Fuck You, Sun

The cold, soft pillow cradles my weary head. Egyptian cotton comforts my body whilst I dream of a strong brute.

Fuck you, sun.

The smell of high quality detergent invigorates my senses and I picture myself frolicking in fields of gold. Butterflies surround me as I chase fairies.

Fuck you, sun.

In this field there are no alarm clocks, no work days, and no bills. Time stands still while I bask under the bright blue sun.

Fuck you, sun.

Birds chirp and I smile; winter has passed. But the field I'm in has never seen an ounce of frost, let alone a drop of snow.

Fuck you, sun.

I roll over and smile: now I hear that strong brute making me coffee and breakfast. French toast topped with bananas and whipped cream, and Italian roast coffee.

Fuck you, sun.

The sound of him humming seems to harmonize with the bluebirds outside. Good Morning America is on in the living room, and I smile knowing my dog is watching.

Fuck you, sun.

Plates clank against each other as he pulls them out of the cupboard; silverware jingles.
As the last drop of coffee perculates I open my eyes.

Fuck you, sun.

My dog is at the foot of the bed whimpering to go outside; my cat drank out of my water glass and is howling for food; and the auto start function on my coffee maker is broken.

Fuck you, sun.

After I groggily fill a bowl with cat food I start the coffee, throw on a pair of shoes and leash up my dog. His big brown eyes and goofy grin normally make me smile, but not today.

Fuck you, sun.

He takes his time finding a spot to do his business; only a few other neighbors are also outside. They're staring at my pyjamas.

Fuck you, sun.

The day is just starting, but no sun yet. Porch lights remain on, which I appreciate while cleaning up after my dog.

Fuck you, sun.

I stub my toe on the door upon entering; my cat chases the dog under the bed; and coffee is overflowing from the pot. In my sleepy fog I put too much water in.

Fuck you, sun.

My dog finally emerges, but only to lick up the coffee; I appreciate his help. I pour a cup over a pile of dirty dishes since this carafe leaks.

Fuck you, sun.

My toe throbs as I make my way over to the window. I pull the shade up and see a neighborhood dog urinating in my flowers.

Fuck you, sun.

While clutching my cheap coffee I scoop out some food for my dog; he quickly laps it up. My cat plays with her tail and I take a seat at the table.

Fuck you, sun.

The next few moments are to be savored, for they will be all I have today. As I sip the last of my coffee I look out the window and prepare myself for the large yellow globe in the sky.

Fuck you, sun.

It rises slowly behind the mountains, as if to tease me. Eventually it presents itself to me in all of it's glory; I instinctively shield my eyes.

Fuck you, sun.

I pull my hands back to face this demon that forces me out of bed every day. Finally, we meet.

"Fuck you, sun."

Pregnant Men

Imagine a world where men became pregnant, but in this world that was the only role that was reversed. Women would still be 'women,' as in 'God' created us from the womb of a man. We would still be persecuted as the inferior sex and look the same. Men would still be 'men,' and traditional families would still revere them as the bread winner.

In this world men would also ovulate, and with ovulation comes medical problems: ovarian and endometrial cancer; premenstrual dysphoric disorder; cysts; fibroids; blood loss; cramps; and tumors. For years they suffered from these conditions until finally a pill came along that helped. However the original purpose of that pill was to prevent unwanted pregnancies. Shortly after evolving into a homosapien man realized they didn't have to spend most of their lives being pregnant. Such a pill would allow them to choose when and if they became pregnant.

It was called Viagra.

Over the years women (and some ignorant men) fought to abolish the pill saying it was unnatural; these people didn't believe in evolution. They still believed man was formed in the eyes of a higher being, ignoring all scientific evidence that proved otherwise and that pregnancy wasn't a choice but an obligation. But man discovered this pill helped fight cancer and mood swings, the formation of cysts and fibroids; even tumors. Soon it was readily available under all healthcare plans.

Obviously such a world doesn't exist, but I encourage those of you against the pill being covered to consider it. Just for a moment. There are men who support women having birth control access and I thank you; I'll never get in the way of your Viagra.

Constipation

Constipation. It happens to the best of us, even if you follow a high fiber diet. Cereal that resembles twigs, oats, leafy greens; anything to keep things moving. I'm a fan of those Fiber One granola bars, but I don't recommend eating an entire box in one sitting. Unless you're very backed up, in which case make sure you're near a toilet. In fact, just eat them in the bath room while sitting on porcelain. Or maybe you have a gold toilet.

Lucky bastard.

But sometimes you need even more reinforcement to clear out that sheet pizza from the night before. Although if you've eaten anything by Fiber One and still have a problem, I suggest you seek medical attention. Like now.

Beer and chicken wings, beer and tacos, beer and ice cream; those combinations are fairly laxative, although I don't trust anyone who pairs beer with ice cream. In general beer will do the trick.

Even if all of the above fails, fear not: just watch 'The Woman In Black.' If you have a fear of picking up bed bugs at the theater then just read the book, although it came out in 1983. So by the time Amazon mails it to you because it's probably not in e-format yet, well, it might be too late.

I had no idea what the movie was really about before it started, but knew I'd spend the next year afraid of some woman in black. There's something to be said about not filling a horror movie with so much gore the viewer wonders if it's a spaghetti cook-off. Scary isn't slicing up body parts; that only forces more people into vegetarianism. It's making people sit on the edge of their seats while waiting for a woman in black to appear out of no where, then scream like she stepped on a scale after the holidays. It's seeing an old nursery filled with creepy dolls and clowns, and a rocker that rocks itself. It's looking out a window and seeing someone, even though you're alone on an island.

It's also seeing me first thing in the morning before make up.

I have no idea why the general rating for this movie is only 3.5 stars; I'm not an official movie critic, but this is up there with one of the best thrillers I've ever seen. Plus Daniel Radcliffe is all grown up and looking dapper, although that makes me feel like a cougar. Roar.

I won't say anymore because spoilers piss me off, although I'm sure you can Google the ending. Even detailing the general story line gives away too much. Just go without any real knowledge of why some woman keeps showing up wearing black.

So if you like thrillers, see this movie; if you like 19th century stories, see this movie; and if you can't, you know, then see this movie. But wear a diaper.

It's OK To Grow Up

Rainbow Brite, Hello Kitty, Strawberry Shortcake, and She-Ra pretty much define my childhood. Dolls of them used to line my blue bed room that had a unicorn wallpaper trim. There was also my porcelain doll collection, handed down to me by my grandmother.

Dolls creep me out.

Yet as a child they were fun to own. I had dozens of Barbies as well, but cut off their hair upon learning I'd never look like her. Fear not, for I have since addressed my anger issues.

I believe all adults long for the simplicity of childhood. No bills to pay, someone to cook for you, summers spent at the ice cream shop and pool. Looking back I had it pretty easy, yet I was anxious to grow up. The day I turned 18 was one of the happiest dats of my life. Finally, I was an adult.

A local radio station hosts an annual 'adult' slumber party for women. Hotel rooms are rented out, there's dancing, food and drink; even vendors to visit. For about $200 you can feel as carefree as a girl playing with a Barbie.

For a brief moment I contemplated on going, but I started to rethink the value of a dollar. $200 can get you many things: it's about the cost of a car sensor with labor; it's half of my six month car insurance premium; it's about two months worth of gas; and I could have my car professionally cleaned for that amount.

Cars aren't cheap.

Still, it's important to enjoy life and have fun. But as an adult 'fun' isn't dancing in my pyjamas with women I don't know, nor is it staying in a hotel room less than ten minutes from my home. I don't want to dance with strangers in my sleeping garments, but I would like to dance the Macarena in the middle of Target.

Sexy Beasts

Perhaps the day will never come when us women aren't judged on our looks. Maybe society will forever be judgmental of hips that can't (and shouldn't) fit into a size -5 pants, of thighs that have seen a cookie or two, and of a waist that enjoys the occasional slice of pizza. Our talents will go unnoticed unless we fit into a certain mold created by a beauty-obsessed world, which isn't to say I don't buy into beauty: I have enough eyeliners, tubes of mascara and lipstick to cover the Victoria's Secret annual runway show. But you'll never see me in it, seeing as how at my thinnest I'm a size 12. Which by the way is not fat let alone a plus size. I'm well aware that many don't see my long lashes but rather my large backside, that they overlook my highlighted cheekbones and focus on my thighs, and assume my sarcastic sense of humor is an attempt to hide insecurities.

They couldn't be more wrong.

Intelligent, overweight, ugly men live in a world that doesn't judge them nearly as much as women. I have never sought to play the victim, nor do I feel victimized. However the evidence speaks for itself.

Groups like LMFAO, that consist of men that are anything but attractive, can sing about being 'sexy' and people buy into it. It's not just an annoying song that makes me want to rip the stereo out of my car and yank my brain out with tweezers, it's how accepting we are of men no matter what they do or how they act. Of men that look like beasts with hair frizzier than mine on the most humid day of the year, singing along to them boasting about their 'sexiness.'

I can see where some would think, 'Relax. It's just a song.' Yet I can't see those people bobbing their heads to the same type of ego-boosting song by Adele or any other woman who refuses to slim down. Of course I highly doubt such a talented singer would ever stoop to that level of 'music.'

When Britney Spears did her comeback performance people called her fat; for every positive remark about Adele there are five commenting on her size; Christina Aguilera has embraced a larger frame, much to the critique of America; and people can't seem to stop pointing out that Kelly Clarkson isn't skinny.

Maybe LMFAO is trying to be hideous in those spandex suits and awful sunglasses. If that's the case, job well done. For all I know they could be fully aware of their ugliness. But something tells me they're just another group of guys boasting about all of the ladies they have, thanks to fame of course. Which makes me question the sanity of those females.

LMFAO can keep their 'sexy' song and society can continue to support it, all the while calling talented women 'fat.' Real artists don't name themselves after acronyms and have staying power.

There's a good chance I have anger issues that should be addressed.

A Garden of Stone

After the third 'friend' didn't answer I hung up, grabbed my keys and left. No sense in wasting one of our few sunny days inside, even if it means being alone outside.

Instinctively I headed to a community garden, filled with dozens of brightly colored flowers and benches made for sitting. A book by Mary Higgins Clark was tucked inside of my purse, right next to a phone that hardly rings.

As usual the garden was empty. It's set back from the road and I doubt many even pay attention to the beautiful greenery.

I went to my usual spot, a stone bench that sits across from Bleeding Hearts. It's a plant that grows heart-shaped flowers, which is to be assumed given the name. Bright pink petals dangled from branches, and suspending from them were white petals with a touch if purple. The sheer beauty of this flower would prompt anyone to pick it, but I always admire from a distance. To even brush a bare hand against this toxic flower is dangerous, let alone taste it. Whether you break out in hives or become deathly ill, it's best to step back.

The stone isn't the most comfortable seating, but in an outdoor setting it's the most practical. Even waterproof cushions eventually ware; stone can weather any storm indefinitely.

The sun hit the petals at just the right angle, and as I followed them down I forgot about my book. The flowers hung over a metal fence, their shadows staining the pavement below. I was tempted to break them off, concerned a young child might expose themselves to toxins. But I must protect myself first.

Pink is my favorite color, even though i look best in red. It reminds me that although I age chronologically I'll always have the heart of a child. There are more pink shirts in my closet than any other color; although my kitchen is a fruit salad of colors pink appears the most; and I count down to spring just so I can wear pink nail polish. My bed room was once painted 'cotton candy,' a shade a friend once called 'nauseas Pepto Bismol pink.'

Her and I no longer speak.

As the sun set I got ready to leave, and my stomach alerted me it was time to eat. I reached for my cell but quickly stopped, realizing there was no one to dine with.

Life is full of broken hearts, and it seems the older we get the more we're alone. Friends grow apart, settle into their own lives and eventually cease contact.

Over the years I've had moral support through every break-up, lay off, weight gain, and financial crisis a girl can experience. The end of every relationship strengthened my independence; losing a job forced me to reevaluate my life; gaining weight prompted me to address my emotional issues; and incurring debt taught me how to manage money. Throughout everything my friends were my rock, my stone to lean on. As I cried they tended an unseen bleeding heart.

Now my heart bleeds for lost friendships.

Friends worth keeping can see your bleeding heart from thousands of miles away, providing an emotional bench as support. Those not worth keeping can talk to you on a regular basis, unaware of your pain.

Before leaving the garden I said a prayer: that everyone takes the time to reconnect with friends and family, and to appreciate the simplicity of nature. Because after we turn off our computers, televisions, and cell phones it's all we have.

Credibility

Unlike most people who have a set schedule, I go through 'early bird' and 'night owl' phases. Several weeks can go by where I'm up by six am, clutching coffee tighter than a crazed Black Friday shopper and their purse. One late night shopping trip throws everything off course, and suddenly I'm yelling obscenities at the sun.

At ten am.

It's when I'm in a 'night owl' phase that my bitchiness makes an appearance, namely because all of a sudden I'm rushing to get things done. There's something very peaceful about taking an hour or two to wake up, get a caffeine fix and start your day.

Today was not that kind of day.

Up at 8:30 and somehow at my mechanic by 9, of course clutching a large coffee to go. Their television had Kelly and 'some guest host until we can replace Regis,' but I was in no mood for her annoying laugh. Somehow I was able to focus on my book.

An hour later I looked up and saw 'The Doctors,' a medical talk show with physicians that look like models. I remembered watching it a while ago during that swine flu epidemic, so i decided to watch. Maybe learn a thing or two.

Today's topic: performing a booty ultrasound to see if a famous behind was real or fake.

I watched in disgust as a plastic surgeon tested the woman-on national television-for butt implants. Yes, her bottom is large. At my thinnest mine was huge and I was no stranger to the term 'bubble butt.' It happens. Contrary to what society will have you think, some people just have a big ass.

And good for this woman for being proud of it.

I certainly can't judge her for having the test done to prove everyone wrong, but once again I'm disgusted at how we view women. The doctors went on to comment about tanning lotion dripping down Christina Aguilera's legs during a performance, and of course they commented on her size. If memory serves me correctly, she had a baby and went through a divorce. Enjoy those Oreos, Christina.

While cashing out I caught a glimpse of some man with sweaty pits, and a doctor did have seemingly good advice. But just as I was leaving they showed a female doctor slowly climbing into some bath while that man soaked in it, apparently in some brine to help with his sweat glands. The doctor who had dispensed the good advice offered the soaking man $20 to pull the female doctor in.

I immediately left.

As a closeted fan of Jersey Shore I can't really judge, but of course I don't tune in expecting medical advice from Snooki. It's normal to want to indulge in some bad behavior, but there's a time and place for everything. I don't want to hear doctors bitch about a singers legs at 10am, but I kind of like hearing Snooki complain she's too wasted to walk at 10pm. Makes my life seem a hell of a lot better.

It comes down to credibility. One cannot truly respect a doctor who-instead of discussing what supplements you should take-gives their opinion on how thick legs appear in a skirt. As someone who has thick legs, allow me to speak on behalf of the full-figure population: we get it. So why not spend the show discussing real medical problems? Dr. Oz seems to be doing fairly well on his show without making women feel like cattle.

Leave the trash talk for late night shows, doctors. If I tune into yours I want to learn something, not feel like society is judging me because certain areas jiggle. I know they are and that's fine. Discuss real issues like depression and alcoholism, not the percentage of fat in someone's ass.

If it jiggles, it's real.