Currently Chasing: A Boob Job

I used to be obsessed with a Tummy Tuck. I would talk about it, research it, look at before and after pictures and talk to people who had the procedure done. I wanted to know everything. I even went to a doctor and had him look me up and down and tell me what he could do for me.

But then one day while I was talking about it with a friend of mine, my daughter overheard. She said, mom, what is wrong with your stomach? How come you don’t like it? I told her there were lines on it called stretch marks and I didn’t like them. She asked me how they got there…I told her I got them from having her inside me. She thought about it for a minute and then said, so you don’t like the lines that I gave you?

The shear fact that she turned these hideous stretch marks into evidence of one of my greatest accomplishments floored me. But the look on her face was priceless. She was concerned that I wanted to ‘erase’ what she worked for nine months to give me. So I stopped thinking so much about the Tummy Tuck and eventually it was out of my mind.

The other day someone took a picture of me … and for once I wasn’t complaining that I looked fat. I wasn’t getting pissed at myself for not sucking in well enough. I wasn’t hitting delete a hundred times and cropping like a crazy person to just keep the focus on the cute face…I was actually ‘dare I say’ happy with the photo. Except for one thing.  My BOOBS!

It seems like with a little weight loss comes the reality that not all of it is weight you WANT to lose. Some of it is weight you’d like to keep … But you don’t get to pick and choose where you lose, and unfortunately my chest has suffered a loss.  

This was just a year ago! There it was, in all its GLORY -  My cleavage!

I can also blame some of it on the sports bras. It’s really all I wear out here so my poor girls are smashed often and always. There was a time when I was younger when I had healthy, huge boobs. I never locked em up. In fact, I jumped on a trampoline once for a few hours without the proper support and broke all the blood vessels in my chest. I had to wrap those puppies in ace bandages and soak them in ice. I had some crazy 20 hook bra that I had to wear just to keep those things in place.  Now I think I could jump hours without fear that the two would ever meet.

Meanwhile my roommate is running around with a full rack. Every time I turn around she is reminding me that she needs to put on two sports bras due to her voluptuous womanhood.  She’ll look at a picture of herself and say things like “Oh my God…my boobs look huge.” I’ve got news, they don’t just look huge…they’ve got a damn zip code.

So lately I’ve been thinking..what if I just ‘enhanced’ a bit? Would it be so bad? A friend of mine said … well, think about it. Once they are fake, they are just that…fake. But so are my highlights…and my lips aren’t really paradise pink…and I wasn’t born with sparkle eye shadow on my eyes. And last time I checked…nails weren’t actually made out of acrylic. And oh yeah..i’m not really this tall…It’s the shoes. So much of what we do already is … fake.

I’m not saying I want double Ds. I would be happy with single Cs. I’m only asking for what I’ve already had. And it may ‘naturally’ offset my ass a bit and cause a little more proportion…

So I’m pretty sure I want a boob job. That is unless my daughter decides to make me feel bad about changing her infant sippy cups. Come on kid, something’s gotta give.

Currently Chasing: The ability to not give a shit

I'm dating someone. But not really. I only actually find out we are dating when I've done something to piss him off and he tells me we are done dating. Or he will tell me he's my boyfriend...but only after he has decided to break up with me. Example:

Hey, why are you talking to that other guy?

Um, because we are friends.

Well, tell him you have a boyfriend.

Um, are you my boyfriend?

Well I was until you started talking to that guy. Now I'm not.

Of course you're not. And why did I think I would even have the right to be privy to that information?

We fight. He says rude things. He says no things. He says things that don't relate to the other things. And then he'll decide to throw in an I love you just to really fuck me up. But again, he will only say I love you as he is writing me out of his life.  Example:

Me: So, how do you feel about me?

Him: You know when you put me on the spot to answer that question you never get the answer you want.

Me: So you are going to say you don't like me, even if you really love me, because you feel like there is a spot you're on and now you are under obligation to be an asshole?

Him: You already know I love you, but you've left me no choice but to end this. Please delete me from your phone and your life.

Me: So you're saying you love me?

Him: Yes. I love you. Goodbye forever.

It makes my head hurt and I'm wondering why I'm keeping myself awake giving a shit? If he is having a bad day I will get a text or email a mile long telling me all of the horrible things that happened...in excruciating detail. If I try to comment or give advice, it's not welcome ... and if I say nothing at all, then he'll ask if I want him to just shut up because obviously I'm not listening.

If I ask him to look at something I've done, he will immidiately begin to critique it and tell me how I can do it better...or what he would have done, or what I should work on doing next time. Example:

Hey did you get that newsletter I sent to you? It looks pretty good right?

Yeah, I got it. Your story on page 13 was hard to understand. Your conclusion was trite. Did you mean to make the cover so hard to read? The pictures could have been more organized. Were you in a hurry?

So, you didn't like it?

I liked it just fine as a rushed through version of what I know you're capable of. Send me the next one so I can be sure you're improving.

Yep, I'll do that and then I'll burn out my eye with a cigerette.

So the burning question of course is...why am I keeping myself awake wondering why I give a shit. Well, it's an easy answer. I'm a moth to a flame...only it's not just a flame, it's a gosh damn full on California wildfire.

*Note...being in Afghanistan, with the network the way it is, I am unable to comment on my own blog. But I'm reading all of the comments and maybe it's best that I can't say shit. But to Caramel, who commented below...yes. nail on head.

Currently Chasing: Pleasure not pain, part II

I mean, of course I wrote him back right? I couldn’t not write back. He had tried to make some valid points and I owed it to him to make some of my own. It also just so happens that I’ve been seeing a guy for the past five years who is pretty sure he’s his own main course, so I’m already currently being ‘pushed around the plate’ and can’t really take much more. So I sent him an email.
Me: Wow...! If I wasn't already busy being someone else's side dish, then you know … this might be right up my alley. Because as you mentioned...I have a love hate relationship with relationships.

But the truth is, you, I, us, none of that will be significant after the next two months so it’s all just unnecessary drama.
The photographer wrote back right away: I assure you I remain significant long after the fact :D

Me: ...these kinds of relationships...the kind that start with me knowing they will end...really torture and tear at my self esteem. Why would you want to take part in that? Spend the time you are spending to woo me, on making your wife feel special and maybe you won't have to watch as your marriage falls apart...

The photographer: I certainly don't want to be party to damaging your self-esteem, and you are, of course, right about the misdirection of my wooing skills.

Any chance you're free this evening? I figure I can be a bit more talkative now that you've bruised my ego and have put me in my place.

Me: Yeah...but just to crush your ego a bit more...I'm in love with like seven people already.

The photographer: Yeah, but with me it would be different. JUST LET ME ENJOY THE DELUSION!

Me: You need to learn a phrase. It's one I learned while ago.
"He's not different, you’re not special."

The photographer: Ok, now you’re just making me sad.

Truth is I didn’t want to make him feel unhappy. I just was tired of being the reason behind my own unhappiness. Like I told my friend K the other day, my life is a nightmare and it’s all my fault. It seems like everyone is just afraid to be alone…even for a few moments. I haven’t had time to feel alone here. I’m constantly surrounded by people, and friends back home are sending letters and emails and packages full of love. I don’t have anyone right now that I can call my own, but it doesn’t mean I’m alone. Maybe there is someone out there for me. Or maybe I’ll be the one continuing to grasp at straws.

Currently Chasing: Pleasure, not pain

I don’t even know where to start this blog, which is always the case when something totally ridiculous happens.
So I’m in Afghanistan and I run into a fellow photographer and we are photographing the same event. I ask him for his card so I can be sure to get his photographs…because he may have caught some moments I didn’t catch, and …his camera is bigger. Not that size matters. Just saying.
So he gives me his card and he’s off. He contacts me a couple days later and sends me all of the photos he took. There are some of me just standing there and a couple of me shooting pictures. I notice that I’m in PT gear…and I begin to wonder…how did he know my name? How did he know where to send these photos? Why did he take so many pictures of me, and why was he being so proactive and sending photos before I had time to write and ask for them. All of it together caught me very off guard.
Long story short, it turns out he did know me … I played a small part in instructing him in the art of journalism, and …wait for it…he reads my blog. Then he does something I clearly expected. He hits on me. So I do what girls normally do in that in that situation. Went to stalk him on facebook.
I wasn’t a friend of his, so I requested him as a friend and then started to look at pictures that weren’t locked. In most of the pictures I couldn’t see past one thing … a wedding ring. While I was looking through his facebook profile photos he must have seen the friend request pop up in his email because he immediately sent me an email that said, no-no…that’s cheating. He suggested we get to know each other the old fashioned way, and I agreed, but not before asking the question…”are you married?”
Of course he was/is. He assured me his wife and him were distant and not very happy, which made me jump for joy and want to bed him immediately. Um, not. So I wrote him back:
Me: “So you read my blog and you know how I feel about this sort of thing, and you would still bother to hit on me? And also, why did you take these pictures of me in uniform? I look fat and awful.”
The photographer: “Well, I just have a propensity for pretty girls, which I guess gets me in trouble…I’m grasping at straws.”
Me: “So you’re saying I’m thin enough to be a straw?”
My point is I couldn’t believe this was happening … again.
So the next day I come into the office to find this email:
Subject line: And this is how I spent the last hour
Email content: “=A brief philosophical treatise on why you and I should enjoy the next two months, guilt free=

As I get older, I find myself growing a more and more epicurean appetite. This is undoubtedly the result of a combination of life’s events, not the least of which is having spent three of the last five years in the dirt, frequently coming to very close terms with human mortality. In a single phrase, my desires could be stated thusly: seek pleasure; avoid pain. While the former is certainly an easier achievement than the latter, it often simply boils down to expectation management.

I am at least moderately familiar with your written works, and I know you have an aversion toward – yet somehow a proclivity for – being a side dish. While I have little doubt you would make a thoroughly enjoyable nine-course meal (and that’s not a remark), circumstance often narrows our course, and like it or not, we are treading along the edge of the appetizer bar. (And now I’m super hungry. Awesome.)

There is a significant distinction between forwardness and honesty; while I am almost always forward, my track record with honesty is less than unblemished. This is what lead to the end of my first marriage, and seems quite likely to end my second.

As you noted, I do plan to return to my home upon leaving Afghanistan. I already know I have a shiny, new basement bedroom waiting for me. I am hopeful, as always, but not entirely optimistic. I, for one, would hate to head home and watch the marriage finally disintegrate knowing I had missed out on the opportunity to experience a little something with you while I was here. Self-destructive thought process for sure, but a process nonetheless -- my process.

Again, in the name of expectation management, there can be something quite enjoyable about a fleeting romance and in taking advantage of each day as it passes – it allows us the rare opportunity to read the expiration date on a relationship. Perhaps not a great thing, but it allows us to make decisions with our eyes open and to enjoy a dozen or so devil-may-care weeks.

So that’s about it. I would like to spend some time with you and enjoy your company. I think we are similar enough in spirit and passion to have some really enjoyable times together, even if only for a brief moment. But I make no promise nor have any expectation beyond that. I won’t promise you the world. I won’t propose and then send you a ‘never mind’ text message. I’m not looking to fall in love and run away to Paris -- il ya trop beaucoup de fromage dans cette ville, anyhow. The only thing I would promise is to spend the next nine weeks doing my best to make you smile – and occasionally laugh. I think it’s a decent promise, and it’s certainly honest.

In closing, this is the first time I have attempted to win a girl over through gratuitous use of logic and literary prowess. So in a sense, you’re my first. And they say you always remember your first.”


I was impressed with his writing skills. Even the $10 words were well used. And I will say this…the line “Seek Pleasure, Avoid Pain” really made sense to me. But what did he think the ultimate demise of a relationship with a married man would bring me? Awesomeness? Epicness? A feeling of being whole and complete? No. It would bring MOTHER FUCKING PAIN. Duh?
I should have just deleted the email, but I couldn’t. Instead, I wrote back.
To be contined…

Currently Chasing: An Answer to Why I Suck

There’s something I don’t understand about women. It’s something I don’t even understand about myself. It’s fucking ridiculous actually. Why do we put up with stupid shit and settle for men who make us want to shoot ourselves in the face?

And guess what else we do.  After said love of our life shits all over us, we talk a bunch of shit about him to our friends. I do this all the time. I fucking do this in my blog. I talk/write a bunch of shit about how retarded and douchie he is. I tell the world that I can’t stand him and that I will not put up with what he has done.

Meanwhile I’m fucking texting him asking if we can get back together, or if I can come over and pick up a couple things I left there, or if I can just suck his dick while he plays call of duty. Whatever. Just please let me be in your presence!

And simultaneously all of my friends are applauding me because of how well I’m handling everything. They are high fiving me and telling me that I’m a strong independent woman and I don’t need that asshole bringing me down. And I’m right there saying, you are so fucking right! Fuck this guy. I don’t need him. He was such a waste of my life. I DESERVE BETTER.

Meanwhile I’m still stalking him on facebook and wondering if he’s going to unfriend me and messaging every girl who comments on his status to let her know what a dillhole he is and that she shouldn’t get involved with him because he’s only going to destroy her heart, her trust, and her reason for living. “Run for your life Girl!” I’ll scream.

But simultaneously I’m asking said guy to come over and talk because I just really think we can work it out. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH US.

Case in point:

I want to lose about 20 pounds. So I say to this really sweet guy I like once I reach my goal weight of 145 I’ll be happy. So about seven minutes into the conversation he says, you know at 115 you would look emaciated.

“yeah, that’s why I don’t want to be 115. I want to be 145.”

Then he said, “At 120, your face would still be sunk in.”

“Um, yeah, what is your point? I don’t want to be 120.”

Then he says: "You know at 125 or 130, with your frame, you would be really lean with a tiny waist. And your ass would be perfectly round and tight."

To which I respond, “ …………..shock…………..awe………….”

You’ve got to fucking be kidding me? I just told him I wanted to be 145, which admittedly is thinner than I’ve EVER been in my whole adult life…and he suggests I lose an additional 15 pounds?

FUCK YOU.

So I tell my friend about it. She agrees with me that this guy is a bag of assholes.

So the next day when he sent a text telling me I took his statement wrong and that he didn’t mean it, I should have told him to shove it up shitter, but instead I wrote back some flirty bullshit and brought women back 20 years in the process. Why am I always forcing women to (D)E volve?  

I’ve done this in the past as well. You spend so much time convincing all of your friends that some guy is a total waste of your time and that he should die…and then you bring him to your fucking block party and expect everyone to just forget that they spent four hours holding your hand and comforting you while you blew snot rockets and cried trailers of tears the night before.

Men are not that strong ladies … the weakness is in us!

But guess what? We are good enough, pretty enough and smart enough to actually move on! And these guys who treat us like we are replaceable just need to become background noise. Now excuse me while I hit the gym, I’ve got 35 pounds to lose. Then he’ll love me.