to believe, I am not just a mother and wife. Guess what? Turns out I’m a woman, too. Who knew?

Well, my uterus, for one. And every month we go through the same crap.

Confession time.

You know that stereotypical, over-emotional, roller-coaster-mood-swing, played up for laffs PMS chick on all the sitcoms. The one that can’t possibly be true.

I am her.

The hard part is controlling it.

For example: I get ridiculous fatigue during this time. So if I cleaned the kitchen the night before, know that it was due to either my own herculean effort, or the herculean effort of making my kids do it. Now, if, after I have literally dragged myself out of bed (picture an army crawl off of a platform bed and into the bathroom) and downstairs to hurl myself  at the coffee pot, I don’t want to see any mess. None.

What do I see?

A drop of milk. On the counter. This is enough to send me into a volcanic rage. But, I control my inner Hulk. Instead of pounding them all into bloody smears on the linoleum, I settle for a theatrical sigh while making a big production of cleaning it up.

They feel I am making too big a deal out of it. They have no clue how close to being bloody smears they came. Thing is, I would have been the one to clean the aforementioned smears up, too.

Or: I admit to being a crier, anyway. I like a good cry. But PMS week takes it to A. Whole. Nother. Level. I watched a video of a baby elephant that was stuck in a hole being reunited with its mother, and I swear I was an emotional wreck for the next three hours. I don’t mean silently weeping with tears running down my stoic face. Nuh-uh. I mean I throw myself face down on the bed shuddering and heaving, eyes and lips swollen and red, mouth wide open UGLY cry. Honestly, you would have thought someone died. Nope. Baby elephant. And now I have to pull myself together to make dinner. Just because Mom is an emotional wreck, doesn’t mean that people aren’t whining about being hungry. Yeah, you, Big Man.

And: Speaking of being hungry. I have already told ya’ll about my Team Chunk membership. Well, PMS turns regular Chunk into OHMYGOD HOW DID THIS BODY HAPPEN? And of course I feel this way now, when my stomach is a bottomless pit that must be filled with fried carbs and chocolate. Now said stomach is also bloated and then I see it in the mirror and OHMYGOD HOW DID THIS BODY HAPPEN? So on and so forth. Finally, Kid Sensation knocks on my bathroom door because I have been obsessing so long he started to miss me. (And you guys, other than this one week, I tend to think pretty highly of myself. That’s how bad it is. I spiral down from chunky lil’ sexpot to The Blob.)

Pretty much how I feel all week. I may have to look into getting that onesie, though.

Then: For approximately the entire week, when I am not crying, binging, raging, or sleeping, I exist in a permanent state of irritation. Everything gets on my nerve. That’s right, folks, I only have one nerve left and everyone gets on it. But I can’t show it. I mean seriously, who wants a mom who’s being a major bee-you-know-what for a week straight. Honestly, I start to get on my own nerve after a while. Yup, you guessed it—I start to get irritated with being irritated. What. The fish paste. Is. That.

It’s enough to make me consider morning drinking. Except I have to get out of bed to do it, and then see that drop of milk on the counter. Not worth it.

Am I the only one that goes this crazy? Ya’ll let me know.





Learnin’ from the Kids. Who knew?

I know as a parent you are supposed to be this great teacher and source of wisdom for your kids. I even do that stuff sometimes. While I would love if my kids became doctors or firefighters or Oprah, I really just want them to be contributing members of society. I mean, if The Destroyer’s love of arguing doesn’t lead him to passing the bar, maybe his knack for destruction will lead him to a career as a demolition contractor. (And, no, I have not told him that a career blowing things up is a thing.)

However, as I travel the long, hot, dusty, road that is parenting, I find that I learn from them too. Sometimes what I learn is quite profound, others not so much. For example:

The Destroyer has taught me that-

  • Anything can be broken.  ANYTHING.
  • It is possible to go through five computers in one year.
  • Uncontrollable, rolling on the floor laughter is great.
  • How much fun burping contests are.  I’m really good at it.
  • You’re never too big to cuddle with Mom.
  • Pimples don’t have to be important.

From Wondergirl:

  • Nothing can stop me if I don’t want it to.
  • How to Hula Hoop.
  • Thumb-sucking is an addiction.  (Her diagnosis of her own condition.)
  • It’s okay to think I’m pretty great.  It’s okay to brag about it, too.
  • Nobody bullies me.
  • Food is better when you plate it.  (She’s really good at this.  You should see how pretty she can make a ham sandwich, sliced apples, and string cheese look.)

Kid Sensation. Okay, so I get a bit choked up with this one because I have learned so much from him. Having to live with his developmental disabilities has sometimes led to not just aha! moments, but full-on revelations. Kid Sensation’s way of thinking is completely different from anyone I have ever met.

  • If I’m quiet enough, people will eventually leave me alone. (Difficult for someone who talks as much as I do.)
  • Sometimes there’s nothing else to do but freak out, and that is okay. I might just feel better afterward.
I do this sometimes. Lightening and all.
  • Don’t always explain yourself.  People will eventually come to a conclusion about why you do what you do. They may even come to the right conclusion.
  • You can fantasize about murdering a train.  (You, Thomas.  It’s you I hate.)
  • It’s possible for someone to put their shoes on the wrong foot 100% of the time.
  • Puppy dog eyes really do work.  I tried it at the bank, and the girl kept her window open for me.

I am certain I will learn so much more over the years. Some of those things I am truly afraid of. Like where The Destroyer is getting his boob pictures from now that I am the Internet Gestapo. Or where Wondergirl buries her dead.


Image courtesy of marvelheroes.com


Is this Hades? Nope. Just Summer Vacation.

It’s the first day of summer vacation. Three hours in. I have been cleaning and threatening non-stop. I have a headache and I already want a glass of wine. If there is anything that could lead to morning drinking, it’s being a stay-at-home mom during summer vacation.

I have read all kinds of articles and blog posts about what to do with your kids during vacation time. Sadly, none of them include dropping them off at the Humane Society and pretending that they are strays. Summer camp is out of our price range. Which is just as well, because I am positive that we would be called to pick Wondergirl up after the first day, the counselors insisting that we pick her up by the side of the road while they and all the other kids cower in their bunks.

So what is summer vacation actually like for me?

9:00ish- Wake up. Think “Oh, yeah. The kids are still here. Maybe if I lie here still for long enough, they’ll think I’m dead.” Hear a crash and yelling. Have to get up.

9:15 – Head downstairs. See the kitchen a mess. Contemplate going back upstairs to try playing dead again.

10:00 – Scream and threaten everyone into cleaning up.

11:00 – Click my heels three times and wish for a nanny. Doesn’t work.  Kid Sensation has a meltdown about trying not to have a meltdown.

12:00 – Explain for the umpteenth time that there is pretty much only one option for lunch and I am not cooking lunch just because they’re here. This ain’t no diner, and PBJ is good enough for people who don’t pay bills.

12:15, 12:45, 1:00, 1:05, 1:20, 1:45 – Break up fights.  All of them involve Wondergirl.

2:00 – Hand out snacks. This is to keep The Destroyer from parking in front of the fridge and eating everything out of it. He is a bottomless pit. However, unlike his mother, he is a bottomless pit that remains thin and muscular. Boooooo.

3:00 – THANK GOD. We don’t have cable anymore, so we have to wait around for PBS kids to come on. Now everyone can shut up for an hour or two while I count down to five o’clock. What happens at five?

5:00 – WINE TIME!!!!! Yes indeedy, ladies and gentlemen, at 5:00:01 there is a glass of Riesling in my hand. Not in a regular sized glass, either. It’s one of the giant-sized Pier 1 tumblers-on-a-stem all the way. Besides, after half of this glass, I can act like I am happy to see the Big Man after he left me here all day alone with Wakko, Yakko, and Dot.

Image from simulated people.com
Actual photo of my kids.

7:00 – I like late dinner. That way everyone can eat, bathe, and get out of my face by 9:00. But first, scream and threaten everyone into cleaning up.

9:00 – The Big Man and I pretend that we still have the energy to be romantic. The goal of the game is to see who can maintain the farce the longest. We both lose. The Big man falls asleep and I stare at the TV trying to make something good appear. Or at least Benedict Cumberbatch.

These are just my average days. Sometimes we break up the routine, we go to the library, the park, the zoo, etc. I mean, I do put in the effort to parent at least once a week. That way, when they talk to their therapists, they’ll have something good to say.


Image courtesy of simulatedpeople.com



Ask first. I beg you.

Today’s hate is for people who refuse to respect boundaries. Like personal space.

Let me start at the beginning.

In order for you to appreciate the rest of this tale, you have to know two things: I have a big, curly Afro and I live in a predominately White area.

So I’m minding my own business, waiting for an appointment when a lady that I do not know walks by and ruffles my hair. No lie. Like I am a puppy. While I am quite adorable, I do not like to be petted. (Petted? Is that right? It doesn’t sound right. It is? Huh. Well, okay.)

She says, “You hair is so cute! I bet people do that to you all the time.”

I look at her, wide-eyed, and exclaim, “Nooooooo! They don’t!”

This heifer had the nerve, the unimaginable nerve, to look offended.

I was beside myself for the rest of the day. I must have describe the event to the Big Man at least a dozen times.

“And then, she has the almighty nerve—“

“To be offended. How dare her.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I may have been screeching in a tone usually emitted by peacocks.

“Listen, sweetheart. Your hair is pretty awesome.”

“I know.”

“People like touching awesome things.” Oh, I hate it when he’s so succinctly sensible.

“I know that too.”

“So what’s really bothering you? I’ve seen you let people touch your hair before.”

That’s what it was. The word let. She touched me and she didn’t ask me first.

Except Kid Sensation. He doesn’t have to ask because he’s the baby that’s why.


Okay, background. One thing about me: I don’t like being touched. I never have. I think it’s a family thing. I am so serious when I say if my father gave me a spontaneous hug, I would assume he was dying. Not dying in an I-just-found-out-I-have-cancer kind of way; more like a I-was-shot-while-standing-next-you-and-have-minutes-left-to-live kind of way. My family is a close-knit, loving family. We just aren’t very touchy.

I have cried at work over a death in the family (my Doberman) and my co-workers were like “Can I…, I mean…, is it okay, to um, hug you?”

When I met the Big Man, he thought that was weird. He said all of his past girlfriends were always wanting to cuddle and hug. He got used to my physical aloofness, though, because everything else about me is pretty great. Also, I at times have to restrain myself from pushing the kids off me. Especially The Destroyer. He has always been and it seems like he will always be a cuddlebug. (Kids can be like little blast furnaces, too. So there’s that.)

Back to what I was saying. Many, many people have asked to touch my hair. I get it, because they probably don’t see an Afro up close on a daily basis. Some people have never seen an Afro in person at all. So I generally let them touch it when they ask. But for some reason, when people don’t ask permission, it doesn’t just upset me—it enrages me. I try my hardest not to be rude (I despise rudeness) but sometimes I can’t help it. Oh, and I’m not sure what these people thought my hair was going to feel like, but I guess it wasn’t hair. “It’s so soft,” they say. Well, you guys, I’m not a hedgehog.

You want to know something, though? I have never in life wanted to touch a stranger’s hair. NEVER. And I have seen some beautiful hair.

Look, all I want is for someone to ask me first. That’s it, really. Ask. Then I don’t have to go home and sound like a peacock. Seriously, those things sounds much, much, worse than they look.




Kids at the Mall = NO.

Okay, so the Big Man thinks that I do too many of my post in list form. I have been married to the man for 10 years, and the man points this out now. Why does that annoy me? Because I speak in list form.

Whenever I have a point to prove, or just want to talk about something I possibly like, I list. I just do. I will always, always, start with, “ONE, blah, blah, blah, and TWO, blah, blah.” It’s what I do. So forget you, Big Man. FOR.GET.YOU.

So on with today’s rant/list.

Things I observe parents doing at the mall that are counterintuitive.

1.) Trying to get their kid to eat a vegan cookie in front of Cinnabon. Ay, yo. If I’m five and I smell Cinnabon, DO NOT try to feed me that ol’ flat, beige, crumbly cookie. I can see the fluffy, frosting-laden fat ball that is a Cinnabon. Why would you try to convince me that this flat weird cookie is just as good? It clearly isn’t.  (The tantrums I have seen regarding this aren’t quite the Apocalypse, but pretty darn close.)

2.) Nordstrom. Look. No matter what the cabbage you do, Nordstrom is super boring for kids. It just is. At least Gymboree got hip to the game and has videos and bubbles. Nordstrom has elevator music and pretentious salespeople who don’t really like kids; they just got stuck in the kids department. Believe me, I used to work there.

3.) Trying to make your kid eat anything healthy once you’ve arrived at the food court. Seriously, if I was eight and we got up to the food court—DON’T. YOU. EFFIN. DARE. TO. GET. ME. VEGETABLES. Not when Hot Dog on a Stick exists.

4.) Meticulously wiping down mall rental strollers. You forgot your baby’s stroller. Don’t try to act like a good mom now; it’s too late.   (I am way guilty of this. Because when you forget the stroller, you want to try to make up for it by being germ-free.)

5.) Trying to race against nap time. I have literally seen moms defeated at 12:30 trying to get their toddler in the van before baby falls asleep. I have seen them pray to the Nap Gods. Nope. Baby will fall asleep and then wake up seconds before you turn off the ignition to coast into the driveway. Even if you live two blocks away. You blew it, Mom. You blew it.

6.) Breaking up French fries into bite size pieces. Because, let’s face it, YOU wanted those fries. (Back to Hot Dog on a Stick. Those fries are phenomenal.)

7.) Making a toddler try on clothes. I have never done this; I’d rather make my three–year-old go to preschool looking like they’re playing dress-up in The Rock’s outfit. No matter how good of a mood your toddler was in prior to attempts at buying clothes that fit—they have now transformed into Cerberus, the three-headed dog from Hades.

Yeah, let’s put this guy in a romper.


8.) Get coffee without getting a snack for the hellion child that is with you. Why would you even try? Huh? Are you new to the game? If you are, here’s the deal: If you feel like you need a caffeine boost, then chicky-poo is going to want overpriced freeze-dried fruit. Home-packed snacks be darned.

9.) Pack your kids into the car to go to the other side of the mall. No explanation necessary.

10.) Physically steer their pre-teen away from Spencer’s. Because they have plenty of time to be tasteless.

Anyway, I like lists. They make my thoughts feel less like homeless corner-shouting.








Lil Ol’ Me?

So you guys. Super cool.

The wonderful Kaitlyn at Awkward Mamma Adventures has nominated me for the Most Influential Blogger Award.

Holy Crap! Thank you so much, AMA!

I started blogging a couple of months ago because I have a lot to say.  All the time.   Also, it helps keep me sane as a stay-at-home Mom.  Let’s be real,  my blog pretty much consists of the ravings of a madwoman.

Bloggers that I love:

Awkward Mamma Adventures – She’s the closest I’ll ever get to a fish that has not been filleted, coated with cornmeal, a dipped in hot oil.

Tina Bausinger – I can’t think of anything she’s written that’s not awesome.

BlackLatinaFabSomeone has to be fab on my days off.

Ben’s Bitter Blog – Sooooo freakin funny!

All Things Messy –  Two words. Foodie Friday

Alice at Wonderland – Hilarity ensues in every single post.

Storytime with John – I get to see the teacher’s side of things.  Good to know they’re just as awful at school.

Just a dad with Disney Questions – Confirms that the Disneyverse is as wackadoo as we all thought.

Bad Playdate – It’s not the kids, it’s the parents.

Truly Tafakari – Sometimes I like to think.  She makes me.

Anyway, my sharing song:

I have written about dancing in my draws.  And I would love to say that I listen to something inspiring and empowering when I do, some important feminist anthem.


It’s “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child. Because, quite frankly, I am.  Bootylicious, that is.

I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.




My house is against me.

My house is against me.


Today’s hate is directed at my house. I have decided that my house wants to see me have a nervous breakdown. It met with my kids and husband, bribed them with things like warmth and shelter, and is now just laughing at me. The house is holding a grudge because it needs some landscaping and we can’t afford it. The Destroyer is our landscaper.

We shouldn’t have moved here.

“Vida, please stop putting PCP in your coffee,” you say. Well, it’s not PCP, it’s that Girl Scout creamer, and lots of it. Anyway, I have proof that my house is out for revenge. Check this out:

1.) The kitchen. First, I put everything away, because everyone else in this house seems to think that we have cupboards and a refrigerator for decoration. Then I do the dishes that I haven’t forced Wondergirl and The Destroyer to do. I wipe down the counters, sweep, and either mop or Wet Swiff. When all of that is done—and I swear this happens every time—I will take a step backwards onto a Cheerio. This Cheerio will somehow explode into a powder that covers the entire floor. Then, THEN, after I clean that up, I will walk past the sink and a dish has magically appeared in it. And of course the dishwasher is mid cycle by then.

2.) Laundry. (Okay, so this isn’t really a part of the house itself, but like I said, the house has bribed everyone.) History has it that infinity was invented by some ancient Greek dude. I doubt that. I bet it was his wife. Why? Because if the amount of laundry in her house is anything like mine, she had to come up with a concept for never-ending. I will wash, dry and sort (they have to fold their own crap) everything, EVERYTHING, you hear me, and within two minutes we are out of towels. How, towels? HOW? Or Kid Sensation announces he is out of underwear. Oh, and the moment he announces he is out of underwear always happens to coincide with me being on the phone with my mother. (A woman who must have made some kind of pact with her house because it is always spotless and there is always random bacon on the stove. How do you have both of those things, Mom?)

3.) My house causes time warps. “What?! Vida, go lie down,” you say. I will, but you have to hear me out on this. Somehow, it is always dinner time at my house. I swear, I wake up, do my crap around the house, and sit down to write. This is at 9:30 a.m. Two minutes later it’s 5:30 and I have to figure out what to make for dinner and then cook. (And I never have anything to make for dinner, even though spend more time at Fred Meyer than the people who work there.) So after I cook and we eat, what time is it? That’s right, kitchen time. Again. See #1.

See? Tell me that doesn’t sound like a house that’s out to get me.

Fine. I’ll go lie down now.

He doesn’t even know why.

Note:  The Weirdo is now known as Kid Sensation.  Because Sir-Mix-a-Lot.

There is a reason my son is named the Destroyer–every single thing he even gets near disintegrates.  It doesn’t matter what it is.  Stone, plastic, metal–it really does not matter.  And God forbid I buy wine glasses.  I have seem him try to put one away and the glass part snapped clean off the stem during the sink-to-cupboard journey (all of two feet). I genuinely hope he never stands near any plutonium.

The accidental destruction doesn’t much bother me.  It’s the senseless, stupid crap that he does that causes destruction.  Like when he tries to jump over the dog and somehow kicks the printer over. Or swings a dining chair around and is somehow shocked when it flies across the room, nearly killing Kid Sensation and  ending a lamp’s life.  RIP, lamp.

Of course, I always ask the same question, usually at the top of my lungs:  “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

What is absolutely maddening and infuriating is this:  He never, ever, ever knows why. NEVER.

But when I think about it, this may be something peculiar to carriers of the Y chromosome.  Not that us XXers never do anything stupid, it’s just that more often than not, we know why we’ve done said stupid thing.  Usually it’s to prove a point, or alcohol is involved.

But, as usual, I digress.

The reason I boil it down to the XY combo is this:  I often have to yell the aforementioned question to my husband. And he’s 37.

Like the time he brought a stray dog home and then promptly left for work.

Or the time he threw our huge dog with untrimmed claws into our inflatable pool filled ice cold water.

The time he almost tore the whole house down because a squirrel got in. The squirrel would never have caused that much damage.

Well, I guess the squirrel had been casing the joint earlier.

The day he moved a 1,000 pound tire into our backyard. (Actually, he did have a reason for that.  He said he “wouldn’t be a stud if he couldn’t move that tire”. He said that with a straight face and the man was dead serious.)

Oh, I could go on for days. But I would love to hear someone else’s tales of senseless woe.  Please share.  Otherwise I will be forced to conclude that this is somehow my fault. 



Hey Dummy! Or words for my younger self.

I know that I have referred to The Destroyer as a twelve-year-old, but in reality he turns twelve  on Saturday.  Which has prompted me to reflect on some things.  Mainly on the fact that I am getting old. Yeah, I know that people who are even a year older than I am will tell me all about how I don’t know what old is; but the fact remains that if I squat down, something will pop or crack on my way up.  Or I may choose to sit all the way down to avoid that whole situation.

Anyway, as I mature (ahem), I think about all the things I wish someone had told me when I was younger.  I have decided to share.  Climb into my time machine and we’ll visit young Vida together:

1.) It’s okay to have an epidural.  It’s okay not to have an epidural.  Labor and Delivery doesn’t give out medals–all they care about is that you and baby are safe.

2.) Enjoy that metabolism while you can, sweetheart. 

3.) You will never look the same way those girls do when you jog.  You can still jog, just don’t think you’ll look like that. 

4.) Get drunk at home. Trust me, it will save you a TON of embarrassment.

5.) Don’t worry about what your friends say–it’s okay to like White boys.  Trust me on this one, too. 

6.) If he really cares about you, he won’t make you do it.  (Drugs, sex, watching Hot Tub Time Machine.)

7.) Call people (parents, professors, the bank) to let them know what’s going on. Nine times out of ten they’ll cut you break.

8.) No, you don’t want to be Lil’ Kim.

To be fair, she used to be a young black woman. Now I think she’s part dragon or something. I don’t know.

9.) You don’t particularly want to be Lauryn Hill, either. You tax situation will turn out better than hers.

10.)  You’re not your mother.  Thank God. (Although my mom is pretty awesome.)

11.)  Your daughter won’t be you. Thank God.

12.) You can get addicted to coffee. (And still are.)

13.) He’s not the right guy for you.  And that’s okay because:

14.) You won’t hate him forever.

15.) Buy good shoes.  You have flat feet, and the cheap ones hurt.

16.) You’re not fat.

17.) Stop comparing yourself to her.  You’re not her.

18.) She’s not you. 

19.) Shut up and be awesome.  It’s easier than you think.

20.) ALWAYS be grateful.  No one has to do anything for you.  Not even your mom.

21.) You can always go somewhere else. (I have found this works for any bad situation–job, relationship, slumlord apartments.)

22.) Bacon Sundays.  With mimosas.  Make it a thing for the rest of your life.

23.) Popularity is overrated. 

24.) A few good friends=best thing in the world.

25.) Enjoy nudity as much as possible before you have kids.  Kids like to poke things–fun for them, not for you.







For the good of the team.

I have been a card-carrying member of Team Chunk (thank you, Crunk and Disorderly for the term) most of my adult life. I know why I’m fat—I like to eat and I hate to exercise. Eating is fun and exercising is sweaty.

However, I have some questions, comments, and concerns for my fellow team members. Let’s huddle.

1.) Feel free to cut thin people off mid-sentence when they try to give you (unsolicited) advice on diet and exercise. Why? Because there isn’t a fat person alive that doesn’t know the ins and outs of every single diet and exercise program there is. For example: I have tried Weight Watchers several times. I know WW works for me and honey, I know that points system in and out. So why am I still fat? Because I don’t stick with it. Do you know how many Chunk team members have the P-90x workout collection? Gym memberships? Old Tae-Bo VHSs (because that is how long we have been trying to lose weight since Billy Blanks was a thing)? Yeah, Team C—next time a fit person offers advice because you obviously need their help, tell them to stuff a gluten-free cookie in it. (Gross.)

When asked if Tae-Bo would help me lose weight. The answer was no, Billy.

2.) Don’t talk about how much you love to exercise. You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be fat. Don’t hand me that stuff about you don’t have time or whatever. People find the time to do the things they love to do. You know what I love to do? Eat. I devote a lot of time to doing that. I love to be on the internet and lounge in front of the TV and to read—all things that require my time. They are also all things that require no physical effort from me whatsoever. Listen Chunk teammates, if you’re spending hours a day on Facebook, then that is what you love. Not exercising.

3.) Why do so many of us drink those full-sugar-million-calorie energy drinks? What are we gearing up to do?

4.) It’s okay to go the next size up if you have to. I know, it sucks. Believe me. But also believe this: There is no tag bandit running around checking the size of your pants. If there is, he should be arrested immediately. But most importantly, a number shouldn’t be responsible for physical pain at the end of the day. One time I made myself wear a pair of jeans that I knew for a fact were too tight around the waist. Well, sir, I was going to make them fit because that was the size I wore, dagnabbit. Welp, by the end of the day, I was sure I had the stomach flu, my gut was in so much pain. I decided I needed to go home and lie down for a while and wait for the pukefest that was about to go down. The INSTANT I unbuttoned those jeans, I felt better. I’m sure the jeans felt better, too. Point is, I would not have felt like I had eaten week-old chili-con-carne if I had just returned the jeans and gone the next size up.

5.) Spanx. I was against them until I took a picture while wearing them. I was sex-ay. I mean, I’m pretty sexy anyway, but I don’t feel like it always translates into pictures. Spanx helped. Speaking of sexy:

6.) Dance/Twerk/Pop it/Drop it in front of the mirror with your sexy draws on. Try it just once. Seriously, it will make your day. And ain’t nobody got to see that jelly roll but you. I know the Big Man spies on me when I do it, but I don’t do it for him. I do it because I feel sexy when I do. We deserve to feel sexy for at least a few minutes a day.

7.) Do what works for you. By that I mean what makes you feel good about you. I have lost 13 pounds in the last two months. I’m losing weight, not because I want to look a certain way, but because hypertension and Type-2 diabetes are real in the African American community. I don’t want either one. Every day, I do a little something for me that pushes me along my weight loss journey. Every day I make a little change here or there. And I feel good about me.  During PMS I ate ice cream and chips, and I felt good about me then, too.

Alright Team Chunk, high-five! Let’s break for snack.