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Preview: The Inside of My Head

The Inside of My Head

Sometimes frivolous, sometimes not. It's my brain and it's the only one I've got.

Updated: 2018-03-07T14:31:29.189-06:00


Jim Is Frequently A Better Person Than Me


Sometimes I fall into a nasty habit of negativity for no good reason at all. It's mostly a bunch of first-world-problems type stuff that gets me down, and then suddenly, I've got something shitty to say about everything, and everybody. Anything and anyone in my life is fair game for a bitchfest, especially those I'm around all the time. The love of my life takes so much flack he doesn't deserve, and I know he's not the only darling husband finding himself on the business end of his wife's sharp tongue.

Here's the crazy part:   Jim doesn't talk shit about me. He doesn't complain to his buddies even when I'm at my cuntiest.  I don't know how he does it! I'd go insane if I didn't have my girls to run to when he flips back and forth between NASCAR and golf, or when he shirks forgets his share of the litter box scooping, or somehow fails to live up to my seemingly infinite supply of expectations that he's (mostly) unaware of.  I thought this was a fairly uncommon phenomenon (in fact, I know it is, because I work around a bunch of men who stand around griping about their wives all day); but then I was talking to my girl Angie, who was talking to a mutual friend of her and her husband, and apparently, hers doesn't talk shit about her either.


So after my mind reels about this for a second, she says, "Yeah, so I'm doing this thing where I try not to complain about Hubs".  It made me flash on how common it is for me to criticize Jim for things that don't matter at all, except that it happened to be on my mind and I was in the mood to rag about shit, and I genuinely felt ashamed about it.  I thought about my friend Eric, and how he never says anything untoward about his wife, either, and I start feeling even worse.  I mean, these guys exercise self-control like it's their damn jobs, and I can't seem to find my inner shut-the-fuck-up.

That was last night before bed, and it's been at the back of my mind all day.  I'm thinking Ang's onto something with putting forth the effort not to complain about Mr. Ang.  It's too easy to fall into the habit of fault-finding, and I'd like to respect Jim the way he respects me.  I'm thinking maybe I'll challenge myself to say something positive about him every day (out loud? in public? on facebook? hmm.).  Whatchew think, Ang?  Wanna join the challenge?


I'm only posting this so that Chrome will translate it for me


ODA Enkel heklet lue i Oda-garn 3 nøster Trysilgarn Oda (Du bruker ca 2,5 nøste) Heklenål nr 6 Lag ei løkke, hekle fire luftmasker og sett dem i en ring. Hekle 8 fastmasker om ringen, 1 kjedemaske i første fastmaske. Hekle 2 fm i hver maske omgangen rundt, 1 kjedemaske i første fm. (16 fm) Hekle 1 fm i hver maske omgangen rundt, 1kjm i første fm. Hekle 2 fm i hver maske omgangen rundt, 1 kjm i første fm. (32 fm) Hekle 1 fm i hver maske omgangen rundt, 1 kjm i første fm. Hekle 2 fm i hver maske omgangen rundt, 1 kjm i første fm. (64 fm) Hekle videre 5 omganger med 1 fm i hver maske. På neste omgang øker du 8 masker jevnt fordelt til 72 fm. Dette gjør du ved å hekle 2 fastmasker i hver 8. maske. Hekle videre rundt med 1 fm i hver maske til arbeidet måler 15 – 20 cm fra toppen, avhengig av hvor lang og baggy du ønsker luen skal være. På neste omgang minsker du maskeantallet (jevnt fordelt) med 8 masker, til 64 masker. Dette gjør du ved å enten hoppe over en fastmaske, eller ved å stikke ned nålen i en maske, dra opp tråden, stikk ned i neste maske, dra opp tråden og hekle disse to sammen. Jeg synes dette blir penest. Hekle en omgang uten felling. På neste omgang minsker du maskeantallet med 8 masker ned til 56 masker. Hekle videre 5 omganger uten felling. Hekle videre 5 omganger med fastmasker i bakerste maskeledd. Så er det bare å dra tråden gjennom, og fest. Vips, så har du ny lue. Du kan gjerne hekle denne lua og gi bort i gave, om du ønsker å hekle for salg så ta kontakt med meg på forhånd. Du kan under ingen omstendighet framlegge dette mønsteret som ditt eget. Copyright Janicke Lekang

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Blog Post. . . .


. . . for a blatant plug marvelous glimpse at the fruits of my friend Angie's imagination! If you haven't been over to Handmade Hugs lately, lookit what you've been missing!

Hugs for your neck, your wrist, your fingers, your wine glass stems, and even your walls. She'll customize anything in her shop with your favorite colors, too, so yours will be unlike anyone else's! Aren't they pretty?

It's Called "Following Distance", Ya Jag!


A few facts before I launch into my story.Fact: I drive a Jeep. Corollary: Yay four-wheel-drive! Corollary: Boo, utter bullshit visibility from the old, cracked, scratched up plastic back window.Corollary: I can hear everything that happens outside my vehicle as though I were driving with my window open.Fact: My "driving formative years" were spent in climates where snow was rare, and certainly didn't accumulate over a few inches (namely, southern New Mexico and southeast Texas).Fact: People who grew up driving in the Greater Chicagoland area drive in the snow, and on icy roads as though it's just another sunny day. It's terrifying.Fact: I've been driving here for about nine years now; I aught to be used to driving in winter conditions, but I'm just not. Sue me.But luckily, I have common sense; it tells me I should drive slowly and not follow anyone too closely on icy roads, and I pay good heed to that sense. This strategy apparently stuck in some sports-car driver's craw (no doubt, a native).I was driving to work Thursday morning, the day after our big blizzard. The sky was clear, and the roads had been plowed, but there was a thick enough layer of ice on the road that driving felt more like off-roading. People were sliding around like crazy, and I was doing my best to navigate all the treacherous road conditions, and dodge other cars.I was halfway through Gary (a city derelict in general street maintenance even on a good day), driving in the right-hand lane so as not to offend anyone with my vexing attempts at preserving my life and the good repair of my Jeep. I noticed the vague shape of a smallish car out my ruined back window, driving way too close to me. A glance in the side-view proved it to be a small black Civic, naturally tricked out like the owner thought he was starring in Fast and the Furious. The light we were approaching turned red, and instead of stomping on my brakes and sending myself careening off in some undesired direction, I began down-shifting to slow myself down; I rolled to a gradual stop about two car-lengths behind the guy ahead of me. You know, just in case. The Civic stopped so close to my bumper I couldn't see his headlights anymore. I suspected he did this intentionally, but let it go.The light changed, and we began moving. I could hear Civic's engine racing behind me, and driving way too close. I could actually see the owner gesticulating. Ridiculous! My window is in such bad shape, I should't be able to make out anything but headlights! It made me nervous, but I ignored him and made my cautious way along. Civic eased up off my tail, and began flashing his lights at me. Was that supposed to goad me into driving recklessly?! Poor Civic was in for a nasty surprise- I am not affected AT ALL by road rage. My attitude toward my fellow motorists is a pretty solid Whatever, whether they're cutting me off, creeping into my lane, honking, using the shoulder to get past stalled traffic- it doesn't matter. I'm completely imperturbable. Anyway, since the light flashing didn't seem to have the desired effect, Civic left his lights on high-beams, and tapped his horn. The lane to my left was clear- he could've opted to move over and go around me at any time. I guess he thought laying on his horn was the better option. I rolled to a stop at the next light, twoish car-lengths behind the guy in front of me. Civic rode back up my bumper, obscuring his high-beams. He rolled down his window and started yelling at me. Yelling at me! I couldn't believe it! Cautiously, I cracked my door open and looked behind me. He paused in his tirade. He seemed somehow surprised by me. "Pick up the pace, sister!," he finished lamely."Just go around me!" I replied calmly. The light turned green, and I shut my door on whatever it was he was about to say to me. The left lane filled up, and he missed his opportunity to bypass me. He continued raging behind me, and I was not looking forward to the next st[...]



Shelly sat in the old cafeteria where nobody was allowed to sit; sitting in there would bring ruin.
She had found something that was hers. She clutched it to herself and began to cry.
As the tears fell to the soil, more things came to the surface to be found, things that shouldn't be found.
Things better left in the past.
One was a piece of inscribed glass that said The Love I Should Never. . . it crumbled to dust in my hand before I could finish reading it.
A doll turned to me and spoke, and i spoke back, silencing it.
I told her and Jessica to leave- I had to start it on fire.
I went to the wall and traced my fingertips in circles on it.
I stroked it slowly, encouraging it to ignite.
The wall bulged in a spot in front of my face, and a long forked tongue the size of my arm burst forth.
I caressed it, moving both hands up and down along its slippery wet length, feeling the dormant strength of it.
I knew who it belonged to.
Flames began to lick the wall where I had touched it, and I opened the cabinet to prepare the denizens for their awakening.
I bared my breasts.
I yanked the clothing and spite from Shelly and began to adorn her.
I placed an amber choker around her neck, an amber spiral around her arm, amber shackles around her ankles, an amber phallus into her vagina and I was interrupted before I could place the jewel on her brow.
Her forgiveness would not be complete, then.
A crowd still milled around, waiting to see what would happen.
I screamed for them to leave, but they couldn't hear me.
Fools. . .they would give up their lives for a good show?
I left them to regret their fate.
I turned back to the cabinet and the children had begun to crawl toward the doors.
One by one, I tore the flesh away from them and released the firey creatures trapped inside.
They skittered about, finally free, dripping trails of burning brimstone behind them.
The fire began in earnest.
I went back to the wall, stroking the tongue, and the owner began to emerge behind it.
He couldn't see me, but i could see him.
I pressed my naked breasts on him, crooning to him, willing him to see me.
My flesh seared where it met his.
Power coursed through me.
My mouth opened to say his name and complete the event.

Willpower, Why Hath Thou Forsaken Me?


I know, I really have a flair for the over-dramatic, but it just hasn't been a good past couple of days. Monday I talked myself into cheesecake (yes, that same cheesecake I blogged about on Monday; that same cheesecake that caused my coworker to call me out on my whiny bitchism). I tracked it, though, and I was determined to not let that piece of lemony, blueberry-ey goodness put a wedge in my week. (Get it? A wedge in my week? Okay, sorry. Moving on. . .)

Then I got some pretty awful news last night. Not good, seeing as how I'm an honest-to-God, dyed-in-the-wool emotional eater. So maybe I can't exactly articulate how terrible news translates to Taco Bell, but it did last night- a seven layer burrito and a nacho supreme. I know, I know! I could have at least eaten off the Fresco menu, but I didn't.

I was tempted not to track it. . . okay, I'd totally decided not to track it and just throw in the towel for the week. But then I got up this morning and decided I just had to know the damage, so I looked it up and tracked it. Turns out it didn't completely wreck my week (I've got 8 weeklies left, and this is my WI day). But I'm still upset, and worried about how that's going to impact my day.

I promise, I'll do my best not to let it.

It's Gotta Be Steaks


It was our turn to go get lunch. Everyone decided on Wendy's, so we got in the truck and started heading over there. Instead of pulling into the parking lot, he decided to keep going, because he had a better lunch idea.

"Steaks," he said to me, "fast food ain't no real lunch. It's gotta be steaks." I nodded my agreement, and we headed off to get some steaks. He drove by several grocery stores, and I watched them go by but didn't point it out.

"I want fresh steaks," he said, as though I'd pointed it out.

We pulled up to this ramshackle butcher shop and went inside. He was going to get the steaks, and I was going to procure the slaw. I went over to the counter where they sold the cold salads, and the old lady told me that they were fresh out of slaw just now, but if I wanted to wait an hour, they'd have some made up. I told her never-mind and went back to the meat counter where he had only ordered four steaks.

"We need five, Hip. You're forgetting Tanya," I reminded him.

"Make it five, Mister," he told the butcher, and he disappeared through the vertical plastic strips with the loin to cut us up five filets. While we were waiting, I told him there was no slaw, and that it would take an hour to make some more. I was itching to get back because we'd already been gone an hour and a half, and I knew our boss was gonna have fits as soon as we walked in.

He said he knew a place on the way back that had good slaw, and black eyed peas too, so we'd hit that place up when we left. The butcher came back and passed the steaks to us wrapped up neatly in spotless white paper. I always wondered how they kept that paper so crisp and white, with no evidence of the blood and carnage it concealed.

As the butcher rang us up I realized i'd forgotten to take up everyone's money, so I paid for half and he paid for half and we'd collect when we got back.

"How're we gonna cook these?"

He didn't answer. I climbed back into the truck with my neat little white package and glanced at my watch again; we'd been gone two hours now. It was one thirty, and Steve would have left by the time we got back; poor Steve. Working all day and not getting any lunch.

We pulled up to this little hole and he went inside to buy some slaw and peas. I waited out in the truck, wondering if the bunsen burner would cook a steak well enough or would it just burn the outside. I was kind of excited to try, because we'd never had occasion to use that bunsen burner as long as I'd been working there.

He tossed some bags over to me and hopped in behind them. They smelled like edible divinity.

"You cain't cook a steak over that thing," he said as though I'd suggested it out loud. As we drove back to the lab, he tried to convince me that if I douse the steak in enough worcestershire sauce, it would seem done and I wouldn't know the difference.

"Like how they do fish for sushi up in lime juice", he concluded. I was skeptical.

What Do You Even Want?


I was whining talking to Jessica earlier about how badly I wanted to make sweet, sweet taste bud love to a piece of cheesecake.

Me: Dude, did you hear me? Not just any cheesecake, blueberry lemon cheesecake.

Jessica (distractedly): Yeah, I heard you.

Me (outright sulking like an emo teenager just denied access to texting): Fucking Weight Watchers.

Jessica (pausing): Uh huh.

Me (finally noticing her who-cares attitude): What?

Jessica (marshaling her expression): Nothing!

Me: Seriously, what?

Jessica (scrutinizing me to see if I really wanted to know): It's just. . .

Me (prompting after a few seconds): . . . just?

Jessica: Nobody's twisting your arm to do WW, you know.

Me (taken aback): Oh, I know-

Jessica (cutting me off): So what do you want? Do you want to lose weight, or do you want a big, cheesecake-induced ass? You can't have it all. Make up your mind and quit feeling sorry for yourself.

I watched her stalk off, floundering somewhere between shocked speechlessness and How Dare You. The scales tipped all the way past How Dare You, straight to Fuck You, Bitch! I dodged her for the next couple of hours, thinking dark thoughts and hoping that somehow all her tires were on flat when she went out to the parking lot after work.

Now that I'm home and calmed down, I'm developing a little perspective. Am I really that annoying to people? True, I complain about being fat in the same breath as I whine about not being able to throw anything I want down my face with impunity, but lots of people do that. Right?

I know what I want, and it isn't possible. I can't just eat whatever I want and have the kind of body I can be proud of. So I think I'll take her question seriously: What do I want, anyway?

WARNING! I'm about to give way more information than is really tasteful, so stop reading now if you're not interested in feeling nauseous.

1. I want my belly not to poke up out of the water when I take a bath.
2. I want to be able to see my *ahem* business when I look down.
3. It would be nice if my upper arms resembled *arms* more than they do winged hams.
4. I want my entire ass to fit in the airplane seat without oozing underneath and around the arm-rests.
5. I want to see my muffin top on a milk carton, only I won't be offering a reward for finding it.
6. I want my life to be structured around things I enjoy doing, not around meals.
7. I want the strength to push my plate away, even though there's clearly still food on it.
8. I want to be able to say no thanks to sweets, and really mean it.
9. I want not to be cranky anymore when I opt out of the [insert misc. bad-for-me baked goods here] left by someone's thoughtful wife on the break room table.
10. I want not to have to spend more on clothing because that clothing requires more cloth to make.
10a. I want not to be limited by ugly plus-sized clothing.
10b. I want to stop wearing clothes that are way too big for me in the failed effort at hiding my body.

This is by no means a comprehensive list of I Want, but it's a good start. The important thing I need to remember is, I have more wants that are achievable by WW, and their fulfillment will make me happier than cheesecake.

Portion Sizes, Schmortion Sizes!


At least, that's been my attitude toward fruit ever since WW decided it's "free".

The retarded thing is, I didn't even think about it until I sat at the lunch table yesterday, and after a very satisfying meal, proceeded to eat a pound of cherries (literally- I bought one pound because they were on sale). And even then I would've been oblivious if my boss hadn't pointed out that I now had none for tomorrow.

Woah. Did I just eat a whole POUND?! Why, oh, WHY didn't you point that out half a pound ago, Roz? Suddenly, I was stuffed and miserable, and I hadn't even had a single piece of chocolate. Funny how that works, isn't it?

After that, I took a gander at my tracker to see what I'd been up to for the last week. Fruit, that's what I'd been up to. I hadn't had a single veggie in nine days, and to make matters worse, I hadn't tracked a single portion size of all that fruit! I mean, some of it wasn't so bad- an apple pretty much portions itself, but grapes don't. Neither do cherries or cantaloupe chunks or craisins (which still have points, dummy!). Now I'm worried it'll keep me from a loss this week.

So, I promised my tracker I'll make at least two of my five a vegetable this coming week, and to portion out my fruit. He'll be watching, too.

The Unnecessarily Long Story Of How I Transformed Diet Cocoa Into A Packet Of Pure Awesome


I bought a box of that Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet once when it was on sale for a dollar (I'm a sucker for a good sale). I took it home, all kinds of giddy about having discovered 0 point cocoa; mixed it with 3/4 cup of water, and sat down to enjoy my find.

Of course it would be practically flavorless. Ah, well, it was only a buck, so I wasn't upset about the failed experiment. I put it in my cabinet and promptly forgot about it.

Fast forward a year past it's Best Before Date to this morning. I was frowning into my tea cabinet, at a loss for which one to pick when it occurred to me that I just wasn't in the mood for some tea. I'm not a coffee drinker either, so that was out of the question, but I really wanted a cup of something warm to wake up with. That's when my eyes fell upon the long-forgotten box of Swiss Miss.

I sighed and pulled it down, wondering what the new points value was since the system changed.

Calculator: That vile stuff is no longer free, my friend.

Me: What?!

Calculator: Yup. That cup of watered down, not-quite-sweet hot chocolate will now set you back a whopping one point.

Me: . . . Life hates me.

Calculator: Sometimes.

I went to put it back in the cabinet, when the last line of instructions caught my eye: For more indulgent cocoa, make with milk instead of water.

Huh. Couldn't hurt to try, right? I have a hard time getting my milks in anyway. But upon opening the fridge, I realized we had no milk.

Me: Life really hates me.

Fridge: Yeah, sometimes. Maybe try the soy milk?

Me: I have soy milk?

Fridge: Yeah, it's buried behind the ketchup bottle, the 2 liter of Pepsi and whatever's growing in that blue tupperware bowl.

Me: Right! I bought it for my chai the other day. Thanks, man!

Fridge: You can thank me by cleaning me out today.

I exhumed the soy milk from the back of my refrigerator and calculated the points. 2 points for a cup, 1 for 3/4 cup. I decided it was reasonable, warmed it up, and proceeded to make the cocoa. I was almost afraid to taste it.

The first sip wasn't so bad, but it seemed like it was missing something. I went back into my cabinet and pulled out an unopened bag of gingerbread marshmallows I'd bought on a whim (and because they were on clearance for a buck after Christmas). Crazy, I didn't think I'd ever find a use for those things.

Calculator: You can have up to two for free.

Two seemed plenty, since the cup was pretty small. I mixed the two little gingerbread men in and took another sip. It was heavenly! Exactly what it needed! So here's the point of this unnecessarily long story- a low point recipe for yummy cocoa, while satisfying one of the two milk requirements:

1 packet Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet, 1 point
3/4 cup Soy Slender soy milk, Vanilla flavored (I bet chocolate would be awesome too!), 1 point
2 Jet Puffed Gingerbread flavored marshmallows (I'm sure any marshmallow would do nicely, but these are unbelievable if you can still find them), 0 points

Heat and enjoy!

Now I Know What People Mean When They Say, "It's not the flavor- it's the texture that sicks me out"!


I'm really trying to give whole wheat pasta a chance, but it's just so. . . mealy. I haven't been able to make the leap yet, even though I started off small; I switched from semolina pasta to semolina/whole grain blend, and that wasn't so bad. The flavor was virtually identical, and the texture was only slightly off. After a few dinners, I couldn't even tell that I wasn't eating white pasta anymore.

Satisfied I'd mastered the first step toward whole-grain-dom, I tried to take it to the next level: I bought a box of whole wheat spaghetti. The flavor was noticeably different, and not even unpleasantly so, but I couldn't believe how NASTY the texture was! I thought at first that I'd undercooked it, so I threw it back in the water and boiled it for a while longer. It got mushier, but it retained its graininess, and I ended up just chucking the whole thing and going back to my blend.

Every now and then, I'll come across a box that promises improved texture (I must not be the only one who thinks it's inedibly gritty), and I buy it, full of hope that this time will be the time I can finally convert to whole grain. I go home and cook it, all the while suppressing the fear that the manufacturer was lying to me; my fears are always realized, and I mutter curses at them for robbing me of ~2$. Jerks.

"I'm Full" vs. ". . . But I Already Paid For It!"


It's another whiny Weight Watcher's post, so feel free to skip it if you want to. I won't be offended, I promise!

One of the things WW tries to teach us fat chicks chronic over eaters is how to stop eating before we're so stuffed our pants that are already straining at the seams like a busted can of refrigerator biscuits don't feel comfortable.

I don't know about yall, but I was raised in the Eat What's On Your Plate, There Are Starving Children In China generation. This has had a couple of results: 1) I'm less wasteful, 2) I feel guilty when I don't finish my food, and 3) I learned to completely disregard my brain's natural For The Love of GOD Will You PLEASE Put The Fork Down signals at such an early age that I never learned what "satisfied" felt like. It sounds simple enough, right? Eat until you're not hungry anymore and then stop. But the problem is, if I wasn't suffocating under the weight of way too much food, I thought that meant I was still hungry. There was no middle ground between starving and stuffed.

And if the food's tasty? Forget it- I'm going straight to UnButtonMyJeansVille.

But after doing WW for three years now, I slowly re-acquired that lost ability to stop eating when I'm satisfied; now when I'm overfull, I'm miserable, and it's a great incentive to push the plate away. Yay me for returning to how nature intended my brain to work! Three years sounds like a long time, but when you stop and consider how long it took me to disconnect my full-meter, it's actually a pretty impressive feat.

Yet sometimes, in spite of this new skill, I'll go to put my fork down and take a look at what's left on my plate. And I catch myself thinking, "But I already paid for that!" (translation: I tracked it, and now I feel robbed because I didn't get to finish it). Then the internal argument ensues:

Me: Don't even think about it.

Saboteur-Me: But I TRACKED it!

Me: So what? You're totally satisfied!

Saboteur-Me: But don't they say you should eat ALL your points? If I don't finish this, I won't be eating all my points.

Me: Dude! There's no more space!

Saboteur-Me (in a whiny voice): But it's TAS-ty!

Me (sighing inwardly): It is tasty.

Saboteur-Me (smelling victory): And it's already written down! It's as good as eaten! And I have the points for it, right?

Me: . . . right. . .

Saboteur-Me: It's settled then!

Me (caving): Fine. If you can find some place to put it. . .

But Saboteur-Me has already stopped listening, and is elatedly shoveling the remains of my meal into my eagerly waiting face. I never stood a chance against the conspiracy between Saboteur-Me and her backstabby accomplices- The Taste Buds. Belatedly, my ostensible ally (Stomach) starts objecting to the extra load and starts pushing against her confines (My Jeans).

Me: Where were you ten minutes ago, Stomach?!

*sigh* I get it right most of the time, but I do look forward to the day the wasted points won't matter to me anymore.

Week One's In The Bag! (This Is Not an Interesting Post)


In spite of my misgivings, I am down 1.8 lbs (yay me!). I did have a hard time staying in my points for the first few days- I was averaging 35-44 points a day (I'm not sure if I was really that hungry or if it was panic-induced eating), but the extra 49 came to my rescue.

I leveled off after I re-learned how to distribute my points throughout the day, though, and I was feeling pretty confident about skating into my meeting with a loss. All in all, I have to say, the plan isn't really very different; the new values just take a bit of getting used to.

One thing I'm really hating: the new calculator (warning! incoming pettiness!). It just doesn't flow right! All nutrition labels go fat -> carbs -> fiber -> protein. All. Of. Them. So why does the calculator ask for protein -> carbs -> fat -> fiber? It's all over the place and I'm constantly putting the wrong values in. Sometimes I catch it and correct (pain in the adipose!), but I'm sure there've been times I didn't and just tracked wrong. That mis-entry could be the difference between a loss and . . . well, not-a-loss.

One thing I'm really loving: the "raise" I got for getting up off my ass! I've never been an exercising kind of person, and the fact that I don't have to do as much for my activity points is butter and gravy in my world. And please don't go telling me I'll get addicted to it once I'm in the habit! I waited and waited to love exercise like everyone promised, and I still count the seconds till I can get off the Evil Conveyor Belt of Ultimate Misery- aka my treadmill. It's outright lies, but I'm doing it anyway. Even if my muscles hate me the next day, my cholesterol will be thanking me one day, and it's enough that at least part of me will be grateful.

A Man Harrassed While Making Rice


I was sitting around today, just letting my mind pick its own way around when I remembered something that made me snicker:

Rob was cooking dinner for us a few visits ago. He was making lemon pepper tilapia over brown rice and I was thrilled about it because I love fish. He'd gotten out a small sauce pan and was filling it with water for the rice.

Jim: Are you sure that pan's big enough?

Rob: Yeah.

Jim: I don't know, it looks small.

Rob: I've made rice in this pan before, dude. It's fine.

Jim: You used a lot of rice; I think it's gonna boil over.

Rob: It's brown rice, it doesn't cook the same!

Jim: Yeah, but-

Rob shot him an exasperated look. I smelled an oncoming testosterone-fueled culinary argument, and spoke up to derail it before it could boil over like the rice in question.

Me: Honey, I'm sure he's perfectly capable of making rice in his own kitchen. He looks like he might have done this before.

Jim looked dubiously at the pan size, but elected not to say anything else. I could see his control-freakism urging him upward to avert what was surely to be a boiling-over pot of rice, and I silently applauded him for not giving in. Then Angie walked in.

Angie: What doin?

Rob: Making rice.

Angie: Why don't you just use the rice cooker?

Jim and I nearly peed ourselves! Rob gave her a long-suffering, Et Tu, Brute? look as we laughed our asses off. Against mounting opposition, Rob studiously ignored us all, using his small pan to make the rice.

It's a good thing it never boiled over- I don't think he could've ever lived that one down.

29 Points?!



Really? I'm at the new plan minimum?!

I'd been absent from meetings since (predictably) two weeks before Thanksgiving and was just finding my way back for (even more predictably) the New Year. I sat at my first PointsPlus new-plan meeting, post-weigh-in, and I felt like someone had just delivered me the mother of all sucker punches.

29 points. Wasn't that the equivalent of 18 points on the old plan? How am I supposed to LIVE on that? Roz also has 29 points, and I out-weigh her by a good 45 pounds.

Calm down, I told myself, there's got to be a mistake. I pushed this unwelcome bit of news out of my head so I could focus on Jen, my awesome leader for the last three years. She hadn't lost any of her pep or powers of motivation, and I felt myself drawn back into her enthusiastic can-do spirit. I love her meetings; they never fail to pump me up no matter how despondent I'm feeling over my latest lapse.

We celebrated the scale-wins and the milestones, she left us with a final thought to carry us through the temptations of the coming week, and we got up to leave. I wanted to ask her about my new points target, but the crowd in the year-beginning meeting was huge. There were actual new people who needed her attention more than I did, so I quietly departed with the number 29 orbiting my brain, wondering dramatically how I would avoid starving to death.

The plan has always worked for me when I worked the plan. I owe it more than a little faith that these new changes would work just as well as, if not better than, the old plan.

I mean, it's only a week, right?

You Know What's Bullshit?


I fill my tub with sparkling water turned Caribbean blue by the aromatic bath salts I got for Christmas. I lay my book down on the ledge of the tub (the water damaged one, so a good one doesn't get ruined), adjust my bath pillow placement, and place my phone within easy reach; close the door, step in, draw the curtain to trap the steam, and ease myself down into the not-quite-boiling water. An audible sigh of contentment escapes me, rising to mingle with the water vapor saturating the air in the small bathroom I call "mine".

As I lay there, the water gradually escapes via one of those half-way-up-the-tub secondary drains. At first, I ignore it. But soon, bits of me are sticking up above the waterline like bathing vessel islands. I glare at the drain as fully half of my water (and contentment) bails on me, leaving half of me warm and languid, and the other half goose-pimply. My bathing spirit somewhat dampened (har!), I turn the knob and add more water, only to be in the same spot I was fifteen minutes ago.

I have not been able to figure out why these things exist, except to deprive me of about half of my bath water.

It's in case you accidentally leave the water running, so the water has a place to drain off, you may be mentally suggesting.

My answer to that would be (if you were, in fact, suggesting, which you probably aren't), No way; the drain-to-fill ratio is heavily stacked in Fill's favour, and the water would end up overflowing anyway. Not even the unreasonably low placement of the drain would give any added benefit to that scenario.

It's for the babies! The babies could turn the water back on, and they'd drown if that drain wasn't there.

My answer, again, is the comparatively poor drain rate. If some neglectful parent were to leave their baby alone in the tub long enough for the water to over flow, that drain wouldn't save the kid. And shame on you, Theoretical Neglectful Parent, for supplanting watchful parenting with badly-conceptualized household fixtures!

What about the people who fall asleep in the tub? They could drown if the water level was too high!

This may be true, but it's one of the risks we knowingly undertake when we make the decision to plead with Calgon to take us away. Someone could just as easily drown in half a tub of water as a fully one, I'd be willing to bet; especially as small as my tub is. A full tub in my house is a rather idle threat.

One day, I'm going to find a way to plug it up (thus far, saran wrap, plastic bags, silly putty, and press-n-seal have proved to be ineffective measures). Then I will bathe in fully-submerged, baby-endangering, potentially-drownable bliss. It's gonna be. . . well, blissful.

Snippet From My Day #8


He loves lemon rice soup and orders it anytime we eat at Paragon; today was no exception. The waitress returned with his soup and plunked it down in front of him while he was preparing his coffee. She turned to me for my order.

Waitress: What'll it be?

Me: I'll have the melting pot skillet, but could you replace the American cheese with mozzarella?

I hate American cheese.

Waitress: Sure can! How do you take your eggs?

Me: Scrambled.

Waitress: Toast?

Me: Wheat, buttered.

She turned to Jim for his order, and for once, he was the one scouring the menu with indecision. He flapped his sugar packets back and forth, forcing their contents to the other end of the tiny envelope they dwell in, and made his decision.

Jim: I'll have the Confederate skillet.

Waitress: How do you take your eggs?

He tore open the sugar packets, completely bypassed his coffee and upended them directly into his soup. Without missing a beat, he nonchalantly began scooping ruined soup out of his bowl onto its accompanying saucer.

Jim: Uh, scrambled. Rye toast, buttered.

I blinked at him. Was he trying to play this off?!

Me: Did you just dump sugar in your soup?!

He glared at me.

Jim: Yes. Yes, I did.

Waitress: Oh, I'll get you another bowl! You can't eat that one, it won't taste right!

Jim: . . . thanks.

He looked like he wanted to crawl into a crack in his vinyl booth seat. I snickered at his discomfiture- this is the sort of gracelessness he usually gives me shit for. The waitress departed to retrieve his cup of do-over.

Me: I'm telling everyone. I'm sending a mass text right. now.

He whipped out his phone and waved it menacingly at me.

Jim: I'll text first and tell everyone you did it. You know they'll believe me, and your text will just make you look bitter.

It was true. Everyone would believe him, and to make matters worse, he texts much faster than I do. Reluctantly, I lowered my weapon, and he resheathed his. But that's alright, I have a secret weapon he has no defense against: a blog.

Jesus May Or May Not Be The Reason For The Season, But. . .


I was out yesterday, shopping for Christmas cards. I LOVE sending Christmas cards! It usually takes me several days of careful shopping and comparisons involving pictures of packages taken with my cell phone, labeled with the store I found the contender for the title of Christie's Christmas Card of the Year; and possibly stashing a contender in an unrelated department (if it happens to be the last of the package) while I take my time deciding if it'll make the leap from Runner Up to First Place. Once I decide, I buy pens with ink that match the card, and I buy envelope sealers that complement the card inside, and I even get complimenting address labels.

Yup, I'm obsessive about sending the perfect Christmas card.

Here are several criteria a package of cards must meet in order to be considered worthy of the 44 cent badge it'll eventually wear on its way to my loved ones:

* Size matters! I don't usually have a whole lot to say in my cards (hard to believe, right?), and nothing emphasizes that lack like a big ole card full of unused writing space. That's right, I like my cards small. So I'm looking for something around the size of a printed photo (what're those, 4 x 6?).

* The design must be simple; austere, even. I hate busy cards.

* The design can't feature anything religious. No manger scenes, no fish, no doves, no baby Jesuses, no wise men. . . you get the idea. Those usually fall under "busy" anyway.

* No funny! I've got nothing against funny cards. I like receiving them just fine, but for some reason, I just don't like buying or sending them.

* The message inside can't be religious. I'm not a religious person, and that just feels like hypocrisy.

* The message must be simple. Nobody reads all those lengthy, long-winded cards anyway. Let's face it- they're just looking for the check.

* The message MUST reference Christmas.

This last criterion's the meat and bones of the problem I encountered yesterday. I found lots of wishes for the happiness of the season, lots of season's greetings, stupid numbers of warm holiday wishes, various encouragements to enjoy the holiday season, happy holidayses, happy holiday seasonses, blah blah blah. Holidays, seasons, and holiday seasons, my friends! Very few cards outside the religious category actually said CHRISTMAS!

Now, I think I already mentioned that I am not a religious person, and yes, I'm well aware of the Christian connotation of the word "Christmas". But doesn't "Happy Holidays" just sound so dry and generic? And how many of us actually grew up saying "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings" to one another?! If there are any, I'm sure yall're in the minority; if one of my third grade class mates had said that shit to me, I'd have likely stuck a Kick Me sign on his/her back at the earliest opportunity. Say it out loud to someone today- I guarantee you'll feel and sound like a complete tool.

Most of us who celebrate December 25th grew up saying "Merry Christmas". So why is it slowly becoming more difficult to find a damn Christmas card that says Merry Christmas, and does NOT feature a manger scene or a lamb or a blue-cloaked lady holding a beatific baby? Let's hear it, Hallmark! I'm all ears!

99 Things


I haven't blogged in a bit, and I figured this would be a nice way to ease back into it. I found it on my dear, dear friend's blog, Amelioration. Check her out! You'll love her, i promise :)So this is a list of 99 things that someone, somewhere came up with that they'd like to do over the course of their life. I need the motivation, and it was a nice trip down memory lane, too. My accomplishments are crossed out. 1. Started your own blog2. Slept under the stars3. Played in a band4. Visited Hawaii5. Watched a meteor shower6. Given more to charity than you could afford to.7. Been to Disney8. climbed a mountain9. Held a praying mantis10. Sung a solo11. Bungee jumped12. Visited Paris13. Watched a thunder and lightning storm14. Taught yourself an art from scratch I'm working on crochet :D Fuck off, it IS an art.15. Adopted a child My dog is my baby.16. Had food poisoning17. Walked to the top of the statue of liberty life18. Grown your own vegetables I'm a home-owner. . . i should be doing this now.19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France20. Slept on an overnight train Chicago to Reno. Yeah!21. Had a pillow fight22. Hitch hiked23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill Doing that today!24. Built a snow fort25. Held a lamb26. Gone skinny dipping27. Run a marathon28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice29. Seen a total eclipse30. Watched a sunrise or sunset31. Hit a home run32. Been on a cruise33. Seen Niagara Falls in person34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors35. Seen an Amish community36. Taught yourself a new language I learned German by playing with the neighborhood kids.37. had enough money to be truly satisfied38. Seen the leaning tower of Pisa in person39. Gone rock climbing We didn't set out with the specific intention of rock climbing, but it ended up happening anyhow.40. Seen Michelangelo’s David in person41. Sung karaoke =/42. Seen old faithful erupt43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant44. Visited Africa45. Walked on a beach by moonlight46. Been transported in an ambulance47. Had your portrait painted Mum did mine and my sister's when we were little.48. Gone deep-sea fishing49. Seen the Sistine chapel in person50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling52. Kissed in the rain53. Played in the mud54. Gone to a drive-in theater55. Been in a movie56. Visited the great wall of china57. Started a business58. Taken a martial arts class59. Visited Russia60. Served at a soup kitchen61. Sold girl scout cookies62. Gone whale watching63. Gotten flowers for no reason64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma65. Been sky diving66. Visited a concentration camp67. Bounced a check68. Flown in a helicopter69. Saved a favorite childhood toy70. Visited the Lincoln memorial71. Eaten caviar72. Pieced a quilt73. Stood in times square74. Toured the Everglades75. Been fired from a job76. Seen the changing of the guard in London77. Broken a bone78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle79. Seen the grand canyon in person80. Published a book81. Visited the Vatican82. Bought a brand new car83. Walked in Jerusalem84. Had your picture in the newspaper85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on new year’s eve86. Visited the white house87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating88. Had chickenpox89. Saved someone’s life90. Sat on a jury91. Met someone famous92. Joined a book club93. Gotten a tattoo94. Had a baby95. Seen the Alamo in person96. Swam in the great salt lake97. Been involved in a law suit98. Owned a cell phone99. Been stung by a bee There're quite a few things on this list that i have absolutely no interest in [...]




Jim: Omg, Angie thinks she can beat me at risk!

Me: I know, she told me :D

Jim: She'll be a quivering heap after the crushing beatdown she receives :P

Me: Lmao! Imma be the divisive force of shifting alliances. You'll both bow before my might.

Jim: Omg no you aren't, you're going to be Switzerland

Me: Or will I?!

Jim: Aieeeee, I'll go Kamchatka on you two!

Me: Oh, what ever! Imma be all terrorist on your ass when i take over Afghanistan and Irkutsk!

Jim: You guys are doomed. I'll sweep in from Asia.

Me: Pssh. Dream on, Genghis Kahn.

Jim: Haha, this should be fun :D

Me: Yer goin' down-down. In a lelliloorah.

Jim: I'll be your number one. With a bullet.


Dear Makers of Fat Girls' Clothing,


I'm not much of a shopper; jeans and tshirts comprise about 85% of my wardrobe, with the remaining 15% being undies, socks, pajama bottoms, and one skirt with dust so thick it'd be more like an excavation than merely taking it out of the closet.

But then my stepspawn went and decided to graduate after all, so I had to show up in something nice-ish. I knew this meant a shopping trip, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I mean, it's been years since last I set foot in an actual clothing store.

So five hours before he was due to fall asleep in front of the valedictorian giving a speech nobody would give a rat's ass about, I hit up a few purveyors of plus size clothing (yeah, yeah, lose weight blah blah blah. Shut up. I'm working on it, and I've got to wear something in the mean time). It was the most ghastly experience I've had in quite a long time, and not just because I dislike browsing around and trying on clothes. So I've put together a few questions and helpful hints for you of the Plus Size Clothing Industry:

* Who told you guys that us fat chicks want all of our shirts made out of t-shirt material?! Printed jersey shirts, floral jersey shirts, button down jersey shirts, "dressy" jersey shirts! I mean, a few of those shirts could've been really nice had they been made out of a nice linen or silk or satin. . or even burlap, for chrissakes. So helpful suggestion for the future: consider different fabrics when your instinct tells you your target demographic would just LOVE another chance at wearing quasi-tshirts.

* I saw some really cute blouses in the smaller sizes, and the same style of shirt was available in plus size. But somehow, you thought instead of that nice, tasteful solid colour with the embroidery around the neck and sleeves that we'd prefer huge flowers and paisleys and god-knows-what-else that was supposed to be. Newsflash! Busy print does NOT make us look thinner! It doesn't even distract from it. Nope, wearing it just makes a person think, "Oh, here comes another fat girl wearing a huge printed shirt. Who does she think she's trying to kid?! Floral prints don't hide a second chin!" Seriously, guys, fat girls have tasteful fashion sense, too. The only reason we wear that crap is it's the only thing we can find. So instead of splurging on a whole different fabric for fat girl shirts, just use the same stuff you used on the skinny girl shirt and make it bigger.

* With it being summer, it's hard as hell to find a shirt that isn't sleeveless. Why not throw a little sleeve on it? It doesn't have to be long, mind you, but you have to know that nobody wants to see these ham hock upper arms of mine. Provide them with a bit of cover-up, please! You can still be summery with a little sleeve. And the spaghetti straps? Come on. That's just uncalled for.

We'd like the opportunity to be just as cute wearing your clothing as that size 2 bitch shopping next to us while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing us with distaste. I hope you'll take these suggestions into consideration, and pass them on to the department most appropriate for effecting these tasteful changes. I'm not advocating completely doing away with the things you're making now! But with the addition of some alternatives, you'll find a wider variety of satisfied consumers, myself among them.

Christie Love.

*Insert Excuse Here*


Okie, seriously, I've been crazy-busy with trying to relocate a nuclear pharmacy (you have NO idea what kind of red tape that involves), my pottery class, my ceramics class, Mrs. C's blogging challenge (which is over, and I won *yay*), Weight Watchers, trying to get more exercise into my life, getting over being sick, and spending more time with my husband and my stepchild, who will be gone in another couple of months.

The end result of all this is I've got about five or six weeks worth of unread blogs, that I do have every intention of reading! It'll be slow, but I'll catch up.

Then my next priority is you, Ang! I WILL get my reading and blogging project blog done this week if it fucking kills me. I really don't think it will, though, I'm just being dramatic.

Ashes To Ashes


I sat on the curbside with the EMT's blanket wrapped around my shoulders, thinking about how stupid it was to try to warm a person who's just been pulled from a fire. Heat was the last thing I needed. Tears streaked my face- real tears, shed by smoke-and-ash-stung eyes, providing the perfect appearance of sorrowful shock at losing everything we owned. Well, everything I owned. After all, I was the survivor.I savored the sight of the fire, watching the flames lick at the timber of the beautiful home it was greedily devouring. It was so easy to throw it all away- the designer furniture, the expensive private collections of art and wine, the clothing. . . the appearance of a perfect life. So easy to destroy that facade forever. I closed my eyes and replayed the night's events in my head.***After paying his black-haired stripper whore to deliver the divorce papers, I went home to play the jilted, wounded wife. I knew he'd come crawling back to me, telling me it was nothing, that she meant nothing to him."It's too bad you decided to risk our marriage over nothing," I had flung back at him, surprised at how easy it was to summon up the anger I thought had died with my love for this pathetic piece of shit philanderer. I suppose I was angry, in my own way- no woman wants to lose her man to rented pussy. And what kind of idiot did he take me for?! I watched him spend money and time on this common street trash three times a week for a year. I listened to him lie to me about working late, weekends out of town on "business", expenses for "client entertainment"; he thought he was so fucking smart. I stifled a smile as I wondered how that was working out for him now. Being smart, that is.Predictably, he groveled. He apologized, he promised it was over. He swore he'd change if only I wouldn't leave. Pretending to believe that bullshit almost made me physically sick. Affecting joy at being presented with the gift I knew he bought for HER for their one year anniversary fortified me for what I knew I had to do. He slipped the fifteen carat diamond choker around my neck, and I tried not to recoil from his touch or the garishness of the trinket. Then he went down to the cellar to bring up some wine.He poured a vintage merlot into two balloon glasses and toasted the "rebirth" of our marriage. I raised my glass and smiled my brightest, most doe-eyed smile and sipped my wine, relishing the way its dryness took my breath away. We talked of the changes we'd make, the things we'd do, and I promised to call my lawyer first thing in the morning to tell him we'd healed our breach. The wine flowed like liquid love, and we drank.Rather, he drank. I drank enough to be appropriately tipsy, but not enough to dull my wits. It didn't take long for him to pass out since he'd had so much to drink during his "breakup" with the hired cunt. I shook him vigorously, and he didn't wake. I called my neighbor, slurring my request for assistance with putting him in bed; it was a request I hadn't made in quite some time, but it was frequent enough at one point that he came over right away, wearing his best sympathetic look. I giggled my sodden embarrassment at our overindulgence, and he Neverminded and Not At All'ed me all the way to our bedroom. I tripped over the stairs frequently enough that he planted me on my butt and then returned for me once he'd deposited my husband on the bed. He nestled me close and gently laid me on the bed next to my sn[...]

Sweet Revenge


She eased herself down the pole, gripping it loosely in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. She never took her eyes off of him. She focused on him like he was the only man in the room, and for her, he might as well have been. Other men surrounded the stage, whistling at her and waving dollar bills, but she studiously ignored them like so much rabble. Rather than daunting them, her lack of attention to these curs scrabbling at her feet like dogs over a raw filet mignon seemed to intensify their hunger for her. Soon, she knew, they'd start throwing their money at her, desperate for a glance; anything to show she knew they existed.Of course, she'd leave them disappointed.Kneeling at the bottom of the pole, she slowly extended her arm and leaned back, spreading her knees wide and grinding against the metal warmed by her ministrations. She dropped her gaze from him, hoping to draw him closer or entice him into a private dance. She could go out and offer herself, but she knew this would curb the thrill a bit, and she didn't want that.She pushed herself down on her belly with her knees still splayed. She threw her head back and dragged her hair forward across her masterfully arched back, rocking forward onto her hands and knees and looking up at a vacant seat. She smiled a little to herself, but maintained her mask of slightly aloof unattainability. She didn't rush into looking for him, but let the beat of the bad music drive her languid movements as she inched back up the pole, dragging it between the perfectly rounded cheeks of her voluptuous ass. The dogs howled and clamored for scraps of her attention, and she continued to deny them.There. He hadn't moved forward, but back toward the private entertainment rooms. She crowed inwardly with triumph, knowing he'd ask for her. Her song was almost at an end and she was impatient to go back and spruce up for him. She had a special surprise for her favourite regular, and she couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he opened it. Unable to contain her impatience, she boldly strode off the stage a full fifteen seconds before her song ended. She left the dogs' paltry tributes littered across the stage, completely uninterested in their pitiful offerings. How dare they think they could buy her affection for singles?! Surely even with their less-than-towering standards, they could see that she was worth so much more. . . and if they couldn't, ah, well. Not one flick of tongue across her plump lips would they receive.She was repairing the minor smudges in her makeup when she was summoned. She nodded her acknowledgement and put the finishing touches on her wardrobe. She topped it off with a semi-sheer red drape that set her black waves off like a dark, starless night sky. She adjusted her bustier, making sure it revealed nothing before she was ready, and made her way to the room. She stood outside the small window, looking at him through the two-way glass. He was slouching casually on the wide, over-sized round ottoman she preferred to perform on. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cowboy hat sat slightly forward on his head, casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the glass. She smiled at him, knowing he felt the intensity of her gaze. His manner was easy, relaxed, but she could smell his impatience. He hated to wait. She glanced up at the bouncer who would stand outs[...]



Dear Unnamed Recipient of This Letter,Let's skip the preamble and just dive right into this, shall we? I'm well aware that you think we suck. All we do is hold you back from doing the things you want (and deserve- are entitled to, even!) to be doing. But here's something you've probably never considered: you're not the most awesome person to be around, either. This may come as a surprise to you, as you seem to think that in spite of your habit of looking down on everyone else, we all put you up on some secret pedestal to admire, or maybe envy. Certainly to admire. So let me kick that pedestal right out from under your feet (don't worry, it only exists in your mind anyway).* Sure, you're smart. You think critically, and to some extent, you understand the things that are important to you. Unfortunately, this understanding grinds to a halt at your own opinions. You make NO attempt whatsoever at trying to understand things from someone else's perspective, and instead try to brow-beat them into agreeing with you. This has two interesting side effects:a. It makes you a hypocrite. Funny, huh? Because I know how you like to spout off about how everyone's so hypocritical. You know, all those stupid Christians who just stuff their opinions down your throat and won't listen to your thoughts? Sounding familiar yet? b. It makes you closed-minded. It just keeps getting funnier, doesn't it? Because I know how open minded you THINK you are.But I digress. Anyway, back to being smart- your moderate intellect makes you arrogant to the point where it's just painful to be around you sometimes. I don't understand why it isn't enough for you to be smart. Why do you need everyone else to be stupid? Why do you have to engage in these sarcastic, technicality-driven arguments? It doesn't make you look smarter than you are, and it doesn't make the person you're inflicting this torment on stupid. It just makes you an asshole.* About being an asshole. I know that's something you like to fall back on; I hear you use it as a defense mechanism ("You knew I was an asshole! I told you that when we first met"), as a way to deflect- without actually acknowledging- defeat ("Fine, you're right and I'm the asshole"), and as a badge of honor ("Yeah, I know, I'm an asshole"). But it isn't really any of these things. It's just a trait, like your brown hair, or the fact that you're tall, only it isn't the big asset you think it is. It doesn't make you edgy or cool, or make people secretly wish they could be like you. It just makes you. . . well, an asshole.* Your sense of entitlement frequently leaves me in enraged speechlessness. Somehow, because life didn't work out the way you thought it was going to, WE owe you something? Sorry, it doesn't work like that. Here's what we owe you: food on your plate, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, medical treatment, and a means to remain hygienic and healthy. Here's what we do NOT owe you: a car, insurance for that car, rides out of state to see your long distance friends, permission to come and go as you please, a steady stream of entertainment, pocket money, a fridge full of microwavable food (so that you don't have to be bothered with putting effort into feeding yourself when you don't like what I've prepared), trust (that you continue to abuse at every opportunity), and a wide variety of other things that I could drone on about,[...]