I swear I'm still alive!

It's true!
This thing still works, I'm still toting around my Red Pen, and I am still kicking around on this big 'ole ball of green and blue. But man...life, right? It kind of sneaks up on you. I had so many fantastic intentions to be a weekly blog post writer - I was so gonna WOW you guys! - and then BAM.
It's been 2 years with nary a peep.
So sorry, gentle readers.
I'm not going to bore you with a dissertation on what I've been doing the past two years. Nope. Instead, I'm just going to fast forward to this week. Live in the moment and all that jazz. Hopefully we won't all get whiplash.
Yesterday I participated in my first ever podcast interview. It was fun, caused me no small amount of anxiety, and I tripped over my "Ums" and "Ahs" like the novice I was. Oh, and I stuck my foot in my mouth, and then didn't say things I wish I had. *sigh* It was my first time. I was a podcast virgin.
But no more!
I did it. I survived. And I think I could do it again. For some reason I thought it would be easier to talk to people through a microphone since I wouldn't have to actually see anyone, but just the thought of not having a rewind button had me stuttering and tripping over my words like a horse wearing roller skates. How's THAT for a visual?
I think it's why I prefer the written word. You can type, delete, re-type, delete, add a space...and then you don't press 'Send' until it's perfect. You have time to gather your thoughts, choose the right words, maybe not have such a twangy Southern accent...
Seriously - do I really sound that Southern? You could practically hear the sweet tea coursing through my veins!
Oh, well. That's me - warts and all.
Guys, I hope you have a fantastic week. And if it's another 2 years before I talk to you again, I want you to remember one thing.
You are a bad ass. You can do anything you put your mind to. Don't let anyone tell you differently.

Ah, this is the struggle, right? All my life I've struggled to be comfortable in my own skin, and at the ripe young age of 38, I'm sorry to say I haven't quite gotten there yet. I am optimistic, though! What really puts it into perspective for me is when I see a picture from a year earlier and think to myself, "Man, I really looked great!" But at the time I know I thought my thighs were too big, or my chin(s) were too prominent, or something else equally as disparaging. It's all about perspective, right?

In any event, on the eve of the eve of an upcoming  surgical 'procedure', I'm forced to look at things a little differently. I guess any time you have to be put under sedation, there's that little niggling voice in the back of your head that THIS IS IT. Plus, having to sign all those creepy papers about how you could die and OH BY THE WAY you can't sue us (or your family can't, because, you know, you're dead and whatnot) is a little disturbing.

What I mean to say is this, fellow dear readers and listeners out there: I want you to remember that you are awesome. No, I'm serious! You have cornered the market in being you, just by virtue of being, well, YOU. No one else can do it better. You are a hot commodity in a world where everything changes yet everything stays the same. Love your self. Love your thighs. Love your chin(s). And if anyone doesn't like it, Eff 'em.

The strength and humor of 4 year olds

So, a little update on my little Bobber Da-mayto as he went on his epic Halloween trick-or-treating candy rampage adventure. If you'll recall, I was a little leery of his choice of costume (Bob the Tomato from Veggie Tales). Since Halloween fell during the week, he was able to wear his costume to daycare. He was sufficiently stoked, to say the least. So we walk into daycare, he in his tomato suit and me with a grin on my face, and when we got to his classroom the EXPECTED happened. Well, sort of. He walked into a class filled with little superheroes and princesses and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and suddenly the boys in the class started to make fun of my little tomato. It was just as I feared! I was gripped with an irrational impulse to smack these snarky little four year olds for making fun of my awesome kid. How dare they? Like your little Buzz Lightyear costume is all THAT anyway? Ninja, please. But that's the moment when my little 4 year old tomato taught me a lesson.

The boys were jeering "Look! He's a tomato!"...but instead of getting his feelings hurt and wailing with indignity, my kid straightened his back, looked up, and with his nose high in the air imperiously announced, "Yes. I AM a tomato."

Wow. In that moment, I told myself he was gonna be OK. He saw absolutely nothing in the world wrong with his choice of costume, and was PROUD of what and who he was. And you know what? I watched as those little kids crowded around Bobber Da-mayto and started oohing and ahhing over his costume. His little green stem-hat, his happy Bob the Tomato face on his chest - they were all over it. And there stood my son, proud and excited and happy.

We all have insecurities. Some of us more than others (uh, that would be ME). But I have always tried to not push my insecurities on my son. He'll develop his warped insecurities all on his own, thank you very much, with no help from his neurotic mother. I have never been more proud of him than I was in that moment. Not when he first used a fork, not when he finally mastered the potty, not even when he started putting his dirty clothes in the hamper (although that one was close!). Because this event involved other people. He had to interact with people who were trying to tear him down - but instead, he flipped the script and OWNED that tomato suit.

How many of us can truly say we do that when faced with similar situations? How many can say that they held their head high and proclaimed in a loud voice, "Yes. I AM a tomato."

Kids do say the darndest things, but sometimes they are ridiculously profound.

Keep on rocking, ya'll. 

Ah, October...how do I love thee? Let me count the ways!

I freakin' LOVE October. It's always been my favorite time of the year, and just the idea of October makes me happy. Most of the cool things in my life happen during this month. My wedding (October 7...7 years!), my husband's birthday (October 15), my son's birthday (October 24...4 years old!), the epicness that is Halloween, and basically everything else that is righteous and awesome in this world. I have been described as 'Goth' most of my life, because I do tend to be a little dark at times. Not a BAD kind of dark. I'm not going to wear blood in a locket around my neck or anything. (Thanks a lot, Angelina) But I just kind of prefer the ooky and spooky things of this world. That's why October is my best friend, and I miss it dearly when it's over.

My son loves October too, but for him it's mainly because this month contains his birthday and he knows he's gonna rack up some cool toys. This is the first year he's been able to really and truly pick out his Halloween costume, and I have to say that his choice says a lot about him.

His first Halloween he was a monkey (NEVER has there been a cuter monkey. NEVER.), his second he was Darth Vader (sue me - I'm a Star Wars nerd), and last year he was Wilson the Chuggington train (I was his handy train conductor). But this year I allowed him to have the final say on what his costume would be. We looked at countless websites and characters and found some really cute costumes - pirates, superheroes, monsters - but he chose to be a tomato. That's right.

A tomato.

There is a children's cartoon called 'The Veggie Tales', and one of the characters is - you guessed it - Bob the Tomato. Or as my son pronounces it, "Bobber Damay-to". So in the long list of super cool costumes that we looked at, my kid was more impressed with the idea of being a tomato than anything else. And I'm ashamed to admit that I even tried to talk him out of it! Then I sucked it up and got the silly tomato costume. And I will be his reliable sidekick, the farmer. He told my husband he needed to dress up as a pile of dirt, but I don't think daddy's going for it.

My kid is original. He hasn't gotten to the point where he has to do what his friends are doing, although I know that time is coming quickly. One of his teachers told me last week that she and another teacher were trying to determine what each kid in the class would grow up to be, based on their personalities. She said that they decided my son would be an "eccentric History professor. You know, the kind who shows up to class in full costume, or starts class with a song." At first I thought - soooo....you're saying my 3 year old is eccentric? Does that mean you think he's strange? And then I thought, You know what? My kid is freakin' AWESOME. And I told his teacher that I was proud of him for dancing to the beat of his own drum.

Conformity will be coming soon enough. It won't be long before his friends will become the authorities on 'all that is cool', and he won't have a single independent thought in his head.

But for now, at least, my strange little eccentric kid is going to be a tomato - and I love him for it.

Don't hide your inner Bobber Damay-to. Embrace your eccentricities, because without them, we'd be a bunch of boring assholes.

Happy October, ya'll.

Busy is the new HAPPY

WOW! It has been an incredibly long time since I've written a blog post! So many exciting things going on, and they are all demanding my complete and utter devotion and attention! I kinda wish I could clone myself, but then I think to myself that NOBODY wants that. I mean, can you imagine? Multiple Stacys running around with snarky attitudes and to-die-for matching zombie Cameo rings? No thank you, sister. Sell it somewhere else.

So. Back to my original rambling. No need to go off on a completely separate ramble...again, NOBODY wants that. So in my regular day job I've been put on two very large, very important projects. I've been on one of them since late 2012, and it takes up about 80% of my time. So to take up my remaining 20% of time, the powers that be decided to put me on another project. Except it's just a teensy weensy bit more than 20%, so now I've found myself working nights and weekends just to catch up. But this too, shall pass, and I am thankful that at least someone  wants me to work with them!

Also, in my part-time job as Red Pen editor extraordinaire, my lovely authors are gearing up for their release dates this Fall and Winter. I've been working with one for the past month, and we are working on the last pass at revisions before she releases in September. Then all hell will break loose. Because after Nichole's, I have 4 other authors I'm working with, on 7 more books! DANG! It's good, because I love these women and the work they provide. But DANG, I keep circling back around to the whole cloning-me-thing. Which, again -- NOBODY wants. Well, except maybe me. Oh, and my little boy. He would LOVE multiple mommies all scurrying around to fetch him milk and Babybel cheeses.

But hey -- being busy makes me HAPPY. I don't know how to not be busy. I actually tried to relax this past weekend, and it lasted for about 10 minutes before I had to stop and start working again. Part of me just felt guilty that there was so much to do, yet I was trying to lounge in my hammock with a book. How dare me! My son will be turning 4 in October, and planning for those festivities are in full swing. (An 'Under the Sea' theme - thank you for asking!) So I'm making decorations and painting pictures for his room and picking out invitations and planning menus and.....man. I get tired just listing it out!

Plus the fact that we moved to a new house in February of this year, and I'm still trying to get it 'right'. New shingles in March, and new gutters are being put on as we speak. My kitchen is a horror, but at least it's still functional. Ugh - but there is wallpaper and border everywhere! And not pretty stuff, either. So in a fit of Martha Stewartness last week, I decided to peel off all the border in my bedroom. Now I have a strip of white adhesive back running along each of the 4 walls, that I will NOW have to remove with a sponge and some dishsoap.

And don't get me started on my snake story from this past weekend. Let's just say that I reached in my bag of potting soil to get a handful of dirt, and almost got a handful of snake instead. YES. Those earsplitting squeals you heard were coming from ME. 

So. The reason I'm sharing this with all of you, my closest confidantes, is because YES, I am busy. But I'm never too busy for you! Try to take some time for yourself, even if it's just 10 minutes of stolen time in the hammock. Plant some flowers in your yard, but try to avoid bags that move. They may have wiggly things in them.

Until next time -- stay positive, and stay fabulous.

The end of innocence....HA! Who am I kidding?

So I just had a birthday.
I'm not afraid to admit how old I am -- I just turned 36. It's amazing how many people are hung up about their age, and to that I say BRING IT. Sure beats the alternative, right? So many people try to force their hang-ups about age on me ("turning 29 again, huh?"), and I just don't understand why people are so reticent about aging.

Aging.

It even sounds bad! Aging doesn't mean that I'm automatically going to wear rolled-down support hose and start getting my hair permed at the beauty shop. (Although I totally could, and I would ROCK it.)
I see age as a badge of honor.

I love the laugh lines around my face - it means I've had 36 years full of merriment and general nonsensery. I love the crinkle lines around my eyes - it means that I've been able to turn my face to the sun and squint in the brightness. I don't even mind the lines in my hands. I remember as a child holding my grandmother's hand, and marveling at how 'bumpy' they were, with all the veins and whatnot. But I knew that her hands were full of wisdom, they were full of hardships, they were full of experience. I remember wondering about all of the things her hands had done over the years, all the apple turnovers she'd made, (OMG - that woman's apple turnovers were the most AH-MAZING thing I have ever tasted! But, I digress.) all the lace she had tatted, all the quilts she'd put together from scraps of old clothes. The point IS.....

What's the point, again?
The point IS - growing older is a blessing, not a curse. Every year I'm alive is, well, another year I'm alive. Another year I can be amazing.
I still look forward to my birthdays, even though they are a little more disappointing now than the ones I remember from my childhood. There are no silly cone-shaped hats, no parties with streamers, and no unicorn rides.
OK, so maybe I've never actually had a unicorn ride - but wouldn't that be FREAKIN' AWESOME??? (Note to self: get ON that. Stat.)
I do enjoy planning outrageous birthday parties for my little boy, who will turn 4 this year. (Here is my latest Pinterest board for his party this year....yep.) I go way overboard, and I totally get why some people think I'm just a plain 'ole weirdo for going all out the way I do.
But birthdays are supposed to be awesome! You remember that feeling, don't you? And if he goes the way of most people, pretty soon he'll be thinking birthdays are a drag, too. And his mother is embarassing. (I can only dream!!)
But until then, I will celebrate, just like Madonna.

Quiet mouth, LOUD mind

I am a serial tongue-biter.

I don't think this is a bad thing, necessarily, because it has prevented me from getting fired/divorced/deported on many, many occasions. Many, MANY occasions. There's something to be said for practicing that much restraint, and sometimes I'll even reach over and give myself a little pat on the back. And if I pat myself a little too hard because of the anger that has built up in my little 5'2" frame, then so be it.
Oh, but then there are the TIMES. You know the ones. The times when it is physically painful for you not to utter those words. And it doesn't make you proud of yourself at all when you choose not to say them.

I am a peace keeper.

Goes right along with being a serial tongue-biter.

Sometimes, to keep the peace, you have to bite your tongue, hold it in, clamp off the 'ole mouth geyser. Ugh, but that is so hard! And sometimes, it's wholly unnecessary. I always wonder what people would think if I actually said all of the things that run through my head. Some of it is not pretty....and some of it is just plain ridiculous. (My mind wanders a lot) I tend to try to avoid arguments whenever possible, because once those hurtful words are out, there's no reeling them back in. People can forgive, but they will never forget. Those words are immortalized and branded into their heads, and no amount of Haagen Dazs ice cream can repair it.

My dysfunctional mind relies on two techniques:

1) Humor, and 2) Silence. I use humor to deflect all kinds of behaviors and situations, and that started at a pretty young age. I was a goofy lookin' kid, so humor got me out of more than one altercation with a potential bully. (Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't) Also, I grew up in a house plagued by alcoholism, so sometimes humor helped to distract the house from the imploding activity in the front room.

Silence...now this came later, when I figured out that sometimes no matter what you said, certain people weren't going to listen anyway. My head is safe - no one can get me in there. Of course, looking back, I realize that this is a pretty effed-up way to be. I think in a healthy world, we can all speak our minds * in a tactful way* and still be heard, still be listened to, still be taken seriously.

Unfortunately, I don't think we're in a healthy world. Not yet, anyway.

So I retreat. And retreat. And retreat.

Social anxiety, you devilish hosebeast.

So I guess I should start out by saying that I went on a trip last week. An author friend and I attended a book convention in an exotic location called Nashville, TN, to network and sell books and generally see what's UP in the writing world.

<-- Yep, that really happened.

It was our very first book convention, and we had no clue what to expect. We were one of the lucky ones, and were able to snag a table to set up our wares on. The place was absolutely packed - fangirls (and some fanboys) everywhere. We actually had to *GASP* speak to people.

It wasn't that bad, and I think I was able to hide a lot of my social anxiety as long as I was at the table and talking to people as they came up to check out the books. It was the times when I didn't have the security of my table when I began to feel the stirrings of panic. All around me there were people hugging and laughing and engaging in general merriment, and all I could do was gaze stupidly when their gaze managed to slide over me.

I can't say that I've never felt as awkward as I did in those moments, because that's pretty much how I feel all the time. And my author friend is just as socially inept as I am, so instead of one stupid, glassy-eyed stare, there were TWO.

I just couldn't understand it! I mean, it's not like I saw any villagers chasing me with pitchforks and torches. Everyone looked perfectly normal (OK, maybe that's a stretch) and friendly, and it seemed to be a pretty judgment-free zone. So I should have been able to come out of my bubble, right?

Even the simplest exchanges - stuff I'm supposed to just know, because I'm a girl. Girl code. There was an awards ceremony, and everyone dressed up and looked fabulous. Walking into the lobby, we saw a group of girls obviously from the same convention, on the way to the ceremony. They saw us, recognized us, and said, "Oh! I love your dresses!"

That would have been a perfect opportunity to smile back, perhaps throw a "Thank you! And yours is fabulous too!"...maybe engage in some witty, useless banter. You know - bond with other people.

What did we do? Well....not that.

We gave an awkward smile and then got the hell out of there.

As we were walking away, I even told my friend, "OK, we totally blew that. Girl code dictates that we should have stayed there and fawned over their dresses. We just acted weird."

Why does it just come so easily to other people? Those women made lasting friendships that weekend! They were crying when it was time to leave! What did we do?

We skipped the closing ceremonies and got the hell out of there.

Social anxiety, you devilish hosebeast.

Thank you, Marilyn Monroe

Thank you, Marilyn.
I was talking to a friend of mine this week about body types and body images, and I confessed to her that I hate clothes shopping. I am short, and designers don't exactly have ME in mind when they design these beautiful dresses and skirts and, HELL, shirts even.
So I prefer to just shop online, because to go into a store and try on item after item with no success, all the while being shame-mocked by those skinny bitch mirrors with bad lighting overhead....it's just too much for this girl to take.
Now, this friend of mine has a figure I'd give up gummy bears for - very slender, tall (-er than me, which probably isn't really saying much). But I think what impresses me the most is how she puts her clothes together.
Anyway, this lovely person said the kindest thing - where I call myself 'chubby' or 'stumpy', she called me 'curvaceous'. Wow. Talk about 2 sides of a coin -- it's all about body image! Pin-up girls in the 40s and 50s were thicky-thick girls! They had curves and meat on their bones. I thought, 'Well just imagine how happy I would have been with my body type in those days!' But when you think about that - obviously Marilyn got some flack for her body type, even back then...if the comment in the picture above is any indication.
So I continue to struggle, and just hope that bit by bit, step by step, I will eventually come to a place where maybe I could even have a shopping trip to an ACTUAL brick-and-mortar store, and try on clothes without wanting to beat someone with shopping hangers.
Here's hoping!

DANCE OFF!!!

Folks, I have been challenged to a "Dance Off". And anyone who knows me, knows that I MUST dance. There is something in my genetic makeup that makes me wanna shake my bon-bons anytime I hear a funky beat...even if it's just playing in my head.

Now, first let me say that by "dance", it's really more of a shake-around-jump-stomp-fling-the-hair-stick-my-tongue-out-and-wiggle kind of thing. We aren't talking ballet, here. Nothing quite that classy. And I know that I look utterly ridiculous whilst doing the aforementioned dance moves. But hey - no worries, right?

I grew up in a house where I never, not once saw my mother dance. I still haven't. And I've never heard her sing, either. And part of me has always been sad about that fact. My sister is the same way -- she doesn't sing or dance either. I can only assume that I am the possible product of our old mailman, because I never really fit into that household...what, with all my groove-shakin' and tunes-beltin'. I always felt a little stifled, and more than once I caught eye-rolls sent in my direction when I went off on one of my groove fests. But you know what? I kept on doing it.
I am not a good singer. There, I said it.
I am not a good dancer. OK, that one hurts a little :)
I am, however, OK with that. Dancing like a moron makes me happy, all right? And maybe sometimes I like to sing Song Sung Blue by Neil Diamond while doing my best impersonation of a 70s icon...complete with feathered hair and gold chains. So what?

The point is, that it doesn't matter if other people think it's goofy, or if they don't 'get it'. All that matters is that it makes you happy, and maybe gives you a little inner peace. Or at least an outlet to obtain that inner peace.
I have a little boy, and he is 3 years old. I think he is the funniest kid on the planet, and he says I'm his best friend. We.Dance.ALL.the.Time. I mean constantly. Every Friday night we have "dance parties" where we turn music on and dance like goobers in the living room. We typically listen to something Putumayo (if you  haven't discovered this music, GET IT NOW), and we don't understand any of the words because mostly they aren't in English. The point is THE MUSIC. It's pure music, in all its beautiful, enigmatically cultural forms. And now (good, bad, or indifferent) my kid dances ALL THE TIME. The kid has moves I've never even seen before, and he cracks me up. One of his best moves involves him putting his hands on the ground and kicking his leg into the air....I have no clue where he got it, but I may have to incorporate it into my "Dance Off" tonight.
I love that he loves to dance. I don't want him to grow up in a house where it is thought of as being 'weird' or 'ridiculous'.
He also sings. Off-key, warbling, and perhaps he makes up his own words - but he gets no judgment from me. No eye rolls. No twitches. And I usually join in. Because my kid is awesome.
He's probably going to be the weird kid. My husband and I joke that the poor kid doesn't stand a chance, because he and I are both pretty quirky individuals. And I'll be honest with you - in school, sometimes people weren't very nice. Because noone likes someone who is different. But I think that it's not always a bad thing -- it's OK not to be mainstream, and it's OK to not be one of the cool kids.
At first I felt stupid - I cocooned myself into my mind and left myself there to fester. Then, slowly, I started to feel cool in my own head. Until it didn't really matter what anyone else thought. I realized that my mind worked on a different wavelength than most of the people I was around -- family, classmates -- and I learned to be OK with it. It was a long process, and I still have major anxiety issues. But most of the time I deal with it and move on.
I will be attending a "Dance Off" tonight with several ladies I don't really know, alongside my BFF KDay. I am nervous. I am anxious. I don't feel comfortable around new people. But I need to deal with it and move on.
So my plan for the night = Dance my ASS off.
I may get laughed at. I may get made fun of for months to come. But I'll know that it's because they're all secretly jealous of my flawless dance moves and Jhirmack-bounce-back-beautiful-hair.

Superchick....Able to erase my presence from memories in a flash!

I think I am Superman. Er, Superwoman. Girl. Chick.
Or at the very least, I am Clark Kent.
Allow me to explain.
Yesterday I attended a meeting with about 15 people, all of whom I had recently met or worked with in some form or fashion. The lady to my left was someone I had met/spoken with four times previously, and I had to re-introduce myself to her each of those four times. Apparently I don't leave much of an impression. I'm like Invisible Girl. Which would be super handy in real life if it were actually true. Unfortunately, I have yet to find the correct magical radioactive elixir that will fully transform me. Still working on that.
Anyhoo, at this particular meeting (5th time we had met, if you're keeping track) she thrusts her hand out and says, "Hi, I don't think we've met."
Really?
So this time I said, "Yes, we have worked together a few times before. It's nice to see you again."
Do you know what her response was? She said, "Oh yeah, I remember you...your glasses were throwing me off!" Because on that particular day, I happened to be wearing my glasses, where normally I wear contacts.
Well this exchange got me to thinking, which is an extremely dangerous past time of mine. Apparently, I AM CLARK KENT. I am able to magically transform my appearance with nothing more than a pair of brown frames. (all those teeny bopper movies were right!) I bet you're all jealous now, huh?
Now don't get me wrong -- this lady is a very nice, intelligent person -- I am not disparaging her in the least. She legitimately did not remember me. I simply had never made that much of an impression on her. And for that, I blame myself entirely.

I am a behind-the-scenes kinda girl, so in the majority of settings, I choose to remain quiet and unobtrusive. In retrospect, it doesn't sound like that tactic has been particularly helpful in either my career or in my personal life. Because that's not the first time it's happened.
I am often overlooked. This isn't a pity party, it's a simple fact. I've met the same people over and over again, like some weird, increasingly awkward Groundhog Day movie marathon. I've always seen myself as 'Plain Jane'; often disparaging my brown hair and brown eyes. I'm not particularly trendy, I don't go to parties (afraid of people, remember?), and I don't really put myself 'out there'. I am a homebody, and I always have been. I like solitary activities, like reading, drawing, crafting, cooking, plotting world domination, etc.My last post detailed my new found resolution to try and accept my body, one day at a time. That's a big one for me, and one that I will have to work on every single day. Well maybe I need to start working on my shrinking violet tendencies as well.
Maybe instead of being quiet and unobtrusive, I need to try to be more of an active participator. Maybe I need to let go of my preconceived notions, and realize that maybe I do have something interesting to say, and maybe people would (*gasp!*) like to hear it.
I can't promise I'll get better at this. But admitting it is the first step, right? And the next time I have to 'meet' someone for the 6th or 7th time (I'm looking at you, Marketing guy), I'll have no one to blame but myself.
So, my fellow shrinking violets, my forgotten masses - let's rise up and.....I don't know, be active or somethin'? You've got a lot to say, and those poor bastards out there want to hear it.

......And that's why exercise will kill you.

Exercise....is a dirty word.
No, I take that back.
Exercise....is hard. And unfortunately for me and my gut, I have a short attention span. That means that while I may have the best intentions in February, and decide to kick my thighs' butt (if they had a butt...I'm being metaphoric here, people), by May I am OVER IT. Like, stick a fork in me I'm done. Now pass me the Fritos.
Ah ha -- but NOW we come to June. And through some random miracle of God, I am actually going to the beach this year. That means that OTHER PEOPLE ARE GOING TO SEE MY STUFF. Well. That kind of puts the whole exercise-thing in perspective, huh? But you see, now it's kinda too late. Even if I were to go on some crazy juicy-juicer-no-white-veggies-all-turkey diet, I still wouldn't look like a Brazilian model. I'm short, for one thing. But I digress.
I have been doing little things...like taking the stairs, for instance. You see, I really don't eat that badly. I don't have a sweet tooth, so it's really easy for me to stay away from that. I'm not really into chips (mmmm, but Fritos are quite tasty, on occasion), so that's not a big deal for me either. But I work in a cubicle all day, and get very little walk-up-and-down time. So when I'm going to a meeting on a different floor, I make it a point to take the stairs whenever possible. Coming back from a meeting on the 2nd floor today, I said EFF IT I'm taking the stairs to the 5th floor.
First flight, I'm feeling good. 'Wow, Stacy - you are really showing these stairs who's boss! Get it, girl!'.
Second flight, I'm getting winded. 'OK, yeah -- still proud of you, keep it up! Just stop breathing so hard so the guy next to you doesn't think you're coming on to him, m'kay?'
Third flight, I'm going to die. 'OH MY GOD!! WHY DID I THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA? Knees to chest, bitch! Knees to chest!'
Moral of the story -- exercise KILLS.
Haha, no, it really doesn't. But it does hurt.

So now, in the words of my good friend Katie, I've determined that 'It is what it is'.
This is ME, and I've got to be okay with it. That doesn't mean that I need to give up and stop taking the stairs, it just means that I am not a stick figure, and will probably never be one. Yes, I'm probably going to feel uncomfortable in my bathing suit, just because I don't look like what I want to look like in my head. But who does?
I had a conversation with a lady I work with last week who is absolutely stunning -- she is 40+, has a teenage daughter, and has the most beautiful figure EVER. This woman....a sweet, cultured, incredibly bright person....proceeded to tell me she was ashamed of her 'gut'. My first reaction was to slap her into next week. My second reaction was to pull her hair. I ignored both of those urges, and instead told her, "You have no idea how beautiful you are, and that's a real shame."
Look at the blue chart to the left, people.
LEARN IT. LIVE IT. LOVE IT.
I love you all, in all your kaleidescope shapery.

It's BACON FRIDAY, ya'll!

OMG, it's Bacon Friday!
I have what some unenlightened people might call an "unhealthy obsession" for bacon. Obviously those people are dumb and don't know about the deliciousness of this delectable meat candy, but hey - their problem, not mine.
So -- Bacon.
Yes, I know that fried pig is not exactly good for you. It may have been known to cause a death or two from clogging someone's arteries, or some such nonsense. And, it's possible that it may make you gain a little weight, due to the high fat content. (yummmmmm, high fat content......)
It is for these reasons that I limit myself to only indulging in this succulent nectar of the gods on Fridays. It's like a little mini celebration, all for me. Like, a congratulations-for-making-it-through-the-whole-week-without-stabbing-myself-in-the-eye kind of celebration. Or a your-kid-has-gone-to-school-all-week-without-having-to-wear-dirty-socks kind of celebration. Whatevs.
I've had kind of a rough week, and the whole not-stabbing-myself-in-the-eye thing has been quite an accomplishment this week.
So to all you bacon lovers, I say BACON ON.
And to all you nay-sayers, I leave you with this:

Do nice guys always have to finish last?

Is the old adage, 'Nice guys finish last' really true? Unfortunately, I've seen too many instances to prove the theory, so I'm going to say Yes....with exclusions.
I think that nice people are the coolest. I am a positive person by nature, even when sometimes it's hard to force myself to be positive. Does it really hurt to be happy? Why do people want to be grumpy? You can usually tell the difference between optimistic people and pessimistic people. Or as my husband calls them, 'realists'. (Guess you can tell which bucket he falls into, hmm?)
As an optimistic person, sometimes I feel like I have to explain my happy attitude, or at times be embarassed of it. But why is that? Do people think that nice people aren't REAL people? Like they are artificial or fake? Are we all supposed to be curmudgeonly? (It's really a word...'An ill-tempered person full of resentment and stubborn notions'. You're welcome.)
In the past few days, I have three nice friends who have experienced a form of curmudgeonliness (ok, not sure if THAT is a word, but bear with me and stop nitpicking). One posted a story on Facebook that dealt with the 'Nice Guy' syndrome, and felt like she had to explain why she herself was a positive person. Apparently some people thought it was fake, that noone could actually be that nice. But she tried to stress, 'Look people, it's REAL.' Why do we have to do that? Like nice is a bad thing?
Another friend is always being overlooked....whether it's in his job, or with the people he hangs around, he seems to be invisible. I've experienced this myself, and it's pretty damn humbling to meet someone, and then a week later they have forgotten that they ever met you. Ouch. In his case, his 'friend' forgot that he had ever been to his house. But he had been. Three times. 
And yet another friend suffers from the Extremely Nice Guy (gal) Syndrome. She puts everyone else first, and contents herself with the leftovers. She doesn't have a thought for herself, and unfortunately there are people out there who take advantage of that. Recently this kind, gentle lady suffered from the thoughtlessness of another, and that's perhaps what hurts most of all...to give yourself so fully, and to have it be insignificant to someone else.
What is wrong with being nice???
Nothing - that's what. But the nice, happy, optimistic people don't go trumpeting ourselves, which is perhaps why we are the most misunderstood. Because it's not in our nature to put our good deeds on blast. We hear about thoughtless, heartless, hurtful deeds all the time -- media sensationalizes it -- and so we think that's all there is.
But it's NOT.
Let's celebrate the nice people, shall we? Secretly, quietly....we make the world go 'round.

Calgon, take me away....

Escapism: The tendency to escape from daily reality or routine by indulging in daydreaming, fantasy, or entertainment.

Sounds lovely, doesn't it?
Escapism is a beautiful thing. I don't think there is anyone out there who would say they have a perfect life. (And if there is, I'd like to slap you. I kid!....kind of) Even those who are blessed in one area of their lives, find themselves beleaguered in another. And that's just the way of it - I don't think you can truly appreciate the good things without having an understanding of the bad.
Life has to be fully embraced to be appreciated. I'm talkin' wide-arms-twirling-in-a-meadow-of-yellow-freakin'-flowers embrace.

And, you have to grab escapism wherever you can. For me, it's with the written word. My husband gets so irritated with me sometimes because he still hasn't figured out (after 11 years? Who's really the one with the problem, hmm?) that when I am engrossed in a book, I am brain-dead to the outside world. Slack-jawed. Drooling? Possibly. He could tell me he was running away with Selma Hayek and he would be lucky to get a head nod. Because I am enjoying my book, dammit. As a full-time working mother to a rambunctious 3 year old, I don't really get a lot of time to myself. So in the quiet hour or so between his bedtime and mine, I curl up on the couch and read, hot tea in hand. This weekend I delved into the Divergent series by Veronica Roth. (LOVE!!!) That's my escapism, folks. A little quiet time, a hot beverage, and a kickass book.
But shouldn't they ALL be kickass books? If a writer truly has the passion they should have, then every book you read will grab you and ignite a fire that can’t be quenched until you turn the last page. But, sadly, that is not the case. We've all read books that were so-so, that you may even have been able to (gasp!) set down and not finish reading. But where's the escapism in that? We see enough hum drum in our day-to-day lives...shouldn't we strive for the best when it comes to our precious few minutes of free time?
I support indie/self-published authors.

They are some of the most passionate, most dedicated artists to the written word. But they also need more help, because they don't have publishing houses and agents panting after their every word.

They need YOU. They need you to support, to read, and to review their works. They need your honesty, they need your devotion, and they need your attention. I make it a point to post my book reviews on Goodreads, Amazon, B&N and Smashwords, whether they're good or bad, because I know it is the best way to support my favorite kind of author. And who's not full of opinions? These folks are trying to support your escapism addiction, one by one. God love 'em. 

Stay weird, my friends

People make me anxious. You never quite know what they're up to, and sometimes they just flat-out let you down. As social media and texting have become more prevalent, I find myself trying to avoid people altogether....and I don't think I'm the only one. Much like our good friend Gossamer, who we met during the age when they actually showed Bugs Bunny cartoons on Saturday mornings, I get a little freaked out when I see large groups of PEEEOPLE!!!!
I always seem to feel like I don't fit in with the group, and I tend to gravitate towards the perimeter so that I can slowly, slyly make my way to the exit. However, recently I stumbled upon a startling conclusion: I am not weird. Well, maybe I am - but my feelings of being uncomfortable in group settings is not weird. In fact, I think most people feel the same way. Even the ones who seemingly look oh-so-casual and 'with it' -- yes, them too. Sure, there are a few prom queens in our midst, God love 'em, but I think for the most part, the ones who seem to be the most 'with it' are just the ones who are able to fake it the best. That old saying 'Fake it 'til you make it' seems pretty appropriate right about now.
So, my dear awkward, socially-inept, weird friends:
Embrace your inner Gossamer. There's nothing wrong with it!
BUT -
Know that deep down, through all the layers of your weirdness, there is still someone pretty original and unique. You just have to give them permission to come out and play sometime.
Until next time......just stay weird :)

Welcome to the jungle!

This, my friends, is my inaugural post. That's right, I've joined the 2000's. Sure, we're halfway through 2013. Don't judge me.
I'd much rather stay in the shadows and support those around me...it's scary out here!
So while I'll keep this short and sweet, I wanted to give fair warning to the monkeys in my head that this shy little editor person is making her stage debut. Sure, I may dry-heave and hyperventilate (but just a little), so you'll just have to bear with me.
Team Red Pen, party of 1.