Where have you been?

I actually meant me… not you. Where have I been? Clearly not here, seeing as my last post was in July and while I sit here pretending to be baffled as to why it went so long, I’m well aware. I know exactly where I’ve been and it includes a few things I’m not super proud of.

I mean, it’s not all television related. I also really love to nap, which is something I have always been very open about.

I like to think of it as going on an adventure, as a vivid dreamer I refuse to downplay my nap as simple sleep.

When the keyboard and I have spent quality time together, we’ve been working on my book that will (fingers crossed) be finished by summer. There’s a constant struggle between thinking the words I’m coming up with are borderline genius or complete garbage. Writing is hard, and I’m not going to say anything else about it because I refuse to make this about promises, guarantees, or anything that is not just throwing some shit out there because it’s been a minute.

If I had not been so lazy, and prioritized my time better, there are a few things I would have maybe written about between July of last year and now – so I’ll run through a condensed version of what I probably would have had to say.

  1. My kid started middle school and the only thing I’ll touch on here is that I always thought this parenting thing would get easier as my child got older and independent. Apparently, his ability to make his own breakfast, and stay home alone does not have anything to do with my fears surrounding every single thing that is now out of my control. With that being said he still tells me I look pretty before I go to work, and I have yet to hear him cuss, which if you know me, that’s a fucking miracle.
  2. The Vikings let me down again.
  3. A dog showed up on our doorstep one day, found out her name was Rudy after I’d lovingly called her Brenda for a few days. An adorable little puggle who scarfed food so fast she choked it back up and then ate it again. We started coming up with stories for her like she traveled all this way because she was clearly starving – when in all reality she lives the next block over, and “that’s just how she eats”. I’ve never reunited a dog with anyone before, but I hope I get to do it again at some point.
  4. I voted in the midterm elections and I hope you did too.
  5. I participated in another Storycatchers event and had all the feels while I was up on the stage again. There really is something indescribable about having all eyes on you and swallowing up every single reaction you’re able to catch a glimpse of while you tell your story into a microphone.
Storycatchers/Theme: Unreliable Narrator

So, it’s January. Hopefully, I’ll find myself here before July 2019. If not, I’m sure I’m working on my book, and not making sure I’ve watched every single episode of Dateline that’s ever aired.

That Georgia Waitress Is My Hero

On two separate occasions in the last two years I’ve been violated by men who clearly felt entitled to me and my body. Me. Fucking. Too. I won’t get into too much detail in regards to the first time it happened, because I don’t have to. All I’ll say is that a grotesque gesture, and a joke was made at my expense, in front of a group of men, in an environment that was supposed to be in my favor.

The other instance? Feel free to read all about it.

explicitlanguage someone grabbed my

And then that video went viral of that waitress in Georgia who body slammed a man for grabbing her tush… and she’s my fucking hero.


Don’t get me started on her work uniform or her choice of career, honestly, fuck you if you even bring it up. She did what any woman in her position wished they could do themselves.

When I talk about my experiences the question I get everytime is, in some way, did you stick up for yourself? No. I didn’t. Both times, I froze. I did nothing in the moment other than stare wide eyed in disbelief. I hate that. As much as I wish I would have body slammed them, or made a scene exposing their nasty entitlement, I know that’s not the norm.

With that being said, the next time some guy wants to rub his dick on me, or grab my lady parts, I have a plan…and it includes more than just a verbal lashing.

Don’t touch people if they don’t want to be touched. Don’t assume a stranger will welcome your advances. Don’t allow acquaintances to over step their boundaries. Speak up, use your voice, or just body slam those bitches.

Georgia waitress, I love you. I’m also super awesome and we can be friends if you want. Totally up to you though.

Operation MILF by Fall [Update #2]

So I know in the first update I said I was going to post and discuss the triumphs and tribulations of Operation MILF by Fall every Monday, but the thing is, I’m just an habitually late person. So it’s now Friday and here we are. I’ll probably give some false deadline for every upcoming post, take it or leave it, the chances I’ll ever grow out of that are fairly slim.

I actually went Sunday to Sunday last week with zero adult beverages. That’s a big deal, maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is and I lost 4 fucking pounds. So, I mean, that’s motivation. I tracked all week, was real concious of my intake VS outtake of calories so I’m sure the four pounds lost wasn’t just the lack of booze, regardless, it’s pretty substantial.

Fast forward to this week and I’ve tracked every day again, stayed under my calorie/fat/carbs/sugar goals, but to say that I’ve made the best choices would be a bold faced lie.

This was Tuesday. Don’t judge me.

But, I am remaining confident in my progress. I just want to be feeling real good about myself by October. I’m going to be 34. 34. THIRTY FOUR. Damn. Legal drinking age at this point consists of kids people born in 1997. In 1997 I was in the sixth grade, getting in-school suspension for skipping recess. How does one skip recess? It was a stairwell thing.

But that’s a story for a different day.

Next week I’m going to weigh in on Monday, which keeps me accountable over the weekend, and I’m going to take my measurements. If I continue to only look at the number on the scale my, slow-metabolism-over-thirty-year-old self will end up real frustrated . Plateaus and shit. I need multiple reassurances that my efforts to curb my crazy cheesecake cravings are worth it.

For now, I’m just keeping one goal in mind, and that is to keep the fried haddock outta my mouth at work tonight.

Fuck. My. Life.

If you’ve never experienced a good ol’ Wisconsin fish fry you might not understand this struggle, but trust me, it’s real.


Operation MILF by Fall [Update #1]

Last week I made some healthy choices, and I made some unhealthy choices.

The fear of running outside where people can witness it was conquered, and my bike got used for the first time this summer.

All of it was a bit overshadowed with the abundance of liquid calories I consumed…


…And eating half of a cherry pie in one sitting (after I tracked a quarter of it). Even still, I managed to lose 1.2 pounds last week. It’s nothing to get super stoked about, but it’s a move in the right direction, so I’m not going to be too hard on myself. No more cherry pie though.

The goal for next Monday’s weigh in will be down two pounds. For this to actually come to fruition the alcohol has to stay in the cabinet and my sugar intake has to be limited. I already tracked my dinner for the entire week which will consist of a loaded up spinach salad, 2% cottage cheese, and balsamic vinegar & oil. Every. Single. Night.

Why am I sharing all this? Because I need to be held accountable, and I can’t in good conscience eat another half of a pie after I just told all my friends and a couple hundred strangers that I’m getting my shit together.


I’ll talk about it every Monday. I’ll be honest when I can’t control myself, and I’ll toot my horn when I succeed.


Operation MILF by Fall

Two times in my life I purchased (important) dresses too small, for motivation sake, which I would never relay that advice to anyone I even remotely have a liking for. If you’ve never zipped your wedding dress up for the first time during the final fitting, you don’t know what true relief feels like.

I was a size 12 when my mom took me wedding dress shopping. The first dress was the one I ended up walking down the aisle in, even after trying on about a dozen more afterwards I didn’t want to feel like I was going to prom, and it was the only one that made me feel like a bride. So we ordered it in a size 8, and then went to Chipotle to eat 8 pound burritos to celebrate.

I bought a treadmill two months later.

I started exercising every day, tracking my food, and weight came off. Not quick enough for the first and second fittings, but there was progress. Having it taken out was not an option, and there was no plan B dress, so Taco Bell just wasn’t an option anymore. Skipping a run meant smashing myself into my wedding dress.

I ran my ass off, literally, and it fit so I celebrated with my favorite kinda cookie the second it was zipped up.


After the wedding I gained some, if not most of the weight I’d lost back, because fuck running and not drinking when there’s not a dress to motivate me anymore.

A couple years later I was asked to be in my best friend’s wedding, and I mean, of course I ordered the dress too small. Why wouldn’t I? I’m a pro. Only this time I was a bit more realistic and ordered a size 10, and since I only had to go down one size this time the procrastination game was strong.

Eventually, I did end up losing weight the same way I did before, exercising every day and choosing chicken and broccoli over pizza, and with the help of some spanx and a few friends to zip ‘er up it fit.

But I did rip it at the reception.

It was clearly less successful, but I’m always amazed at the results I get from simply not shoving my face with whatever I want, and moving around a bit more. So, here I am today, thirty pounds heavier than I was last summer. I know this because one of those God damned Facebook memories popped up and told me that last summer I weighed less than I what I wrote on my driver’s license, which is how I measure true success.

This time I have no dress I need to fit into, but plenty that would fit again if I can get my shit together. I’m three days into tracking my food, and maybe this week I’ll even go for a run outside, in public, where people can see me. I don’t need to be a size 8, I just want to feel confident in my own skin again.

Maybe I’ll call it, Operation MILF by Fall. If anyone wants to hold me accountable, or be a part of this operation, you just let me know. We can start a club.