Once upon a time...

I was a skinny bitch. And before you freak out, I'm not bragging. This is about to get all kinds of self deprecating so just sit tight, mkay? Here's the thing, I had absolutely zerooooo control over this fact. Hello? High school metabolism? Where the HELL did you run off to? Was it something I said drank? Oh, right. Beer. And wine. And Tequilla. Margaritas. Did I say beer? I did? Oh. So maybe it's not that big of a mystery after all...

Anyway, here's what I've decided after 26 years on the planet. My worth is not tied up in my waist size. And in a relatively new, healthly living, fitspiration, just KEEP RUNNING TILL YOUR THIN universe, this hasn't always been true. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's finally realizing I really should work what my momma gave me. Whatever it is, I'm sitting here today, on the other side of "whose body is this?" and I'm happy to report that I'm just that: I am happy! With every extra pound and un-toned muscle I'm cursed lucky enough to call mine. Jesus still loves me, so why shouldn't I? He's got this sh*t way more figured out than I do!

Could I eat better, and go to the gym, run marathons (HA!) and do all those cool hipsters things (except for CrossFit, OMG don't even get me started...), sure. And some days, weeks, I do. But that doesn't make me a better person. It doesn't even always make me happy. Other days, like today,  I already have a 12 pack in the fridge. I'm anxiously awaiting for the Rangers game to start and for my hunka-hubby-worker-drone to get his butt to the homestead so we can enjoy a few together. And guess what? THAT'S. O-K.

I went to work today. My dogs have been fed/played with. I put some laundry in the dryer (for the fourth time. Stop judging me). And if I'm being completely honest, the LAST thing I am thinking about is getting bikini ready. I.just.don't.CARE.

I'm not turning my nose up at all you health conscious, clean eating, do gooders out there. Do you boo boo. Follow your arrow wherever it points. Do I think some days you are lying? Yes huh. No one likes not eating ice cream. Don't even try to convince me otherwise. I don't believe in Scientology either. But that's really neither here nor there. Except that both concepts seem completely outrageous.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: Love yourself. Whether you're in a newly fit body, one that's sporting an exaggerated body part (side eyes to my gigantic ass that did NOT exist before 2009),  or growing a new person (here's looking at you baby mommas!), it's YOUR body. And it's just that. A body. You are a SOUL. Although you may try, you can't dictate the vessel you were given when you arrived in the world. We can control what we do with it. Me? I choose to write rambly* blogs with seemingly no direction as I try to figure out what my life is about. I choose to cuddle my baby nugget niece/nephews. I choose to eat popsicles for breakfast more often than I should, and stay up way too late making memories** with my best friend. And I'm good with that. Kapeesh?

Let's make a deal. You be you, and I'll be me. And if that looks like sit ups and kettle bells at 5 am, terrific! And if it looks like, cookies for dinner...we are probably already best friends. Let's STOP trying to be each other, and work on being the best version of ourselves. Stop with the never ending comparisons and start loving being YOU. Because sugar tits? I already think you're the bomb diggity. 

Happy Tuesday my sweets!

Always,

L

*spell check tried to tell me this isn't a word. That skank has obviously never been to my blog before. Read a book blogger, this is happening.

**Sex. Sorry mom!

And then I won the lottery

Yes, you read that right. But if you're familiar with this blog, you know I have a tendency to exaggerate. Like that time I said we robbed a bank (which I completely stand by) except that we really just bought a house.

I guess I should back up a little. I've mentioned it in passing, but back in November I got super sick and found myself in the hospital for two.whole.weeks. Oh right, and did I mention I was hospitalized on THANKSGIVING, the holy day of FOOD and wasn't allowed to eat. Or drink. Or anything? Let me just tell you, it was a whole new fresh kind of hell. And I was, um, intolerable? Bless my husband's sweet little heart. He actually snuck me a tiny TINY piece of dark chocolate just to get me to shut up for a minute. That's love y'all.

Anyway, fast forward to about a month ago. We have an agent through Aflac that handles our secondary insurance policies. He comes by once a year, we resign the same paper for our policies, he brings donuts, everyone wins. Here's where things get exciting. Me, being the fab grown up (*snort*) that I am, completely forgot I even took out a policy with them. It was like a billion (read 3) years ago, the payments come out of my check before I ever see it, so it kind of just slipped my mind. I can hear you laughing at me. Hush.

Like I was saying, I only forgot about it until donut man Aflac guy showed up. We got to chatting and I told him about my little illness escapade, which was when he not-so-subtly reminded me about my policy. And that they are for temporary disability, and hospital stays. This is the point of the post where I SHAMELESSLY promote getting on board with a secondary insurance policy. Ya'll? Their commercials are not, I repeat, NOT a joke. The paper work for the claims were all of 3 pages, and both my policies paid out. To me. IN CASH. To the tune of: I now owe not one dime for any of my 900 hospital bills, have enough money left over to buy a Louis Vuitton purse (if I was in to that, but I'm totally not), a year's supply of popsicles (totally more my style), AND still put some in my savings account because blah I'm-married-to-a-responsible-wannabe-grown-up-who-won't-just-let-me-piss-it-all-away. RUDE.

Moral of the story? A magical duck showed up and gave me a bag of money all because my colon hates me and I had to miss Thanksgiving. Like a friggin adult version of the tooth fairy. Or something like that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some serious bomb pop vs. lick a color frozen treat decisions to make.

Happy Thursday friendships!

Always,

L

This isn't really a post

Hey y'all. I'm sure you've heard that google reader is about to bite the dust. And if you're like me, and shamelessly lurk and read blogs until ungodly hours of the morning, you're going to need a place to go. Don't fret! I have the answer. You are so welcome.

Go Follow my blog with Bloglovin! It's completely free to sign up, and it puts all your favorite bloggities in one place. Super convenient.

Like I said, this isn't really a post. But I'll be back with some craziness soon, promise.

Always,

L

'Lotta Rage? Little Rascals.

Y'all. This week? Someone let the crazies out. More specifically, me. I'm on the loose, two glasses (read:cups. Like the big ones) in, with unsupervised access to the Internet. So there is a very real possibility this might not make sense. But that sounds like your problem, not mine. Write drunk, edit sober: Take 1.

So I posted this on insta the other day:


and for the most part it was extremely well received. I'm lookin at you ma, Frankie says relax! I made it out alive and well enough to tell the story. So I thought I'd expand on it a little.

I'm not sure where you live, but in my world, every single road I drive on is under construction. Side eye: 121 & 114. Oh, right. I have a mildly related confess sesh. That traffic all of you are having to deal with every friggin day? It is God's direct attempt to teach me patience for the 900th time. Which makes me solely responsible for the terrible cluster...and for that, I'm sorry.

I know you've all heard the "women are bad drivers" stereotype. That's also probably my fault too. I'm good at a lot a few like 3 things. Driving isn't necessarily one of them. Although I'd like to point out I didn't get my first and only speeding ticket until I was 25. So in the grand spectrum of bad, I'm just to left of below average. To counteract this, I try and be a courteous driver, and pay it forward when I can. But nothing irritates me more than people who flat out ignore warning signs. Ones that say things like "this lane ENDS"...as in, no more pavement, so get over. Now. Yes you, princess. The construction workers are even looking out for the women idiots and put up 20 of them, in bright shiny colors, with flashing arrows so even the blind have zero excuse. If you're new to this route? You get a free pass. ONCE. But I swear on all things Southern that I see the same people ignoring the signs every.single.morning. Don't believe me? One lady drives a tan Buick, has a bad bleach job, chain smokes with her windows UP, and has a student on the honor roll. Yes, im that observant. She is not alone. There are an unlimited number of drivers "cutting" (for lack of a less kindergarten phrase). They think its totes adorbs to go speeding past everyone who READ the signs, until surprise! they run out of pavement and are forced to slam on their brakes so they dont DIE. And finally, because they live in the land of self righteous entitlement, they get grouchy when no one will let them over... like its some big mystery what happened. To these people, on behalf of all drivers, I'd just like to say: we hate you.

So today. Despite my better judgement, and even though it was clearly my turn, I let what I can only assume was a drunk truck driver in an 18 wheeler go in front of me. Mostly because I saw him blindly fly across 4 lanes of traffic and oh-hi-you-are-way-bigger-than-me-please-go-ahead-and-for-the-love-don't-squish-red-car-Thanks-and-Gig'em. I didn't even get mad. I just let him merge. Its traffic, he's clearly late for his meeting at some douche canoe convention (which explains the trailer), so I paid it forward. Calm, cool, collected.

Now, imagine my surprise when Mr. Yaris (yes, I know. I'm was as just as shocked as you are) comes flying up outta nowhere, honking at me like I'm in the way and wants to jump in front of me. NOT.HAPPENING.BRO. I don't do that level of nice before 9am. I do side eyes, exaggerated huffs, grunts, and sarcasm. And since Big Rig just helped himself to a piece of my patience, you can take a number, sweet cheeks. This is a matter of principle. Now, Sit down. Consider this penance for your terrible choice in car.

I know I sound delightful (*ahem*) but it was very evident I had the right of way, and this particular morning I was going to take it.
What I hadn't anticipated was the driver of the clown car FLIPPING OUT on me for making him follow common driving etiquette. He rolled down his window and started cussin me. Hard. And, since obviously that wasn't enough, flipped me off with not one, but both hands. We are literally at dead stop, playing some twisted version of chicken, so I got to see all of this in slow motion. And y'all, I don't know what it was, but his utter lack of emotional control made me pull out my go to argument winner. The Little Rascal wave. This is a staple in mine and Nate's marriage arsenal, along with punching each other in the face ...but thats old news. Honest to God, if you are ever on the losing end of a fight, do it. People don't know how to react and you'll win by running away default. Today's encounter with Yaris was no exception. Maybe he thought i did this:


Because the face he made?

Priceless.

Something about the look, combined with the knowledge that I had, with very little effort, ruined this guy's ENTIRE LIFE (at least in that moment) made me start laughing uncontrollably. You know, because I'm really mature. It's not that serious. In fact, nothing in my life is as serious as this man's stance on his morning commute.

If it makes you feel better, I let a caravan of church buses get in front of me in the go fast lane without batting an eyelash. I really am a courteous driver. I just have a zero tolerance policy for cuttsies. And truck nuts. Moral of the story? Bitches get stitches. Side stitches. And today it was from a hysterical case of the giggles. Oops.

Always,

L



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sometimes...

All you need is your bubba. I miss you, E.

"The End of Time"
-The Band Perry

Here I am, standing firm, as the ground shakes beneath me.
I send you away with my own hand.
I try and try to remember, that for now it's for the better, but there's a Southern kind of tragic blowing in. Oh it feels like the beginning of the end...

Well the Alabama moon, fell from the sky, and the sweet tea wells ran dry...
Somewhere out there, you're finding yourself, but back home it's the end of time...

I'm scared to death, pick up your phone: outside, I hear the bells ringing. Bringing ruin to all that we have ever known. Pick up your phone, I need an answer. Come home and call off disaster! Cause I feel tonight our Cotton Land might fall. Oh I'm cracking like the plaster on the walls...

Well, all of the cotton, it died in the fields. The little babies cried the blue from their eyes. Somewhere I'll bet, you're living it up...but come home, before the end of time...

I'm so proud of you...and I miss you like crazy these days. Can't wait to hug your neck when you get home.

Always,

Sister

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Perspective, Level: Husband

Conversation with Nathan:

Me: Today sucks. It's raining, my head is pounding, my hair is ratchet, I'm tired, I'll never understand taxes, and we're out of chocolate milk.

Nate: Oh. Is that all?

Me: ......???

Nate: Well, I just mean, it could always be worse.

Me: I doubt it. Obviously you weren't listening.

**to which, he responded with the following picture ..(that I was unaware existed, until today)**

Nate: You could be back there. Getting admitted into the hospital. Missing Thanksgiving. All while I force you to wear newspaper hats and photograph you for my own entertainment. Oh, just as an aside, you should feel confident in my ability to support you as a candy striper if my corporate gig ever falls through. I've got mad skills. I don't know what you're complaining about, you're so lucky.

Touche', husband. Touche'.

Also? You're a dead man.

Always,

L