First Name Fluffy....Last Name NotAtAllConsistent

Blogging 101 tells us that if we want to grow our blog, we blog multiple times a week....every week.

This is one of those times that I miss working in the corporate world.  I would get to work late, turn on my computer then promptly get to work.  And by "get to work", I mean "start typing out my blog".

Yes, those were the good ol' days.....

The truth is, I'm trying to balance a toddler that is trying to send me to an early grave,  starting a business that I hope will eventually help secure the well being of our family and keeping my house somewhat clean (and even "somewhat clean" seems unattainable these days).  Typically, when I try to log on to my computer during the day, Fluffette decides she needs to use the computer to check her stocks and send inappropriate emails to one of her future ex-husbands.  So......I stopped trying to blog during the days.  That leaves: before 7am and after 8pm.

I know there are several bloggers that wake up at like 4:30 in the a.m. to blog *cough cough @hollystanfield cough cough @skinnymeg.  I am not at all that cool.  I mean....I won't even get up that early to pee and would rather get a UTI then have to roll out of bed to tinkle...so blogging is out.of.the.question.

By the time 8pm rolls around, I'm tired as shyt. That's usually when I'm cleaning the kitchen, folding laundry, surfing pinterest...you know....important stuff.  

From here on out, I will do my best to blog once a week so that you're life will feel fulfilled and the world will make sense again for you. You.are.welcome!  (double hair flip)

So, to get you caught up on The Fluff's, here are a few pictures from recent weeks...

"Just dumping my food on the floor so I can enjoy a snack with my sisters"

"Here's lookin at you kid"  She also does not feel the need to get her fork dirty while eating

NO KID!!!!!!

This is so normal, you don't even know how normal it is

Boogie came to see me at market

Oatmeal and Christmas PJ's.  We like to party

Maturity at its finest.  Totes can't tell who we are. 

We wanted to send a message to Julie about skipping out on girls night.  (she caught it on her security camera because, well, she's apparently some sort of royalty that needs a security camera)

Adding her special touch to our pumpkin cookes

She ate quite a bit of the inside of this pumpkin....AND she lived to tell about it

When are these mofo's gonna be done cooking?

Drankin and gossipin.....that's what dreams are made of.

Definitely a Daddy's girl

Her new fave thing to do is get out all of DaDa's ties and wear them around the house.  Then...throw them down so someone else can pick that shyt up.  

Back to our regularly scheduled programming next week, Bytches!

Need Me Some Movtivation

I've had a few conversations lately about motivation.  Where to get, how to keep it and what to do with it once you have it.  The truth is....it's different for everyone.  We all have a different point that we feel like is 'rock bottom'.

Some girls hold on to the body they had when they were 16 and could eat whatever they wanted with no consequences.  They spend the rest of their lives crying over the body they once had DECADES ago and will most likely never have again.  That's life.  I am NOT one of those girls.  I was over 200 pounds when I was 16 so that is NOT the girl I strive to be.  That girl was fat.  That girl's milkshake didn't bring a damn thing to the yard....other than more milkshakes and milkshakes give me the 'rhea.

Some girls put about ten pounds on their 120 pound frame and bytch nonstop about how fat they are.  If you are one of THESE girls, please don't ever complain to me about being 130.  I will roll you up in a tortilla, deep fry you, eat you as a snack, then break off one of your legs and use it as a toothpick.  (serial killer much)

Other girls (me) have struggled with weight their whole life.  I'm pretty sure I weighed abuckfifty when I was 7 and it went downhill from there.  I've always been fairly lazy..I mean...last week I got a rash from energy..ENERGY!  Anyways, 'the fat girl' is constantly in the back of my head, reminding me of what I used to be.  That fat bytch will most likely never go away but over time, I hope I can get her annoying, high-pitched, fat voice to simmah down nah.......someday.

After having Fluffette, I was HUGE....like Michelin Man huge.  My hormones were just as out of control as my waistline so that didn't help the issue.  My 'rock bottom' wasn't just one moment but rather a series of moments.  I would sit on the floor in my closet and cry because none of my clothes fit.  I wondered why my husband loved me when I looked that way.  I doubted my self worth.  I felt like a marshmallow in a world filled with carrot sticks.  What does that even mean??  It means that I was effing fat and all my friends were super skinny.

I had two options:  lose weight.....or get new, fluffier friends.  So I started my search for fluffier friends....

I kid, I kid.

In the beginning, it was hard...like all day, every day...HARD.  (twss)  I skipped out on cake.  I took my own turkey burger to cookouts to throw on the grill, then just ate the patty with veggies, no bun.  I didn't buy crappy food to tempt myself.  I measured ev.er.y.thing.  I also started Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred.  The workouts are only 20 minutes long so I could do it while Fluffette napped.  When I cheated, and I definitely cheated, I just took a deep breath and moved on.  I tried not to dwell on the downfall but rather celebrate my victories.

One of my first victories was fitting in to my very first pair of pre-pregnancy jeans.

This was about 5 months after birthing a baby through my lady hole.  Those jeans were a size 12 but fit like a 14.  It took me about an hour of denim dips to get those bytches up my sausage legs then I sucked in like I've never sucked in before to get them buttoned.  BUT I DID.  Then I wore those ho's in public...proudly.  Nevermind the fact that I had to use tweezers to retrieve the button from my fat rolls at the end of the day...or that I still have an indention on my stomach in the outline of the waistband.  I'd achieved my first goal.

That first victory made it easier to make better choices.  Those better choices led to better victories and so on and so on.

Over the past 16 months, I've shed a lot of tears (tears of joy and tears of frustration).  I've had MANY ups and downs.....but I always stood back up, put one foot in front of the other and just TRIED each day to be better than I was the day before.

I sit here typing this weighing in 82 pounds lighter than the day I gave birth.  And yes, I abso-fluffing-lutely count that as my starting point.  If you don't think that childbirth counts as losing weight, then you're just stupid most likely a man.

I have 4 pounds to go to reach my goal weight of 150.  My size 8 pants are loose on me.  Not loose enough for me to fit in to a size 6 but I'm soooooooo close.  I've trained myself over the past year to know when to stop eating, how to make the right choices and when I can slack a little here and there.  If I want queso, I eat it.  But I COULDN'T do that in the beginning.  It takes time.  I continue to be a work in progress but I know that my smaller waist makes ME a better wife, a better mother and a better person.  I'm happier when I'm thinner.  End of story.  #doesthatmakemeshallow

A few things about this photo:
1.  I need to get my hurr did...stat.  These roots are out of control.
2.  82 pounds later and I STILL have sausage legs
3.  I am IN LOVE with  my new Turquoise Brooch necklace from Kristi's Kloset.  Go check her out!  She's a fellow stay at home mom trying to build a business and she's getting ready to add a bunch of fun shizzle for fall.

I'm sorry.....is this a rash?

The past six weeks have been a real nut twister.  From emergency surgery to a death in the family to trying to build my own business....mama is worn the eff out!

Since having my surgery, I haven't been released to work out which has been harder on me than I ever thought possible.  I NEED to workout now.  It's MY time.  I definitely think it has served as a stress reliever and really just makes me feel better about myself.

Right after surgery, I was told that the only form of working out I was allowed to do was WALK.  Um...no.thank.you.  I'm that lazy bytch that will circle the parking lot for 20 minutes to find a parking spot close to the door.  Then, will run low on fuel, leave to get gas, then go back to said destination and continue the circling ritual.  Parking far away from the door just makes me angry.  #batshytcrazyproblems

So, on Monday night I started giving myself the pep talk.  It was time for me to get my azz back to the gym that I've been paying for the last two months that I haven't even driven by.  I decided that I wanted to start working out at 5:30 am on Tuesday and Thursday so I went ahead and set my alarm for 5am.  When I get up early to workout, I always go to bed dressed so that I ONLY have to brush my teeth and put on shoes to get out the door.

Approximately 5 minutes and one bag of cheetos after setting my alarm, I went ahead and turned that bytch off.  We all know I don't wake up that early.  So, instead, I told myself that I would call the Kid Club when I woke up to try to get Fluffette in for a 9:30 workout.

It's no secret that I love me some Advocare so when a friend told me about a newish product (Slam), I was all in.  I drink spark almost every single day so I was ready to up my game.  As I pulled out of the driveway to drive the 7.2 miles the gym, I chugged the Slam.  Now, from what I understand, Slam is like Spark on Crack.

A couple of minutes later, my insides burned.  It felt like a just took a shot of Patron chilled and dressed and then my back started to hurt.  It became evident that this shyt was eating away at my internal stitches and that I would prolly end up back in the hospital.  #notdramatic

I digress.

Then, out of nowhere, my face started to feel hot so I looked in the mirror.  "wait...what?....is that a.....son of a bytch...that's a muh fuggin rash!"

I felt fine so I decided that a little rash on my money maker face wasn't gonna hold me back from my first official work out in over six weeks.  I continued on to the gym and chugged a bottle of water hoping that would flush out the rash (that's what heals rashes, right?)

By the time I got out of the car at the gym, I had a rash alright.  From head to toe.  I went to bend my wrist and that shyt crackled.  Clearly my skin was swelling up.  Seems par for the course.

I got Fluffette out and still had it in my mind that I would proceed to Turbo Kickboxing.  When I walked through the front door and the receptionist looked at me like I was Rocky from Mask....

I decided it was not in my best interest...nor the best interest of society as a whole....for me to workout.  I turned around and headed out.  That rash took residence on my body for the good part of three hours.

The good news is that shortly thereafter, the Slam kicked in and I cleaned my whole house, cleaned out two closets and organized the guest bedroom that looked similar to this...

The morale of the story?

When life gives you a rash, you get your azz home quick and clean some shyt!!

~~~~
Now for some pictures of my baby that's cuter than your baby

Just a girl and her Gorilla

That time we put Fluffette on a leash

The Fluffs

Fluffette stole BoBo's boots then did her best to take care of her best fwend.  

Securing her position as BoBo's future wife with dat azz.  #backthatthangup #shegetitfromhermama

Same Love

The phone call I'd been dreading for months finally came at about 10:30 pm on Labor Day.

"Fluffy, it happened.  He's gone"

~~~~~

Some time in the mid 80's, their eyes met from across the room outside of an airbrush stand.   I know, I know...airbrush.   It was the eighties and that was cool, george dammit.

After a very poor attempt at flirting (this is just an assumption on my part based on the knowledge I have of the characters in this story), they ended up having hot chocolate while discussing the strong attraction they had.  (queue 70's porn music).  The rest, as they say, was history.  

Over the years they've faced their fair share of criticism.  One black. One white. Both in love.  They went together like Nutella and white toast and Michael Jackson even wrote a song about them...

The love and commitment they had for one another was always much stronger than what Society had to say.  Sure, they came close to ending it at some point thinking life would just be 'easier' if they lived by certain standards.  

Thankfully, they fought hard and realized that life is too short to live by somebody else's standards.  Every.single.night for the past 28 years, they have laid their head down each night next to the man of their dreams.

Yes, you may have caught on by now that this isn't just a love story about a "mixed couple", but also a love story of two men.  These two men are my "guncles" and have been together almost as long as I've been alive.  That's pretty damn amazing, uhthankyouverymuch.  

While I was pregnant with Fluffette, we found out that Uncle Alan had AIDS.  He was in and out of hospitals, losing and gaining weight and losing his short term memory.  His biggest fear at the time was that he wouldn't get to meet Fluffette or even worse, that I wouldn't let him hold her.  That was, of course, just stupid. 

Over the past year, his health has continued to have highs and lows.  Fluffette and I went to see him almost two months ago and it was absolutely heartbreaking.  Now in a hospital bed in his bedroom, unable to feed himself or even get out of his bed without help, he was not the Uncle I remembered.  I held it together most of the weekend then lost.it on the way home.  For some reason, I knew that was my goodbye.  I felt it.  

But, Uncle Jerry was there, by his side the entire time.  Feeding him.  Changing his diaper.  STILL laying his head down every night next to the man of his dreams.  He could have very easily just walked away.  Many in his same situation have.  Even though it's not currently legal for them to exchange vows in the state of Texas, he stood by them anyway.  "For better or worse, till death do us part"

My Uncle Alan has always been my favorite uncle (unless you are another one of my uncles reading this, in which case, YOU are totes my favorite).  I spent time with him and Uncle Jerry every summer growing up.  Alan always had fun and did inappropriate things while Jerry always cooked amazing hamburgers and got on to Alan for doing inappropriate things.  He was sarcastic, witty, silly, smart, caring and uber emotional as he got older.  Some experts say that I am a lot like him....other than the stupid part about emotions.  ppssssshaw.  

My most memorable moment with Uncle Alan is from my cousin's rehearsal dinner.  I showed up in a skort and knee socks with Mary Janes.  I thought I was the cat's meow.  ( I truly hate cats).  It was the 90s.  I was 16.  I was super duper fly.  Nearly two decades later and I still hear about this minor (yes minor) fashion slip up.  9 out of 10 times I saw Alan, those damn knee socks were brought up.  

I'm sure a lot of people reading this don't agree with the whole 'gay thing'.  I may not agree with your way of thinking but I respect it.  I ask that you do the same here.  I feel so blessed that I grew up around it and had two amazing role models to show me that Love truly conquers all.   

I don't want to get in to the religion argument, but my uncles went to church every single Sunday that they were able and were very involved.  Our God loves all his children and flew his Rainbow flag half staff on Labor Day to welcome his new angel.  

Alan wasn't "that gay guy", he was a best friend, a brother, a son, a mentor, a class clown, a counselor, an uncle and most importantly, he was happy and he lived each day to the best of his ability.  

Uncle Alan, I hope your heaven is full of azzless chaps and that every angel is required to wear knee socks.  I love you and miss you every.single.day.  Thank you for showing me that life will pass us by one way or another so it's up to US to make it the best damn life we can.  

~~~~

I have signed up to participate in the Dallas LifeWalk in October.  I would love for you to join me, or donate millions to this cause.  

http://www.lifewalk.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=1056982&lis=0&kntae1056982=FD105E1B13C342029BF1DEB86AEF4AE5

Bih-ness is Bih-ness

There's a good chance I've already shared this exact story and just don't remember.  I blame motherhood for my horrific memory (even though my memory was fairly shotty prior to pregnancy. meh.)

While I was on maternity leave last summer, I received a phone call from Mr. Fluff saying he heard my department was closing down.  I immediately got on the phone to my manager and left her a message to call me stat.  I found out later that at that exact moment, my team was in a room being told that they would not have a job in a month.

When my manager called me, I was about 28 shades in to 50 Shades of Grey and honestly couldn't care less if I had a job in the month.  I was more concerned about what shenanigans were about to go down in the Red Room of Pain.  Oh Christian......

Anyways, I finished out my maternity leave and went back to work for eight days.  I was pretty much as worthless as it got.  Some may say I was "checked out" but truthfully, after being out for 12 weeks, I never really checked back IN.  I was the model employee and did everything I was supposed to.... bwahahaha.  I can't even finish that sentence.  I will be the first to admit that I didn't do jack shyt those last days.  The most productive things I did were surf the internet and start this blog.  My entire team hated me because I wasn't pulling my weight.  I knew they were all frustrated with me but I also knew that Zulilly had some really cute stuff that day that I NEEDED to buy.

It was decided that I would stay home with Fluffette and do my best not to eff her up so much that no amount of therapy could ever fix her.  Mr. Fluff has worked his azz off so that I could stay at home and watch all of our daughter's firsts.  He also wanted me to figure out what I want to be if when I grow up.  After a lot of self searching, I realized that I love finding old crappy items and giving them new life.

And so.....Dumpster Darlins was born.

I've worked pretty hard with my dad the last eight months trying to find items, fix them up, start an LLC and all the other paperwork that goes along with it.  All while doing my best to still be an above average mom to Fluffette. Hair Flip.  

All of our hard work came to fruition a few weeks ago at our very first show.  I know I seem cool, calm and collected (just play along) but I am one big ball of anxiety a lot of the times.  I was scared shytless to have my first show.  Are people gonna like my designs?  Are my prices too high?  Are my prices too low?  Is my outfit cute enough for sale day?  Why is everyone asking me if I'm pregnant?  Can't a girl just rub her protruding belly?  When do I get to eat again?  And so on and so on.

The first day came and went and I only sold 2 items.  I was pretty sad about that but decided that tomorrow was a new day and I was gonna KILL IT!  Well, Saturday came and went and I'd only sold a few more items.  I was feeling discouraged.  I received a ton of compliments but people just were buying like I thought they should be.  I wondered if this was the right choice for me and if I was even cut out for this. I doubted myself.  I doubted my self worth.

This is EGGGGGSACTLY why I always quit shyt that I start.  I.do.not.want.to.be.a.failure.

At the end of the show as my workers family started loading up the truck, I took the time to talk to other vendors and "feel them out".  After many discussions, I realized that I didn't do half bad!  Many of the other vendors barely broke even and some didn't even recover the fee they paid to be at the market.  I not only made back my fee but I also made a small but likeable profit which was great considering I saw something on Very Jane that I wanted to buy. 

In the past few weeks, I've realized that when something doesn't go my way I don't have to immediately start doubting myself.  Success isn't found overnight.  Not in business.  Not in weightloss.  Not in LIFE.  And just like every other time I've felt like I've fallen, I WILL stand back up, dust myself off and get back on that Junkin Truck.  

A new Fluffy has been born over the last year and that crazy and moderately skinny bytch refuses to sink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now to touch on a few random things:

1. My grandmother was here for an entire week. She taught me how to make homemade bread, cinnamon rolls, pie crusts, cobbler and pretty much everything else I shouldn't put in my mouth.  The best part about the week is that my itty bitty Grandma had to stand on a stool to reach the counter....and she was STILL shorter than I am!  I'm 5'6" which means she is approximately 4 feet tall.

2.  Fluffette is gonna be the death of me.  She now climbs up in chairs.  Climbs on one toy to get to another toy to get to the top of the table to give me a heart attack. Refuses to stay still while I try to change her diaper on the floor since I still can't lift her. And also terrorizes our poor dogs.

3.  I'm weighing in at 161 pounds these days.  I'm 11 pounds from my goal.  You can bet your sweet azz that once I get released from the doc to workout, Ima get crazy about working out again.  I WILL REACH MY GOAL IN 2013, George Dammit!

4.  Almost every blog that I read this week talked about Miley and her horrific performance at the VMA's that left several people with an unplanned pregnancy.  I mean....it was awful but I shamefully still love her cheesy music and will try not to picture a foam finger while listening to 'We Can't Stop'.

 I'm a fairly positive girl and I like to find the good in all things and I've done just that with this picture of Miley that is all over the interwebs.

Twerkin ain't werkin.  I take solace in the fact that we ALL have some work to do and we can ALL be a better version of ourselves!  And....you know.....we won't stop....

"This is our house
This is our rules
And we can’t stop
And we won’t stop
Can’t you see it’s we who own the night
Can’t you see it we who bout’ that life
And we can’t stop
And we won’t stop
We run things
Things don’t run we
We don't take nothing from nobody"

Yep....That'll Leave a Scar

Last week was one swift kick to the balls.

A week ago Saturday, I started having back pain.  It got progressively worse throughout the day until I couldn't sit or stand up straight.  I originally suspected that it was either back spasms or kidney stones.

 I was beyond thankful when Fluffette decided it was time for bed almost an hour early.  Once she was down, I took a hydrocodone left over from my birthing baby days.  Once Mr. Fluff got home from golfing, he gave me a couple of muscle relaxers and a bite to eat. I ate about five french fries and took a bite of my jr cheeseburger then........the vomitting began.  I went back and forth to the bathroom...then to bed....then laid in the fetal position in the bottom of the shower with hot water pounding my back.....then back to the bathroom.  I've never been on the verge of death but if I had to assume...this is what it felt like.  At this point, I'd been in this pain for a good four hours.

The pain didn't go away so Mr. Fluff (unbeknownst to me) called my mom to come stay with Fluffette so he could take me to the ER.  No matter what position I was in, I couldn't get any relief (twss).  I tried every yoga move in the books...well except for the one where you put your legs on your elbows...I'm just not bendy enough for that shyt.

When we turned in to the hospital, Mr. Fluff went the wrong direction and I went bat shyt crazy.  You would've thought that he just told me that the Bravo Channel was getting cancelled.

He dropped me off at the ER door then went to park.  After he drove away, I realized it wasn't the effing emergency room door so I had to run down the street, hunched over, dragging my pillow and my purse to the ACTUAL ER door. Those few yards felt about 6 miles long.

"son of a bytch azz whore mutha fugga"

Not to quote myself exactly but that gives you the gist of it.

When I finally managed to enter the ER, I ran up to the desk, kindly laid my pillow on the desk and laid my head down and said, "um....I just need a minute".

 They got me in the room and asked me 125 questions.  None of which I remember.  They finally gave me some Morphine and the pain slowly started to fade.  I no longer had to pace back and forth with my hands on the hospital bed.  I could actually sit down.

Then the azzclown of a Dr. came in and checked my back.  Since there wasn't any pain there she began to press down on my stomach and the pain hit me like a ton of bricks of cocaine.  I can honestly say that there has never been a time in my life that I wanted to punch someone in the throat more than that moment.  She just kept pressing.....and I kept crying out, "yessssssssssss..it hurtsssssssss".

When the Bytch....err....Dr. finally stopped, she immediately ordered a CAT Scan and some anxiety and additional pain medication.  When the nurse came in to give me the meds, I was in full on Sailor mode.  I said every word in the book, turned and apologized to the nurse for my language....then proceeded to take the Lord's name in vain.  (Simmer down....me and the ol' JC talked about it later and he forgave me)  I was punching the bed and asking Mr. Fluff to make it stop.  The pain was truly indescribable.

That's honestly the last thing I remember.  I pretty much blacked out after that and only remember snippets.  I know there was a CAT scan, something about surgery, something about transporting me to another hospital, something about a recovery room.

When I woke up and halfway knew who I was, Mr. Fluff handed me my phone.  It had five millions of texts on it from friends checking on me.  I looked at Mr. Fluff and asked if he sent a mass text.  He said, "nope....you posted a picture on Instagram".

"oh God"

First of all, I'm super proud of him that he knows the word "Instagram".
B.  Why the hell would he take my picture then hand me my phone so I could post it places.

I have ZERO recollection of any of this.  I don't remember taking the picture, posting it, or hell....even being in an actual hospital room.   I'm just thankful it was a lame picture like this and not one of  lady lumps....justsayin.

The first 24 hours after my surgery were pretty blurry.  I would wake up for a minute, start talking, then fall back asleep. I'm pretty sure I was only awake for a total of 2 hours that day.  I had an IV, a drain tube through my nose and could only have ice chips.  When I had to go tinkle, I had to call the nurse so she could unplug me in three places (iv, drainage tube, and massager thingy's on my legs to avoid blood clots).

I allegedly asked someone to take my picture that day too (people.....stop effing taking my picture)

Needless to say...Fluffette was scared shytless when they brought her to see me and kept her distance. Nope, that's not heart wrenching for a mother AT.ALL.

After a day and a half, I could finally eat and drink!  Thank you sweet baby Jesus!  My throat was sooooo dry.  Chicken broth never tasted so good.

When the Dr. came by to release me from the hospital, I asked her to draw me a picture of what happened.  When the picture started looking like an Octopus, I decided I would never fully understand what happened (mostly because I'm too a.d.d. and started thinking about The Little Mermaid and how it'll be fun to watch that with Fluffette someday)

So, from what I understand, I had a hernia. Then my bowel and intestines twisted around themselves 3 times and were inside the hernia hole.  The blood supply was being cut off.  I had open surgery through my stomach and they said I was EXTREMELY lucky that I didn't lose any of my bowel or intestines.  "most people in your condition would've had to get some removed".  Wow.

They kept reminding me that this was major surgery.  I can't lift Fluffette for AT LEAST three weeks (my first checkup) but most likely 8 weeks.  I also can't workout for 8-10 weeks.  Ima get fat again, aren't I?  Deep sigh.

I finally got to head home on Tuesday.  I was still in quite a bit of pain and took Hydrocodone and Motrin every 6 hours.  The next few days I rarely got up.  I just laid in the recliner and drifted in and out of sleep while watching TV.

With each day I get a little better.  I'm only taking pain medicine at night and don't get tired nearly as often as I did at first.  The next several weeks are sure to test my patience and my will power!

I was dead set on still having my first sale for Dumpster Darlins on Friday and Saturday so I called in the troops to help.  I couldn't lift anything at all and it was BEYOND annoying because everyone was doing it wrong.  As I worked my first sale, (which i will talk about in a separate post) several people asked me if I was expecting.

"um no.....why?"

So, if you ever have surgery that leaves you with a swollen belly, don't rub it or walk around with your arms around it, people will get the wrong idea.  You will then find yourself over sharing your story with complete strangers.  The look of disgust on their faces when you start talking about your "twisted bowel" will not be worth it.  You will then just say, "yes, i'm due in the fall".

This Club Sucks

You know the one, bytches be gettin up to work on their fitness at 5 o'clock in the morning.  They post pictures on IG to make sure we all know they woke up before the sun to workout.  Then, we also get pictures during their workout with a life altering #flexbreak at the end.

I was never cool enough to be in a sorority in college because I didn't look like I just got my face put on at the MAC counter and I didn't know how to "bump it" or "tease it".  I still don't really know how to do any of these things so it's good to know that in the eleven years since I graduated college, I've pretty much learned NOTHING about being a lady.  Wuddayagonnado.

So, I decided that the 5am club should be the perfect thing for me.  I mean....I hate mornings and for the past year I've rarely gotten out of bed before 8am so this is completely doable, right?

Criteria for joining the 5am club:

1.  Set a fancy/witty alarm on your phone because we all know you take the time to actually read that shyt at 4:45 in the am.

Check

2.  Go to bed fully dressed for the morning workout so that the only thing you have to do is put on socks, shoes, deodorant and brush your teeth.

Check

3.  Ability to take a selfie.  (yes, this is recycled...deal with it)

Check

4.  Ability to #flexbreak

(um...yes that IS me.  You just don't recognize me because you've never seen me in spandex um...belted panties?? and my sports bra)

Check

Yes, it seems I'm the perfect candidate.  I gave myself a good talking to last night as I ate a bag of baked lays in bed at 10:30 pm.  I was gonna do this.  This would be my life defining moment that I finally got up to work out at the azz crack of dawn.  I was prepared in my mind, body, soul and alarm clock.  "Ultimate Conditioning" was gonna be my bytch in T minus 6 hours.

Then my alarm went off and it scared the begeezus out of me.  Much like the time a few weeks ago that my phone started making the most horrific sound ever and I sleepily looked to see that it was an amber alert.  I spent forever trying to figure out how the hell I could turn that feature off and later cursed the government because I assumed this was their doing.  I digress.

I UH-MEDIATELY hit the snooze button and went back to sleep for another blissful ten minutes knowing I would totes get up when my alarm sounded again.

Then, when it did......I hit snooze again.  Ok, fuh real doe, Ima get up the next time it goes off.

Ten minutes later, I was more committed than I'd ever been in my life.  I  was gonna get this over with and finally be a member of the most elite club of women in the blogging world.

So, with all my might, I sat up on the side of my bed, took a deep breath........then said "eff this shyt, I'll try again next week"