Break-up note to the Starbucks barista..

One of the things that Jason brought into my life is a budget. Yes, I used to manage my money just fine, but he took it to an entirely new level: my weekly budget for EVERYTHING is planned out in this really effin' cool Excel spreadsheet that includes a checkbook register and all y'all. Like for the rest of the damned year. Not even kidding.
Included in that budget is a $25 weekly "Personal" budget. *Sigh*. That was my Starbucks money y'all. *SIGH*. But I've given up Starbucks my precious angels. Aaargh!

What the deuce?!

Giving up Starbucks for me is like a bad break-up with a good man who just isn't "good for me." There were some really nice things about the relationship-but also some bad ones. You tasted soooo good Venti White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha with all of your whipped cream & sprinkly (now a word) goodness; but, what you did to my ass & my thighs...not cool. Not cool at all.

Like a sick & twisted domestic situation for me. I don't love you even though you're bad for me; I love you because you're bad for me.

I'm proud of myself for breaking it off; but I miss you. I miss your smell & your taste. I miss the way you lingered on my mouth for 30 minutes after you were gone. (Dear Lord, please forgive my pornagraphic attraction to coffee.)
But it's over now. It has to be. For the sake of all that's healthy. It's not you, it's me.

But alas, I am a wh0re for all things of the c. bean--so of course I'm in a rebound relationship until I can find something better. This little fling with my coffee pot and my store bought creamers is meeting a need, if you will, but it's not a forever kind of relationship. I'm still looking for that one perfect cup of low-fat, caffeine infused perfection. Some day I'll find it. I'm determined.

In the meantime--Starbucks--take care. And go ruin someone else's BMI. Love, Brandi

p.s. readers, do not suggest some healthy alternative to me. I swear I'll throw a heavy ass ceramic coffee mug right at your head. Not even kidding.

*Sidebar* In the midst of writing this, I promised my daughter we'd go to church tonight. My dear lord...I'm a hot mess. LOL!

Over this $h!t already!!!!

It has been a real beotch of a week y'all. Not even going pull punches there. Some momma & baby drama (my own), strep throat (again, mine) and out of nowhere today...just when I'm starting to feel a little calm again, my freakin' father calls.

WHAT. THE. HELL!?!

Very brief back story...my dad is a retired military man. But that's not his issue. The issue is not that he cheated on my mom, or my step-mom, or was the most perfectionistic, impossible to please, verbally abusive hard-a$$ on the entire damn planet. It was mostly that he's a master manipulator. He'll help you, just to own you later. But when you really need him...for something emotionally, spiritually or mentally difficult in life--he's a ghost.

I spent 33 years trying to win my "daddy's" love and approval. Then finally one day, I'd had enough. I cut him out and told him not to bother knocking on my door, or calling again. I was sick of living through the stereotypical cycle of falling for men like him because I wanted to be accepted and approved of by him. Ugh...just makes me sooo mad y'all! Seriously PISSED!

So warp to present day. Here I am, on my couch, watching my youngest dorks happily play Lego StarWars on the xBox, and having just got off the phone with my oldest whom is dealing with some heavy stuff of his own (AGAIN, my fault)...the bastard calls me.

No, I didn't pick up the phone. But yes, I did listen to the voicemail.

"I don't know if you want to talk." (Dad)
Nope.
"But I hope you do." (Dad)
Here's to hoping. Enjoy your Jack and Coke.
"I'm always thinking about you & love you." (Dad)
I'm sure you do. In the only way you know how. Unfortunately, that's just something I don't want to be part of anymore.

What I am thankful for...is that there are several of us, doing our very best to make sure this cycle does NOT repeat itself for my own daughter.

This is Elena with her Dad (Adrian) on her right and Jason on her left. They're playing rock band--to be specific, they are "HER" band. That's how our life is.

Not many people get it--this crazy life we live, and I'll admit, it's hard to explain. Which is why, I no longer feel the need to. I don't care if people get it or like it. I don't give a rat's a$$ if the traditional Christians in my circle of acquaintances approve of my mouth or my choices. I don't even really, ultimately, care if my own family care or approve (case in point...my father).

What I do care about is breaking a cycle that's lasted 3 generations in my family (both sides) of living lies, being abusing to ourselves and others around us, and casting judgement on each other and those outside our homes.

I want to say, for the record, that I don't judge my father; he's entitled to live his life as he sees fit and as it makes him happy. But his happy is my unhealthy. And my unhealthy trickles down. Can't let that happen y'all. Not anymore.

So pretty much...I'm over this $h!t and I'm breakin' out a big shovel to start cleaning the paths in front of me. I sure hope none of y'all are on it. ;-)

Love ya,

B~

Ecclesiastes 3:1

"For every time there is a season and time for every matter under heaven."

Today has been a day. I have dropped off my youngest children to my (2nd) ex-husband, texted with my second youngest son Cale via his new cell phone. I've also spoken with my older step-brother whom I've not spoken to in over 8 years. And did I mention that my newest FB page has proven to be a place of "finding middle ground" among women from many different places, age groups and cultures? Wow.

Let me just say this; I have wondered for years what the "F" I was doing here. Here=this life.

It's been a trip. Not the figurative, emotional type...literally, a physical trip from place to place: parent to parent: spouse to spouse type of trip. So here I am, fat & not so happy, but working on it. And deciding to invite the world to watch as I figure it out.

The funny thing is...holy shit...the world seems to be responding.

I was born with the desire to help others. It's what I do best. Wanna know why?

Because helping others deters from my need to help myself.

Wanna know what's different now?

I've asked the "others" to hold me accountable for helping myself.

From my mother to my friends, to my gay step-brother in Cali who's decided to forgive me for my jackassness from the bottom of his heart. Yep. All the way down to those who could care less if I just dropped off the face of the earth completely.

Go ahead. Give it your best and your worst. But I'm not going ANYWHERE. I'm not scared of me or you anymore.

Gotta go wipe my nose now.

LY!

b~

Nothing better than happy & fat dysfunctional supermoms!!!

Ok, so maybe we're not so happy and not so "fat" but whatever. F@*k it. Either way, we're committed. So there.

I've decided that being "morbidly obese" is not my cup of tea. Although, let me just say for the record, that all the research I've done shows that the classifications of obesity are based mainly on waist size and I have a fairly small waist for my 199 lbs. so therefore I say "BULLSHIT" to the classifications. It is my ASS that's obese and my boobs that need the personal training. My overall classification is FINE. Thanks for playing!

Anyway...I saw a video of myself taken at the beach last night. Not in a swimsuit. That would have to be done over my dead body. No, really. Literally. The mortician would have to stage my body in the bathing suit after the embalming fluids were processed; because my fat ass in a swimsuit is not something I (or anyone else in the free world, who still maintains their vision) would ever want to see.

I was in jeans, and dear God...that was enough for me. You know what's worse than a fat chick on the beach? A fat chick with a bad, short haircut on the beach. OMG, people. It was so bad, all I could do was laugh. And start a new FB page.

The Dysfunctional Supermom Weight Loss Support Group.

yep...there you go.

How do we deal with morbid obesity? With sick & twisted humor...oh yeah...and bitchiness. It's just what we do. It's a gift. Hate the giver, not the recipient.

Anwyay. So here I am, putting on my big girl panties and dealing with it and putting myself on a 90 day challenge (no Starbucks...can you say 5 years probation anyone?). But I have friends. Ah yes, you seem shocked.

Is that because my FB page has more fans than my thought out blog? 3 friends, in fact. That's 3 more than I have here. How 'bout them apples?!

Anyway...my personal goal is amazingly NOT to lose 180 of the 199 lbs I'm carrying. It's to lose 30 lbs by Christmas by exercising 4x per week and by starving myself until I'm retarded. Yeah, that's the ticket. I'll be too weak to put food in my mouth.

That's got to be some Hollywood fad diet, right?

Because some parts of me are AWESOME!!

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