Friday, December 30, 2011
Even if it means that I'll have to leave an open postbox at all times so I can write what I'm thinking so that you don't get too bored with me.
Even if it means that you send me ideas via email or facebook or twits, tumbls, or pony express, I'll try to do something every other day.
Even if it means just a hello and howareya.
I'm working on 2012 being The Year of the Comfortable. Meaning in my own home (cleaning out); my own space (the War Room WILL get done this year); my own body.
This may turn part fatshion blog. So if you don't like hearing about clothes or the like, just don't read those posts (I'll try to warn you *grin*).
This may turn part crafty blog. If knitting or pinterest-inspired craftiness doesn't "do" it for you, just ignore those.
But this will still always be a blog where I can hash out ideas about characters and plot lines...which doesn't seem like I've done much there, either.
But I'm going to try.
Have happy and safe New Year celebrations.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
But I do apologise to you - there are some of you who follow via email, and a couple that really look forward to the totally sporadic posts that I do (love you guys!)
So, my goal is to write more, and to comment more on the blogs that I love and read and follow and omg whatevs! Sorry - channelled my inner Valley Girl from Friday night!
Side note: I. Love. Fall!!
And you guys.
And All Hallows'.
And hot cocoa first thing in the morning, liberally laced with strong coffee.
And Camp (yay M/D Weekend in two weeks!).
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wait. Back up a minit...
Two hundred and forty-six pounds. I weigh approximately what a baby African Elephant weighs at birth. I'm a fucking baby elephant.
And I know what did it--mostly all the pot I smoked in college, followed by the whole pizza or an entire package of Pizza Rolls (the one that the husband and I now split one for dinner) or a bag of Doritos and a 2-litre of Mountain Dew. Combine that with not exercising like I did when I was in high school (I was a cheerleader, on the track team, and I either worked out or ran almost every day), and I tip the scales pretty heavily nowadays.
It's why I don't feel like the Sexy Time with the husband, even though he can't keep his hands off my "jiggly butt" (you'd have to see Germaine in the early versions of Foamy to understand that one) or my boobs. I can't get over the weight I've gained.
See, I'm kind of weird (no, really?). I see the size on my clothes, and it doesn't really sink in. I don't see myself as a fat girl. I still see myself at 180 pounds (of course, my head size hasn't changed, so I looked like a Tootsie Pop back then...), and it's almost crushing when I look in the mirror and don't see that same girl; that I see someone who roughly looks like a baby beluga, rolls and all. It's like I have two different personalities.
There's the lightweight Me: when she dresses in her favorite outfits, other people's tastes be damned, she is confident, powerful. I crush those who would prevent me from doing what I want underfoot.
Then there's the heavyweight Me: after a shower, trying to dry off, that just wants to puke my head off and go down that way. Of course, those of you who know me, know that I'd rather feel bad for three days (food coma or too much alcohol) than puke and feel better in fifteen minutes. So that's out.
See, I tell you all of that to tell you this:
Over the weekend, husband and I went down to the Ville of Edwards and hit up the pet shop for bunny noms, Slackers (looking for some music...no luck), and Boarders (of course, since they're going out of business, everything was at least 60% off!).
And in that lovely little, 2/3rds empty Borders, I found a cute straw purse for $10, a journal I fell in love with for $10...and a book.
Not just any book. It's by Stella Ellis.
And it's called Size Sexy: How to Look Good, Feel Good, and Be Happy--at Any Size.
Stella is a full-figured model Jean-Paul Gaultier calls his "muse." She's beautiful and sexy. And she's figured it out.
I posted a question the other day on my Facebook: "What do you define as 'sexy'?" I got eight answers. Two were from guys with "typical" guy answers--one commented that it's a "chick in a Kitana CosPlay costume" and the other simply said, "bewbs:)" I'm not going to tell them that they're wrong, because they're not. Bewbs can be sexy. So can a chick in a Kitana CosPlay costume. One guy asked if he could be co-author of this blog. :)
And then I got these answers:
"Sexy is all attitude." ~~Ryan R
"Sexy is all about how you carry yourself. It's about being comfortable and secure with your body, your sexuality, and who you are. A sexy woman does not need to flaunt herself...her sexiness speaks for itself in the way she carries and respects herself." ~~Jordan B
"'Sexiness is all in the eye of the beholder. I think it should be. Absolutely. My sex appeal, whatever it might be, isn't obvious...at least, to me.' ~Sharon Tate" ~~Sarah C
"Self-confidence = sexy." ~~Emily H
"Sexy for me is someone who is comfortable in their own skin and has a good sense of humour." ~~Carla R
"If he doesn't have a butt, he's not good looking" ~~Tabatha H's mum (she's reading over my shoulder).
All of these are what Stella talks about in this book (I've taken to carrying it in my purse, and just looking at the cover sometimes makes me feel better).
If you're uncomfortable in your own skin like I am, try it out. I'm taking bits and pieces every day of her advice.
I'm not a big makeup wearer (since I sweat...loads), I don't wear foundation or powder -- don't need it running in rivulets down my face and onto a shirt or in between Thelma and Louise. However, she did say that simply putting on lipstick can make you feel better about yourself.
And she's right--yesterday I did (but it almost wasn't worth it -- had a completely horrible day at work), and today I did (got complimented on today's shade...that I've had for 5 years or more. Yeah, I don't wear it much). I wore heeled sandals to work yesterday, and although my feet fucking hurt to high heaven by the time I got home, it did make me feel better. Today, I wore my second favorite pair of jeans (that make my butt look good...and they quit making them in my size!! *angrypanda*) and a favorite black peasant shirt and my new black sandals. I had a pretty good day today -- listened to Disney songs all. day. long. as I worked. Got loads of shit done, too!
Now, to save money to have at least eight hours at a spa, and to find someone to go with me to the Clinique counter (expensive, but I have always loved their makeup--when I wore it) to have my colours done.
Anyway, there is a point to this. I'm beginning to see that what we see in magazines and on the television isn't proportionate to the entire female population.
LDs, I'm determined to make the rest of this year the Year of the Sexy. I've set up a reminder on my iPhone for every day-- "You. Are. Beautiful. Inside and Out." pops up on my phone on my way to work and on the weekends now. Positive Affirmations are the best, aren't they?
Anyone care to join me in the Year of the Sexy?
Steph... Ms Dreamer
* disclaimer--Stella Ellis doesn't know of me or care that I bought her book. I just needed it. I'm not advertising the smoking of the pot nor am I gonna lie about doing it back then, or eating all that junk food (look where it got me). I'm laying it all out there for you. Love yous! *
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Like with this 30-Days of Self-Acceptance. I hate doing things in order.
Yesterday was days 1, 5 & 10; today is day 3.
Day 3 -- Eat. Whatever you feel like eating.
HA! What this lil' ol' meme doesn't realise is that I eat whatever I feel like eating anyway! (that would explain the weight issue...).
Take, for example, right now. I'm having leftover pork fried rice for brunch.
Most of you may say "Eww! That's gross!" but let me tell you something: right now, it's the best thing in the world because it's what I was craving.
Probably going to have Wendy's for lunch. Or TacoSmell. Or Arby's. Or corndogs. Whatever I feel like eating, I'll probably eat.
What's nice is that it's my town's "homecoming" - Old Settlers'. There's going to be more crap than I could ever eat, but right about now, I might try one of everything!!
What are you craving?
Monday, August 15, 2011
With the exception of my weight, I do accept myself.
I get told I'm weird - I accept that.
I'm crazy - I accept that as well.
Odd? Yeah, I know.
Loony? Guilty as charged.
So I'm trying this 30-Day Self-Acceptance bit. I'll probably lump some of them together so that I do them all.
Like the movie/TV/music ones.
1. Declare your love for an uncool television show.
5. Declare your love for an uncool movie.
10. Declare your love for an uncool band.
Would have to be Due South. Hot hot hot Paul Gross. Deaf white wolf (whom my aunt's dog is named after). Canadian Mountie (how about Canadian mountme...) with the Stetson of Imperviousness. In Chicago. Did I mention that Paul Gross is hot? RCMP tracks father's killers to Chicago. It only aired for four seasons, and no one that I know has heard of it. I really need to get it on Netflix and watch it again. Cause the only thing I remember is the hot Canadian
Stardust. Claire Danes. Some cute boy. Robert DeNiro (in a dress, at one point!). Sienna Miller. Michelle Pfieffer. Stars have feelings, did you know that? They learn what love is from us here on earth. Check it out if you want a hokey love story!
There are a few, actually: O-Zone. Eiffel 65. RuPaul. Chumbawamba. Aqua.
They all have peppy, poppy, fun to dance to songs...even though most of them either make no damn sense, or they're in a different language (and therefore, make no damned sense). I like music with a good beat.
What are your loves that are unpopular? Own them - they are part of you.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Like, OBVIOUSLY (thanks, Bex).
Ya know, I think that there are loads of things that I'd like to say, but I'm never sure of myself or how others are going to take what I say. Most of the time, it should be with a grain of salt (and some tequila and some lime, of course).
So I saw on Chibi Jeebs' page that she's doing a 30 Days of Shamelessness.
And since I'm such a follower (just call me a lemming), I feel that I want to do this as well. It most likely won't be 30 days long (because I fail that way), but I could combine days...
Anyway, I'm going to try to do this. I have been carrying around a student planner (Dollar General, $2, lime green) that I'm jotting things down in I need to do. I'll print the list, and decide when I'm doing what. Of course, me being me, I won't do them in any semblance of order.
Something else I've been thinking about: attending a blogging conference next year. I so want to go, just so I can meet some of the people who live in my computer. I really think Kisha should go as well (right, love?). I want to learn new things! I want to meet new people! I want SWAG! (Yeah, I'm a bit greedy as well).
So, how have you been doing lately?
Love you all,
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
You might ask why my grandfather gave me away instead of my dad. Hmm - when you find him, you can ask him. You see, I was an 'oops.' My mom had just graduated high school and got pregnant with me. When she told the SD (sperm donor) about it, his last words to her were 'It's not mine.' My great-aunt (who helped deliver me) made the comment at the 'family meeting' my mom had called to let everyone know that she thought it best if she just gave the baby up for adoption. 'Over my dead body.' Even before I was born, my grandfather was defending me - my knight in shining armor. I lived with my grandparents until I was three, and because of some circumstances, they were actually trying to adopt me. My uncle was still in high school, so I already had a 'big brother.' I went to live with my mom and her new boyfriend.
When I was four, the boyfriend became her husband, my stepdad, and dad to my sister JR all in the same year. Until I was 12 (when they finally divorced), he was my father. If you grew up in an alcoholic and/or abusive household, I feel your pain. I know - I've been there. Surprisingly enough, I turned out to be a semi-well-adjusted, fully-functioning member of society. We'll leave that story for another time. However, I did not know he was not my dad until the summer I left my mom. That knowledge made me cry - that was good news that he wasn't my father.
When I was 14, my aunt married this really great guy who, in the span of four months got married, moved in with her, and acquired a 'daughter'. See, I went from a straight-A student to a C & D student. Divorce can do that to children. It didn't help that I became mom to JR and didn't have time to study and keep house and dinner and help with her homework. It scared the rest of my family. Grandparents, two uncles and an aunt decided that if they didn't do something, I might not have finished high school (and this all was the final result of one of the bravest things that my friend C ever did...and I will never quit thanking her). I moved in with my aunt and uncle. It was a mahoosive change, going from a household that didn't care what you did, whether or not you failed school, or who you were hanging out with (unless it interferred with her plans) to having a 'mom' and a 'dad' who worried about you, were always questioning about your day and school and boys and friends and sports. I panicked and rebelled. Things smoothed out. My grades skyrocketed (graduated with honors). I got into college. I hit rough patches (who hasn't), but even though I stumbled, I picked myself up and slogged on.
Even though the three men I write this for will most likely never see it, it is written for them. I had a father/daughter dance at my reception, split between those three very special guys.
None of them are my father, but they are all my Dads.
Remember to tell your dad, grandpas, and uncles "Happy Father's Day."
I feel blessed that I have three.
Friday, May 6, 2011
When I was young, I looked up to you for some things; others, I despised you for. You were always there, cheering me on at soccer games and basketball games. You'd help me with projects (remember the papier-mache mask that we made that morning before school, while you were trying to get ready for work?), and you explained that stupid girl thing. I despised you for staying with him so long; for letting him beat the shit out of me; for hearing me but not listening to the words.
As I grew older but still in school and had to move away from you (you don't know that C saved my life one night the summer before I left), I loved you because you were my mumsy, but I was so glad to be away from the heartbreak and neglect that you put us through. I flourished without you, and I know it had to break your heart sometimes when you weren't half in a bottle that neither one of your children were there with you. And there were times I know that you were glad to just be you while others shouldered your responsibility. It was hard sometimes, trying to explain why I lived with my aunt and uncle instead of my mum. Other times, not so much.
But as I look back on those times, at who I am today, and what I had to go through to get here, I have to smile. Because for as bad as we had it, I'm a better person. I have suceeded - I graduated high school...then college...I got married and have a house and cars and pets and a husband who loves me dearly. As I've gotten older, I find that more people understand what I went through because they had something similar. And there is a friend from high school who's wife went through my life, only hers. I'd like to meet her and compare war stories.
However, I have you for one of my best friends. We can argue and discuss and bitch and moan and laugh and cry and read and talk and go crazy or do nothing. We can talk every day or not at all for several weeks, and nothing changes. We're still us. And I'm grateful.
You are my mumsy, Mom, Mommy, Mum, Mother.
Happy Mother's Day.
I love you, Mumsy Dreamer
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
see more Celeb Look-A-Likes
see more Crazy Shoes and Cool Accessories
see more Wedinator
see more Failbook
see more Poorly Dressed
see more Monday Through Friday
see more Tots and Giggles
see more Hurr
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
See, I'm a romantic. I dig the fairytale-ness of the medieval times, the draw of space, the tragedy of war. So yes, it is what you think.
Much Needed Attention:
Kati and Lalo
Lexy and Evan
Ashley and Andrew (if you've followed here very long, you might remember them)
Skye and Troy (this one's a newbie)
Emily and Ray
Holly and Charlie
Sarah and Alan
Marcus & Elizabeth
Monday, March 7, 2011
Did you ever party hard on a Saturday night and wake up with no hangover?
Did you ever party hard on a Saturday night, wake up with no hangover, but come Monday morning, your brain was fuzzier than it was on Sunday afternoon?
I answered yes to all three questions. There was another party this weekend at J's house. Now, normally, I let my husband do the drinking. I may have one or two at the beginning of the night, but that's because one of us has to drive home. This time, we took our air mattress, claimed a room in the basement, and both set into some good partying. That hasn't happened in a while.
Now, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. If I drink too many beers, I will have a hangover the next day (without taking the "medicine*" to counteract said hangover). I can drink whiskey (namely my good friend Jack Daniel's) all damn night.
I drank 4/5ths of a fifth (figure that one out). By myself. Starting with a shot (to impress the boys, of course). Did you know that Jack and Diet Coke marry up well?
The night started off just fine - drinking, grilling, never staying in the same room: Beiruit and karaoke in the basement; WoW (nerds) in the dining room; poker in the living room; and smoking on the back deck.
Things I'll tell you from Saturday night.
1. If you've ever seen Police Academy and remember Eugene Tackleberry, you've seen my friend Shane (he's adorbs).
2. Don't underestimate the power of a drunk girl who doesn't like confrontation.
3. Sometimes, you really should just let a cat fight happen. I would have taken bets.
4. Don't piss off a 15-year military man.
5. If you bring your first date to a party of this magnitude and she still likes you, you might have just found a keeper.
6. Do NOT eyeball former police officers and semi-pro football players while flicking your knife open and closed after they've told you to knock it the fuck off. You will go down and you will get hurt.
7. Truth comes out when a guy's a bit inebriated - some good, some bad.
Number seven is what got me Saturday. Ben and AJ and I get into this conversation out on the porch (none of us smoke), and Ben's the one who brought it up.
He apologized for my auntie being here (yeah...). Ben's a big man (about three inches taller than Mr Realist), and he likes his women with a bit of meat on their bones. His wife, before she got pregnant with their second son (they've been married 16 years; took them eleven years to get pregnant w/Son 1, five for Son 2), lost 75 pounds, and he still finds her smoking hot.
They made me cry...in a good way, of course. AJ (who has the most beautiful grey/green/blue eyes I've ever seen) is one of those hot muscular guys who normally never give girls like me (shut up...) more than "you're a great friend" position.
Let's put it this way: I think I'm beginning to believe what Mr Realist has been telling me all along. I know that it's sad that I'm just shallow enough to need reassurance from people whom I just met or haven't seen in years. Mr Realist tells me all the time that I am beautiful. I'm beginning to think I am.
Yeah, I know. I went from partying my ass off to a reassurance. Let's get back to the party.
There would have been no less than five fisticuffs that would have happened Saturday night. What I just wanted to say to everyone was just "Suck it up, put on your big girl or boy underwear, and deal. You don't like him/her - don't look/talk/breathe in their general direction, or go to a different fucking room." Gah. Stupid young'uns.
Anyhoo...how was your weekend? I'm looking forward to this Saturday: St. Patrick's Day parade in Springfield. Need to get my greens together, bitches!
Love you all; heepwah, and be safe out there.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
J has been one of our best friends for ages. He introduced me to DnD, WoW, good foods, good wines, and some really good friends. He's recently become single because he discovered that his girlfriend had lied to him. Repeatedly. And got caught.
See, he works with the public, protecting and serving. So when he was told that his girlfriend's mother was dead, he thought he'd do a good deed by contacting other family members to see if there was something that she could have of her dead mother, lo and behold, her mother's not dead! On the contrary...she's been looking for her daughter!!
She got pissed off. Like didn't want to know anything about what he found.
She was caught in several other lies; the biggest of which is that her father's not a cocaine drug kingpin like she says. She lied straight to Mr Realist's face on something (I don't remember what it was now), and probably to me as well on many small things.
J had had enough. He put a letter where she would be sure to find it (in a pack of more lies), and she returned to the house. She was to pack her stuff and get out (I don't know time frames, so bear with me). J's upset because he really liked her.
He finds out that she's filed a complaint with the department about him abusing his powers and finding her mother. Here's where I get a bit pissy. If she was telling the truth about her 'dead' mother, I would have been overjoyed to know that I had a chance to get to know my mother again. She files a complaint? What the fuck are you covering, bitch? Didn't like that you got caught in a pretty big fucking lie?
It goes back and forth for a while, and the verdict has come down. Because her manipulative, lying, cunty whore ways, my best friend had to resign from this part of his career.
So, not only did J buy her a laptop computer, a car, and got her mother back, but she took his fucking job away from him? Where do I sign up with a fucking club?
Anyway...she's FB friends with his ex-fiance...and Mr Realist's younger brother. What the fuck, Chuck?! Apparently, she searched him out, and she knew exactly who she was getting into a relationship with.
And you all got another think coming if you expect me to be friends with the cunty whore. Huh-uh. No fucking way. Not on her miserable little life.
Here's the rub: we're apparently supposed to be happy for Younger Brother Realist because he's happy? Huh-uh. No fucking way. He's telling us that we're supposed to look beyond that she has a past, because everyone does.
So we're just supposed to look past the fact that she ruined someone else's life? Wow. Huh-uh. No fucking way. Not on anyone's miserable life.
Here's my prediction for this relationship: they're going to compare pasts - she has Asperger's; he's got Middle Child Syndrome, and it will blossom into lies each bigger than the last - my mother's dead; my dad used to beat me; I've got cancer.
She's supposedly Jewish, and he wants to be a youth minister. Wonder how that's going to work? ;) "My god's better than your god!"
And the fuck if I have to be nice to her. Huh-uh. No fucking way. God himself would have a hard time convincing me to be nice. Ain't gonna happen.
I'm done being nice. And I'm choosing my side.
And no offense to anyone out there, but NO ONE is that fucking clueless. It's just not possible. 2 + 2 = 4. The sky is blue. And cows go Moo.
Fuck really? I'm dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and gobsmacked, all in the same sentence.
Which I thought THAT was never possible.
Apparently, it is!
Heepwah, and be safe out there.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I was just going through some of my old notes on Facebook, and I found a fun one from 2009. So here's a letter from me to Austin:
Our socks don't match. When I quoted Forrest Gump in your car, all you wanted to do was carve your initials into the elephant in the corner.
I'm open to the idea that you need a sex change (dude, your toe ring and your collection of butterflies kinda give it away). I will always remember the pep talks and telling you that you should stop picking your nose (but obviously it hasn't worked)
Best of luck on the sex change,
Heepwah, and be safe out there,