Life According to Angry Pony

Soul Work: Letter to my body

2023-10-07T13:52:00.009-07:00

It's been a while since I have blogged. The downtime has been a time of learning, healing and accepting.

Through the Ambassador program with Jezebel Vonzepher Photograpy, I have done a lot of soul work and here is one of my homework assignments that I am sharing with you in hopes that it brings you inspiration if you are struggling yourself. I may do some more blogging, but for today, this is my share,.

October 7, 2023

Soul Work #12

I came into this world a 10lb baby girl delivered to parents that were lost and struggling with adulting and their relationship. The life for baby Cassondra would not be an easy one.

As I grew up, I was always “off the charts” the doctors would say. I didn’t really understand that I was bigger than most kids until I entered school, and the kids were cruel. Looking back, I don’t think I Iooked that big, but the taunts were relentless. I would come home crying and I knew it broke my parents’ hearts. My Dad would say, “Babycakes, you’re going to have to get thicker skin. I can’t go to school and beat up all those kids because they are mean. I would stop them if I could.” I was 5 years old.

And so began the relationship of hate for my body. I didn’t understand why my body was bad, just that being bigger/fatter was the worst thing I could be. It meant I was ugly. It meant I was not as smart. It meant I couldn’t wear cute clothes; I couldn’t eat without ridicule, and I was sometimes too big for your desk at school. I weighed 180lbs by 4^th grade.

But at home I had my horses (I grew up on a farm) and I’m a Gen Xer so I was basically raised feral. I was outside all day in the summer and on weekends during the school year. Whatever I wanted to do, I did it. Mom was busy, so I found a way to catch my horse, get the saddle on and ride. My body was strong and capable despite being overweight.

By the time I got to 6^th grade, the kids taunts were crueler than ever. I found the best way to exist was to make fun of myself and make people laugh before they could make fun of me, or joined in as they made fun of me. Defense mechanism created. You can’t hurt me if I hurt myself first. If I don’t love myself, it won’t matter.

My mom would take me to the doctor to see what we could do about my weight. She was trying to help; she wasn’t doing it in a mean way. She just wanted me to be healthy and happy. I did so many diets and nothing really worked. We had no idea about nutrition, and we were a farm family that struggled, so I ate the things that were cheaper and not the healthiest. I forgive my parents and myself for this. We did not know any different.

Meanwhile, my home life was not good as I grew up. My Dad was an alcoholic and had a very nasty temper. He would destroy our house in a rage and get rough with my brother and me. I had no safe space. Not at home, not at school. I was living in a constant state of anxiety and my coping mechanism was to try and fix everything so my dad wouldn’t get mad. I would anticipate his mood, watch him closely and act accordingly. My life as a people pleasing empath began.

Ironically, through all of this, my parents always told me I could do anything I wanted, that weight didn’t define me. I rode horses, learned how to train them, showed them, etc. I was in band and learned to play the flute and several other instruments and was really good at it. I got decent grades. I was determined to live the life my dad never could because my mom got pregnant with me, and he had to abandon his hopes of going to college. I fell in line and tried to make him proud.

So, did I have some self-worth about my abilities? Yes. I was overweight, but I was strong, and I worked hard. But did I feel beautiful and valued by society? No. The boys in school never liked me. One even told me if I lost weight I’d be really pretty. My goal was ALWAYS to lose weight, to try and dress to hide my weight and fit in. If I lost weight, then I would be attractive, loveable, good enough.

In high school, I would not eat breakfast, I’d drink a Slim Fast shake and eat an apple for lunch while hiding in the library during lunch time. I didn’t want anyone to see me eat anything. The shame I had about who I was eating me alive.

I cleaned stalls at a stable every Sunday (there were 54 stalls that myself and one other person cleaned) and then cleaned the 12 stalls we had at home on the other days and helped care for the 35 horses we had. The lowest weight I ever was while living that way was 225 lbs and a size 18. Not good enough.

I was depressed, lonely, sad, angry and I would lash out at others. I disliked most of the people at school. Again, self-preservation. I had to protect myself at all costs. In my mind I was doing what had to be done to survive.

I never had a boyfriend in school, never was kissed or went to dances or did things that “normal” girls did. I went to college and did not attempt to make many friends and I isolated myself because I was so certain no one would accept me as is. I would walk a mile every morning before school and then drive to school and had to walk the campus. I was exercising, but it was still not enough, I weighed 250 by graduation.

After college I lived at home and was basically scared of the world. I felt like I wasn’t capable, that people would not accept me, and I was so lonely. I just wanted a guy to like me. My worth, my ability and my heart were completely locked up.

I spent my 20’s in angst but made friends at the job I eventually got. I started seeing a therapist and eventually met my husband. I thought finding my soul mate would make me feel enough. It did not. The hole in my soul still remained even though I was loved for who I was by a man, I still did not love myself.

Fast forward to today. Today as I write this, I see that little girl. She was so strong and capable. She took on the world without realizing she was functioning as an adult far before she was ready. How did she do it? I owe her gratitude and thanks. She took me through hell, and she never stopped fighting. She didn’t get to be a kid or feel unconditionally loved and safe. She deserves a hug and a fucking medal of honor.

That girl did not succumb to alcoholism, like the textbooks said she would. That girl did not marry an abusive man, quite the opposite. So, while she was adulting as a kid, she was already setting the groundwork to protect herself in the future. She was so smart. I’m lucky to have had her running the show.

I was enough then, regardless of what everyone thought of me. I was a big girl, but I was toned and strong and I was a fighter. I deserved this self-love at 180lbs, 225lbs, 250lbs and even today at 320lbs. I see that now. I wish I could have that 225lb body back now! I wish I had those knees that made it possible to do all those things I did daily and achieve goals I set for myself. But, what I can do is take care of them and my body today because it is worthy of love and care.

That girl was a badass and now this woman is unstoppable. She deserves nothing but the best in life, regardless of the skin she’s in.

After going through this JVZ Journey, I find myself realizing the thing that I have robbed myself of all these years is self-love. The stories I believed all those years ago about needing to lose weight to experience love and happiness are such bullshit. I am thankful I have found this new ground to stand on and I can look at myself in pictures and in the mirror with love now. Maybe not every day, but more days I love her than not.

Now I find myself in a new phase. Now I know my worth, my value and my power. I want to stand in all of that and I don’t want to settle for anything less. I know I deserve more. The way people have learned to love me is going to have to change. As Julia Robert’s character, Vivian, said in Pretty Woman, “Now everything is different, and you changed that, and you can’t change back. I need more.”

That’s where I am now and its unfamiliar territory. Some days I will be tempted to fall back into depression and sadness but on every other day, I will show up, straighten my crown and move forward knowing I am enough.

And I will do all of those things wearing all the clothes, some of the clothes or none of the clothes because fuck body standards. This is my platform and I’m telling all the people out there; you are good enough and worthy enough as is…because you exist.

Photo courtesy of Jezebel VonZepher Photograpy. #jezebelvonzepherphotography

Angry Pony Double Dog Dare: Part Two

2020-09-12T17:19:00.002-07:00

In my last blog entry, I shared that I had been double dog dared (DDD) to do a boudoir photo shoot. I promised a multi-part mini blog series about it. Well, that didn't happen. This blog today will be part two about the DDD and that will be it.

You see, I started to write a blog all about selecting the outfits I was going to take with me to the boudoir shoot and it was going to be about how ridiculous my body is. I was going to talk about the lingerie and how I looked like a pig dressed in lacey curtains. I was going to talk about these boobs of mine and how they disappear into my armpits when I lay down on the bed. I would do my normal fat mocking and I would paint a picture you'd never be able to get out of your mind, but it would likely make you laugh because I'm ridiculous. I learned a long time ago that if I make people laugh first, then it doesn't hurt as much if someone makes a comment about my weight, or it distracts them from making a comment. I learned that in kindergarten.

But as I started to write it, something happened that I was not prepared for. For the first time, I didn't want to shame this body. For the first time, I didn't want to make fun of it and I didn't want to feel bad about it. I sat there unable to type anything. I had no humor in my heart, just a white flag in my head and a sense of surrender in my soul. Without even realizing it, I apparently had come to some sort of peace that I was not yet even aware of. I don't know when or how it happened, but I think between my years with the Rug Doctor and then recently my counseling with the Paleo Princess, something has finally stuck. I think I have finally succumbed to their teachings! I think the last few months of being more respectful of my way of eating and allowing myself to be proud of my journey has made all the difference. Honestly, I'm not even completely sure how it happened. I haven't unpacked all that yet.

Fast-forward to the day of my photo shoot as I walked down the streets of Snohomish wearing a mask with a dabbing unicorn on it, packing a rifle and a pink bag full of sexy bra's and panties. I thought the rifle would be a nice touch in some of the shots for Shark Bait. Seemed like a sexy thing to do. Anyway, that experience alone was enough to tear down the walls of what is or is not socially acceptable. I got some confused looks. Meh, whatever.

Alas, I arrived safely, and without incident, to Jezebel VonZephyr Photography to do my photos. I had heard they were a very body positive group of women that ran the studio and that they made it very empowering and safe. Sara, the photographer, and Tiffany, the hair and make-up stylist, put me at ease and made the whole experience during my shoot amazing. They put together my outfits and we spent a couple of hours making me feel comfortable, powerful and sexy. It's hard to explain how it makes you feel, but it is a feeling of confidence that lasted for days to follow. That feeling might still be with me and it's been two weeks now since the shoot.

During the shoot, I had a feeling of power, but I also had a nagging feeling of "what if the feeling and image I have in my head right now doesn't match the photo's when I see them? Then what?" This is where the DDD really comes into play because this is what I am afraid of. Looking at these pictures and hating what I see. Finding all the flaws and focusing on the fat. What if I go through all of this and that is the end result? How do I come to terms with that?

I got my answer to those questions on this past Thursday. I had a Zoom call with Sara and one of her team members, Kaitlyn, and we went though all my photos. I was sick to my stomach as the pictures started to come up on the screen. It was a slideshow set to music and I just sat there and two things happened. First, I had to mourn the loss of what I thought I should have looked like. The pictures did not match the image in my head. This wasn't a selfie where I controlled the angle, this was my body through someone else's lens, which meant, that is me. No filter. No hiding in black pants or a long sweater. There I was. It wasn't like I'd never seen myself naked in the mirror. I don't know why I thought I would look different than I did. I just wanted the fantasy of me to be there in those images. Like maybe if I looked beautiful in those photos, I really was beautiful and the proof would be right there. I don't know why I need proof, because my husband tells me I'm beautiful and my friends are always kind to me about my appearance. Why am I the only hold-out? Why do I refuse to see it or accept it? Is it years of shaming in grade school? Was it years of not feeling good enough to have a boyfriend or have guys be interested? Was it the expectation of society? Hollywood? What? I think it's all of those things, but also a sense of personal shame that I have never been able to get the weight off. I feel cheated out of life experiences that "normal" people have. I have a strong sense of failure that I cannot shake.

So, as I was rapidly processing all of that, I had to pick the pictures I wanted to keep. Sara and Kaitlyn were great about encouraging me to be kind and to remember this was about me and not keeping pictures because of how I thought someone else might appreciate them. They encouraged me to keep a couple that maybe made me feel a little uncomfortable or that were not perfect in my eyes so that moving forward, I could become comfortable with what I saw. And so, I narrowed it down to a handful that represented who I am right now, today. I'm going to share some of those pictures with the world because I am not ashamed of my imperfections. I am going to continue to work on making this body better, but I'm going to love it enough to take are of it.

I don't think any of these pictures are scandalous and frankly, you can see more skin by going to the beach, so ZERO SHAME IN MY GAME. If you don't want to see them, now is your time to close this blog. These pictures are the originals from Jezebel VonZephyr and I'm not allowed to edit or filter them, so you are going to see some skin. Sorry, not sorry.

I picked this picture because I smiled and it was genuine. I don't really like my teeth or my smile in general because I feel like it makes my eyes disappear when my cheeks go up. This picture makes me happy.

I chose the picture (above) because I felt SEXY AF. I don't hate my body in this pose.

I was disappointed in all my gun wielding poses. I didn't love them and I didn't think there would ever be a day when I did. I could not come to terms with the majority of them. This shot (above) however, I made peace with.

This picture (above) I initially cringed. All I could see was my big 'ol belly. But, if I change my focus and look at the expression in that woman's face, I'm in there and I'm kind of a badass.

I chose this picture (above) because it shows the woman I am, complete with scars on her belly from multiple weight-loss surgeries. I've done the work, I've fought the war. I'm still here. And, I'm still "in progress."

Naked and unafraid (above). Here I am. The world's expectations will not shame me into a flannel floor-length nightie.

This picture (above) made me laugh. Such a bitchy, mob-boss wife expression. I don't love my legs or how big I look, but that woman behind that face has gotten me through every hardship that has brought me to today and...I love her.

And finally, this picture below is the fierce woman I carry around every day. She is strong, sometimes insecure, scared, depressed, over-whelmed or angry. She's a loyal friend, an empath, a clown, dramatic and outspoken. She deserves love. She deserves happiness.

Yesterday, I showed my pictures to a couple of my friends at work. One of those friends is one of the fittest people I know. She eats well, exercises and takes really good care of herself. She's beautiful. I would give anything to trade her bodies. She said she didn't think she could ever do a photo shoot like this. I looked at her in disbelief. I said, "Holy cow, if I can do this with THIS body, why in the world wouldn't you do it in YOURS?" She immediately started talking about all the places on her body that are not good enough or are undesirable to her. I just stared at her and was instantly so sad for her. I wanted her to feel free, too. I wanted her to feel as beautiful as I think she is. And then I realized, that is how all the people that care about me feel. They want me to see what they see, which is not the weight, but the person.

This is some deep shit I'm going through here.

I'm going to send this to Paleo Princess for her review, but I think this Double Dog Dare is complete...and a success.

Thank you, Sara, Tiffany and Kaitlyn at Jezebel VonZephyr Photography. The work you do with the camera and the soul is amazing and appreciated.

Angry Pony Double Dog Dare: Part One

2020-08-25T20:15:00.001-07:00

I had mentioned on Facebook about a month ago that my nutritionist had asked me some tough questions about why I'm still struggling to make things happen in my weight loss journey. The long and short of the conversation was that she felt I may be afraid of success. I mean, afraid of spiders, yeah, but success? Why would I be afraid of that? Doesn't everyone want to be successful? Why would I be scared? And, while that seems like a ridiculous question, I had to consider it to be a possibility.

I'm going to stop here for a moment and give the nutritionist a blog name. I think I'll call her, Princess Paleo. I don't know about calling her PP for short, but I might. Be ready for it. When I'm talking about my PP, it's Princess Paleo. Potentially creepy, but also efficient in key strokes. (don't make that dirty)

Anyway, Princess Paleo challenged me to try something out of my comfort zone. To try something that I've always wanted to do, but have never been brave enough, or to overcome a fear. Something to push myself to show myself that yeah, it's uncomfortable, but I can and I'm strong and it's not so scary. She flat-out Double Dog Dared me to this challenge. She just took this nutrition shit next level. I can't back down from a DDD and she knew it. She's like an evil genius.

I agreed to the DDD challenge and went home to consider what I could do. I thought about what fear I had or bucket list thing I could do. I honestly was at a loss. I have myself so conditioned on what is possible or what is realistic, I wasn't able to think about the possibilities of what I could challenge myself to do. What I could hope to do. Drawing a blank, I took my challenge situation to a higher power...I went where I knew people full of ideas and advice live...Facebook. I knew they would have the answers I was seeking.

Sure enough, my peeps did not disappoint. I did go ahead and rule out things like holding spiders and jumping into the ocean right off the bat. I want to challenge myself, not die. I continued wading through the suggestions and noticed a couple of my peeps suggested doing a boudoir photo shoot. To be honest, I had thought about doing one in the past, but always felt strongly that if I ever did it, it would be after I lost the weight, maybe had some sort of surgery or when I grew my hair out...or whatever. Someday, when I felt beautiful and proud, I would do it. It just hasn't been time yet. I'm not ready. You know, someday I will be ready when I lose the weight, get in shape and become happy...that is the perfect time for that type of thing. The perfect time is not now because...naked cellulite, gross.

And even though I have allowed my mind to dictate this debilitating message to my psyche, I do truly believe, in my heart, that I need to just be happy in the now and accept where I am in my journey today. I know that is what leads to happy moments and enjoying life. Happiness is not a place or destination and it's not a constant. It's a feeling and a moment in time. So, for this DDD, what better way to be happy in the moment and accept where I am than to raise the white flag and say, "Today is the day I celebrate where I am, regardless of body mass or progress on my journey." I'm going to be brave and bold and proud in this squishy body that has successfully lead me to this 48th year of life. Maybe, just maybe, I can make peace with this body and accept that it is good enough today. It's good enough to be worth the effort to make it better. It's good enough because I love it, instead of hating every inch of it. That sounds like a pretty big freaking DDD right there.

I sealed my fate and sent Princess Paleo an email advising her that I had chosen the boudoir photo shoot as the DDD. Not only that, I'd researched photographers and found a studio that specializes in this type of thing and had booked an appointment. There. It's happening. I'm committed.

That happened about a month ago.

That appointment is actually this Friday.

I'm completely freaking out.

I have been agonizing on what to wear and trying to decide how revealing I want to go. I am so scared I'm going to look at these photo's and want to stab my eyes out. So scared that I'm going to look like the Star Wars Illustrated Jabba the Butt swim suit edition centerfold model of 2020. Fer serious. I'm so scared that during this photo shoot I will be thinking in my mind, "look at me, I'm sexy, I'm beautiful, blah, blah, blah..." but that when I see the pictures on screen, all I will see is Miss Piggy in lingerie. A legit, Walmart, tube-top wearing, back-boob sporting Fatty Mcfatterson. <-- How do I jump the hurdle of hearing that self-talk and seeing anything different on the screen?

I don't know. I've been working on that for a lifetime.

I guess this DDD is a good way to push myself to see if success looks as good as it feels. <-- I don't care who you are, that just got real right there. Did you see what I just did there?

Anyhoosle, in the spirit of my usual over-sharing, I'm taking you on my journey of me over-exposing myself. This time, fer serious, in the flesh. Tonight is Part One of this mini series. Part Two is all about the wardrobe selection...specifically lingerie. Stay tuned, if you dare. Crisis in progress...

Progress Report - Paleo Life

2020-06-30T17:07:00.000-07:00

Today's originally scheduled blog, titled, WTF are my #$%& neighbors doing now and why don't they STFU, has been postponed to bring you this kinder, gentler blog...

Progress Report: Paleo Life and the Path to Mental Wellness

Thought I'd check in today and share how life is going. To those of you that are my Facebook friends, which is probably the majority of anyone reading this blog, you've seen that I've been posting my dinner meals and an occasional low-carb treat. Doing so has created a sense of accountability for me and I was hoping it wasn't making everyone on FB roll their eyes. Like, who cares what you're eating and what it looks like? We all know what food looks like! However, I was surprised at how many private messages I received, as well as post comments from people thanking me for posting and inspiring them to eat better. Who knew I would EVER be a food influencer??? Sarcasm influencer, yes. Anger management ally, yes. But food influencer? Who'd have guessed? I guess this is why I share my journey. So many people are struggling, so many people are giving up because it's hard. Giving up leads to pain and depression and it's a horrible cycle. And, if you don't have a good support system, the difficulty level goes up from there.

The struggle is part of the process, unfortunately. I would not be true to myself if I didn't offer full transparency into my journey. I may be posting some great dinners and living clean-ish most of the time, but I fall, too. I still struggle each day. Weekends are the hardest when Shark Bait and I are together all the time and out running to the store or whatever Covid-approved adventure we may be having. I have gotten better in my "cheat" choices when we are out, I will give myself snaps for that. I don't stray now to the degree that I used to. For example, we'll go to Panda Express and I'll get the grilled teriyaki chicken, no sauce, and veggies (broccoli, cabbage, etc.), or maybe we'll go to Chipoltle and I'll get a salad bowl. There are options out there. So, they aren't organic, but they are better than a cheeseburger, fries, Coke, ice cream, grease, fat, etc. I honestly feel a change in my desire to make healthy choices. I will give myself praise for that.

I was able to shed a few more pounds after stopping the program at Symmetria and was excited I was able to do so on my own. However, as no one's journey is a straight line, I have lost and re-gained and re-lost the same 5 pounds several times now. I am finding myself getting frustrated. I don't want to return to old patterns and I feel like I'm getting bogged down. This has lead to some emotional stuff coming out that has complicated life all the more. Being off my anti-depressants is helping me access my inner warrior, but it also allows me to access all the anger, doubt, fear, anxiety and frustration that have plagued me for a lifetime. I start to doubt that maybe I can't be off my meds? I feel a little lost, if I am being honest.

It doesn't help that the world is so crazy right now. It's hard for me to think about the future. The happiness that I feel like I finally have within my reach is being jeopardized by this constant fear of contracting a disease, having our lives turned upside down by current events and the hatred and violence connected to them. Change is often a tumultuous process, but I feel like maybe I wasted too much time in my life and now my true hopes of being happy are not obtainable. It makes me feel defeated, like why bother? I know I am not the only one that feels that way. Sometimes I just cry because I hurt so much. I'm exhausted from the daily fight to keep strong and push forward.

At any rate, without taking this any deeper than that, I'll stop there. I'm going to keep soldiering on because honestly, that is the only option that makes sense, even if tomorrow is not promised. My knees are still sore and working out is a slow process. I'm so scared to hurt them any worse, so I continue to focus on my food choices and doing my 16/8 fasting (fast 16 hours, eat 8 hours). I keep looking for new ways to make the same 'ol stuff more appetizing. I thought about starting a FB page that is just for my wellness journey, but then thought, there are a bazillion sites and groups out there that do that. I don't know that I have the energy to keep a food blog up and again there are a bazillion of those out there, too. That's where I find my stuff. LOL. I'm just a girl standing in front of a pizza asking it to be low-carb. I'm just a random girl that hates to cook but that is good enough at it to not go hungry, clearly. If I can find the ability to do this, anyone can.

I will share some of my recent meals and recipes that I found in case anyone is looking for something new to try. I try and keep it super-simple, because I'm not looking to win any awards for cooking using someone else's recipes.

Today, I even tried a new one, which I'll post first. It is Delicious and would be a great thing to make for summer picnics or BBQ's, you know, if you get one of those masks that has a hole in it so you can shove food through...cuz, safety first.

Low Carb Potato Salad (Cauliflower instead of potatoes)

*** I added sliced black olives, it didn't call for it, but that is just how wild and crazy I am...

https://www.skinnytaste.com/low-carb-potato-salad/?fbclid=IwAR0PTHxpXkU5UhHTczIzHdXBash6cGvMvDaygL9toDWExsohuY8tCVEchBI

Other recent things I've made lately...I have a Paleo Cookbook and I use the Google. It's how I do. No science involved. Sadly, I'm not a huge veggie fan, so I'm struggling with veggie creativity. Working on it though. We have tried turnips in place of potatoes. Result? Meh.

https://gimmedelicious.com/keto-garlic-chicken/

https://lowcarbyum.com/chocolate-chip-coconut-bars/

#kneegap

Three Months...BAM! #kneegap

2020-06-09T22:41:00.009-07:00

Today I am feeling pretty accomplished and I wanted to document that here in my blog for myself, but also to share with those that follow me though my trials and tribulations in this crazy life.

Back in March, I took a leap of faith and decided to get stem cell therapy on my knee and signed up for a nutrition & wellness program the clinic has that fits in with the rehab. I was all-in. Last resort. Last chance. Well, today I graduated from that program. They have cut me loose to continue the journey of healing on my own. They are pretty sure I am ready and I think they might be right.

Prior to March, I was in a pretty dark place. I was in constant chronic pain. I cried every day. I couldn't sleep at night. I was consuming special brownies at night just so I could numb my mind from the unrelenting pain. The brownies caused my appetite to increase and my body was just completely toxic and miserable. My digestive system was a wreck of Titanic proportions. I told Shark Bait that since no doctor was willing to help me and there was nothing I could do, I pretty much was just giving up at life. At 48 years old, I was just throwing in the towel. I mentally and physically could not take the beating anymore. I could barely navigate around my house and to work, let alone to do anything recreational beyond those two activities.

In March I met the doctors and people at Symmetria Integrative Medicine. They told a pretty story of how they could help me. They all seemed really nice, but I was honestly scared to believe them. Every other doctor I had been to had treated me like a waste of time and a lost cause. I had no reason to trust these new people, other than that I literally had no where else to go. It was not covered by insurance and was money we didn't have, but the clinic was willing to work with me. I said, "What if it doesn't work?" Shark Bait said, "But what if it does?"

On March 16th, I received the stem cell treatment in my right knee. Both Dr. Gill and Dr. Bill were confident I would find relief in this procedure, but I was so afraid to be hopeful. This was also the same time every other place was shutting down due to the pandemic. Great timing, Cassondra. This was not a good sign. I needed to come in three times a week for my rehabilitation and nutrition program. How was this going to work? Alas, it just seemed to. They stayed open and I made my appointments. We set goals, I detoxed, I did the laser treatments, the invisi-red treatments, the rehab exercises, the chiropractic. We worked on my whole body. Everyone there was nothing short of amazing, kind, supportive, dedicated and real.

I got to know each of them a little and some of them probably got to know a lot more about me than they bargained for, because, well, I'm me. When you go through that sort of program for a little over two months three times per week (my time was extended a little longer because I had a "failure to launch" at 6 weeks), you get to feel almost like family. ** I'm sorry to whomever had to hear my voicemail message that day I was in the midst of a detox poopocalypse and had to cancel my appointment for fear of bio-explosion, needing a hose down and an adult diaper.

These people watched me limp in and cry in those first visits. They watched me struggle as I gradually weaned off of my medications and anti-depressants. They never waivered in their support or belief I would get better. Weaning off the anti-depressants alone was a living hell I would never wish on anyone. These people were all wearing masks, due to the Covid-19, but you could still see the compassion and understanding in their eyes. I can't compare it to any other experience I've ever had anywhere else before in healthcare. Even when I had done my weight loss surgery, the people at that clinic were supportive in the beginning, but I could tell over time, once I had recovered from surgery, I was a burden. And when I eventually was not a success story, they lost interest in helping me. I expected that to happen here, but it didn't. When I hit the six week mark and finished the detox and returned to working at the Glass Palace, it didn't go well. My Nutritional Fairy Godmother, Dr. Samra-Gill, said, "we're not letting you go, you're not ready."

Who does that? I sat there with tears in my eyes, assuming this is the part where I fail. Again, like I always do. Well, plot twist, didn't happen. Not on their watch.

Fast-forward to today. I walked in, feeling kind of like a bad-ass, actually. No limp in my game. I checked in with Amber, the Front Desk Master (not her actual title). She's chipper as always, but I know a sassy smartass lies beneath, and I respect her all the more for that fact alone. Captain Corrie the Invisi-red Queen comes to get me. I wasn't sure about her the first day. She was quiet and I was so insecure that this fit and healthy woman would be taking my measurements. No judgement ever came of it, instead she was so understanding and supportive. I appreciate her kindness to me when I was not kind to myself. Anyway, we started towards the room for what would be the last invisi-red session in my program. As we are walking through the rehab workout area, I hear from across the room, "Cassondra, I love your outfit today!" I can't be sure, (because masks and I have old-people eyes), but I think it was Abi...or Emily, both of them are adorable, sweet and always seem to find something nice to say in an effortless way.

I got into the room and Corrie let me know it was "graduation day." Crap, I wasn't prepared for that, so was not appropriately dressed for weigh-in, measurements and pictures, but whatev's. I'm a chill chick now, even unmedicated. It is what it is. Still pissed I wasn't wearing my Toy Story underwear with Mr Potato Head and Slinky Dog for my permanent file. Maybe I can get re-takes? I continued through my invisi-red appointment and my final counseling session. My Nutritional Fairy Godmother, Dr. S-G, said I was ready for the training wheels to be taken off and for me to try this on my own for a while. A test-run. She thinks I'm ready. I think I am, too.

I'm down 30 pounds. I'm totally off my heartburn medication (I was on 80mg per day of omeprazole), I'm finally weaned off my anti-depressant (300mg Effexor), replaced that with a natural supplement for depression, and will hopefully be able to be off my blood pressure medicine next. My right knee is SO MUCH BETTER!!! Which was the initial reason for this journey. I don't have to take any pain meds, no more special brownies, no more limping, no more sleepless nights. It isn't at 100% yet and maybe it won't ever be, I don't know. But it is at a level that is allowing me to LIVE again. I have a brace I wear that was custom made for me that allows me to keep my leg in a good position for continued healing, but I don't have to wear it. It's just better if I do.

Dr. S-G said we needed to take pictures before I left tonight. I said, "do I have to strip down? Like, we can't just leave the clothes on? I don't have my shorts and tank top..." She said, "I mean this in the most professional way possible, but yes, I need you to strip down to bra and underwear. It'll be fun." Well, I don't know about all of that, but at this point, why not? Pictures were taken and then I was asked to look at the before and after shots. Dr. S-G pointed out all the places where there was a noticeable difference. First of all, in my before picture, I looked tired, sad and lifeless in addition to being obese. In my second picture, you could see where the weight had come off. I was smiling in the picture? Why? I don't smile in pictures. Dr. S-G said, "Look, you have a space here between your knees that didn't exist before. You might not have thigh-gap yet, but you definitely have knee-gap." We laughed about my knee-gap and how I'm going to hashtag everything #kneegap and we are going to make it trend. As hard as it was to admit, there was change and it was visible. We did that. Life changes did that. I did that.

I want to write a letter to every doctor that treated me poorly, that denied me help, that stole my hope, that lead me to believe there was nothing that could be done and that my failures had put me in this position. I want them all to know I found a place that cares. That I found a place that helped me. Frankly, I don't know if I have that kind of time, since there are so many. And frankly, that's not the energy I'm putting out into the universe right now. Only good things to come. No more looking back. Just moving forward. How is it possible I'm in such a different place emotionally and physically in just such a short time? Positivity? No way. That can't be it...can it?

I walked out of there tonight, not a limp in my step, not a tear in my eye. Just living my life. Like a bad-ass. Like I didn't think was possible just three months ago.

As I look at the website for Symmetria, I see all the doctors and the entire team of people that helped me rehab. I think I have interacted with every one of them at some point. Each of them played a role, no matter how big or small. I have Dad-jokes for days from Dr. Pacheco, as well as a nicely aligned spine! I'll always have a warm spot in my heart for Spray Girl, aka Amanda (she's also Shot Girl now, too..the non-alcoholic kind). Bayley I only interacted with a few times, but just as nice and genuine as everyone else. Arlene, the Laser Legend, and I spent 20 minute segments of time lasering and chatting it up. Carrie is so genuinely kind and shared her personal story and gave me hope that this would be a success. Katie was one of the first people I met there and is so positive and welcoming. Dr. Kantor, Dr. Faulkner, Dr. Bill, each of you equally supportive, kind and friendly, even though our visits were brief. And, I may have not included all the names as some of the team members have changed over the past few months. My omission is not intentional. If I don't know your name, I at least know your friendly face and that DOES NOT go unnoticed.

And Dr. Gill, you opened the door and invited me in to the world you and your team created. You made me a believer again.

Thank you.

P.S. I can't quit you, Symmetria.

#stalkerstatus #kneegap #youalmostLOSTMEatNOCHEESE

#thankful

PPSS...that thing I signed, that was just for the testimonial, right? You're not marketing my hawt pics of me in my bra and underwear to the masses, right? What did I sign anyway...?

Additional notes...

Things I never expected to say over the past three months:

I'm too young to have the walking farts.
My thighs look like melted lava
Am I going to have time to get to the bathroom when this breaks loose?
"even though I’ve been struggling with a low grade migraine and some sketchy vision today, I did bake the following two things so that I would be distracted from taking to the roof with a weiner dog under one arm and one of my sister’s cats raised above my head with my other arm as a sacrifice to the eagles."
I cried because I just wanted toast.
What if these stem cells decide to identify as fat cells and my knees blow up to the size of the Stay Puffed marshmallow man?

To "My People" I See You

2019-11-01T18:51:00.000-07:00

Note from the author: This is not a "pity party, party of one" blog. This is simply insight, not excuses or blame. It's the reality of what happens in my mind, and other's minds, too. Everyone's journey is different and there are many success stories out there as well as failures. This is me, sharing my internal journey. If you aren't obese, it may not make sense to you and that's okay. If you are obese and are part of the body acceptance movement, you may not find value here and that's okay, too. This blog will speak to the people that need it.

I was talking to a friend the other day that I've known since childhood, let's call her Nurse Ponyheart (NP). We were discussing how much we have in common when it comes to this whole lifetime of being overweight thing. She reached out to me because she knows that I "get it." Like, I truly understand where she is. I know how she feels, I know her struggle, I know where her motivation level and struggle is. I get it. I see her. I feel her feels.

We also discussed how sometimes (or, if you're me, all the time) we put our feelings on Facebook because sometimes we just need to express how we are feeling. We aren't looking for anyone to tell us, "no, that's not true, you're beautiful!" or "it doesn't matter because you are beautiful on the inside and out and you have a man that loves you." or, "you are strong, you can do this!" We aren't looking for that kind of validation, but that is what happens. And you know what? Those people mean it. They love us, no matter what. They know we are struggling, but they really don't know what else to say or do because they've never known the life of struggle as we have, where weight is concerned. Or maybe, they gained weight over time, like after a baby, and then found a plan for themselves and lost the weight. They now want us to try that, because that saved their life. At any rate, what I'm saying is, these people care and they are being supportive the only way they know how. I mean no disrespect to these people as I write this.

After talking to her I wanted to blog about what is in our heads and what we really feel and how supporting us can be difficult for friends and family. Kind of an insight, if you will. Because at the end of the day, neither of us really know what we want or expect people to say when we are struggling. We really just wish we knew how to get through this, because nothing up to this point has worked. Both of us have had weight loss surgery and both of us have gained it back, perhaps for different reasons, but none the less, the parallels in our life are uncanny. I can't speak for NP, but I can speak for what I go through on any given day, so that is what I want to share with you.

First moment of my day, the alarm goes off. I roll over and hit snooze, because I'm tired. I'm always tired. I'm not excited about my day. Like, I don't even care if it is Christmas morning and I know Santa was here, I'm still not excited for anything. I know as soon as I start to move, something is going to hurt. My knees will be first. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed and twist my feet then stretch my legs out in hopes that will send the blood to circulating so that my first step will not be excruciating. I go get in the shower and as I do, I try very hard not to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There is nothing for me to see there that I will like, from my hair down to my toes. Not one part of my body will I look at and say, "I like that about me." I get in the shower and do all the things one does in the shower. Maybe not ALL the things, because frankly, I can't reach everything the way someone with bendable legs and no belly obstruction can. I do my best and spend the appropriate amount of time making sure that anything that folds over or holds moisture is clean, because you have to make sure all the rolls and muffin tops are cared for.

After the shower, I put on my make-up and do my hair. While I am a total girly-girl and love to wear make-up, it is also a necessity for me. I feel like I need to work extra hard to look as pleasant as I can so that people will not focus on how large I am. Some people tease me for always wearing make-up and doing my hair, but honestly, it seriously is a necessity for me to feel any sense of confidence. Sometimes I will go out in public without it, it isn't like I can't, but my preference is to be seen fully put together.

Now, it is time to get dressed. This is a whole other process that the average person will not understand or does not need to go through. I can't say what NP goes through, as her job requires a certain uniform, but what I go through is a lot of self-loathing. I want to look nice and appear as small as possible. I just want to fit in and not stick out as the fat girl. I know that isn't a reality, but I try to make it so. This involves a variety of shape wear like Spanx, tights, tummy control, thigh control, back fat control, etc. I check, is the shape wear making a dent in my back? Is it obvious? I can't wear certain shape wear with certain outfits because it doesn't look right, so different outfits have different undergarment requirements. In the summer, I may look like I'm wearing a flowy summer dress, but guess what is holding that body together underneath? An entire fortress of shape wear that makes me way more uncomfortable than I appear. Will my legs rub together and make a swishy noise when I walk in this? Will my thighs erupt in flames from Spanx friction? Will my stomach stick out too much? Will this dress or pants cling to my thighs? Will this belt create a bigger muffin top?

Clothes that may have looked fine on any other day may not work today, because today I looked in the mirror and I HATED it. How did I wear it last time and it seemed fine? My thighs are so heavy, I can't wear all the leggings and short skirts that everyone else wears. The extra fat around my knees is humiliating. I know there are probably not many people, if any, that stop and consider that about my legs, but it is all I can think about all day.

By the time I am ready for work, I'm in a sweat because putting all this together is not easy, plus, menopause! I hate getting dressed in the morning. I hate dressing this body and yet I spend hours online looking at clothes that I hope will fit me that I can purchase to disguise the rolls, bumps and globs of cellulite. Going into stores and shopping is not a thing, unless we just go to our usual haunts that have a plus-size section or is a store dedicated to "our people."

One last thing before I go to work, I have to take my meds. My anti-depressant, my heartburn pills and a slew of vitamins that I pray will bring up my vitamin D and B levels. I'll take my blood pressure pills tonight before bed. I'm not diabetic yet, but it is a worry in the back of my mind everyday. I say to myself, "I've got to turn this around."

I leave for work and as I drive along, I wonder how big I look to other people passing by. My short hair leaves my entire face out there and my double chin for everyone to see. I arrive at work, I park in the parking lot and walk into the office. I wonder if the people in the smoking area watch me walk by and think, "What is she wearing? Wow, I wouldn't wear that..." What are the chances they are doing that? Probably pretty small, but my head is convinced otherwise. I watch other people walk in ahead of me. Maybe it is some woman in cute leggings, high heels and a thigh gap. I hate her. I hate her for having the body I can only dream of and I wonder what it is like for her to get dressed in the morning. Her hair is up in a sloppy bun and she's casually sloppy. She looks perfect. I will acknowledge that anyone, including thin, seemingly healthy people have body image issues. Fat people don't get to own that. Body image is brutal for everyone.

Food. I'm at work and everyone is ordering breakfast or lunch and they order whatever they want. I am agonizing about what I am going to eat. Every decision I make will affect whether I lose a pound or gain a pound. I have to consider if I will be "strong" today, if I will eat "healthy" today, if I will have the will power to eat only a very little of what I need and avoid all the things I don't need. Will I drink enough water? I need to drink lots of water. Oh, look, it's donut day. I obsess about the donut. I beat myself up if I eat it. If I do, my day is clearly ruined. And I assume that anyone seeing me eat the donut will see I am weak and I deserve to be fat.

I have a gym downstairs at my work. I'm a member. Do I go after work? Do I go on my lunch? Every day I don't go, I am a failure. Every day I can't make myself go, obesity has won and there is no hope for me. I want to go to the gym. I want to be healthy, but I'm tired and my body hurts and I'm exhausted from the mental fight in my head that never stops. One day I'm giving up, the next day I'm starting a new plan or setting a new goal, but something is stopping me from succeeding. It's my head. I'm sad. I'm depressed and I see no way out. I've already failed at weight loss surgery, what on earth could I possibly do to fix this? What is it going to take? I'll tell you what it is going to take, it's going to take EVERYTHING. It's going to take everything I have to push through the body aches, the stigma of being fat and finding the time and the support to do this. But you know what? Life doesn't always make that possible. How can you give everything when the rest of your life, your husband, your child, your finances, your job, your home life, your everything else is still there? It's overwhelming and sometimes when you are in the space of being overwhelmed, you just give up and survive. There should be no shame in surviving, but it sure isn't living and we blame ourselves for that, too.

And living is what we want the most. We want to do all the things, with no limitations but our bodies feel like our biggest limitation. Some might say, no, it's your head, that's your biggest limitation and I guess I'd have to agree with that as well. But, you know what else is a limitation? The size of an airplane seat, the weight limit on a carnival ride or to zip-line. Shopping for a wedding dress, trying to find one your size and then visualizing yourself in it and knowing that you will look at those pictures for the rest of your life and know you were not at your best. We will compare that to everyone else who has "magical" wedding photo's.

I make my way home after work and I'm tired. I come home, fix dinner and enjoy a couple hours with my husband and my dogs and then it's time for bed. I beat myself up again for not working out, or for making poor food choices and I get ready for bed. As I lay in bed, I wonder, how does Shark Bait love me? I'm depressed and I'm in this body I hate. He loves me for who I am, I know that, but does he look at me clothed or naked and think, "that is hot!" Is he truly attracted to me, or is he just used to me? Or is it his less than 20/20 vision? How can he run his hands over this fat belly, fat thighs and look at my chubby face and be turned on? I want and need to feel attractive and sexy, but no matter how much Shark Bait says he's attracted to me, how could he be? He's lying to make me feel better is the only plausible explanation.

All of this and SO MUCH MORE is in the head of an obese woman (and maybe men, too, I can't say, I've never been one) every day. NP and I wonder, what did we do in a past life, or in this life, to deserve this struggle? Were we skinny prostitutes at a Saloon? We know there are people with bigger struggles out there, but this isn't about those people, this is about us and it's okay to feel our feelings about us. Our feelings matter. We matter.

Also, just so everyone understands, not all people that are overweight have that "ah-ha" moment where life changes and they are suddenly able to commit and lose the weight. That's great on The Biggest Loser or whatever other reality show you're watching, but that's not how it works for everyone. There are a whole bunch of us out there struggling to find the strength every day to manage this. To get out of bed and do the best we can. And on other days, we don't get out of bed. We give up, but we survive. So, yes, thank you for saying we are beautiful. Thank you for seeing who we are on the inside of this body. Thank you for saying you even think we are aesthetically beautiful. That is very sweet of you, but we want more for ourselves. We expect more for ourselves. We don't want to be heart attack victims, stroke victims, diabetic, and a myriad of other complications. We don't want pity. We want to live for our husbands, our kids, our family and friends...for ourselves. We have things we want to do. We're just so tired of fighting. It's been a lifetime and we're tired. We've run out of hope.

To "my people," the people of the cellulite and the struggle, I see you. I feel you. I understand what you are going through. I know you're tired. I have no advice for you. I think what gets me through each day is knowing that you are all there fighting the fight with me. I honestly don't know if I will ever achieve what I want or if you will either, but we'll keep trying, because there is no other choice that leads to living.

And one final note. Don't let all that Pinterest or motivational bullshit get in your head like, "If it is important enough, you'll find a way. If it's not, you'll find an excuse." To the person that wrote that, Fuck You.

I'll continue to look for this girl, who had successes in 2013. She's buried in here somewhere. I need to find her.

Megaquake, Preppers & Hula Girl

2019-10-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

It's the time of year I have a tendency to get a little "dark," which is actually different from my normal darkness in the Spring and Summer months. I start thinking about all the stuffs and it gives me a little bit of anxiety. It really doesn't take much to bring it on, either. I'll share an example of how easily it is to push my mind into hyper-drive.

Last Thursday, I was at work and I could hear Camo Boy talking to a customer. They were discussing earthquakes and how if we got one in our area, what would happen. Then the conversation moved into what would happen if Yellowstone blew up. "I yelled over the wall, "no more earthquake talk!" I can't deal with that, because I don't want to die in that building. I'm on the third floor (out of five floors, plus a basement), let's be honest, if there is a mega-quake like some are predicting, I'm going to be the Oreo filling in a building sammich. You know what I mean? Guts coming out of my nose and I'm buried under my desk. Camo Boy assured me that if there was an earthquake and that we didn't die, he knew where to get a boat and that I should just stick with him and I'd be okay. Well, whew! I totally feel better now. <-- sarcasm, FYI

Next thing I know, a crowd assembled and a conversation was had about who would be affected by Yellowstone, if it blows. Turns out, it's EVERYONE. I Googled it for verification purposes. All of us are GOING DOWN. We will slowly die when all the ash takes over the globe and blocks the sun and makes it so we can't breathe, our water supply is polluted, the plants and animals all die and then we die of starvation because there is not enough Twinkies and Red Bull left in the world to sustain us all.  And, what are vegans going to eat when all plant life is dead? I guarantee you one of those vegans is eventually going to look at their partner, just like in the cartoons, and see them looking like a hotdog and eat the hell out of them. It's bound to happen.

I was reminded that all of the people with the guns will totally get to shoot it out and get the last of the Twinkies. Well, you'd better believe that's true, so they will live a little longer than the average person. I guess that means Shark Bait is all set, so we'll be able to sustain life for a while and I'll totally finally get that skinny bod I've always wanted. In the meantime, I have the fat reserves, so I'll just be walking around stepping over dead Barbie bodies. The good part is, I'll get whatever I want at the Black Friday sales after Thanksgiving and no lines.

I was sure to add to the conversation that, from a long-term perspective, you know who is going to survive all this, right? All those Doomsday Preppers. They are gonna be fine because they can live for the next several years like Brendan Fraser in that movie Blast From The Past where he lives in a fallout shelter for most of his life.  Preppers will be walking around like, "who's crazy now, bitches?!" The consensus from the group discussion is that we'd have to ride it out for at least two years.  Once it's safe to come out and the ash clears, the Preppers  can slowly re-populate the earth. I likely won't be around to see it, which I'm okay with, because I'm not popping out any kids, unless Jesus comes back and is like, "Sorry about Yellowstone, we're going back to biblical times and I'ma need you to pop out some kids, I'll even let you live to like 2-300 years old!" If Jesus does ask, I mean, I'll have to comply, but he's going to have to give me my uterus back, which could be awkward, but hey, he's Jesus, if he can't do it, who can? Jesus also needs to create the horse again and give me a new pony. Look, if I'm going to be populating and stuff, like a gumball machine after someone puts a quarter in, I think it's okay if I have a list of demands.   (#jkjesus #keeptheuterus #dontneeditback #sorryaboutgumballreference )

As if the conversation wasn't absurd enough at this point, it continued and took an unexpected turn when Vaseline-Loving Barbie asked how long ago we had even discovered the moon and then suggested we could go to the moon and live and drill for minerals.  This train of thought then created a whole new set of problems. First of all, kind of hard to sustain mankind on the moon where there really isn't anything growing, I mean, how would being on the moon help us? This conversation then lead to that movie called The Martian starring Matt Damon who lived off of potatoes grown from his own shit when he was left for dead on Mars. I don't know if we are ready for that kind of living, nor do we have the training. I have concerns. I said, "well, what if we are trying to get to the moon and the ship can't make it, or malfunctions and then we just end up floating around space like Sandra Bullock in that one movie?" (Because, correct me if I'm wrong, movies teach us most of life's lessons.)

I continued, "Then what? We just float around until we finally starve to death? We live in a suit with our own feces and piss?"  Bronco Billy chimes in and says that when you are in space, because of the gravity situation, you don't know when you have to go to the bathroom. So, you don't know you're shitting yourself, but at some point you feel something squishy in your suit? Or, maybe all the feces travels around in your suit because it's space shit and space shit does what it wants? I don't know, but it seems like a hell of a way to go just floating around with your arms sticking out just waiting for a meteor or an alien to come take you out. And, what do we really know about aliens, aside from the ones that burst out of Sigourney Weaver's guts? The testing they would do on humans might be awful, even torture. So, die in your excrement or be an alien pin cushion? Either way, not glamorous.

After that, we discussed how most of us probably won't live to see one of these catastrophic events, anyway. The primary reason being the medical field is trying to kill us with drugs that allegedly help us. Like, Omeprazole (Prilosec, for heart burn). Turns out this stuff is just going to eat our bones, give us heart problems and pretty much kill us. On the upside, no evidence of explosive diarrhea in the warnings as a side-effect. I have to take 80 mgs of Omeprazole per day, so I guess I'll get to that finish line before everyone else. Also, blood pressure medicine, another silent killer.  Bronco Billy has Googled the side-effects and is pretty positive anyone taking those meds are walking time bombs. Never mind he drinks two to three energy drinks a day, plus his iced coffee. Hardly makes him a freaking naturopathic genius, but he's read things, so how do you battle that?

So, I'm not saying that my day to day anxiety is driven by what Yellowstone does, but I'm not saying it isn't, either. It just takes that one event to get the ball rolling and then next thing you know, you're living under ground or floating around in space with high blood pressure, heart burn and shitty pants.

In the meantime, while we try and outlive natural, as well as unnatural disaster, we've got whales with blowholes full of straws, turtles wrapped up in those plastic six-pack pop holder things, we've got garbage and bacteria growing in the ocean, the whales are dying, the salmon aren't coming back as strong, we are cutting down all the trees for houses for people that keep over-populating the earth, we pollute the atmosphere and the ozone layer with smog and cow's methane farts, we are killing each other, homeless people are making their homes wherever they want and are shitting in the street, we are setting up meth stations for people to "safely" take drugs, we are one of the biggest political shit shows right now in the world and I don't know when the McRib will be back at McDonalds. Rumor has it, there is legislation being put together to take away drive-thru's for fast food places because that's how we are going to fight obesity. Don't take any real responsibility for the food we produce and the chemicals and preservatives in it, we'll just make fat people park their cars and walk into Burger King. That should fix the problem.  Also, is global warming a thing or not a thing?

It's crazy times. I didn't even bring up about diseases like cancer and whatever it is that killer mosquitoes give us. Not to mention texting or being intoxicated while driving trying to maneuver through the asshats of America out there on the road. And poor smokers, now smokers can't even safely quit smoking and transition to vaping without the chance of being sold toxic vaping flavors. Oh and that bitch, Alexa, monitoring our every move. And what about the Kardashians, David Hasselhoff, Lori Loughlin and Richard Simmons, are they even okay? What's going to become of them? What has become of us as a society? Do I glue extra eyelashes to my eyebrows and then grow out my armpit hair and dye it rainbow colors? Do I glue my upper lip up under my nose so I look pouty and irresistible? Do I buy a pair of socks with my husbands face on it simply because I can? Facebook and Instagram suggest a life that I don't know if I can keep up with!

So, yeah, I worry too much. Why, just last night I spent quite a bit of time wondering about the song Jimmy Cracked Corn and how that came to be, what it all meant, and whatever happened to Jimmy or that cracked corn? I have to work these things out, you know?

And finally, in conclusion, I'm worried about one more thing. Why is it, I have four of these solar toys in the window, and only the Hula girl stopped moving. She's like, "Bitch please, I am from Hawaii and this Washington rain is bullshit! I'm already depressed and it's only freaking October." I know she's just a solar toy, but she gets it. She really seems to have a grasp for what's going on and she's coping. She took a stance. She's like, I'm not shaking this booty for any of you losers, I'm going to mentally transport my ass back to Hawaii.

I need that kind of clarity in my life. It seems I may have just learned more from Hula girl saying nothing, than I did from Thursday's conversations about destruction, death and gravity.

And that's how overhearing a conversation about earthquakes get's me going.

Disclaimer: Please take this blog in the manner in which it was intended, humor. I'm okay, you're okay, please don't call my mom or message Shark Bait to see if I need "help."

The Human Salad Shooter

2019-06-10T20:41:00.000-07:00

WARNING: B.U.T.I. (Blogging Under The Influence)
(I didn't say the influence of what...it could be Beethoven)

First of all, I want to apologize to anyone that just ran across this blog thinking you would learn something about actual salad shooters or humans. If you continue to read, you're in for a terrifying surprise. Let's consider that the disclaimer of the day.

Now, I need to talk about a situation that is completely out of control. My body. No, this isn't about my body and it's twisted relationship with SPANX. No, this isn't about my boobs, belly or butt. What haven't I discussed in a while? Poop. (Everybody poops, BTW, don't even fecking roll your eyes at me or wrinkle your nose. It happens.)

As everyone knows, for the past 47 years, 48 if you count those developing months inside the womb, I've been trying to lose weight. And, now my knees hurt like a mother trucker and so it is extra important. Like, being important isn't enough, we have to make something extra important. Where does it stop? "So GD Fecking Important??!" Anyway, it is THAT important. #importantToInfinityAndBeyond

What I'm trying to say is that I've done KETO, Paleo, LCHF, South Beach, etc. diets before and now all the sudden my body is like, "lettuce is the enemy!!!!! Abort, Abort, Abort!!!" Spinach, my guts hate it, Romaine, Iceburg, weeds from your front yard, all of it, my guts hate it! We aren't talking that I get a little gas, heartburn or air bubble. I'm talking about war, people. We are talkin' down in the trenches on a night that won't stop the monsoon of 100 planets, we are talkin' down in those trenches with water up to our ass crack and leaches stuck to our private generals. That's what I'm talking about. That serious. A seriousness that must be immediately considered an act on terrorism. Terrorism on your intestines, your sphincter muscles and your wall behind you. It's coming through, people, the salad has left the fire hose of your intestines and we are putting out a five alarm fire. Unbatton the hatches, I beg you, for the night terror is coming!!!

To recap, if I eat salad, it shoots out the back door. I'm basically a human salad shooter.

So, thanks Mom and Dad, genetics, the universe and every ice cream cone that made me this way, now I can't even eat healthy to lose weight. It's like a maze there is no exit to. IT'S A TRAP!!!!!!!!!
It isn't like I never eat salads and veggies and stuff, even if I am eating a few cookies or french fries at the same time. But now, when I remove sugar, my body becomes like that little girl in Poltergeist. So, now what? You PaleoKetoLowCarbSouthBitchDiet experts???? I guess it's like some people are gluten intolerant or lactose intolerant, I'm just health intolerant. "Oh, I'm sorry Pete, I can't eat that broccoli, it doesn't have lard and preservatives in it! I don't know how you barbarians survive!"

I don't even know what my intestines want anymore. One day it's a hostage situation, three days later Tsunami warning. Look, this is A LOT of information, but what I'm trying to say is, I might only be able to survive eating Doritos, chocolate and copious amounts of Cheez-its. I should probably get tested, you know, to see which, if any vegetables are consumable by this body. This body that tries to be all mysterious and shit, but just ends up looking like every other body on Maury trying to find out who dey baby daddy is. Are you still with me on this? Is it making any sense?

I had a lot to say about this earlier, but I seem to be getting side-tracked in my mind and I can't quite make sense of what is happening up there. I mean, I know what's happening down there, I got four anti-diarheal pills holding back the gates at the Jell-o Pudding factory after all the vats exploded and a chocolate tsunami happened and then tried to break down the gates of the factory. OMG, my whole childhood is coming back...being the only girl...surrounded by dumb teenage boys...too many references, too many jokes, too much..... anyway, like I was saying, not sure what is going on up there...in the ole think tank.

In conclusion, I'm probably still gonna try and eat healthy, but if you see Oreo crumbles on my salad, back up off me because I got problems of my own and bitch ain't noneyo bizness. Unless you read my blog, which is everyone's business whether they wanted it to be their business, but it's their choice to read, I don't mind meld anyone or hold them captive with words like erotica and throbbing. Nope, I use words like poop, lard and boob. So, why y'all still here, I have NO IDEA.

I think it's time for me to go and find an appropriate song, play it and sing along to it while I video myself singing and then going through my contact list and sending it to people. You've been warned. I suggest you go add and activate appropriate Angry Pony blocking tactics right now.

Dear Doctor...

2019-05-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I have felt like a little personal blog therapy. I felt like I had two ways to go with my writing therapy tonight. I could go "old-school Cassondra" and make this the biggest rage-infested rant, or I could feel the feels. I know you all wish I would go old-school, it's always a good time, and maybe I'm closer to that than you think, but tonight I am feeling heavy angst about the state of the human condition. I'll share my therapy with all of you in case you have ever felt like this in life or relate to the struggle of dealing with the health care organization. If you came here for hilarity, the state of my uterus, stall number one at the GP or what Shark Bait is up to, you'll have to wait until next time.

Dear Doctor...

Dear Doctor, my name is Cassondra. I'm 5'6" tall and I'm obese. My blood pressure and pulse typically fall within the normal range and my temperature is normal. I don't know if you have noticed any of those stats yet, or if you care. I'm here because I have a problem or am unsure about what's happening inside of me. I notice you. I notice your face and your eyes. Is there any softness there? Is your handshake firm? Do you have time for me or are you mentally already on to your next appointment because you know that you just need to tell me to lose weight to fix my problem?

Dear Doctor, I haven't always been this broken. I haven't always been this scared for my future, but I have always been heavy, since birth, really. You don't know that, because you don't know me. I haven't always had this incredible pain in my knees or this heartache due to the situation I'm in. I've had much better days and although I was never a cheerleader or homecoming queen, I didn't just let myself go. I have fought this body my entire life. It's okay, I know you don't know that.

Dear Doctor, I'm not lazy or stupid. I'm not trying to earn a spot on My 600lb Life. I don't eat fast food everyday. I don't eat a whole pizza at a sitting. I actually love to be outdoors and be active. I can't right now, because it hurts. It hurts me physically and it hurts me emotionally more than any pill can numb. Yes, I've talked to a bariatric surgeon. Yes, I've had surgery. I was amazing for a short time. I worked out so hard because I wanted it so bad, so bad that I broke myself. I know you don't know that because you didn't listen when I told you already and I know you didn't look at my history before you walked into this room.

Dear Doctor, I do know I need to lose weight. I've known since I started kindergarten and the kids teased me horribly. I've known every moment since then. With every breath I take, I know I'm fat. And I am painfully aware that I don't want to be fat. I know you don't know that. You probably figure that I am one of those that say "Big is beautiful and I'm comfortable in my skin and society needs to accept me." That's not where I am. I know my weight is a problem for my body and I know that beauty is more than a face and a body. Yes, I'm married, but that doesn't mean I'm giving up and don't care what people think, or for that matter, most importantly what I think. But you don't know that. You just see this obese patient with a problem that you can easily attribute to my weight. You think to yourself, "if she hurts that bad, she can just lose weight, why is she wasting my time?"
You've never said it out loud to me, but I can see in your face and in your treatment of me that you are thinking it.

Dear Doctor I don't expect a miracle, but I'd like you to take some time and help me figure out my options. Please don't just write me off and pass me off to someone else. Please don't assume that someone else will help me. Please see me. Please see in my eyes that I am close to tears and I am losing hope. Please be the one to make sure we have checked every option and possibility. If you miss something that is critical or potentially terminal, it's no big deal to you. You can go home and say, "She just needed to lose weight, what did you expect me to do?" But you can't see the possibilities, you can only see the cellulite. I know you've noticed the cellulite, because you've looked me up and down the whole time I've been here and spent a lot of time talking and staring at my stomach as you do. My cellulite should not be the reason you don't see the underlying medical condition.

Dear Doctor, please know that I understand you believe you are being kind with words and phrases like: body habitus, a lot of tissue, people of your size, as big as you, etc., but I see the judgement in your eyes and dull expression. I understand I'm a liability, so it's easier to pass on looking for anything beyond my dress size. The horror, you might find something and then you might be put in a situation to recommend surgery, or perform it and, well, as you've stated multiple times, I'm high risk. People of my size always are.

Dear Doctor, I didn't just spend my co-pay and time away from life to come here and be ignored, rushed or disregarded because of my size. I don't know why you became a doctor. I don't know why you are irritated dealing with patients. I don't know why it's okay with you that you adjust your level of care based on my weight on the scale. I don't know why you think it is okay to only spend five minutes with me and brush me off. I waited a month to see you. You have a set of skills, right? Why do you become a doctor and then withhold healing? You wasted my time, you took my money and left me with no answers, no direction and no hope. Oh, and pain. Did I mention about the unrelenting pain?

Dear Doctor, I know when you walked out of the room and moved on to your next patient-victim you didn't see me cry. You didn't see me walk into work and witness my friends asking how it went and what are we gonna do about my knee? I have to tell them, again, there is nothing we can do until I lose weight. No one understands, they tell me to get a second opinion. I'm already on my third. You don't have to see their faces, with all the compassion and empathy, tell me they're sorry and that they wished there was something they could do. And, I look at them and say, "it's okay, it's my fault, I have to lose weight," and then I feel hatred for myself because I've been unable to accomplish losing the weight. After all, if it hurts that bad, that would be my motivation, right? If I'm not losing weight, it must not be bad enough, right?

Dear Doctor...My name is Cassondra. I'm not perfect. If I was, I wouldn't be here. I'm asking you to listen to me and what I'm saying. I want you to look at my eyes. I want you to look at my medical history and ask me questions. I want you to consider you have the power at this moment to be my hero or the biggest waste of a doctor's education. I understand you can't always fix the problem, but you sure can care about another human life, regardless of said human's condition. Like I said, if I was perfect, I wouldn't be here, but I can promise you this, I'm worth your time.

Adventures of Fatty McFatterson

2019-02-20T19:40:00.001-08:00

It's been almost 21 years since I started my career at the Glass Palace. I can still remember my thoughts as I walked around there the first week or so after getting hired. I remember seeing the older ladies with their walkers or dragging their oxygen tanks behind them. Other ladies that wore masks and were quick to tell you that if you wore any perfume or scented lotions, you could not come near them since they had allergies. I remember how every payday Friday or every sunny Friday how the one lady mysteriously needed the ambulance called. I remembered seeing all the people that were severely over-weight and I thought, well, I guess being fat was part of the criteria to work here, but then right after thinking that, I thought, OMG, what have I done? I don't want to end up like this! What if that happens to me? I'll just be careful. That won't happen to me. It can't.

Fast-forward to 20 years and ten months later. I'm fatter than ever. I've been battling Call Center Ass all of these years. I only wish I weighed what I did when I started at the Glass Palace back then. But, how could I? I just go in and sit all day. I've done the working out thing at lunch and after work and dieting and all of that, but nonetheless, here I am. Here I am with knees that are so angry. One of which needs a new kneecap, but I'm too fat for surgery. I remember jumping off hay trucks and training horses and climbing all over that farm the whole time I grew up and through my 20's. I remember my Dad saying, "Babycakes, you better be careful jumping off those hay trucks like that, it might not hurt now, but someday those knees are going to give out on you." Well, Dad, if it makes you feel any better, you were right. The pain is so bad, I can barely make it from my desk to the bathroom and from the office to my truck. I just want to cry.

I went to an Orthopedic doctor and he gave me cortisone shots in each knee and told me that I needed surgery, but that I can't have it until I get my BMI in check. It's so frustrating because I truly do know I need to lose weight and am trying, but I am so overwhelmed with the constant pain, I just feel like giving up. I sent a message to the ortho-doctor again today and he basically said my primary doctor will have to refer me to a pain specialist because as long as I'm Fatty McFatterson, it's a no-go on the surgery and there is nothing else he can do.

I sent the following message to my primary doctor today:

"I am having severe pain in my knees, specifically intense in the right knee. I have seen Dr. Pepple in Orthopedics at the Everett location of the Everett Clinic. He says I need surgery, but we can't do that because I'm Fatty McFatterson and my BMI is too high. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I can barely walk. He said to talk to you about getting a referral to your Comprehensive Pain people, or whatever they are called. Maybe they can help me until I can lose enough weight to be operated on."
(The doctor didn't really call me Fatty Mcfatterson, but he was thinking it.)

I don't know what the hell a pain specialist is going to do for me. So what, they just get me a medical marijuana card and send me off to go smoke some weed until I just don't give a shit anymore? Do they prescribe medication that is going to eat my liver, kidney's pancreas and whatever other guts do stuff in there until I need to be on dialysis? Then, I end up in a wheel chair taking the para-bus to the treatment center a couple times a week, but the good news is, I'm in a wheel chair and I'm stoned, so I don't know that my life sucks. I probably will watch a lot of The Price is Right and People's Court. Anyway, I don't know what the pain people are going to do for me.

The hardest part of all of this is that I am so completely and utterly disappointed in myself right now. So hopeless, so frustrated, so angry. Truly angry that at 47 years old, this is where I am. I'm almost one of those ladies from 20 years ago. I'm there. I'm one polyester pair of pants away. Like, I could order some online tonight and have them by Friday. That close to there.

Let me paint the picture for you. When I walk, I'm basically Jabba the Hut, who's tail doesn't work to support him anymore, and he has two legs, both gimpy and he's walking like he's on hot coals and is dragging one leg and he needs a cane, but is trying to sneak up on Bambi because he's hungry. That's what it looks like when I walk.

I'm so fat.

I'm so fat that if I sat on a saint bernard dog, it would get lost up my ass and we'd have to call Search and Rescue to find it.

I'm so fat that my Spanx could be used as a parachute for a truck that skydives from a plane.

I'm so fat that even Jabba the Hut swiped left when he saw my profile on Tinder.

I'm so fat that I hear sobbing at night, but it isn't me, it's my clothes in the closet having anxiety about what I'm wearing in the morning.

I'm so fat that I can't go on an African Safari because it's too dangerous. Poachers might mistake me for an elephant and try and steal the ivory from my tusks.

I'm so fat that when I go on a whale-watching cruise, everyone takes pictures of me instead of the whales.

I'm so fat that my skin looks like someone used a blow torch on me and tried to melt my skin off.

I'm so fat, I can only put an inch of water in the bathtub because when I get in, it might over flow.

I'm so fat there could be a village of people living in my belly button.

I'm so fat that pigs are envious of my jowls and assorted chins.

I know none of this is Rug Doctor approved self-talk. I know it. But I'm mad. I'm sad. I'm over it. I hate myself. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate my hair, hate how my clothes fit. Hate it all. Why am I drawing on eye brows and putting on lipstick? Why bother? I'm a hideous creature. I thank the Lord above that Shark Bait has bad eyes-sight. I don't care if all these thoughts are true or not, it's how I feel. I keep trying to force myself to love this body, but it's about as easy as forcing liberals to love Trump.

And, to be clear, I don't need condolences, pity, a pep talk, an ass-chewing, kind words or diet ideas from anyone. I'm not asking for that. I'm saying, this sucks and I'm disappointed in me. I cried all the way home tonight. Maybe I should keep all these feelings to myself. But maybe, just maybe there is at least one other person that walks around pissed off and angry and this dialog is going through their head, too. Maybe not because they are Fatty McFatterson, but because of life choices, finances, relationships, family. I don't know, it could be a million things, but you're just angry inside and you don't see any way out. You're trapped. If you are one of those people and you are reading this, I get you. I don't want to hug it out with you or anything, but I get you. You're not alone. I don't know what we are going to do about any of this, but in the darkness know that you are not alone. It could be a stalker, a criminal or just some crazy-ass admin, which is creepy, but yeah...not alone.

What we could do is to start a support group called Misery Loves Company and meet weekly to tell each other to fuck off because we're all a bunch of fucking losers and we're sick of it, but we also want to get high so that we don't hurt or care about any of it anymore. But we don't because we have to go to work in the morning, because if we don't we'll be homeless and then that would suck even more, so here we are, miserable...but with company. I'll bring cookies and celery sticks to the first meeting.

I try and joke about the darkness as much as I can to keep things from getting too far out of hand, but when I go to bed at night, I look over at Shark Bait, we kiss and say "I love you" to each other. Then Shark Bait tells me to have sweet dreams, which never happens, because that's not how I work. And as he falls asleep quickly, more and more I have been thinking to myself, "will I ever see him again? Will I wake up in the morning? Will I die in my sleep because I've ruined this body?" I've seen a lot of people go through some pretty major health struggles lately and I have to wonder how long I can keep this up. I mean, I've watched that show, My 600-lb Life. Is that the next step for me? I mean, I'm not there now, but who knows? Maybe the pain specialist tells me to smoke weed and eat Doritos and that is all there is to my life? We don't know. Some might say that is a self-fulfilling prophecy and maybe it is. I don't know anymore. I just know, years ago, I wouldn't have predicted I would be here. But here I am. Leading the glamorous life of Fatty McFatterson.

The Rug Doctor might say that I'm doing the best I can based on my circumstances, but I'm not. I'm not doing the best that I can. I'm not good enough. This day is going to suck. She would say to be kind to myself and that I have the power to access the positive pony voices. By the power of Grey Skull, I assure you I do NOT have the power. Unfortunately, all the Angry Pony voices are queued up and are ready to fight. The problem is, I just don't know what they are fighting for anymore.

Anyway, that's where I am tonight...because...I'm so fat.

Me and the skinny bitch I apparently ate soon after this photo was taken.

Snowpocalypse 2019

2019-02-13T15:54:00.003-08:00

I'd just like to start today by saying that this whole snowpocalypse situation sucks. I know, state the obvious already, right? Well, it's bullshit and I'm sick of it.

I've been in captivity for too long and I'm over it. I'm not good at being caged (to be clear, I don't have practice being put in an actual cage, none of that 50 Shades stuff going on here...more like two pair of RayBan Shades). I must have been a zoo animal in my previous life, or like a bitch living in a cage at a puppy mill mass producing puppies with matted up butt-hair, a blind eye, fleas and peeking through cage bars watching the evil humans do as they please driving back and forth in the snow in their 4X4 trucks. Bastards. Of course, this goes against my previous belief that I was a skinny mini-skirt-wearing-crack-whore in my previous life and that is why I'm fat in this life. Who knows, maybe I've been both. I could have had a lot of lives. We don't know that I haven't.

Anyway, it's been a snow shit show for two weeks. I get this isn't a world's record, but still, in my life, it is way more than enough. Let me give you a glimpse into what's been going on during Snowpocalypse 2019 in the hood.

First, let's start with humanity losing their mother-trucking minds. I get it is a big event for our area that is not used to such weather. I get it. But calm the hell down. Seriously. First of all, did you need all the bread, eggs and milk, Sharon? No, you didn't, but you hoarded it like you were going into a bomb shelter for months. And the vegetables? This is not cause to take all the vegetables, even the weird shit. No one likes beets and squash that much. Look, there are certain kinds of foods that help us through uncertain times like this...macaroni & cheese, hot chocolate, popcorn, soup, Oreo's, Doritos, chicken wings, cheese, pizza, wine (if you're into that) and possibly brownie bites that have big kid medicine in them. These are the foods that are critical for survival. Yeah, bread, eggs and milk are important, but geez, not hoarding amounts by each person!

Secondly, driving in the snow. Washingtonians, as a general rule, know that they suck at driving in the snow...or the rain...or the sun. We have a percentage of the population that have a 4X4 mentality and drive like asshats, another percentage of the population can drive in it, they just don't want the 4X4 people driving them off the road or they decide not to go out on the roads because they don't feel it's necessary or safe. Totally legit. The remaining percentage of the population is scared of their shadow, let alone driving in this stuff. These are the people I can't deal with. The hysteria. Sweet 6.5 pound baby Jesus, just stay home then, okay? Or, be reasonable, don't create hysteria and then continue to feed it. Ugh. Chances are, we are going to live through this. I do concede that if one watches the news, it's pretty easy to get riled since they do stupid shit like have 24-hour coverage about the snow. I mean, Monday, I'm minding my own freaking business, watching The Bachelor during what could arguably be the most boring season ever and we finally get to some drama and some mother trucking news alert interrupts Sydney getting all up on Colton about not giving her enough and she was going to leave. Well, we missed all of it to hear Lori Matsa-freaking-kawa or whatever her name is, tell us that it's still snowing, which she had just finished telling us less than 30 minutes prior. GUESS WHAT, LORI? WE ALL HAVE WINDOWS IN OUR HOMES!!!! Unless we're in prison and if we are, we don't give a shit unless it affects us meeting out in the cafeteria where we need to meet up with Big Troy to trade cigarettes for a nudie of our girlfriend. Other than that, NO REASON to interrupt my Monday night mindless drama fest, got it? I actually was watching the news the first night of snow and the reporter walked up to a guy building a snowman and said, "So, what lead you to making a snowman?" The snow, you dumbshit, THE SNOW!!! I needed 24-hour coverage for this kind of news?

A little closer to home, Shark Bait and I have experienced the loss of his portable tarp shed over his 1940-something Willy's jeep thing. We will rebuild, but what a pain. Then, our hot water tank crapped out last Sunday. Do you think our rental company gives a fuck? Honey Badger gives more of a fuck than they do. Bastards. Meanwhile, we have been living like hillbilly's bathing out of warmed up water on the stove. Poor Shark Bait decided, screw it, he was taking a cold shower. I told him, "look, I already washed my hair in the sink and it was ICE cold, I wouldn't do that, you'll never get your penis to come out again..." Does he listen to me? Nope. In he goes. He comes out a very short time later and his eyes are bulging out of his head and his nipples are practically poking my eyes out from across the room. No comment on his boy parts, but you've seen turtles hiding in their shells, right? Just saying. Nothing almost poked me. (I guess, the "no comment" part was a lie, woops.) Anyway, we also experienced a power outage, which I can't really complain about as we were back up and running within 2 hours I think. Oh, and the mail. We were 4 days without mail. How am I supposed to browse all the fat girl catalogs that come in? How am I going to throw away all the NRA propaganda that comes for Shark Bait that he never opens? How am I going to know what the grocery stores have on sale that probably isn't even on their shelves anymore? The suffering we've had to endure at Snowpocalypse's hands is insurmountable.

In other news, I have been suffering from a bad knee flare up for a while now, which took a horrible turn after a night of bowling. Who knew? Not me. Anyway, so I'm walking around in this snow all super-careful because I know if I go down, it's going to be all she wrote (I don't know who "she" is or why her writing has to stop...?). None the less, Shark Bait took me to an appointment last night and while I was trying to get around the back of the truck, I was hanging on to avoid slippage and I didn't see that he had the trailer hitch on. WHAM! Knocked my allegedly good knee right into it. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both. Upon arriving home, I iced both knees. I was in so much pain, I was sick to my stomach. I finally went to bed. Shark Bait comes crawling in and slams his knee into my really bad knee. I yelped in pain. I don't know who I pissed off, but this is so beyond not funny at this point. I don't know how I am supposed to get around, but I'm in bad shape.

None of this knee stuff is helped by all the sitting around and snacking on crap during snowpocalypse. I'm watching this body blow up like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Maybe If I'd had some beets and squash I wouldn't be in this situation...? No. Not true. I was fat before this happened, that's right. It's good to keep perspective.

So, if all this snow could go away, that'd be swell. People can go back to having normal traffic accidents, the news can go back to telling only half of a perspective on the events of the world that doesn't involve snow, the people can go back to bitching that they need a vacation even though they haven't been to work for two weeks. We can start creating new meme's about new stuff, or just keep doing it about politics and whatever the next news event of the week is. Maybe I can drive my truck out of the hood and go where I need to go. Maybe, the maintenance people can finally get out to my house to replace the hot water tank so that I can take a real person's shower. And finally, maybe I'll stop making inappropriate Snapchat's and scaring my friends by posting them on Facebook. Maybe.

Be gone, Snowpocalypse 2019. Be gone.

I can't sleep...

2019-01-16T23:29:00.001-08:00

For the third night in a row, I can't sleep. No clue why, other than the man-cold I have. Shark Bait said he couldn't sleep either, but that only lasted like 90 seconds. I was like, hey, he can't sleep, I can't sleep, we should totally get busy. And then I was like, we both have man-colds, we can't do that, that's gross. Geriatric sex is one thing, but common-cold geriatric sex, that's not a thing.

Anyway, so then I started thinking about boring stuff so I could maybe fall asleep. It went something like this:

What am I going to wear tomorrow? I don't know. Jeans? Meh, I don't really have a pair I like right now. I should look for a pair online...no, you're poor, stop it. What about a dress? Okay, but which one? I just wore black today, 90% of my wardrobe is black right now, but the blue one hugs my back fat. What shoes would I wear? Or would I wear boots? Tough questions. This isn't helping. By the way, I think I need a different shampoo. The shampoo I got at Costco doesn't seem to be making my hair shiny like the bottle says. Buncha bullshit is what that is. If you say it has Moroccan oil in it, it really should shine that mop up, you know? I wonder if I should take it back? I've been looking at myself lately, I am looking old. I need a make-over. Am I a narcissist? I probably take too many selfies. Do fat narcissists exist? Probably. That's it, I'm never taking a selfie again. Who wants to see my mug all the time? No one. I still can't sleep. I should read a book. What kind of book? I don't know, maybe I need to read a romance novel. I haven't read one of those in forever. Maybe I need some escape in my life, you know, like one of those king and queen medieval times ones where the men come and are all large and in charge and the innocent maiden is all bound up in a corset. You know what is gross about that? They have all this sex in those books and the people literally had chamber pots back then. Gross. Her kitty must have smelled awful. Like, they bathed once a month or something. It isn't like they used condoms. So primitive. How come I never thought of that before when I used to read those stories? What the hell is a matter with me? I've been jaded by life. My sense of romance is apparently GONE. Or is it? I mean, maybe...Shark Bait and I are kind of like, "are we ever gonna do it again?" and the other answers, "yeah..." This is depressing, I need a new train of thought...

Let's think about something else. I'm going to get a new pony. When? I don't know, but when I do, it's going to be magical, and I'm going to live on a farm and have a cute house and an arena and a cute barn and I'm probably going to win the lottery. Who are you kidding, you aren't winning the lottery. What if you really do have to live in a cardboard box or you're homeless? Or, what if you have to live in an old people's home and you are all alone because Shark Bait already kicked it and then there you are, all alone and you can't really speak and some mean nurse comes in, her name is Jean and she is mean to you and burns cigarettes in your arm or spanks you whenever you wet the bed. Jean's all upset because this is the life she has carved out for her and her daughter never calls and her husband is a cheating son-of-a-bitch that gambles all their money away. Jean didn't ask for this life and now she has a bout of diverticulitis and she really has nothing to be happy about. And, then, there I am, just laying there waiting to die. Okay, okay, calm down, we are just trying to go to sleep here, not start crying. Think about something else...

Why am I still awake? We had a reasonable dinner. Chicken breast with some salad with veggies in it. That is a pretty healthy choice. I should eat like that every day. I should write all my food stuff down or put it in my MyFitnessPal app. Why don't I do that? Because I'm a lazy loser. Hey, none of that negative talk. Why are the neighbors dogs barking? Probably some creep in the hood. I hope they don't come and break in and kill Shark Bait and I in our sleep...if I could go to sleep. I wonder if that gluten-free, dairy free brownie thing I made is making me stay awake. It had pure maple syrup instead of sugar in it. I wonder if maple syrup is like an anti-sleep serum and I'm never going to be able to sleep. I could take some Xanax, but then I can't get up in the morning. Now what? I could go out and blog...or look on Facebook. No, don't look at FB, you'll get sucked in. Next thing you know you're posting all these stupid meme's and ordering some new version of Spanx and some new fangled vitamins that help you lose weight and help your memory. I could look on Pinterest for bullet journaling ideas...no that's dumb. I could Google some stuff that I can't at work...but what? I can't think of anything right now. Speaking of work, I totally need to finish those expense reports tomorrow. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. What am I going to wear tomorrow? Is it going to be cold again? The problem is, if it is cold outside, it will be hot inside and then I'll sweat like a whore in church on Sunday. And what shoes will I wear? I need more brown shoes. Like a pair of shorty brown boots. I should look for some online...

Maybe I'll go blog about all my thoughts and that will make me tired...? I kinda want another piece of brownie. No. I could get a drink of water. Then, sure enough, when I do get to sleep, I'll have to pee. Just keep working those mouth sweaters you have going on right now and buck up.

I'm still not tired. I'll just look at FB for a few minutes. Wow, my blogging is at the all time low of lows. Good Lord. I need a blog intervention. When did I start sucking this bad?

Does anyone know of any good romance novel titles?

2018 Finding the Calm

2019-01-15T15:56:00.002-08:00

It occurs to me that I have not done a 'year in review' retrospective blog for 2018. I usually do one every year. I had a blog brewing in my head a couple of weeks ago, but I can't say for sure where all those thoughts went. I just went and read 2017's year in review blog about it being my mid-life crisis year. I can't say that 2018 was as tumultuous as 2017, but I think it had some decent high-lights.

For the most part, 2018 revolved around my baby-making parts rising up in an epic battle against the rest of my body. I went through a process of trying to treat the problem and then finally deciding the baby-making parts had to go. This process was all-consuming for a huge portion of my year. I won't re-live any details about it as I have a few blogs that detail all the drama. I know, lucky you. Going through all of that did mean my life was in a holding pattern much of the time and I don't really do well in that situation. I am the type of person that needs to always be seeking to move forward. I suspect because I'm always trying to lose weight, I am always looking for progress in some way. It's exhausting, honestly.

With most of 2018 being uneventful, I think where I find myself now is the real story. In spite of the stagnant path of the past year, I have come to a place that is more peaceful than before.

As you know, my weight battle has always, always, always and did I mention, always at the forefront of my mind. I think after healing from my hysterectomy I really wanted to get into the swing of things and get back to the gym and really intensify the focus. The reality is, I returned to work just in time for summer to fade away and Fall to come into full swing, immediately followed by the holidays. I found myself beating myself up and trying to come up with a plan when I finally just stopped and said, "enough." What if...what if I just I accept who I am RIGHT NOW and live each of these days as best as I can and not be miserable every time I look in the mirror? No one else is beating me up, except me. I mean, I'm sure there are still some judgy people out there, but I don't base my worth on their opinions. Because, fuck them and their glass houses.

And so, I canceled my gym membership that was holding a ransom on my inner guilt. I would sign-up again when my body was ready. Right now, my knees are not ready. I also went out and purchased some clothes that fit me right now instead of torturing myself in the ones that would fit better if I lost 10-20 pounds. I bought some things I might not normally wear because I shouldn't dress like that. Fuck that. I looked in the mirror and did not love what I saw, but I accepted it for now. Not forever...for now.

I had been growing my hair out most of the year as well. Why? I don't know, partly to hide the face that has become so fat again, partly trying to recapture the past maybe. Well, I put an end to that, too. I went back to a shorter style that makes more sense. Crappy looking hair doesn't hide anything, just advertises it like a billboard. Anyway, let go of some unhealthy thoughts and cut that dead stuff off.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I get my body still looks like a Stay Puff Marshmallow man, and I'm not saying I'm in love with it. I'm not. But today I accept it for what it is and know that I will do the best I can to make it better. I don't have an epic plan to change it, but I will change it. It might not happen the way it does for everyone else, but I'll figure out something.

Being in this calmer place scares me because I always feel like if I am not agonizing over a plan or what I'm going to do or setting a goal, that nothing is going to happen. Like, things will never get better if I stop being vigilant about worrying or being engaged. What if I become a "tomorrow" person. Nothing will ever get better right? Is being a tomorrow person bad? Is it better? I don't know that any of us can answer that, other than I have survived all the past tomorrows that have become the today's.

Tomorrow
Tomorrow is going to be the best day.
Tomorrow is when everything is going to be okay
Tomorrow is when all our dreams come true.
Tomorrow is when you'll become a better you.
Tomorrow you'll get a better job, a better car, a better place to live.
Tomorrow is when your partner will give you all they have to give.

Tomorrow is when you'll get rid of those that suck the life from your soul.
Tomorrow is when you will find the one that makes you feel whole.
Tomorrow you'll have a new plan, you'll make a fresh start, you'll make your dreams come true. Tomorrow is the day you will finally say, "I love you."
However...
Tomorrow is not promised, it may not come.
Tomorrow you may not wake up, your life may be done.
Tomorrow it may not be you, but that someone you love is no longer there.
Tomorrow is the day you had planned to visit them and show that you care.
Tomorrow is always one day away, that day you believe the best is yet to be lived.
Tomorrow may be the day you regret all the things you never did.
So, what if...
Maybe we live in today, be present and enjoy what we've been gifted.
Maybe we live today and allow all the pressure of tomorrow to be lifted.
Maybe we decide today is the day to make a change for the good of "what's best for me."
Maybe we decide that today we are good enough and that where we are is exactly where we are meant to be. ~Cassondra Zuver

So, for 2019, here I am. Me and my pony. Taking one day at a time and more time to enjoy the day.

Things we can look forward to Angry Pony discussing in 2019:

Why do people always use the door that says: Please Use Other Door?
Why does auto-correct change words that I type that are actual words to other words?
De-cluttering my life (which also includes Shark Bait's life)
Why are doctor's afraid of my Google MD degree?
A bunch of other stuff....I'll try and blog more funny stuffs, I've been remiss in my duties.

Bewitched by the Dress

2018-12-18T20:11:00.000-08:00

So, first of all, I'm still on my high from wearing a dress today that had pockets. It's really a pretty big deal. Like, I had my hands in there whenever I was walking and I felt so...carefree and whimsical. I felt as if I should have no cares in the world as I sauntered around like a girl in a douche commercial walking in the park on a summer's day. I even thought to myself, with that sort of freedom it is good that men don't wear dresses with pockets. I mean, the access they could have to their junk...productivity would be at an all-time low, from a corporate standpoint. As a woman, I just want to put lip gloss or a feminine product in there and know that I can be hands free with my lip gloss safely riding at my side ready for use at a moments notice. I think they call that "peace of mind."

Anyway, I'm coming off that high, but also I have been agonizing about an experience I had yesterday. It all started with this dress.

I saw this dress a week or so ago in a Torrid catalog sent to my home. I was all a-twitter and thought,"that is so cute!" I figured it probably wouldn't look very good on me because I do not have the model's curves. My curves are in different places. Like, where her hips are, those lady lumps are sticking out the front where my stomach is, or are lower on my thighs. And, don't get me started about her boobs.

Well, fast forward to yesterday. I needed to take my wedding ring in to the store where we purchased it at the mall so it could have its semi-annual check and rhodium plating done. I had to walk right by the Torrid store. This dress was hanging in the front window and I knew it was a sign I should go in and try it on, you know, just to see. It wasn't going to work, I knew it, but I just had to put this curiosity to bed.

I walked in and acted all casual, like the dress didn't matter. I cruised around looking at other stuff, the clearance rack, you know, played it cool. I didn't need the dress. No. Big. Deal. But nothing interested me like that damn stripey dress. Before long, there I was, standing on my tippy-toes trying to get a hold of the freaking hanger without looking like a desperate bridesmaid trying to catch a bouquet. It was on the upper rack where only giants can reach, but I did manage to get two different sizes to try on.

I took some other stuff in the dressing room as well. None of it really rocked my world, but I had saved the best till last. I put on the bigger size first, assuming it was the way to go. It kind of hung on me like a sack. It was longer than I thought it would be and I just looked at my reflection sad and disappointed. I tried to talk myself into it and make it okay. Like, this could work. Finally, I took it off and tried on the smaller size. Hey, this is form fitting, it actually looks a bit better than the first one by being snugger. I turned around and looked at my back-side. Oh my word, my ass looked fantastic in this dress. I ran my hand over my ass and was like, damn, girl! Not that my ass is anything special, but in that moment, I'd date me with that ass in that dress. Then I stood facing front analyzing if the dress was flattering with the stripes. It kind of was. I didn't have the curve-in at the waist like the model in the picture, but I didn't have anything bulging out or cellulite showing through either. I looked pretty good, I thought. I started to get excited. Could I be brave enough? Could I wear this and have the confidence? The dress left no room for imperfections.

And then, the nightmare began...I turned sideways. That's right, I stood there side-ways looking at how I looked from the side...in the mirror...at my side...in the mirror... I looked like I was smuggling a sack of potatoes in my mid-section. And then, it kind of hugged the front of my thighs. At that moment, I wished I was a Flat Stanley, like people only saw me from the front. I was horrified, but I still tried to make it okay. I thought, well, people will mostly be walking towards me, or behind me thinking, "look at that ass...". Most people won't be looking at me from the side... What about when I sit down? What happens to the potato sack? Will it shift? Will it rest on my muffin top? I just didn't know.

I so wanted the dress, and it is such a stupid thing to want a dress that bad. I don't know if I wanted the dress more or just to be able to wear something that a thinner person could wear. This is when the inner dialogue really got serious. I thought, you know what, who cares what I look like from the side? Will anyone else notice? Yes, they will. Or...maybe they won't? Maybe I should just own it? You know, some big girls really own it. I wanted to own it, but was I brave enough? I usually dress strategically enough to cover some of the bumps...and potatoes. I mean, it isn't like people don't know I'm fat, I'm not a fucking magician. It's just, I don't advertise curves that don't exist and I don't let my belly hang out. My ass though...I had to admit, it looked good. Not like Kardashian or Beyonce booty, but you know, not too shabby for a girl like me.

I tried on the bigger size again. No, it wasn't the same. I tried on the smaller one again. The potatoes are still there. I tried on the bigger one again, could I make it work? Would I be more comfortable? No. I tried on the smaller one again. I wanted it. I wanted to be that confident. I wanted to wear what I wanted to wear and not be held back by bad body images. I wanted to accept this body in front of me for the moment, with the understanding I will continue to try and make it better. I tried on the bigger one again. No. No. It's not the one. I put on the smaller one again. I begged myself to make peace with my potatoes.

I couldn't. I left the dress.

But, I can't stop thinking about it. I feel so stupid for continuing to think about it. I don't know why this one has me so bewitched. I think maybe it's my mind making it a big deal for a reason I don't quite understand. I told The Rug Doctor today about the dress. She was proud of me for liking my ass and excitedly asked, "So, did you get the dress?" I said, "No. I couldn't do it." She looked kind of disappointed, but then nodded her head and said, "okay."

What should I do? Embrace the potatoes and buy the dress? Or, be happy that I have the common sense not to make a spectacle of myself? Should I be confident and damn anyone that looks down on me for an inappropriate fashion choice? Or, make peace with the fact that the dress just isn't for a girl with this body shape? I don't really give a shit what people think of me, but at the same time, I don't want to feel so completely exposed. And, abs shouldn't be made of potatoes, but mine are.

Is this the dumbest blog I've ever written? I'm not sure. Is this like a real growth moment? I don't know.

Seriously confused.

#sidepotato #idtapmyownass #stripeddressgotmelike #areyoureadyforthisjelly

Get Out of my Dreams...

2018-10-25T21:03:00.001-07:00

Today was Therapy Thursday. It's funny how often these sessions bring me here to my blog page, even though it's been a while. For tonight's session I had sent an email to the Rug Doctor telling her what I wanted to talk about. I think most of my peeps know that I am a vivid dreamer and that my subconscious tries to work a lot of things out in my sleep, but there is one recurring person in my dreams that has been bugging me for a while. I told the Rug Doctor I wanted to talk through it and that I thought it had a lot to do with my late high school years. She was game and thought it was actually a good idea.

In preparation, last night I went through my old scrapbook and found my senior year pictures.

I looked at them long and hard. I remember that 18 year old girl. I remembered how she felt. I stared at these pictures, memories flooding back. This girl had a smile on her face. This girl made it Kindergarten through 12th grade. She survived it all - the teasing, fat shaming, depression, the battle with food, trying to fit in, always feeling not pretty enough, too fat, not smart enough, just a farmer girl that rode horses, band geek, the girl that no boy ever wanted to date, the secrets at home that none of the other kids knew. It was a hell of a ride. But this girl, as strong as she was to survive it all, still holds the power over the 46 year old that sits here at the keyboard now.

What you don't see in these pictures is the anguish she felt with her family's struggles. Her Dad's abusive behaviors and his alcoholism, the fact that we lived barely surviving financially so that we could have the horses and show them and live the farm life we did. You wouldn't know from looking at these pictures that this girl would take her lunch in the library every day. A lunch that consisted of a Slim Fast shake and an apple. She didn't want people to see her eat. You wouldn't know that she would sit in the middle of her bedroom on the floor at night and sob and cry and beg for God to help her and to make the pain stop. Beg God to make her Dad stop the violence. You wouldn't know that she cried herself to sleep sometimes because she just wanted a boy to like her for who she was. Not any boy, but one specific boy. This is the boy that brings us to tonight's therapy session.

This boy. He was the one that was my crush. He was a friend and he did not feel the same way about me, but he was never unkind to me about it. In retrospect, as an adult, I can see that while I would have enjoyed having a boyfriend in high school, he was not the one for me. We wouldn't have made sense. He was the all-American boy, handsome, smart, athletic, came from a solid family that went to church. I adored him. I had known him since kindergarten. He would have never dated a girl like me that came from a dysfunctional family and was not a church-goer. I believed in God, but no one in my family was going to church, so I didn't go. I would have given anything for him to like me in that way, but he didn't. At that time, I believed he didn't like me because I was not pretty enough, because I was too fat and not smart enough. Not only did he not like me, but no other boys were coming after me either.

When I graduated high school and we all went our separate ways, I never saw him again. However, the feeling of not being enough, feelings of being unlovable followed me for years after the fact. I'm not blaming any of this on him, it's just how I felt as a result of my experience growing up. As such, I didn't date much at all in my 20's. I was certain that no one would love a fat girl like me.

Fast forward to today. I wanted to talk about this boy, this Mr. HS Crush because he has been appearing in my dreams for quite a while now. On and off for years, but over the last year, it's almost constant. They are not romantic dreams at all. His presence is simply there. I see him in the dream, but I don't necessarily interact with him. I want him to go away. I don't want to wake up and remember he was in the dream, because it just brings me back to my horrible self-image. His presence reminds me that I am not worthy of attraction or love.

The Rug Doctor and I talked about it and she wholeheartedly agreed that his appearance in the dream is a representation of those feelings. It isn't about him at all. I was in my "formative years" and he was who I was holding on to for validation that I was wanted and lovable. My Dad should have provided some of that validation, but he didn't. I know that he loved me and that he was proud of me, but he was so engrossed with his personal demons, that he didn't give me what I needed.

So, why is Mr. HS Crush showing up? I have a loving, attentive and committed husband. Shouldn't that be enough? Shouldn't that make Mr. HS Crush's appearances a thing of the past? Apparently not. I tell myself that I have made peace with the past. That I have let that go and that I know my parents did the best they could and that I am okay with who I am. So, what's my problem? Why am I so freaking insecure on the inside still? I know those feelings weren't created overnight and sometimes it takes a while to overcome them, but I want them to go away. Why won't they?

I told the Rug Doctor that I've recently been having anxiety about Shark Bait and his health. I'm so scared I'm going to lose him due to his diabetes. I said, "What if something happens to him? I'm done. I found the one guy that wants me. No one else ever has, so what are the chances anyone else would? Like, I found him, latched on and tagged him liked a downed deer." Rug Doctor says that isn't true. I went on, as I often do, sobbing, and telling the story like a victim of a crime, "No. It's like I am the farmer that is headed out to the turkey pen to get one to kill for Thanksgiving and all of the turkeys scatter. I managed to net the one that had a broken wing and an eye pecked out by the other turkey's so he couldn't really see me coming. I netted that bastard and called it a day. He never saw the crazy coming." Sometimes it's hard for the Rug Doctor to keep a straight face when I'm sobbing, being dramatic and then commence cry-laughing like a crazy person. She's a freaking trained professional, I tell you that. I do like to challenge her though.

Anyway, Rug Doctor said there is no way that he is the blind and broken turkey and that I can't think like that. I then told her what happened just last weekend as I was dressed up as a fat Julia Roberts in the sequel to Pretty Woman called Pretty Fat Woman. I jokingly (and frankly, rather seductively) said to Shark Bait, "So, do you think I can make some extra money tonight?" Referencing my tall black boots, heavy make-up with fake eye lashes and a stuffed bra (a rolled up t-shirt in each cup as well as random accessories for the night, lip gloss, lip stick, hair clips, tissue...my phone). He says, "What are we talking, the full deal or just a blow job?" I said, "I'm not at total whore, I'm just trying to pay the bills, not make enough money for a tropical vacation...just a BJ. What do you think? Should I charge...what...$25, $50....hell, maybe even $75!" Shark Bait says, I shit you not, "I wouldn't go as high as $75, maybe $50." I sat there and stared at the side of his head as he drove us to the party, boring holes in the side of it with my eyes. Anyway, things started to digress in my discussion with the Rug Doctor.

I asked the Rug Doctor what I was going to do about all this insecurity and that I don't consciously feel that insecure. She talked about how it all came to be and how I need to be compassionate to myself, blah, blah, blah. Told me about a gal at her high school that used to say how she knew all the guys wanted to bone her and how popularity isn't always a positive thing, blah, blah, blah. I told her, "We had a graduating class of around 120-150, if I remember correctly...NO ONE wanted to bone me. Look at the girl in those pictures, no one wanted to bone her." She said there is no way I could possibly know that and that I don't know what other people were feeling. While I wasn't psychic, I wasn't blind or deaf either. However, to all of you reading, if anyone knows of someone I went to school with that wanted to bone me, could you let me know? It might make me feel better. Unless it's some fat kid. Ew. (Do you see what I did there?) As a matter of fact, it doesn't have to be anyone I went to school with...if you've seen it in the bathroom on the wall...in a subway...really, anything. Don't worry, I'm not really measuring my worth on my fuckibility (it's hard to know how to spell that since I don't really think it's a word), I think more of myself than that. Honestly. (but again, if you know someone...)

So, apparently, my homework from the Rug Doctor is this: I'm supposed to write a love letter from 46 yr old Cassondra to the 16-18 year old Cassondra in my pictures, specifically, she pointed to this one:

Dear 18 year old Cassondra,

First, you needed a better bra under this dress, what the hell where you thinking? Are you even wearing a bra? This isn't the raging 60's! Secondly, I'm sorry you didn't get bigger boobs, that isn't going to change, but someday you'll meet a woman named Victoria, ask her for her secret.

I want you to know, you are the skinniest in this picture that you are ever going to be, so take pride in that. You work hard on the farm with all of your chores, you work hard with the horses and that is your real love. High school isn't your love, it is a necessity. It is a rite of passage. It's temporary and a small portion of your life. And you are doing the best you can. No matter what is going on in your life, you get up and you take on the next day. You never give up while so many people do. You don't drink, do drugs or tramp around. Sure, mostly that's because no one wants to bone you, but even if they did, you'd say no because you respect yourself too much to just give it up for some Barney. Being in love means something to you and you don't give your love easily. Cherish that and eventually, the one that earns your love will also cherish it.

Don't worry if you are pretty enough. You are. For every person that tells you that you'd be pretty if you lost weight, remember, they'd be prettier if they saw people for who they are instead of outward appearances. And also, you are pretty, as is. And lovable? If people only knew what you had to offer, they would regret never giving you the chance. You are fiercely loyal, which is a hard thing to find in a friend and a good listener. You are there when people need you. You get what you see and your honesty may be blunt, but it comes from the heart. You don't hurt people just to hurt them. That's not who you are. Sadly, you've lashed out in retaliation too many times. It wears on you, because that isn't who you are. You know that your unkind words do not heal the pain you feel when hurt, but you're only human. Forgive yourself.

You are smart. You may not understand advanced math and chemistry, but your gift is your creative mind, your wit and your ability to make people laugh. You are book smart and you will become someone that others depend on for friendship, leadership, opinions, writing help and your creativity. Your mind works in ways that others minds cannot. You have gifts, don't ever sell yourself short.

Someday, you are going to bone someone and you're also going to be good at that. Until then, be patient. Enjoy the time you have with your friends, your horses and your family. Once "the one" comes into your life, all of those dynamics change. Enjoy who you are right now. Enjoy every moment. Don't ever hide, you're worth being seen. You're pretty awesome, believe it and believe in you, you're the one that counts.

You're going to be okay, but it's going to be a hell of a ride. Buckle up.

I love you.

C.

Six Week Summary - The Captivity Has Ended

2018-08-12T19:07:00.002-07:00

Today is my last day of recovery time from my hysterectomy surgery. I have healed pretty well, I think. I'm still pretty low energy and if I over-do, I get sore, but other than that, I'm ready to rejoin society and the workforce on the regular. While I have been out, I have had a lot of time alone with a lot of thoughts. Low days and high days alike. I'd like to talk about some of the things I have taken away from this time all by myself (queue Celine Dion).

First, I want to thank my hubby, Shark Bait, for taking care of me. He may not have always answered the walkie-talkie when I paged him, but overall, I am so lucky to have this man in my life. He genuinely cares and I like to believe that he enjoys taking care of me. Without him, recovery would have been a huge struggle. He took a week off with me when things were going very badly and then he would take care of me after working all day. Yeah, he also went fishing many of the Saturdays, but I encouraged him to go, as he deserved some downtime. I also want to thank Pal-o-mino, Snoqualmie Ridge Shorty and my sister, Velcro Butt, for providing me much needed human contact and conversation when I thought I was losing my mind. Thank you to Valerina and Harley Babe for the phone conversations keeping me in the loop! And others that dropped me direct messages on FB and interacted with me. A special shout-out to Short Bus, I cannot believe how our friendship has grown over such a short time! You are just as twisted as I am. Long live gummy bear farms!

You all helped me survive captivity!

Here are some of my challenging times via video:

Walkie Talk - First Attempt

Walkie Talk, take 2

Day Four - Shit Show

Overall, this recovery was hard for me physically and emotionally and while everyone at work had set me up with thoughtful gifts to keep me distracted, most days I just didn't feel well enough to do anything. I had the dogs for company, but you know, they don't say much. I did teach myself to do some very basic crocheting and managed to make about 1/4 of a scarf and also two coaster size circle things, which, while in a drug-induced state, decided to turn into a bikini top, which really was more like pasties, and then sent it to a few people (I will NOT be sharing that picture here). The people that received it were all the type of friends that could handle it, however, my one friend that decided to open the picture on her work computer has probably scared one of the managers at her work that walked up behind her. He may not be the same for some time. Luckily, my head was not in that photo, so really, it is just a pair of 46 year old boobs with crochet pasties. It's actually horrifying. Poor Shark Bait. I didn't really realize what a bad deal he was getting. I guess I shouldn't be too hard on myself, it isn't like man-junk is anything special you'd want to display on the month of June in a fireman's calendar or any other calendar...just saying. Anyway, he's never complained about the shit show I have going on under my clothes, of course, but still, wifey needs a boob job.

The part about this past six weeks that was the hardest was realizing how much I do depend on my friends and the people I interact with on the daily. They really do make life more fun, even if it is at work. All of them were at work dealing with their own stresses and their own lives and here I was at home alone. It's in this way that Facebook was a saving grace, because I could get a people fix, but that didn't always work well with my medications. For example, apparently there is a video I took while watching watching a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress and I was extra emotional and medicated and created a video and sent to my mom. But then, other people said they saw it, too. I don't recall making this video or sending it to anyone. My Mom asked me a week or so later what that was all about. We argued about it's existence, but upon looking through my phone, I found it. I was baffled by the video and by the fact that my Mom, nor anyone else bothered to do a wellness check on me. Clearly, I was a mess. Did anyone check on me? No.

That whole ordeal made me think about all the people I've been there for, that I've listened to, counseled to, helped through the hard times, encouraged, talked them off the ledge, etc. Where were those people? I felt so used and so disappointed. I'm very empathic and can usually sense when someone needs a little pick me up. I really do want people to be happy, so no matter what I am personally going through, I will always give all of myself to help someone that I care about (and sometimes those I don't as much). Where were those people now? I'm easily reached via FB messenger, via text, via telephone, via email...I mean, I'm literally home crocheting pasties and coloring farting unicorns! I'm not hard to find. I'm making video's of myself being silly for everyone else's entertainment...why? And, it isn't like I keep score of who helps who. That's not it at all. I'm extremely loyal as a friend, but I also don't like feeling used and I really felt that during this recovery time. And, please don't read this right now and think, "is she talking about me?" I'm not trying to lecture anyone or make anyone feel bad, that's not what this is about. It's more about me being in that space, having those feelings and finally saying,

"Cassondra, you can't help everyone. You can't put yourself on the back burner for other people while they are in crisis. When it comes right down to it, it's you and you. You need to set boundaries. You need to let other people's drama go. They need to own their drama. They have to want to fix their lives. They have to be engaged in doing that. You can't beg them to, check on them, remind them. You got this life to live and you have a husband that is your other half. Make you and Shark Bait your priority and your focus. In your darkest hour, you are your strength, don't wait for anyone else to be that, because they won't."

That doesn't mean I don't care about other people. Doesn't mean I'm mad at anyone. I want people to feel they can confide in me if they choose to. I will always try and brighten someone's day, (unless they are really pissing me off, and then, in a heartbeat second, I will darken their day) but I won't be involved in the drama anymore. I need to balance my life and my stress more carefully for however long I have left here. I may have lost my uterus, but I gained some insight.

I know, that's some heavy stuff, but, like I said, I had a lot of time to think. Something else that I really thought about is how much people say they hate Facebook or what it does to us as a society and how people create these allegedly perfect lives on there or fake friendships. Well, I sure as hell don't, as most of you know, I say it like it is. Anyway, I really do enjoy the connections it creates. For example, on Monday nights, my sister and I would banter back and forth about The Bachelor or The Bachelorette on FB. Other people started watching our conversation and joining in and then suddenly, there was a group of us that just started convening every Monday night on FB so that we could banter about this show that is so full of drama and stupidity. My sister, my Mom, myself and then a handful of my friends that didn't even know each other and now we are like this little group each week. We get together because it is fun to just not worry about all the stress of life and talk about this trashy show and joke around. I so needed that over this past six weeks! I've also got my BBG girls in a private group chat. We can put out the bat signal and talk it out there. Without FB, I may have lost contact with some great friends. I have a few others that message me on the regular, and some not so regular, and we keep in touch. It's nice. I have enjoyed the distraction and I appreciate everyone putting up with the posts, updates and check-ins that allowed me to not feel completely isolated.

Tomorrow I return to work. I'm a little nervous because I have really learned to enjoy sleeping in. Like, a lot. And me and my dog hang out. And I spend time on the deck and I walk around in my underwear and like, don't work. Part of me needs to be busy, so it will be good to be back, but the other half...it's going to want to sleep. Regardless, tomorrow I put on my big girl panties and head back into the office like it is my first day going back to school in the Fall.

I am looking forward to seeing many of your faces. Others I am looking forward to re-establishing the boundaries as I am sure there has been plenty running amuck.

Brace yourself. The Admin returns.

Captivity - Over.

Commendation for the Nurses

2018-07-23T13:37:00.002-07:00

Subject: Letter of Commendation

Dear D3 Nurses,

I had the pleasure of being cared for by several of you on June 29th when I came in to have a hysterectomy. I think being a nurse is a pretty amazing profession and the amount of patience, empathy, care and knowledge that you have may go unappreciated by some people. Not everyone is the breath of fresh air that I am (please feel free to add a tone of sarcasm to that...even though I actually was on good behavior) and I imagine there are days you go home and question if what you really need is wine or sleep, or both. I wanted to take a moment and extend my thank you for making my experience in the hospital as pleasant as possible considering I had a tube up my lady bits for much of my time there.

First, I believe it was Michele who prepped me for surgery. At least, I think that was the name she put on the white board. She was friendly, kind and efficient. I will say that while she was with me, the dude that came in to take my blood before surgery was very UNPLEASANT. I don't remember his name, don't remember if he gave it to me, but he came in, no smile, no warmth, no communication with Michele and pretty much, put a band on me and started to look for veins. I told him the best vein to use, because I am a tough draw sometimes. He ignored me, and while I was answering questions for Michele, he put a band around my wrist and out of nowhere stabbed my wrist with a needle as if he was harpooning Moby Dick. My entire body came off the bed and I yelled out. Even Michele couldn't believe what was happening. And just like that, he was gone. He left Michele in a bind because now she had to find a different spot to put the IV in. That guy sucked. But enough about him, Michele continued to be awesome and she deserves a pat on the back and some ice cream or something awesome.

The next person I remember took me into the surgery room where a whole pit crew of people immediately started to work on me. I don't remember a lot about that time, but they were all nice and friendly and I felt like I was in good hands. And, I don't know who got me out of the purple gauze gown thing and then into the ever-stylish hospital gown, but kudos to you, team, that couldn't have been easy! They also deserve a pat on the back and a round of drinks because Lord only knows what they went through maneuvering this massive form of a body. I think the medical term is "body habitus" or "morbid obesity" whatever, they earned a drink or three and a massage.

After that, I remember a nice lady named Linda who was at my side as I was coming out of my anesthesia fog. She asked how I was doing and I kept telling her it hurt and then she would give me more drugs. This continued until I was feeling more conscious and less painful. I liked Linda a lot. She can drug me anytime. I think she told the person that came to take me to my room that I was "stoned." I think I remember being hilarious, but I can't be sure. Long live, Linda. She deserves a day off and a glass of wine.

When I got to my room, it was time for Windy (and it's Windy, NOT Wendy, let's be clear) to care for me. I loved Windy because she is sassy like me. But not like mean sassy, like fun sassy, but still very caring and very on top of it. She took amazing care of me keeping me comfortable, up on my meds, bringing me food, ice, whatever I needed. And, while this is her job, she was just so on top of her game, I really never had to ask for anything, she was always one step ahead of the game. I heart her. She deserves a gold star and whatever else she wants.

Alas, Windy had to go home for the night, but she left me with Carie, I think. I'm a little fuzzy on this name because...drugs. If I have the name wrong, I'm sorry, because Carie was so sweet and so kind, she also deserves recognition. I feel like we are close because at 3:30am, Carie took my catheter out. It was a special moment. The poor woman has seen things down in the nether region that frankly, I don't even see. She was awesome and I appreciate her care equally. She was there encouraging me to walk around and cheering me on. She also deserves a gold star and a day off for having to deal with the 'ol vagina.

In the morning, Windy returned and continued taking great care of me until it was time for me to go home mid-day. She gave me lots of great after-care advice and instructions when I checked out and wheeled me down to the curb for my ride home.

Since I have arrived home, I've had a slew of issues with a bladder infection, becoming allergic to my incisions, not pooping for five days and riding an emotional roller coaster. There were several times I thought to myself, "I wish I was back in the hospital where they took such good care of me!" I mean, who wants to go back to the hospital? No one in their right mind, that's for sure, but you all made it seem like a really safe place with the best care. All kidding aside, I truly want to thank your team for being so awesome. Even the people that I don't remember (because drugs) or don't know the name of. You all are beyond awesome. You all deserve a raise! [Side note: Dr. Dau was probably pretty good, too, but he doesn't get the amazing nurse status recognition like you all.]

I know you take care of a lot of people and you might not remember me, but that is okay, who I am isn't important, who you are is what matters. However, here is a picture of my uterus in case that helps your memory:

Sadly, I don't have a picture of my vagina while I was in the hospital, so I can't share that. Taking a picture of its current state wouldn't really help you now, so I'm going to hold off on that. For those that had to see it, I’m sorry.

I do have this picture that my husband took of me right before surgery:

That's my excited to get my uterus ripped out face.

I’m adding this letter to my blog that I do for my own writing therapy so that it can be shared with other nurses that may be having a rough day. Please know that when you are not having the greatest day or greatest patients, there are those that truly appreciate all that you do.

Sincerely,

Cassondra

Uterus Free Since 6/29/18

https://angry-pony.blogspot.com/

"It's A Routine Procedure..."

2018-07-11T20:44:00.002-07:00

To be clear, in case there were some of you that didn't know, there are not many "routine procedures" that go routine for me. It's always something. I find myself in that small percentage of people where things tend to go wrong or the treatment doesn't work. That's me. I am not, however, part of the small percentage of people that win the frigging lottery. Nope, can't be part an exclusive club of winners, that isn't how I roll. With all that said, I was doomed from the start on hysterectomy day...that cloudy, cool 29th day of June in the year 2018.

Let's begin the saga. I prepared for this big day by following all the instructions they provided me. I'd washed with their special soap and had used it in all the crevices with the help of Shark Bait. I was squeaky clean, I hadn't had food or water since before midnight and I was ready. I'd done my part.

I checked-in and a nice nurse was taking care of me. I believe her name was Michele. She said my surgery time had been moved up so we had to move quickly. Just then, some random guy with his little blood cart came in. He mumbled his name and Michele said he was going to take a blood sample for a last minute check. As he was tapping around looking for a vein, Michele is asking me questions so my full attention is on her. All the sudden, the Blood Savage turns into a crazed man stabbing, neigh, plunging into a vein in my hand with no warning. My entire body came off the bed and I was yelling out in pain. What the actual fuck just happened? The look on Michele's face was horror as well. I laid there with wide-eyes and asked Michele what the hell just happened and she said she didn't know, but it should never have happened like that and the MF'er had taken blood right where she needed to put the IV, which meant now she needed a new vein for the IV. She, too, was mad and apologized for his lack of bedside manner and judgement.

As things turned out, the surgery before me was put back on the agenda, so I had time to wait, after all. I chilled with Shark Bait and started watching YouTube videos on Robotic Hysterectomy's with Vaginal Removal. Shark Bait was, like, "what are you doing? Why would you watch that?" I was like, "meh, why not?" I continued to watch until they were prying and prying and prying and prying to get the uterus out of this girls vagina. That's about when I had to stop watching. Let it just be a mystery.

Finally, it was time and they took me to the operating room where about six people all started working on me at once like a Nascar pit crew. It was intense. That is all I remember until a nice nurse named Linda was trying to wake me up. "Cassondra....how are you doing....there she is...she is starting to wake....how is your pain....?" I mumbled something about there being a lot of pain. This went on for I don't know how long, but I remember her saying multiple times, "okay, we'll give you a little more..." Finally, I could open my eyes and started to banter with Linda. I don't know what I was saying, but I was probably being silly because as the other nurse came to get me to take me to my room, Linda said, "We have a real stoner here...she is totally stoned..." I'm pretty sure the hilarity continued all the way to my room, but I don't really remember that part.

During the course of my recovery and overnight stay, I met nurse Windy. She looked like and acted like my pal SassyPants. She kept it real and was super awesome. She handed me over to a nurse named Carri (I think) for the night. I felt like I was in the best care. They kept coming in ever so often to give me more pills, bring me beverages, helped me walk, etc. They made me not want to leave. You never want to leave the people with drugs. Even after Carri woke me at 3:30 am to pull the catheter out of my junk, I still wasn't mad, because...drugs. It also came up in casual conversation that apparently I had a bigger uterus than the doctor expected, so there was some tearing as they brought it out and so I had some extra stitches down there... I basically just birthed my uterus, thanks a lot for being bigger than usual. The only thing that should be "bigger than usual" is a pumpkin in the Jumbo Pumpkin growing contest at the State Fair, you know what I mean?

After all my care at the hospital, Shark Bait brought me home the next day. He was doing a pretty good job of taking care of me, but let's be honest, he was no Nurse Windy. I was thankful for him nonetheless.

After two days home I knew something wasn't quite right. My throat and tongue were still sore, swollen and angry and I was nauseous all the time. It hurt to eat or drink anything. I had a lot of down south pain, too, but I figured that was just part of the deal. To top it all off, I also hadn't pooped yet. Apparently this is a big deal, which all the nurses warned me about, because my meds cause constipation. Concerned about all of these things, I called my surgeon's office. One of his assistants called me back and we discussed everything going on. She wasn't really worried about anything except the pooping. I said, "I'm taking two tablets of stool softener, Miralax, I'm drinking prune juice and eating cherries, it's going to happen..." She then goes on to tell me that this is mission critical and if it doesn't come out, I'm going to have to use my fingers and pick it out. I was like, WHOA. I didn't say there was a landslide against the trap door that has caused an impaction, I feel like it's probably like a lazy lava making it's way. I'm not that worried. I got off the phone with her and I told Shark Bait what she said. He said, "Well, we could get you Taco Bell for dinner. I guarantee you that will work." I've only eaten at Taco Bell a couple times in my life, so I asked advice on food choice. It was a unanimous decision, The Burrito Supreme was my answer. God Speed.

As luck would have it, I did not have to pick concrete poop out of my butthole. Thank you, six-pound, five-ounce baby Jesus. My Fourth of July was an explosive one on many levels, so I was spared further experimentation on my bowels.

The next day, the warm 5th day of this July in 2018, I did end up going to the walk-in clinic about my sore throat. The doctor also felt it was just normal reactionary type stuff going on with the tube and anesthesia used. Well, that's great. I guess I'd just ride it out.

I had now survived all the way til Saturday, July 8th. I told Shark Bait to go fishing with his pal Buck Dooley since he had been locked in the house with me all week. Reluctantly, he went. I'd be fine. I didn't feel good, so I was no fun anyway. I couldn't get over the nausea, I wasn't sleeping well because I had to get up and pee like every 30 minutes, down south was not happy and now all four incisions on my belly were ON FIRE and so itchy I couldn't stand it. I thought to myself, I need to calm down, what could I take to calm down? (Insert light bulb here) Wait, don't we have special brownies up in the pantry for just this type of occasion? I'll just take a little bite, just a little to take the edge off...it'll be fine. Google says it is okay.

I continued to lay there watching TV, feeling calmer. I just kept taking pills and laid there, miserable, watching a long marathon of Say Yes to the Dress. By the time Shark Bait got home, I was a mess. I. LOST. MY. SHIT. Shark Bait rushed over to me on the couch and asked what was wrong. I started sobbing. I mean U-G-L-Y, hysterical crying. Shark Bait didn't know what to do. He said, "Baby, what's wrong, talk to me!" I attempted to talk, all the while ugly crying and said through sobs, gasps and all the drama I possessed, "Those Moms are just so mean....those girls just want to be beautiful...and those people are mean...they deserve to be beautiful!!!!!! And, I didn't get to have my Mom with me when I wedding dress shopped because Dad wouldn't let her...and it's just so sad....." Shark Bait is a champ. He helps me stand up and just holds me as I sob and wipe my face and nose all over his shirt. He just rubs my back and tells me it's gonna be okay and ushers me to the bathroom. It's noteworthy to say that when I came back to the living room, the channel had been changed. I guess no more drama for me on that night.

Shark Bait fed me dinner and then I tried to go to bed. I couldn't sleep. My body ached everywhere, no position was comfortable. I had the biggest headache I've ever had. I tossed and turned. I thought I was dying. I was soaking wet with sweat, but freezing cold, yet I didn't have a fever. I couldn't let the blankets touch me, but needed them because I was freezing. This went on all night.

I lived until Sunday, the 8th day of July, in 2018, by the grace of God. I was feeling only slightly better. Shark Bait and I decided to go to the walk-in clinic again as my incisions were so red and on fire, I was sure I was dying of some sort of infection. Get a hysterectomy they said, it'll be fun they said. It'll be worth it, they said. Evil-Mother-Trucking-Vagina-Hating-Princesses-of-Pain. Never listening to them again!

After over an hour at the walk-in clinic we discover that I am allergic to my sutures and we have two choices, go in and dig them out, or just ride out the bad times until they fully dissolve and are absorbed into my system. Well, naturally the first option is out, so she gets me all tricked out with drugs to help me through these trying times. I ask her if I can get meds for the nausea and she complies and writes a prescription for that. Then, by luck, she says, "what were you saying about peeing all the time? That's not a side-effect, let's check you for a bladder infection." Bingo. Bladder infection would explain why I was feeling so horrible. Pills for that. She wrote me like 7-8 prescriptions for me and I was scared Rite-Aid was going to put a fraud alert on my account. Like someone stole my doctor and forced her to write all these prescriptions.

Within hours of taking my new cocktail of narcotics, I started to feel better. I feel like there are a lot of people out there fighting far bigger battles than I, and this is temporary, but I am not a good sick person. I'm a real pain in the ass and THANK YOU, Shark Bait! You are THE BEST. Someone else might have left me out on the corner on trash day.

All my prescriptions...

So, we are a couple days beyond that now and I am still living, still fighting the normal pains of recovering from a hysterectomy, still fighting the incisions and nausea, but I feel like it is manageable now. I have managed all of this with just a handful of videos posted to Facebook and a lot of TMI about pooping. I stayed off of social media on the darkest of days, so I guess I'll call it a social win at this point. I hope from here forward I can just heal. It's very hard to keep myself from doing naughty things like lifting and bending down to get stuff. I don't want to turn into a total powder puff princess.

Thanks to all that have sent messages of encouragement, I appreciate you all. Everyone else, thanks for listening to my post surgery drama.

I'm going to leave you with a few thoughts based on my experience...

Taco Bell should NOT be used in conjunction with actual laxatives.
If a shady-looking guy with a blood cart tries to take your blood, WATCH HIM.
Do not infiltrate special brownie recipes into your medication list
If your girl parts were just tampered with, DO NOT watch a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress
Don't let your care provider go fishing

P.S. Today I watched a marathon of My 600-lb Life. That's not really helping my morale either.

Memoirs of My Uterus...

2018-06-28T19:40:00.000-07:00

Well, the time has come. It is the eve of my hysterectomy. I am feeling a bit anxious, but I know it will be for the best when I am all healed and well again. I do not believe I will mourn the loss of this empty sack of menstral pain, but if I am to say good-bye forever to this body part that has been with me 46 years, I think it is only appropriate I pay it one last discussion. One last bitch session. One last remembrance of the horrible times we had together.

As I recall, I was in the fourth grade, a mere 10 years old, when my uterus introduced itself to my life. It wasn't friendly. It didn't just knock on the door and welcome me to womanhood with cookies and biscuits, it grabbed me like a tiger at the circus sucking a little girl into a cage and then mauling it for hours on end. I was so young, no one had told me about this thing that happens. There I was, playing four-square on the playground when a girl that I detested asked me why I had red all over the crotch of my pants. I didn't know why it was there either. I said, "I have a red sweatshirt that wrapped around my jeans and stained it in the wash." I was a freaking genius. The girl with ugly hair and braces just said, "oh." and seemed to move on. When I got home that afternoon from school, my Dad was home. I told him my stomach hurt really bad and that I thought I was bleeding to death and I didn't know why. He told me to go lay down on my bed until Mom got home. I remember laying there in the dark believing I was dying and the cramps were so bad. Finally, Mom came home, took me into the bathroom and explained what was happening. What in the bloody hell? This was going to happen EVERY MONTH?

And so, throughout my grade school, middle school and high school life I never seemed to know when my uterus would seek its revenge on my body. The number of times I had wardrobe issues is beyond comprehension. I was surrounded by girls that wore training bras and wore Garfield underwear in 6th grade gym class and there I am going into the "period shower stall" with my over-active uterus.

Fast forward, and I know you wish I would, to my adulthood. It's been hell. Sheer HELL. I don't want to get graphic, but there is stuff that no woman wants to see in her panties, and I've seen it. Is that a clot or a bunny that I just passed? The world will never know. At any rate, after the fibroids and all the pain and suffering, tomorrow it is OVER you mother-trucking barren over-reacting gut-wrenching sack of cramps and shedding lining. Fuck you. There, I said it. As Church Lady said today, after tomorrow, there is no more U-to-us uterus, it's over bitch.

Ode to my Uterus
by Cassondra White

You are a uterine sack of pain and shredding lining
You took my innocence and left me bitchy and whining.

You have ruined my panties, my pants and a dress or two.
You've taken me by surprise and left me shoving toilet paper up my vagina in the loo.

You've made me spend what must be thousands of dollars on feminine hygiene supplies
You've made me lose my shit, throw a temper tantrum and crave french fries.

You've caused me PMS to the point of taking everyone down with me
It's called Shark Week for a reason, I'll eat anything I can see.

I had to use a app on my cell phone that tracks my cycle all year.
I need it to show those around me and to instill fear.

I'm tired of being this tired, bloated, bloody, cramping and a clotting disaster
It's time for me to take control and become the master.

So get out of my body, take the fallopian tubes and cervix with you, please.
Don't let the door hit you in the ass, as you leave.

Fuck you, you uterine terrorist
Sincerely, the body where you will not be missed.

So, with all that said, I am a little bit nervous about the uterus exit strategy. They are allegedly doing the surgery "robotic." This means that my doctor sits at a computer and tells the robot hands what to do in there. Maybe I'm just paranoid because of where I work and all the computer problems we have, but what if good 'ol Hal the Robot goes ape-shit in there and starts cutting shit up like he's the Swedish Chef on The Muppets? What if all the sudden it starts chopping up the other organs? Liver pate anyone? You didn't need that pancreas, right? Spleen? GONE. Holy shit!

OR, what if I am under the anesthesia and I wake up in the middle of the surgery and I'm awake and can feel stuff, but I can't open my eyes or communicate with the doctors that I can feel everything? Then what? The Rug Doctor says that is not likely to happen and she is sure, even if it did, there would be other parts of my body reacting in a way that would let them know. I shared this concern with Blonde Wonder Twin and she said she woke up in the middle of one of her surgeries. SEE!!! It can happen. Of course her eyes opened and they noticed and put her down further, but still. It is possible.

And, let's talk about what is going to happen in the after math. There's going to be packing up there, there is going to be nothing holding the vagina in. All that stuff just gone and the vagina is like a hammock in the back yard slumping between two trees. I just know I'm going to have to poke it back up in there all the time. I won't ever get camel-toe in the front of my jeans, it will just look like I'm harboring Jabba the Hut in my crotch. Look, I have concerns.

Anyway, I have Shark Bait to take care of me and he does a good job of that. Although, he is prone to video me when I am loopy, so really can't promise I will come out of this with any sort of integrity at all.

My work peeps were so sweet to me today with their well-wishes and gifts to keep me busy after the fact and the good-bye uterus cupcakes. I heart my peeps. I was even hugged quite a bit today. It's almost like they don't even believe I'll be back. But, to their point, it's way better to hug a live person than a dead person. And honestly, if I'm dead, get off me. That's gross.

Gifts from my peeps...

The Day My Vagina Falls Out

2018-05-24T20:10:00.001-07:00

It's been too long since my last therapy session with The Rug Doctor. Work and life stuff just got in the way, so it's been a month, I think, since I've had an appointment. Based on the title of this blog, I think we all know I waited too long to see her.

Today I was feeling all sorts of anxiety, angst and sadness. One of the things that has me a little anxious is my upcoming hysterectomy at the end of June. I received a call from the doctor today advising me that my fibroid has not reduced in size at all and is clearly not responding to the Lupron shots I've been getting for months now. So, we are moving forward with the procedure. I've talked to many of my gal-pals and I have gotten pretty positive reviews. Everyone agrees that I won't regret having the baby shack taken out. Well, no shit. No more periods, duh. Who's gonna miss that? I'm sure no one ever said, "Oh no, I don't need to buy feminine products or worry about leaving a blood kiss on the chair or in my favorite rainbow underpants." Seriously. With that said, removing the angry uterus does bring up some feelings.

I told the Rug Doctor about my ultrasound appointment the other day when I could hear the woman in the next room being told she was 13 weeks along. I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't get a little teary-eyed. That woman got to hear the allegedly exciting news about the baby growing inside her and here I am putting a definite end to any sort of chance that I would ever carry a child. I mean, we pretty much took care of that when I took Shark Bait in to get fixed, but still, this is very final. There is a part of me that is sad about never having had a child of my own. I feel like I have mourned that over the last eight years or so, but part of being a woman is that junk inside that gives you the ability to spawn offspring. Will I feel any less of a woman when it's over? I honestly don't know.

We also talked about the procedure itself. I've done some Googling, I've asked some people and I am preparing questions for the pre-op appointment with the Gyno Doc, but I'm not going to lie, I'm a bit nervous. I do know we are leaving my ovaries intact, but I think everything else is coming out. Like my cervix. I think it's coming out, but I'm not sure. And if I do take it out, I hear you gotta be super careful, because if you don't heal right, I hear your vagina can prolapse and fall out!!! What the fuck? I have all sorts of questions about this possibility!

Once everything is out, is my whole vaginal area like a dark tunnel? A black hole? Like, an empty parking garage?
Is it like standing on the top of the Swiss Alps yelling, "helloooooo..." as it echos back?
When I pee, is it just going to be like a fire hose on full blast with nothing to slow the flow?
If it is a windy day, will my lower lady lips make a flapping sound in the wind if I wear a dress?
Will my ovaries just fall out like marbles on the floor and I'm running around chasing them like that guy in Return to Neverland finding his marbles? I mean, I know I won't get to fly, but still...
Will my vagina just fall out one day? Like, "splatt!" right onto the ground. I pick it up, dust it off and put it back in? Put it in my pocket?
Will I need a vagina fanny pack that I attach in the front of me and it just rides around in there in case I need it?
Will my vagina truly become nature's purse and I can carry stuff around in there?
What about sex, will I just hand it to Shark Bait and say, "let me know when I'm getting close."
Will I need to wear shorts like guys do at the gym to keep their balls harnessed?
If I sit down on a bench that is wet with paint, but I didn't know it was wet, so I sat down, will I leave a normal butt print in the wet paint, or will it be a butt print with a little extra splotch in the front for my girl stuff that just hangs loose?
Will I be able to lay in a hammock without my vagina falling through the mesh netting and trapping me there?
Will it fall in the toilet when I pee?
Will I be able to slide into a booth at a restaurant?

And those are just some of the vagina questions! What about my hormones? Will I get facial hair? Like, big, thick black hairs radiating from my chin? Will my voice lower? What about that empty space down there internally? What goes in there? Fluid? Cellulite just moves in? What happens to the ovaries? They are just hanging out like a couple of bats?

So many questions. I mean, I know for most people it is a great life change and they are so happy they did it. But what if I am part of the small percentage of people that has post partum uterus detachment syndrome? I don't know if it is a thing, but it sounds legit. Like, one day, I'm like, "Back when I had my uterus, this wouldn't have happened..." I can't think what that event would be, actually, but it could be a thing. Maybe I'll think, "I can't blame my bitchiness on shark week now." Now I will need to like, take accountability for my actions or have a legit reason. This is bullshit. I've partnered with this uterus all these years to scare the shit out of people every 28 days and now, I just have to be randomly scary to keep them on their toes. I mean, I actually think I may already do that, but this sounds like extra effort that my hormones provided naturally.

For the record, The Rug Doctor doesn't think I have anything to worry about, but she does want me to talk to the Gyno Doc to feel better about my choices. She strongly recommended against utilizing my Google MD research techniques and just relaxing until I have more information from the doctor. She also said it is normal that I would be feeling sad about losing this very important part of my anatomy. Even if I made the choice to not have children, it is still a big deal and my feelings are valid.

I'm sorry if this was a little over the top, but vagina placement is a big deal. I'll keep you updated if it does fall out after surgery, because I am going to make a ton of money on my vagina fanny pack invention.


This is what it will look like as my vagina sucks me in.

How Hard Does Sprint Wireless Suck?

2018-05-21T20:17:00.001-07:00

The question begs to be asked, "How hard does Sprint Wireless suck?" The answer to that question is that modern technology has yet to develop testing equipment with a capacity to measure this. I do believe, however, that a good comparison might be that Sprint sucks harder than a hooker trying to make rent to her pimp before getting beat up. I don't have any first hand experience with that scenario, but I would assume the suction would be intense.

I should start by saying that the only reason I have Sprint is because Shark Bait had it when I met him and it was cheaper than what I was paying, so I switched over. It's been an underwhelming user experience ever since. I mean, who even came up with the name, Sprint? The service isn't fast or reliable. It's like the Special Olympics of cellular service. But, alas it seems like whenever we are in the mood to change, we are in the middle of a contract. Basically, we are dumb-asses.

So, what brings on today's rage? SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

Yesterday (Sunday), Shark Bait and I were heading on a road trip for the day. I got in the truck and was settling in as the trusty passenger and pulled my phone out. Half of the screen was black.

Notice how half of the screen is black? Yeah, so did I. So, Shark Bait and I traveled over to Eastern Washington and when we got there, we located a Sprint store. The dude in the store is quick to inform me that he cannot help me because he is not a corporate store, nor does he have technical help in his store. He then suggested that I had caused damage to the phone, even though, not a mark on it. After not really believing me, he said my options were to pay off what was owing on the phone (allegedly $200) and get a new phone, or I could call the insurance company and see what they would charge for a deductible to replace it. I said, "Well, that's bullshit. The phone is worthless, why would I pay $200? And, if I pay insurance on it every month, what the fuck good does that do me if I just have a huge deductible over something I have no control over. I didn't do this to the phone!?" Pablo basically was ZERO help. He says, "$200 isn't that much, I'd just pay it off and get a new one." Oh yeah, chump change. No big deal. Clearly, Sprint over pays him.

But wait, Pablo wasn't done. He continued on with more great news. He said, "Yeah, these HTC Bolt phones are bad news. I don't know why anyone would buy one. I never let a customer leave the store with one of these. I've seen a lot of problems with them." I looked at him, clearly pissed, "Well, that's fantastic, because the girl that sold it to me assured me it was the next best thing and would be faster, have more range and not drop calls, and now you tell me it's shit? That's awesome that you sell it, then."

He suggested we visit the Marysville store which was a corporate store. With that, we left Pablo to think of more ways to scam customers.

Upon returning to the west side of the mountains that evening, we stopped in at the Marysville store. Right off the bat, we are told they are not a corporate store. Said they haven't been one for over a year and a half now. Huh. They said I should take the phone to the corporate store in Everett or in Lynnwood. That sure sounds super convenient, I'll just take a day off work and run around the county trying to get my phone fixed on Monday!!! They hypothesized some possible issues the phone could be experiencing and then we just cut our losses and left.

Fast forward to today. It's a Monday, so it's already a challenge. I decide to go on my lunch hour up to the CORPORATE Sprint store in Everett. I know where it is. It's in the Trader Joe's Parking lot. The boufante-haired and under-showered guy at Sprint told me so. I walk in to the store and no one is there except two guys, one at each counter. They looked like contestants on Jeopardy. I gravitate over to the orange-haired lad with gauges in his ears. I explain the problem and tell him I need it fixed. He informs me what he thinks is wrong with the phone and then tells me that he can't help because he's not a corporate store. I said, "are you kidding me? The dude at Marysville said that you were? They used to be one, so I went there thinking they still were." Orange hair dude says, "No, they've never been a corporate store." I can't do this, I can't argue about that. So, now I'm pissed. I said, "So, you are the THIRD store I have been to. Each of you tells me something different. I don't have $200 to pay off this phone and get a new one, nor should I have to!" He says, "Well, it's actually $375 to pay it off, but it might be worth it to cut your losses." I looked at him incredulously and said, "Seriously? Why in the hell would I give you $375 for a piece of crap phone that doesn't work? Why in the hell would I do that? And then you're going to charge me for a new one and to upgrade, etc. I have insurance, what the fuck good is it if none of this is covered?" He's like, calm as a cucumber, nothing was going to rattle him. He was probably smoking weed before I got there. He then hands me a piece of paper telling me that the corporate office is in Lynnwood and I need to go there. I was so beyond pissed. I said, "Where the hell is that store??? What is it by?" He says, "Well the address is on that sheet of paper." I looked at him with sheer rage in my face, grabbed my phone, shoved it in his face and said, "WELL, I'D PUT THE ADDRESS IN MY PHONE TO GUIDE ME, BUT I CAN'T!!!!!!!!!!" With that, I thanked him for abso-fucking-lutely nothing, and left.

When I was safely in my truck, I considered my options. I wanted this dealt with TODAY. I needed this rage to help me through this. I was going to that fucking Lynnwood store. Vengeance would be mine. Justice would be served.

I arrive at the Lynnwood store.

I walk in and I see a crowd of 20-something boys in the back, all of them seemingly work there. They could all see that I was a crazed fat girl with an axe to grind. They sent a tribute. A little guy, his name was Hugo. He asked how I was. I said, "I'm very cranky and I need help, but first, are you or are you not a corporate store?" He confirmed that yes, I had located the mother-ship. The other guys in the back, settled in to watch the show. I told Hugo of my travels and that he would be the fourth store and that I would not be told one more time that I needed to pay $375 for a piece of shit phone. He looked at it and said he could have his repair guy look at it, but his repair guy was really busy, so it might be a while. Strike one, Hugo. I elevated my voice a bit and said, "Look, I have been told three different stories by three stores, I'm trying to get my phone fixed on my lunch hour. I live in Stanwood and work in Everett, I don't have time to travel all over God's creation just to be told I need to come back. I want this resolved...and not by getting a new phone after I pay a bunch of money. Do I look like a baller to you? Is $375 chump change to you? You Sprint people get paid so much you just make it rain?"

Hugo returned to the back room and had the tech take a peek at the phone. Hugo informed me the tech had seen another phone already today with this same issue and someone else had called and was bringing one in, also with the same issue. They said because I had the insurance and because it seemed to be more of a warranty issue and not customer created, there would be no charge and they would fix it. It would only take 7-10 days. I may have lost it again just as one of the girls that worked there was arriving for her shift and walked up to the counter. When she heard me start to talk, her eyes got big and she scampered away quickly. I said, "That's awesome you're going to fix it, but are you shitting me? I won't have a phone for 7-10 days? Seriously? This is ridiculous!" He said, "oh no, we would give you a loaner phone." A loaner phone? Apparently, they give me some random piece of shit phone while they are fixing my phone. They just transfer my phone number over and bam, loaner phone. (Sad thing is, the loaner phone might be lame but it's still probably a better phone than mine.) So then, Hugo says, "So, the technician is super busy working on someone else's phone, so it will take him about 30 minutes to get to your phone so he can transfer your stuff over to this loaner phone." I looked at him like I was going to pick his body up and stuff it into a phone case. He then said nervously, "or we can just get your number moved over and you out the door in about 5 minutes, but you won't have any of your info from your phone." I said, "Let's do that, shall we?"

So, I'm a little calmer now, as Hugo works away and getting my number to work on this loaner phone. We are making idle chit-chat and I say, "One of your people told me that this is the worst phone and he never lets anyone out of the store with one, but the gal that sold it to me told me how much better it would be, blah, blah, blah...." Hugo says, "uh, yeah, I don't sell it either. It doesn't get great reviews. I think they thought it was going to be great, but it wasn't." I said, "That's fantastic that your sales people push shit phones on people and then try and screw them over when something goes wrong. I feel great about doing business with Sprint." He looked a bit nervous and said, "Well, a lot of times the manufacturers of these phones have sales incentives to sell specific phones, so the sales people push them." I just looked at him and slow-blinked, unimpressed with his reasoning.

We then discussed in great length about the difference between corporate stores and all those Sprint re-seller stores and how confusing it is for the customer. I told him the guy in the Everett store almost got killed. Hugo then says to me, "I just don't understand why you didn't go to the corporate store in Everett? Why would he tell you to come here?" I stood there stunned. I said, "I did, the one in the Trader Joe's parking lot." Hugo says, "The Everett corporate store in Everett is right across the street from Applebees, you could have gone to that one." I stood there, livid. "Why didn't the dumb ass at the Trader Joe's store tell me there was a corporate store literally a couple blocks away from where I was? And why would Sprint do that to their customers? WHY?" Hugo had no answers, but he did ask me to give him a 10 on the survey that would be sent to me. I'm not going to lie, more slow-blinking.

Hugo then asked me where I worked. I told him. He then proceeded to complain about how slow my company's internet was. He has NINE people in his house that game, stream movies, and use it full-time online. Oh, I'm sorry our internet is not fast enough. I think he could tell I was not interested in talking about anyone's short-comings other than Sprint's.

The bonus of waiting for Hugo to work on my phone was that I was lucky enough to enjoy the musical stylings of Michael Bolton over the sound system and then the boys in the back of the store blaring some gang-banger hip hop. I said to Hugo, "I'm loving what you guys are doing with the music in here, it's like it calms you down while you get pissed off." He said, "yeah, sometimes the guys do that, I don't understand it." Well, finally we can agree on something.

Finally a few minutes later, I left there with my very used loaner phone. Better than nothing, I guess. I felt a sigh of relief that Shark Bait and I do not take nakie pics on our phones because I wasn't able to back anything up or take anything off of the phone before handing it over. I hope the tech guy doesn't spend too much time reading the Boot Bitch Gang group chat or my text messages. I hope he likes weiner dogs, selfies and ponies...and bunnies.

All in all, I made pretty good time running around the county and got back to work a bit beyond my lunch break, but not horribly so. I made a quick stop at McDonalds across the street from my work to pick up a chicken sammy and the gal that took my payment says, "Oh, I love your outfit today! It looks really good on you. I could never pull it off because I have three kids, but that white looks good on you (it was actually a yellowish-white)." I said, "Thank you, I have a hard enough time pulling it off with no kids." She says, "Well, if you had long hair, that might be too much, but because you keep it short and it's a cute style, you can pull it off...but yeah, long hair would just be too much."

I'm just going to put this out there. I got better customer service and fashion advice in two minutes at McDonalds than I did at four different Sprint stores.

Sprint, you suck harder than a Black Hole. Harder than a hooker in a Black Hole.

Probably Not Getting Kidnapped...

2018-04-09T23:47:00.004-07:00

I can't sleep tonight. I'm restless. Perhaps I am subconsciously stressing about my upcoming adventure. You see, as of Friday at 5pm, I will be entering the Admin Protection Program. That's right, Saturday morning I am leaving for 10 days and going with my friend to visit her family in Colorado. During this time, the amounts of fucks given about work will be zero. I shall not think of the Glass Palace, not even once. I'm excited, but also nervous about the trip.

First things first, let's just get this out of the way, just because I am going to be gone for 10 days does not mean any of you home-wrecking tramps get to come over to my house and love on my dog or my man. Yeah, you heard me right, Shark Bait is mine and he will not be entertaining wild women. As a matter of fact, he also gets to babysit my sister's cat while she is also out of town. That is the only pussy he gets. Vulgar, I know, but it was right there, I couldn't just let that go. Sorry, not sorry.

Secondly, it should be mentioned that I am not that big of an adventurer. Like, in the 13, going on 14 years that Shark Bait and I have known each other, we've never been apart for more than an occasional couple of nights here or there when it is hunting season. Aside from that, we are glued to each other like construction paper and uncooked elbow macaroni in a first grade art class. We're tight. So, yeah, that's a big deal. Also, I'm kind of scared of travel. Like, I'm a big scaredy-cat.

Last night Shark Bait and I were laying in bed and I said, "Shark Bait, do you know, if I was kidnapped in Colorado and then somehow managed to break free and get my abductors gun and shot him, would that be self-defense or would I go to jail." Shark Bait, not even surprised by my question answers, "Well, there would be an investigation to see what happened, but you shouldn't go to jail. I would think that would qualify for self-defense." I said, "oh, okay, but are you sure? I mean, why does there have to be an investigation if I was kidnapped. You know, like we were reported missing and I'm all bloody and stuff from being smacked around and I probably soiled myself because the bad guy wouldn't let us go to the bathroom and I haven't showered in days and there is tape residue on my wrists...like, you can tell I was in tough shape and I was clearly kidnapped. I won't get in trouble, right?" He says, "You're not going to get kidnapped." I argued, "you don't know!!! I'm fat and out of shape, I could be easily taken over by a couple of creepy guys that want woman suits and it could happen!" Shark Bait is unflappable and says, "That's not going to happen, do you know how small of a percentage of people get kidnapped? VERY SMALL, like it's not going to happen." Clearly, he hasn't been paying attention to what we watch on TV. I also was undeterred by his steadfast beliefs about my safety. I continued, "That's bullshit!! Every NCIS episode and shoot-em-up crime drama you watch has people getting kidnapped! What about Dateline and 20/20??! What about them? What about every movie out there with people being TAKEN??!!! I don't have Bruce Willis or that other angry dude...(Liam?) coming for me because I'm their daughter! Or, what about that movie Seven, where the guy kills people for the seven sins, I'm a sure candidate for the gluttony sin! I'm going to be killed in Colorado! Like, you're never going to see me again once I get on that plane!"

It's like no one even tries to take me seriously anymore. I have legit concerns.

Fast-forward to today. I'm talking to my Mom and I said, "Mom, Shark Bait doesn't think I'll get kidnapped in Colorado, but it could happen." Mom buckles up for the ride, as she has on many occasions and says, "You're not going to get kidnapped in Colorado. If you think for one minute I believe that anyone is going to attempt to kidnap you and Pal-o-mino, you've got to be out of your mind. Not gonna happen." She continues on, indulging me, "who is even going to try to kidnap you girls? I don't think so." I said, "Mom, there is some guy (or guys) out there that want women suits. They just need to get us in their van, store us in their basement and starve us for a short time and our skin will be saggy enough for them to harvest what they need. It's a thing Mom, it could happen. We are getting old, we can't even run." I could envision the look on Mom's face. Her mouth is in that half-smirk thing and she has her head tilted to the side and she's rolling her eyes. This isn't her first rodeo. Mom says, "There is NO WAY that anyone is going to mess with you girls, no way." I don't really like to be shut down so I finished the only way I could. I said, "Whatever, Mom, when I don't come back from Colorado, you'll see."

Finally, I talked to Pal-o-mino about it. She says, "First of all, we can't take our guns with us, so you can't shoot anyone." I retorted, "Duh, I'm going to break free of my ropes or tape or whatever and I'm going to make a grand effort to save us. I'm going to wrestle him down, get his gun and shoot him dead. I'm going to save us. I promise you." Pal-o-mino wasn't buying it, she's like, "yeah, that's not even a thing, that isn't going to happen." Here's the thing...she doesn't know...it could and at least ONE OF US is thinking about it. I don't hear anyone thanking me for being preventative or cautious or proactive or anything like that. No, they just say it isn't going to happen. But...what if it does? Then what?

To be clear, I'm not saying that I want it to happen (unless it's by Channing Tatum). I mean, maybe the terrorists will be on our flight. Probably not, because it is super early and who wants to get up early to die, you know? I mean, I guess I am, but I'm not planning on dying, I'm just saying, what if? Look, I might not be the kind of girl that gets attacked and kidnapped because I'm young and hot, or because I'm a hooker (I mean, I'm not a hooker, but I'm just saying, if I was, but I'm not...trust me), but at the end of the day, I've taken pretty good care of my skin. Shark Bait says my butt is soft as a baby's butt and my facial skin is pretty good. Cellulite has really kept the wrinkles from coming on. My back skin is pretty nice, too. I've never had "backne" or blackheads or anything. Trust me, I've seen some shit on Dr. Pimple Popper and my back skin is fantastic. I would make a pretty good woman suit. Now, my legs, they are pretty much like the extra parts that come with a Thanksgiving turkey, you throw them out or boil them to make gravy.

Or, say the guy doesn't want a woman suit, say he needs to sell me and my friend for human sex-trafficking........................... omg...lmao...never mind. hahahahahaha That would only happen if he was a blind guy. Sigh.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm going for 10 days, I'm a little anxious, but I'm probably going to be fine, according to everyone else. Tonight, as I was laying in bed trying to count sheep or something, Shark Bait reconfirmed, "I don't know what else to say, but you are going to have a great time and you ARE NOT GOING TO GET KIDNAPPED!" I replied, "Look pal, until you have an 800# and a loyal following, I'm not going to believe your psychic bullshit."

And just like that, he had no comeback. A smug win for Angry Pony.

I'm going to try and go back to bed now. I'd like to be kidnapped by dreams...


Violent Femmes - DO NOT Attempt to Kidnap

A Day at the Gyno - Adelle Will NEVER Understand

2018-02-23T19:16:00.000-08:00

Today is another installment of "Putting Cassondra Back Together in 2018."

This week has been super fun. I was given a cortizone shot in my left shoulder on Monday. The doctor said, "Based on your history with this shoulder, if this shot doesn't help within two weeks, call me and I'll order an MRI and then schedule you with a surgeon." What? I don't want my shoulder operated on. That sounds like it hurts. That sounds like a long recovery. That sounds like something I purposely have been putting off, thusly why I haven't been in to see you in years. Shit.

Tuesday, the fun continued with a visit to the doctor to have an endoscopy. Our hope was to discover if I had any shenanigans going on in my stomach which would explain all the pain. After spending way too much time in the waiting room with a loud belching person, they finally took me back to the admitting area where they prepped me up for the procedure. As luck would have it, I was an instant celebrity as I got to wear the new gowns that the hospital just got in. It might not sound like a big deal, but I'm telling you, it was the prettiest shade of blue and the shoulders unbuttoned. Glam-or-ous! Once word got out that I had the new gown on, there was a bit of a scuttle about where those gowns were and who was hiding them and why no one else had been able to find them. Then, people started coming by to check me out in this new hospital fashion trend. I was kind of a big deal.

After that, I spent some time arguing about the fact that I was not, in fact, pregnant and that it was highly unlikely that I had been chosen as the vessel for divine intervention that would subsequently lead to baby Jesus Jr. being put in my belly. I told the nurse I was positive God would not do that to me, or humankind. I can't be responsible for baby Jesus Jr. in on the computer on Facebook, Plenty of Fish or on the Twitter tweeting, "Parted my soup like the Red Sea at Panera Bread today. #BadAssSavior." When the world falls apart for reals, I don't want to get blamed for that. I mean, unless the place floods again and everybody dies...or is it supposed to burn up? I'm not up on Revelations, but I'm pretty sure I probably wouldn't be around after that, so maybe it isn't a big deal if it was my fault. Unless God had me live. And then everyone is going to be all like, "We used to have cell phones and be able to text each other and could stream Game of Thrones and now we are smashing two rocks together to make fire and have to talk to each other instead of texting, THANKS A LOT CASSONDRA!!!!" Then, no one lets me reproduce anymore, which, actually, I'm fine with and then I have to carry water from the well all the time because I'm the idiot that let baby Jesus Jr. get cat-fished on Plenty of Fish and ruined everything.

Like I said, I don't want to be the vessel for our savior. Too much responsibility.

Anyway, that whole deal ended up going fine. My throat is still sore, but I'll live, I think. The doctor said I should probably see the GI surgeon dude and talk to them about taking out my gall bladder if the problems continue as that is likely the root of all my abdominal pain. Oh, okay, I'll just have another surgery. No problem.

Disclaimer: You are now entering the part of the blog where I talk about girl parts. If that makes you squeamish, this is where you want to stop.

Today, was the big mamma-jamma appointment. I don't really know what mamma-jamma means, but it is some epic shit, I'll tell you that. Last week I had an appointment with the tech person running the love-wand and had a pelvic ultrasound that revealed I've got some things going on that are not ideal. (No, they didn't see baby Jesus Jr. in there during the ultrasound, FYI.) I could have told them I was a hot mess without the love wand. I'm the one harboring the angry uterus. Anyway, so today I had to have the doctor go all Jacques Cousteau again and go up in there, get a piece of my uterine wall and have that sent out for a biopsy. I know, I know, this is A LOT of information about girl parts, but hey, I had to go through it and I know a lot of others have, so it isn't a big deal. Except it was a BIG MOTHER TRUCKING DEAL!!!!! It hurt so freaking bad!

I should have known it was going to be a big deal because this is the course of events. The doctor's assistant came in and checked me in. She started by taking my blood pressure, which was way higher than normal. We chalked that up to stress, but she said she would take it again before I left. She goes on to say, "I'll be here in the room during the procedure with the doctor, just so you know. I'll play some music and by the time the song is over, it will be all done." Okay, whatever, distractions during the violation, I get it. I think the pictures they have on the ceiling aren't really great for distraction, so maybe the music will do the trick. (Note: if there are any medical professionals reading this, hey, put some naked Channing Tatum on the ceiling instead of that ugly fucking cartoon cat and the puppies in the paint can.)

The assistant then starts small talk with me about doctors and their specialties. Did you know there is a doctor that specializes in just your rectum? Yep, not inside of it, just the rectum itself. I'm like, okay, well, I guess someone had to be an expert on assholes, but what lead to that person saying to themselves, "I've studied all these years and I'm going to be an asshole specialist!" Did that doctor fail the test to be a brain surgeon? I don't want to belittle the butt-hole because it's a pretty big deal, but of all the specialties, why that? Is medical school like in Harry Potter where you hold the hat and it tells you what specialty you get to pursue? Weird.

The doctor comes in and we finally get down to business. My ass is almost hanging off the table, I got my feet in the stirrups, the assistant hits the ipod and Adelle comes on singing her heart out. I'm staring at cartoon cats, naked babies in flowers and puppies in paint cans on the ceiling when all the sudden, shit got real. Holy Mother of all that is painful in this world! I hear phrases like, "oh, I'm going to have to dilate her, the cervix opening is small..." (No shit, I've never spawned a baby through that hole!) "Oh, looks like things are at an angle, this isn't going to go in straight." I'm clawing the table and the nurse assistant gal is holding my shoulder and petting me like a scared wild animal that was just pulled out of a burning house. I started to cry. The cramping is un-freaking-believable. I said, "THIS BODY AIN'T MADE FOR BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!" By this time, Adelle is done singing and some other random Barney was on there singing. By the time it was over, I don't know how many songs I had heard, but I knew how many expletives I had suppressed.

Finally it was over and I laid on the table as if I had just given birth to a really sharp pencil. The doctor says I just needed a blood draw and to do a urine sample and then I could go. This day just keeps getting better.

The blood draw was no biggie, but then the urine sample. Men have no idea how lucky they are when it comes to this task. Seriously. First of all, I don't have Stretch Armstrong arms and I don't have a back-up camera or eyes on my vagina. I'm squatting, hovering over the toilet, holding a small cup that may as well be a thimble and praying my stream of urine goes in it. My pants are around my ankles, I'm in position, much like an Olympic skier and next thing I know, there is pee everywhere. Mother. Trucker. I re-negotiate my stance and fill the cup while also completely covering my hand in urine. This is AWESOME.

I get it cleaned up and then go to pull up my underwear and pants. Oh yeah, I totally got piss on the side of my underwear and all over the back of the leg of my jeans when I was skiing the freestyle in the downhill race. Pretty sure this was a GOLD medal performance. This is fucking awesome. I'm sure no one will notice. I'm just standing there thinking, "this is awesome, my cooter hurts, I've got a band-aid on my arm from the blood draw and now I look like I was standing next to a group of guys pissing in the wind.

Nonetheless, I pulled myself together to leave. As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I see the nurse. Shit, she was supposed to take my blood pressure again. I don't want her to get in trouble, so I say, "Hey, aren't you supposed to take my blood pressure again?" She says, "OH YEAH! Thank you for reminding me!" We take it and it is 148/102, which is higher than it was when I first got there. I told the nurse, "You just sucked a sample out of my uterus, took blood and now I've pissed myself, what did you think it was going to be?" While amused, she was not allowed to let me leave, so she goes to get the doctor. After much discussion of sending me to the walk-in clinic, or stopping by the Fire Station to have them check later (um hello, Firemen? That's not going to help it go down), or having me come back later, we finally decided that I could leave, but that I needed to follow up with my regular doctor to address this high blood pressure. We were assuming it was just pain and stress related, but need to be sure. The doctor says, "You're not going back to work, right?" I said, "Well, I was planning on it." She says, "I need you to go home and CHILL OUT and not be stressed. I do not want you at work right now." Finally, an order I'm happy to follow.

So, I came home, chilled out and called my friend, Pal-o-mino. I told her about the horror of the day. She says, "yeah, I thought about telling you about that test and how bad it hurts, but I didn't want to stress you out about it. You basically now know what labor feels like." I can't imagine what my blood pressure would have been had she told me before hand.

At any rate, I lived to tell the story and to over-share as only I can do on the regular. I do have some suggestions for those of you that have not yet spawned a child via your loins and need an endometrial biopsy.

Get stoned before you go to the doctor.
Get drunk before you go to the doctor.
Do heroin before you go to the doctor.
Stretch that shit out. Toys, vegetables, appliances, a submarine, whatever it takes.
Don't think for one second that Adelle understands, because she doesn't.

This test is not for the faint of heart. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you.

Also, if you are currently in medical school and considering your options, remember the rectum. It's special and, you don't have a lot of competition for clients.

As always, my friends, I'm leaving you with more information than you asked for.

You. Are. Welcome.

Super Cellulite Girl

2018-02-15T20:27:00.000-08:00

I thought I would take some time today and update everyone on the progress in my life since the last blog where I had just seen the Girlie Doctor and been held hostage by Dr. Nature.

As luck would have it, the nutrient IV/hostage situation that caused me to have to lay in an uncomfortable position on my bad shoulder for hours has caused my shoulder to flare up. I have been babying this shoulder for close to 9 years after the last cortisone shot that seemed to stabilize it. Well, now it is PISSED OFF. So, if you add that on all my other maladies, I'm a bigger hot mess than before. On a side note, for those of you that wanted to know how the nutrient IV went after the fact, it did make me feel better and sleep better and wake up refreshed for about a week. So, there's that.

So, I have been going to appointments to figure out what is going on in this angry body of mine. Still a few more to go over the next two weeks, but the one constant appointment I always make time for is my Therapy Thursday sessions with The Rug Doctor. I visited her on a Tuesday this week, so it was more of a Train Wreck Tuesday. Regardless of the day, I always bring the correct amount of dysfunction to the session for her to earn the co-pay.

This week I told her that I was pretty much emotionally bankrupt. Like, all this drama with my body, not knowing what is going on and having all these pains and not sleeping made me feel utterly hopeless and honestly, a little scared. And knowing, at some level, that so much of it is probably my fault for a lifetime of obesity. Knowing how bad I want to be healthy and just continually struggling. I told her I am the problem, but we can't fix me, Lord knows she's tried. I just need to do what I need to do, but I'm apparently in my own way. She says not to be so hard on myself and that there is a balance between being kind to yourself and holding yourself accountable. And that I'm still working through issues from my childhood. I called bullshit on her, "Being kind hasn't worked. Kindness likes cookies. I need that accountability bitch in there telling me to get my shit together." She said, "so how's that been working out?" (Insert disapproving look here directed at therapist ) I told her that nothing I have ever tried, since birth, has ever worked for me to lose weight. No diet, no plan, no program, not even surgery has helped. I mean, surgery did for a short time and then all hell broke loose with my work out program and my joints and the weight all came rushing back with a vengeance.

I went on to explain, it's like I can't break through the barriers. I said to The Rug Doctor, "It's like I'm some sort of cellulite superhero." She looked at me confused, "A cellulite superhero? I've never heard of that..." I said, "Yeah, you know how the Incredible Hulk gets pissed off and he's all green and indestructible? He's a bad-ass an you can't touch him. I'm like Super Cellulite Girl, go ahead and try and lose weight, can't be done because Super Cellulite Girl (SCG) is there to fend off any sort of healthy behavior. The cellulite has super powers. They grab on and multiply like fucking rabbits and I am powerless to stop them. Cellulite is stronger than any force in the food chain or in the workout world." She considered this and said, "But that isn't true, you were able to tap into your positive self at the beginning of January and be on track, feel good and make healthy choices." I countered, "Yeah, because even Super Cellulite Girl has a kryptonite....HOPE. Cassondra was attacked by hope and was temporarily hi-jacked, but then shit happened that weakened hope and then SCG came in and regained control." I acted out punching-out hope and puffing myself up like a bad-ass with puffy cheeks.

Super Cellulite Girl. Gnarly looking bitch, isn't she?

God bless the Rug Doctor, she never gives up. She says, "I think we can access hope again by being kind to yourself and remembering what it was like when you were successful and working out and what that felt like." I said, "SCG has amnesia. She doesn't dwell on times she was consumed by hope, she focuses on the daily ability to hold on to power. She cannot be defeated. She has a cape."

We went on to discuss how having hope may have let me down in the past and how to access it again. And also about worry and how that plays a role. I actually said to her, straight-faced, "I don't think I worry that much. I think maybe I should worry more." While this is not the first time I have rendered The Rug Doctor speechless, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction when it does happen. I like to believe this is the part of our session where she really earned her hourly rate. It's too much to go into, but she made her point. I may worry more than I think.

So, at the end of the day, SCG is a reigning power in my life. She's allegedly indestructible. I know I'm the one giving her power, I just don't always have the strength to fight her. She will always be inside, always. She has been there since birth. Kind of like an X-Men gene, but in my case it is an XXL genetic mutation. Even in the most basic of action films, there is always a way to destroy the bad guy, but then there is a sequel. Like, is Freddy Kreuger even dead? Jason? They always come back. Always lurking, waiting for the stupid teens to be unattended, or in my case, a fat girl standing outside Coldstone Creamery...sniffing the smell of waffle cone...and just like that, SCG is back in charge as fast as feeding gremlins after midnight.

I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, honestly. This constant fight makes me feel like a failure. It's hard to build on that. And, I know I'm not supposed to compare myself to others, but really frustrated by other people's success with programs and surgeries. SCG has defeated all of them. And look, I've watched enough positive inspirational videos to know that that I need to say "I can" everyday and I need to change the mindset, but the reality is, my XXL genetic mutation makes it so much harder.

I have no answers in this blog tonight, no insights, no plan of action. It's simply where I am today. I guess I'm going to get through this next two weeks of appointments and see where I am. Am I getting a hysterectomy, my gall bladder out, my shoulder worked on? OR...a lobotomy? Let's spin the wheel and see what happens.

Friday Sucked #AngryPony

2018-01-26T19:12:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: I'm about to use the word FUCK a lot. If you think it reflects poorly on my writing skills or myself, then you can fuck off. This isn't about YOU, it's about ME. I have a right to offend you, you have a right to be offended and then I have a right to be offended that you're offended and then I find some little girl wearing a vagina t-shirt to hold a sign that says, "Feel your Fucking Feelings!!!" I provide no refunds on feelings. The blog reads as is, no warranties implied.

Let us begin.

So, I'm a mess, we've established this an infinite number of times over the years. I've been crying, can't control my anxiety, worrying about stuff and so I need to figure this shit out. There is stuff going on that the Rug Doctor can't address. I don't want to go on and on about what is currently going on with my body, but let me just break it down on a general level, as to give you an idea of why I'm doing what I am. Basically, I could be dying. Or, it could be a stomach ulcer, my gall bladder, endometriosis, uterine cancer or it could be a hang nail or any combination thereof. Suffice to say, I'm getting stuff checked out.

In starting the process of elimination on What's Eating Angry Pony I had a doctor appointment with the girlie doctor yesterday. She got all up in my business and checked things out. Then she ordered a bunch of other tests for me to go have done and then talked to me about Weight Watchers...a lot. Clearly, she drank Oprah's Kool-Aid (sugar-free) and is all about that. No offense to any WW fans out there, but it's not my jam, you know? I know it isn't, so don't hold my naked ass hostage on the table talking about it. Look at my bits and then let's wrap this up.

While I felt okay about the girlie visit, I wanted to talk to someone that I felt would be more in touch with what's really going on in my body, so I arranged to see a naturopathic doctor that I had seen years ago. I knew that she would do a deeper analysis with my blood work and that she would be able to help me find natural resolutions instead of jacking me up on a bunch of pharmaceutical candy for the governments profit and enjoyment. I was very excited she could fit me in today, so I took the day off to go see her and then I was planning on getting my nails done later in the day. A vacation day used for the betterment of Angry Pony. Sounds great!

First of all, fuck you, Friday, you piece of shit. I get up early and am filling out the bazillion pages of info that Dr. Nature (not her real name) wants to know and it asks if I have called my insurance company to verify naturopathic coverage. Well, I went to my insurance website yesterday and she is in-network, isn't that enough? No, it isn't. So, I call. Long story short, I find out that my fucking insurance doesn't cover naturopathic medicine. You know why? Because my insurance fucking sucks. That's right, I said it. All they fucking care about is sending me to the fucking doctor, collecting my fucking co-pay, getting my mother-trucking deductible, and hopefully, if they are lucky, the doctor I choose will hopefully put me on some fucking drugs to cover-up whatever is really fucking wrong with me so that they can give me more drugs to fix the problems the first drugs caused. And then they hope I die. That's right, they want me to take a lot of drugs and then they want me dead. That's all that makes any sense to me. Why cover a naturopathic doctor that might be able to help me get healthy? To help me enjoy my life without chemicals and shit? Nope, NOT TODAY! Not the fucking government and healthcare we have. The government allows and condones the poisoning of our fucking food, then we are sick, then we need drugs and then we die. On top of all of that, they build a bunch of fucking houses and business all over our agricultural areas, they make it hard for farmers to survive so pretty soon there won't be any REAL food left to eat and we will all be living off of Cheez Whiz in a can and some sort of Pop-Tart crisps. It's going to happen. I'm not even making this shit up.

Now, don't think for a minute that I don't know there is at least one of you that is thinking, "at least you have insurance, look at the people in poor third world countries that don't have it...or even my uncle Joe, he can't get coverage." You know what? Fuck off. I'm not talking about that right now. What I'm talking about is the fucking quality of our insurance here in the mother trucking U-S of A. I am thankful I have it, but for the love of God, can we do some shit that makes sense? I'm living in a fucking country where women put on vagina costumes and have their head poking out of their clit and asking their children to carry obscene and vulgar signs and telling me to "Feel my Fucking Feelings!!!" Well, you got it girlfriend, I'm fucking feeling those feelings!!!! If women can march in vagina hats in an effort to lower their cable bill or whatever else is on their mind, I can be a voice about better insurance. I'm not wearing a costume, but I did spread my legs for a doctor to look up in there, so same difference.

But. I. Digress.

Anyway, I talk to Dr. Nature and she's talking to me about my girl stuff and thinks I'm low on progesterone. Oddly, she didn't mention anything about thinking I might be low on testosterone...I think I may have ample supply of that...and then we talked about my guts and what is going on there and the fact that my body is not absorbing the nutrients it should. Insert a lot of other information here, but bottom line, if my body isn't absorbing that stuff, no wonder I'm tired and my insides are a hot mess. She suggested I get a nutrient IV which basically by-passes my guts and all the plumbing that is currently not taking the time to pull anything good out of the food I eat. I ask her how much it costs since, clearly I have to be a cash customer since my fucking insurance is shit. It isn't too horrible, so I ask how long it takes. Mind you, my appointment was at 10am. I arrived at 9:45am. Dr. Nature finally took me into her office at 10:35am. I was wrapping up with her at 11:31am. She says it should take anywhere from 40 minutes to 90 minutes. I told her I had an appointment at 2pm in Stanwood, could I be done by then? She said yes, so I agreed.

I was parked in 90 minute parking out on the street, so I went and moved my truck, came back in and sat there and waited and waited. Finally, IV Chick comes and gets me at 12:30pm. She gets me in position and then says, so you have to be somewhere at 2pm? I answered that I did. She says that will not allow enough time. Well, this is problematic. I said I would call my nail girl and see if she could bump me out. I called and she couldn't, so I went back and told IV Chick, who now had Dr. Nature with her, that I couldn't stay. IV Chick gets all a-twitter because she has already mixed up my nutrient IV and so doesn't know what to do. Dr. Nature then proceeds to say, "Is getting your nails done really a priority right now? You came in about your health. I think your health is more important than your nails, and maybe if you get healthy, you won't have to get your nails done for a while. I mean, it's up to you, it's your decision, but I think your nail person would understand how important your health is and she would also want you to put your health first." Holy shit. I feel sorry for her kids, she is Guilt Level - Expert. I felt dirty and shallow for wanting my nails done. What a whore. I call nail girl back and let her know I have to cancel my appointment. I wasn't that upset about my nails, but that is how nail girl makes her living, that isn't cool to cancel on her last minute. So, now I had that guilt, but I also felt confident she would have someone fill that spot as it is a Friday and someone will want their nails done.

So, I'm laying on the table and it takes forever for IV Chick to get me all hooked up, in my hand no less, since my veins are safely residing in cellulite deep within the safety of my arms. She leaves me in a position that is not super comfy and I have to hold my arm just right so that the IV drips continuously. She left the room and said she would be back later to check on me. I laid there and watched the dripping of the IV for a while and then tried to close my eyes and relax. Pretty soon all the dripping of the IV and the ticking on the clock was making me have to pee. By now, it was a slow time in the office as I can only hear the receptionist up front. I stand up and I drag the IV stand to the doorway. I'm like, "helllooooo...." Nothing. So, I grab my IV stand and shuffle down the long hallway to the bathroom, all the while the IV stand making noise, squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak..."OUCH!" as I run into a cart in the hallway...squeak-squeak.... No one fucking hears me. I make it to the bathroom and take care of business and head back. I see IV Chick in one of the offices, but she doesn't see or hear me, apparently. I squeak on back to my room.

By now, my lower back is killing me and my elbow is, too. I try and turn on my side and that is when the biggest injustice of the day happened. I felt a pain directly under my right boob. That's right, my size B cup boob was so angry, it busted out of a size C cup bra. It took out the underwire and now it was stabbing me in my boob. No worries, I only have to lay here another fucking hour! I tried to remain calm and shove some of my shirt between my busted bra and my boob. As I lay there, I just felt so angry. My whole day off, ruined. The IV was going slower than expected. It was now 1:50pm. I started to get mad and then I started to cry. IV Chick comes in and says, "I know, it's a long process, but we'll get there..." I stared up at the ceiling, angry tears streaming down my face and said, "WHEN?? IN TWO OR THREE MORE HOURS??! I'm probably getting a parking ticket right now to add on to everything else I didn't plan for today." I think I may have startled her, but I'm not sure as I never looked at her. I just stared at the dripping IV. I was so angry. I wanted to channel my Dad and rip that bag off of there and rip the needle out of my hand and then call everyone a Mother Fucker and then tell them they could shove this whole son-of-a-bitch right up their ass. (To those of you that knew my Dad, you know he would have done just that.) But, I didn't. I sat there and lay in my self-pity and then anger at myself for not being thankful for this process that is supposed to help me...and the people in third world countries without insurance...or clean drinking water. Fuck that.

After what seemed like forever, IV Chick cautiously came into the room and told me it was just about over and together we watched the final drip into the tube and then the final liquid going through the IV line into my hand. "All done!" she said. It was now 2:50pm. She then says, "I bet you're hungry and I always get even more hungry after I have one of these." I said, "Well, I haven't eaten anything yet today because I didn't plan on the hostage crisis happening." Oh, and I'm so glad the treatment makes a person hungry. That's fucking fantastic.

I head up front and tell the receptionist, "The hostage situation has ended, I'd like to leave, please." My doctor was long gone and no one really knew what to do with me, but they did remember seeing me at 10am. They finally got the bill together, I paid it and left.

On the way home I thought I should probably stop at Kohl's and get a new bra and as luck would have it, there is a Carl's Jr. there in the parking lot, so I could get something to eat. I don't really like Carl's Jr., but at this point it was either that or Taco Bell, also in the parking lot. I didn't want to shit out all the nutrients just put in, so I chose Carl's. I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke, got my food an then drove over into Kohl's parking lot to eat my burger and calm the fuck down. I take my first bite and the burger tastes gross. Then, I take a swig of the Coke and I don't know what the fuck it really is, but it isn't Coca-Cola, it isn't Coke, I don't even know if it was Diet Coke. I'm pretty sure it was some sort of cleaning fluid that the cook took a piss in, then spit some Copenhagen in there and added ice. Today just isn't my day. Look, I know the burger and Coke were a bad idea. I get it, but for the love of unicorns and all that is magical in this fucking world, I just wanted a mother-trucking moment of something good. Fuck. This. Place.

I did manage to find a bra that won't fit very well, but that will keep my boobs from looking like moobs. I have zero expectations for this bra or the bra experience. It will suck like all the others before it. When expectations=standards, that's where the calm lives. I headed home and immediately removed the broken bra and now, as I sit here blogging, they have morphed into blob status and are hanging out partly in my armpits and partly comforting my belly with a boob hug.

So, where do we go from here? I sure as fuck don't know, but I will do the testing that the girlie doctor has recommended and check things off the list. If it all turns out to be nothing, which honestly, is a best case scenario, then I think it will be time to look into witchcraft, becoming a Wicken, or start going to psychics for future guidance and health advice. I just need my body to stop being a bitch. Because, fuck her.