No More Jive Turkey

My grandmother raised me. She taught me to walk, to talk, to potty, to cook, to eat, to pray and to love. I remember racing across the room to jump in her chair and declare myself the winner (she let me win every time). I remember every silly superstition (don't split poles with people you love!). I remember every family tradition (always take a broom, a dollar, and a loaf of bread to your new house). I remember every secret recipe (rice pudding, anyone?).

I remember her holding my hand and walking me to school. I remember her helping me with my homework, mostly by reading the instructions out loud. I remember every after school treat. I remember her teaching me about love, life, and morals by way of "The Young and The Restless", "The Bold and The Beautiful", and "Another World".

I remember the late night conversations about boys. I remember the hand-written letters and personally selected cards. I remember every hug and every encouraging word. I remember how often she told me that I made her proud.

I remember when she got breast cancer. I remember when she chose to have a double mastectomy. I remember caring for her that whole summer. I remember the way she cried when she tried to thank me aloud. I remember the hug and kiss were enough.

I remember how hard she worked to care for her father at the end. I remember how frail he looked, how weak he was, and how hard she cried when he finally died. I remember walking with her to his grave every year to take him flowers.

I remember the day they took her driver's license. I remember the day I noticed her hair was all gray. I remember the first time I saw her fall. I remember having to convince her to leave her home so she could be somewhere safe.

My Gramma is dying and the thought that there won't be anything else to remember is too much to bear.

To My Future Self

I got this idea from Andrea over at a cake for a wife. It’s important that I am honest here and if something I say here offends you then my only suggestion is that you stop reading and move forward with your life.

I had a dream a few nights ago. It started out with me entering a small restaurant with no way for me to get to my final destination. Before I could mope about the unfairness of it all, one of Mrs.G’s bridesmaids, Madison and her friend come in and offer me a ride. I’m trying to get to this hotel where I’ll be getting married (finally!). We get there and it’s a huge circle. We can’t figure out how to get to the entrance or even where it is! So Madison drives her car across the grounds and on to the runway that I will be strutting down the very next day. I climb into a window and into my Bridal Room.

My gown is there (and it’s Ab-Fab even though it’s not something I would pick out for myself; too couture-y). Anyways, I’m in this room and I set all my stuff down and start looking for a way to get to the front desk. This room is just one massive circle. The crazy part is that between every Bridal Suite is a Groom’s Chambers. I check inside each and every one looking for an exit to the main lobby. I even walk in on one unsuspecting groom as he steps from the shower, but still I’m at a lost. I finally lie down in the center and fall to sleep.

The next morning when I awake, I go into my Bridal Suite and climb out of the very same window. There are people everywhere bustling around prepping for the massive number of wedding that will be taking place. I also see my ex-personal trainer. He’s there with his wife and he’s dressed e x a c t l y like her. Exactly. Same skinny jeans. Same fuchsia top. Same honey-blonde hair crimped to hell and teased to the sky (here’s hoping his was a wig).

We engage in small talk. “What are you doing here?”, “Me too!”, “That’s so sweet.”, “I love how you two match each other.”, “Haha! That’s such a cute idea.” I walk away and over hear someone ask Trainer, “How do you know Jen?” and he says, “I’m a personal trainer. I used to train her but you can’t tell”. It broke my heart in my dreams, it breaks my heart now.

So, I’m writing these things to my Future Skinny Self. These ten things are vastly important and a must read for the new sexy me. Here goes…


1. Nobody is watching you.

It’s important that I help you understand that other people have lives too. Sure, they’re not as interesting as yours. I completely agree that they could benefit from having you as a compadre, however, while you are wasting precious minutes stressing about that distant whisper, fleeting glance, or muffled giggle, they are doing exactly what you should be doing; living their lives.

2. You are not alone but you can’t wait on “them” to get your real life started either.

I (fat you) always had the ability but not the mental strength to keep at it alone. But you (skinny me) are stronger than that. You’re here now because of what you were willing to do on your own. So, pick up your bag, grab your keys and go already! I don’t know where and I really don’t care but just go. You’ll thank me for it later.

3. You weren’t as bad as you could have been.

With a family history of cancer and heart disease, not to mention your own cancer scares; one would think that I wouldn’t even be here to write you this letter. But they are wrong because we are blessed.

4. You were worst than you should have been.

I watched the scale climb and every added pound was an added weight to our shoulders. We know better and quite frankly, we are too fucking fabulous to look like this. I mean, a “bread basket”? Really? What the hell, dude? Not to mention the awkwardness that is reverse cowgirl.

5. Being so overweight was not okay and it was not normal

The sweating behind the knees, the muffin top in the jeans, the lethargy; these are bad signs. You know it. I know it. My knees know it. You have the body I haven’t seen since college. You are the way that we are supposed to be. It took a long time to get there; let’s not lose it again, ok?

6. It was an eating disorder.

The way you perceive food is all mental. It all started the first time you were told to finish all the food on your plate. It continued when you were treated with food for celebrations and in heartache. You need to understand that this is the only addiction from which you cannot abstain. You must have food to continue to live, but now that we’ve put it into perspective, I order you to use it only to nourish your body and never your soul. You think that those chips are going to taste soooooooooooo gooooooooood and then you look in the mirror and they bring you down again. Do you know how many times you’re going to regret NOT having cake or cookies or candy or pasta? Not one.

7. You can continue to cook/eat/live/be healthy.

I know that you know how to do it because you had to do it to look as good as you do. Just keep it up. What we’ve got going here is a way of life. Don’t stop. Now that we’ve got your body, I never want mine back.

8. It was worth the journey.

I know it was a long, hard, lonely road to travel but now that it’s done, don’t you feel much better? Can’t you breathe better? Don’t you love going into every store knowing that you can try anything on? Aren’t you sure that guy is checking out your ass? Yes, Yes, and Yes!

9. The healing will begin when you allow it to.

I have many scars. I have a tendency to hold on to everything for forever. You have the power to change that.

10. Don’t be a slut.

Remember Freshman Year in college when we lived in an off-campus apartment on “Frat Row” with THREE SENIORS? Yeah, let’s not live like that anymore.

Thankful Thursday

I wasn't in the mood to be thankful last week. I'm not really in the mood to be thankful today either. Just know that I'm faking this harder than a GILF. Yeah, I went there... GILF. Think about it. They don't really wanna be there. They're all old and crunchy. Except for Betty White, of course. She's just a little dusty.*



But all-in-all, I'm making this list of things that I'm thankful for.



Wanna read it? Here't goes.

• time - I know this sounds silly but knowing that I can never get it back makes each moment so precious


• vacation time - I won't get to spend mine doing anything except sleeping, drooling, writhing in pain and riding in a car for 8 hours each way, but hey! I'm getting paid to do it. Right? Eh...


• pay checks - God knows I need mine and don't know what I would do without a regular one


• menstrual cycles - it's a little reminder from Jesus that I'm not pregnant


• Excedrin PMS - it keeps me from cuttin' a bitch.


• candles - *deep breaths*


• nosey neighbors - if I ever really am in trouble, I know that they'll be able to correctly identify the perpetrator.


• fuckin' Emo, long-hair-dyeing, fake-blood-making, skinny-jean-wearing, off-key-singing, no-talent-having, sommabitches that move back in with your downstairs neighbor - because you are an exercise in patience.

*If you had to click on the link to get the joke then the joke's on you because that is the best skit of this season! If, like me, you clicked on the link because you will use any excuse to relive that moment, well then... you're alright.

Paranoia Sets In

There's nothing I like more than getting packages in the mail. I actually have one waiting for me right now as I type:

Jun 7, 2010 9:49 AM
Delivered
In the Middle, OH
Left at front door. Signature Service not requested.

I am as giddy as a 16-year-old boy preparing to get his first blow job. This is the kind of excitement that you just can't manufacture. I mean, yes, I ordered the items and yes, I knew they were coming but you must understand two things. 1) These are BRAND NEW something-somethings that I just had to have and have been waiting (semi-) patiently for and 2) They are finally here! There's the anticipation of finally getting to hold my package. Then I get to rip it open. I'm going to admire my new things and place them accordingly. And finally, my life will feel complete because I have these new things and they just so happened to be the things that I never knew I needed. And that's just with stuff I actually order.

So imagine the state of perpetual orgasm I must live in when surprise packages show up at my door. It's almost too much to bear. That's why the Package Project seemed like such a good fit for me. I would get my very own surprise package created just for me from someone in a mysterious location somewhere in the world.

The problem with this line of thinking and way of living is that I am not, in fact, taking my Grammy's advice. You know the advice. That little thought in the back of your head that says that this is just a ploy for someone to get your personal information so that they can stalk you, come to your house in the dead of night, slay you and then steal your identity.

Whenever this happens, I punt Grammy's voice to the far reaches of the black forest where it can't bother me with its nonsensical logic. But recently, Grammy's voice managed to meander its way back into my head. I mean, What the F*ck, Grammy*!! Because now, I feel like a total douche. Why? Well, words aren't enough.

Do you see what I mean? It's been 11 days since I've given out myyyyyy address and gotten no response from this person. I mean, I just don't understand it. When she (as they presumed to be) first emailed me it was so sweet and endearing. Just a 19-year-old, Australian girl that loves to read and was just as crazy excited about this project as I was. She said that she wanted to know the basics. I told her my age and that we share a love of books. I even told her about my Corgi. I felt as if I could hear her engaging little Aussie accent come through all her messages. So why is it that I feel like I need to be constantly peering over my shoulder looking for a Tom Bundy look-alike?

I'm scared people. I'm afraid that should I actually receive a package it will contain standard stalker photos of me (ie; me and The Boy, me going to work, me pumping gas, me picking a wedgie). Or an audio tape of all my faked orgasms. Or worst, a pair of ugly shoes that are actually in my size! SSSSSSHHRRRRIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!

I just want to say that if anything bad happens to me, I want this blog to serve as my memorial. Be sure to fill it with tons of crude jokes and penis humor. That's the only way to stay true to my life.

*Please know that I would never talk to my Grammy this way. She's the sweetest, most wonderful Grammy in the whole world. Not to mention she raised me for the whole first half of my life and wouldn't hesitate to put the pimp-hand on me or in other words "fatten my lip".

Update: I received an email from my package partner. It had her mailing address and everything. I'm so excited now because if she does decide to stalk me I can stalk her right back. Ha!The slogan by which I now live my life: Blogging: It gets shit done.