Category Archives: Fashionably Unreasonable

Sundays in December just got dipped in glitter

Well, it took a few months but I found it. I was afraid it fell out along with my placenta; discarded with all the other afterbirths, appendixes, rotten limbs and other bloodied remnants from the floor of the hospital. Or maybe it fell into one of the hundreds (thousands?) of diapers I have wadded into tight neat balls and tossed into the overflowing diaper abyss otherwise known as a landfill. Did it get washed too many times left faded and smelling faintly of Dreft and puke? No, I just misplaced it for a bit. Fuck, give me a break I was figuring out how to be a Mother. Which I am really fucking good at by the way. And the very thing I had laid aside for a while I happened to come upon at a most unusual time, December. Yes, motherfucking shithead of a month, December. I loathe you, I despise you, I dread you like a whore dreads a herpes outbreak. Here it was and I greeted it with two middle fingers and it said “Fuck you too bitch, now go make some goddamn Christmas cards and bake some cookies.” I obliged with spray paint, glitter and sugar sprinkles. Thank you December. The paint, scissors and glue have not been put away for over a week and I have made some very interesting cards this year.

My self, it’s still here, intact and stronger than ever.

shiny?

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Filed under Fashionably Unreasonable, I am a Mother, Something that happened

Dressing room melt down

Dressing rooms have always been a place of misery and torment for me and often the beginning of yet another period of tortuous self-destruction. I don’t know how many times I have left a dressing room with mascara smeared across my reddened face and headed home in a silent rage, shaking and choking back sobs. A bottle of vodka helped wash away the shame, followed either by days of starvation or endless binge and purge sessions. Starvation felt too rewarding, light-headed and calm, my mind able to focus too clearly on the problems at hand; my fat ass, my huge thighs, my cheesy blue skin that glared at me almost fluorescently under the dressing room lighting. Bulimia felt more appropriately like punishment, my stomach uncomfortably distended with undesirable food cooked hastily, consumed furiously without tasting, no enjoyment what so ever. Because that isn’t the point and I certainly do not deserve to enjoy anything. Violently purging again and again, swallowing water from the bathroom sink only to purge again, making sure everything came out clear or at least red tinged, a little blood just means you are doing it right. As I sat huddled in the bathroom, heart skipping beats, lungs and esophagus burning with bile dripping from my nose, I stared at my bloodied knuckles and I knew that I deserved this.

For years, I have made a point of avoiding dressing rooms which was usually easy seeing as how I mostly shop at thrift stores that do not have dressing rooms. “Eyeballing” measurements have led to a closet full of clothes that don’t fit quite as expected and many trips to resale shops, trash bag over the shoulder disappointment and a five dollar store credit slip.

This thrift store vintage polyester clad closet of mine hasn’t been too generous with maternity wear but I thought I was making the best of the temporary situation with what I had. Well, boy was I fucking wrong. I was made very aware that I had worn out my welcome with two dresses that still fit quite well, especially paired with my fave Sam Kinison coat. Apparently I had crossed into crazy territory simply by wearing the same outfit one too many times and by donning a wool coat on an 80 degree day. Comments like, “You know you actually don’t look pregnant in that outfit, you kind of just looked like you put on weight” and “That coat on a thin girl says, ‘Downtown chic’ but on a fat girl it says, ‘I have 13 cats”, finally convinced me to go shopping for actual maternity clothes, the kind with stretchy stomach panels that go up to your tits and a little extra room in the hips.

I hesitantly walked into the maternity store at the mall and was greeted by a chirpy young girl and I immediately wanted to turn away and run but considering the fact that my red leather pumps had created a substantial blister on my heel I was actually yearning for the relief of a sitting down in a quiet dressing room. I quickly grabbed up a few options; a black skirt, black capri pants, bootcut stretchy jeans and a pair of skinny (fucking hilarious) jeans, all with said tit approaching stretchy panel. I wobbled back to the row of torture chambers, closing the door behind me with a sigh or maybe it was a grunt. I sat down, drank a bottle of water and attempted to prepare myself for this momentous event. Stalling, I applied lip gloss and checked my text messages. Before I had even begun the task at hand the chirpy young girl was asking me how I was doing. I replied cordially and sat a little longer, contemplating the “eyeball” method and just buying the clothes and going home. “Eyeballing” may have worked half of the time in the past but seeing as how I haven’t really given too much actual mirror time to this new body of mine I knew I had to do it. I had to strip naked in this tiny room under this awful disfiguring lighting that I swear only exists in dressing rooms. I remove my well-worn polyester dress with ease and as I bend over to remove my heels I am confronted with reality. I am plastered across the mirror covered wall like a billboard advertisement for albino dairy cows in drag (yet another wonderful premise for a children’s book).

Motherfucker, shit, oh my fucking god, this has to be a fucking joke, you fat fucking bitch whore. Okay, calm down you red-faced sweaty bitch. Don’t you start crying, not this time. You are a grown ass woman and you are fucking pregnant which is why you are in a fucking maternity store and buying fucking maternity clothes.

Calm down, breathe. Okay, skirt, not too terribly bad. Next, black capris, hmmm….the stretchy tummy to tit panel is kind of comfortable. Boot cut jeans, terrible. Skinny Jeans, don’t even make it off the hanger. Done. Quickly slip into my cool polyester dress noticing the holes under the arms and barely there stitches in the hems threatening complete detachment at any moment. I pull on my Kinison coat, careful not to further rip the lining as I slide my arms into the sleeves. I take my raggedy ass self up to the register and pay for my new clothes as the chirpy girl fills my bag with diaper coupons and nipple cream samples. I leave the store with a renewed sense of “I am pregnant motherfuckers” empowerment and “I am a fat fucking cow” self-hatred. That old bitch self-hatred is never too far away, she hides out for a bit, biding her time, especially in dressing rooms. She is like a yeasty mold and the dressing room is a moist fold of skin in the middle of summer. The stench is pretty much the same and the lingering itch an embarrassing reminder of your awful fucking human self.

Finally at home I take a hot bath to wash away the grime of public transportation and street traffic but more importantly to soak my bloody blistered feet. I’m still not giving up on my heels no matter how painful it may be. I reflect on my day, my mirrored image, my pasty white ass and thick thighs.

I want to drink, I want to be empty, I want to hurt and get lost in the numbness that proceeds the purge.

These thoughts come as instantly and easily as ever before, flashing red lights and sirens of demands. In the past I conceded quickly and without much of a struggle, giving in with arms outstretched in search of comfort and relief. Now, I have a choice, a choice I never knew was there. I can just sit with these feelings, let them linger and hang in the air around me. A staring contest of sorts, who will look away first? They lose and I am left staring at the mound in front of me, my stomach poking out from the peaks of bubbles and the rising of steam.

I haven’t thought much about the kid at all today, you know me being the selfish ass bitch that I am. I was too busy staring into a fucking mirror hating myself to realize that I was also staring at the body that is busy creating the brain of my child. How can I hate that? How can I feel these self-destructive urges while my kid is in there, sucking on his fingers and opening and closing his tiny little eyelids? I feel a rather adamant kick to the ribs and place my hands on my stomach in an effort to soothe him. In a hot bath, hands on my rounded abdomen holding my son safe I am at peace.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

Mascara, the cure for Insomnia

Things get creaky, the walls when I walk, the floor when I fall. A slow screech lingers in my head, invading the quiet, the dark. Sleepless nights, wandering around my house. Get up, piss, get some water, repeat 10 more fucking times until finally its morning and I can add some more pointless activities to this ridiculous routine. The heavy-headed dizziness of sleep deprivation overcomes me, becomes me. An hour of pilates awakens my limbs, filling my lungs with oxygen. Am I awake yet? Can you awaken when you never really go to sleep? A shower washes away the residue of the previous 24 hours of existence. Am I awake yet? Not really, no need to be. I will live forever in this halfway world between reality, dreams and unsleep. I paint a portrait of myself, intricately filling in every crevice and pore, sweep of eyebrow and curl of lash, smearing of red, the illusion of a mouth, an eye, a girl, a woman, a whore and a clown. Now I am here, I have arrived.

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Filed under Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, Uncategorized

Selfish

My greatest desires are for solitude and anonymity. Neither of which are possible especially now that I am bringing a new life into this overwhelmingly intrusive world.

I am a selfish ass bitch, always have been, mostly with my self. I am an only child which automatically gives a person the right to be selfish but I have taken selfishness to an entirely new level. I am not talking about the kind of “no, you can’t have a cookie, they are mine” kind of selfishness but the much more destructive kind that causes a person to withdraw from reality without any consideration for those who still reside in a world where people say “hello”.

I am secretive and sneaky as shit when I need to be. I became an amazing liar, mostly to myself. I faked a life and almost succeeded at death before I realized I was so full of shit that I could barely breathe. Terrible way to die, suffocating on your own stinking shit.

Opening myself up, airing out my rotting cavities, hanging my bloody panties out on the fence, staring into my own asshole just to see what’s in there. Offending my senses, arousing my curiosities, I peered further and found that I am not just a selfish alcoholic on the verge of collapse, that I am flesh and blood, that I am real.

Now that I am pregnant and feeling more “real” than I ever could have imagined, I would hope that I would lose some of my selfish ways and see shit from some entirely new plane of Motherhood consciousness that I should somehow have gained access to. No such luck. I am feeling even more selfish, more reserved and less communicative than ever. But I am remaining positive that the destructive nature of these emotions are being put to good use and with all hopes of a positive outcome for the kid. I am positive because now the basis of my selfishness is founded solely on love. Love and a huge amount of “get the fuck away from my kid or I will kill you” sort of emotions.

Fuck, all I do is contradict myself. In one afternoon I address and mail about 100 invitations to a baby shower that I am halfheartedly committed to and then suddenly and belligerently swear off all human contact simply because I couldn’t fit into my fluorescent Hawaiian gown.

As I resign myself to black stretchy yoga pants I realize what I am really feeling (besides the kids knees pounding into my ribs). I am afraid. Afraid of the moment when the kid is no longer just “mine”. He is going to come out and be a part of the world. He will be held by other people, cuddled by family and friends, stared and cooed at by strangers and licked by my dogs. His toes which once tickled my insides will soon be kissed by lips that are not mine. My selfish ass bitch self is fucking angry about this. I want to scream out, “He is mine motherfuckers, back the fuck off!”

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

The flying fetus to the rescue

Social obligations are the absolute fucking worst and now that I am pregnant I am suddenly on everyone’s dance card. Am I more interesting now that I have a human being growing inside my body? He hasn’t contributed much to any conversation that I have noticed. Are people being entertained by my fetus without me knowing? Is he secretly telling funny anecdotes when I’m not paying attention, attending open mic nights at the local Laugh Stop? Maybe he fights crime while I am asleep; sneaks out of my uterus, dons a cape and flies through the night looking for wrong doers and lost puppies?

I know for a fact that I was way more interesting, funny and entertaining when I was drinking so it can’t possibly be my personality attracting this new-found attention. Oh I know! I am way bigger in girth, roundness and wobbliness, therefore making it impossible not to notice my massive self and then in turn feel sorry for the poor pregnant giant and offer her…of course, a meal!

And what else is on my obligatory social agenda besides eating overpriced meals that will most likely make me ill? Shopping for “baby stuff”! Not even close to what I would ever choose to do on a lovely rainy afternoon. The only shopping I can tolerate is thrift store shopping by myself. Malls are guaranteed to give me an anxiety attack; the stale air, the crowded aisles, the putrid smells from the food court and all the annoying motherfuckers and their screaming asshole children. And what does a baby need with all this crap anyways? Ok, some stuff I totally understand; bassinet, changing table, blankets, clothes (no designer shit, simple fucking onsies), diapers and wipes. That is really about it, I mean they eat and I’ve got that covered (my boobs have already grown 3 goddamn sizes, so I am prepared), they sleep and they shit. The rest is just clutter, adorably pastel, soft and cuddly useless clutter.

Maybe I will trick my unsuspecting social pal on our shopping adventure and at least veer us towards the shoe department, because if I have to go shopping it might as well make my feet happy. And maybe while I am distracted by stilettos and leather the little guy will peek out and make a special appearance, entertaining my host with impressions of other famous fetuses. I heard he does a good Jessica Simpson fetus, it already has its own plus size baby clothing line and smells like fried butter.

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A kick in the face

Today I am reminded that I am an alcoholic, that I am a bulimic, that I am very fucking far from cured of any of the self-destructive behaviors that I am so undeniably addicted to. I can walk around with my rotundly pregnant belly and want a drink just as badly as the drunkard falling over in his seat on the bus. I can feel my baby squirming around inside of me and want to binge on junk food for hours just for the sake of purging, the wonderful empty high of bulimia. I can imagine holding my Son in a few months as vividly and yearningly as I can imagine smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one afternoon.

Annoyance, simple everyday annoyance brings this shit on. Not life shattering events, not horrific news of some tragedy, not a fight amongst lovers or friends, not even slightly more complicated feelings like anger or stress, just plain old annoyance.

I had an appointment today, I contemplated not going, I always do, and I always go. I seem to have a busy calendar as of late with appointments at the Doctor, the Dentist, the Therapist (sort of, not really an actual therapist.) You see, when you go to the OB/GYN and are honest about your shit they will refer you to a counselor type person to assist you through your pregnancy. The woman I was assigned to happened to be an addiction and eating disorder specialist, so she will obviously know everything there is to know about me. It actually isn’t all that bad. I talk incessantly and answer questions before she can ask them and leave her pretty much speechless except to schedule our next appointment.

The annoyance began on my walk to the train station. The sun was absolutely blinding, the wind blowing my hair into my face, wisps sticking to my lip gloss slathered mouth. My feet already blistered, begin to throb within minutes. I don’t want to be outside today, the traffic too loud, the streets too crowded. Waiting for the train, I shift my increasing weight from foot to foot and try to avoid eye contact with some creepy asshole staring at me. Already I am done with this day. I want to escape, I want to scream, I want to fall down on the ground and throw a tantrum like a child.

Trudging my way up the long ass hill to the Hospital I almost take off my heels because who gives a fuck anymore, barefoot and pregnant, embrace it.

My annoyance turns me into an uppity ass bitch, click clacking in my heels down the hospital halls. What a scene I am, in my dress and coat, my bouffant and my eyebrows. I heave my bright red leather luggage I haul around as my purse, up and onto the reception desk, rummaging for my ID.

“Yes, I am her, can’t you tell? Are there others?”

Losing track of what’s real I want only to sit and write, to ignore the day that surrounds me, engulfs me.

The hour goes by in the usual fashion, my prattling on about healthy meal consumption and yes, of course I intend on attending meetings more regularly.

I leave and face the harsh assault of sunlight, traffic and obnoxious ass people crowding around me on the train.

Why did I leave the house today?

Hauling my ass home, completely aggravated with every living thing from the green grass and bright flowers to the singing birds in the trees. I don’t even wave back to the friendly neighbor who chirps hello from her porch, I just want to go home and crawl into bed. No, what I really want is to go home, open a bottle of wine and light a cigarette. My brain doesn’t give a shit that I am pregnant, it wants what it wants and it is screaming it loud and clear.

Well fuck you brain, fuck you Regina, you selfish goddamn brat. You don’t get what you want anymore.

Home. I write. I eat frozen yogurt. I watch my dogs play. I take a nap. I am ok.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

Pregnant woman down

There is nothing funny about a pregnant woman falling down. I usually laugh when I take a tumble, a frequent occurrence of mine due to funky ankles and feet from being born a club foot and my natural lack of balance, coordination and grace. Last night I fell while walking my dog down the hill near my home, and I didn’t laugh, I didn’t find it the least bit amusing. The fall was in no way caused by my at times unruly dog, Choe, a 2-year-old Shar Pei Boxer mix. I literally fell down for no reason at all, just that asshole gravity. My Dad who was 6’4″ always said falling down was rougher for us tall people because, “we had further to fall and gravity just had it out for us.”

After I crashed down on the rough asphalt on my hands and knees, leash thankfully still wrapped around my wrist, I remained perfectly still, in a state of shock. I really need to stop falling down, goddamnit, I am pregnant now, get yourself together. I realized quickly that I was fine, that I had not put the kid in any great harm and all was well. A scraped knee and a jammed finger with minimal asphalt pieces embedded in the palms of my hands. Nothing really compared to some of my previous falls, at least I wasn’t wearing 4 inch heels.

I patted my swollen abdomen as if to apologize for being the clumsy ass Mother that he will be meeting soon enough. God, he is really going to have to put up with a lot having me as a Mother, not only will he most likely be embarrassed by my flamboyant attire and painted eyebrows but he will have to put up with my vulgarities, fucked up sense of humor and ridiculously loud laugh. He is probably already mocking my screaming cackle as so many have done over the years.

I heard somewhere that babies are kind of like little drunk people in the sense that they are all squishy and handle impacts by being flexible and loose. If you are ever in a car crash it’s a good idea to be drunk as you won’t get hurt as badly and if you are going to be carried around by a bumbling woman in heels it would be in your best interest to be a floppy little baby.

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Swamp foot and crotch rot

My rotting, stinking feet.

Why did I wear these tight ass heels on a hot day, especially when I knew I had a OB/GYN appointment. These feet are not going anywhere near those metal stirrups. It’s bad enough she has to look at swollen pregnancy pussy all day and now here I am with my disgusting swamp foot.

I just walked over a mile up and down hills in these well-worn heels. Or did I waddle? Fuck, my feet are definitely growing, these shoes did not used to feel like this.

Ughh…I can’t even button up my Sam Kinison jacket anymore.

Damn blisters are on the verge of exploding with each hesitant step. At least it’s a distraction from the pain shooting down my back, exploding in my left ass cheek and trickling its way down my leg like electrified goose bumps.

Red faced and sweaty I arrive. I have a seat, waiting, my favorite pass time. Cartoons? Why? This is the prenatal waiting room. Fetuses don’t care what is on the television. Can we wait a few more months before I am forced to watch this shit?

The Doctor will see you now. Waddling on blistered feet, click clack echoing down the hallway.

Piss in this, gladly. Step on the scale, fuck all of you. Ok, I’ll do it but don’t even hint at the number, no comment whatsoever or I will freak the fuck out, seriously. A good purge is only as far away as the nearest toilet.

Get undressed and put on this gown. I disrobe, keeping my eyes carefully averted. Take a peek, fuck. My skin always look greenish pink in hospital lighting, a mottled mess. Paper robe ripping in all the wrong places, thighs sticking to cold table, crinkle…squish.

I sit naked with my shoes on. Sexy? Far fucking from it. The Doctor comes in, fresh and radiant. I lay back and scoot my butt down to the end of the table…more?…scoot scoot, ok good. Feet up in the metal stirrups. Would you be more comfortable with your shoes off? No, I’m fine. Liar.

At least I am confident that I don’t have crotch rot. I once walked into a Gyno appointment and literally walked right back out after smelling the disgusting yeasty deep-sea rotten stench emanating from the table they expected me to spread my legs on. I felt diseased just from smelling that room. Gynecologists are brave motherfuckers.

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Polyester

I absolutely adore polyester. I have clothes that I have been wearing for over 16 years and someone else wore them for 20 years before that and they are still in excellent condition. Only polyester is capable of this kind of fashionable sustainability.

Now my brain is stuck on my own personal sustainability. What can I really live through that I haven’t already? Have I worn myself thin at 31, my threadbare skin as transparent as my various personalities? Or am I polyester, indestructible?

I am that orange and white houndstooth dress that your Mother forced you to wear for your second grade portrait day at school. Scratchy, stiff polyester scraping your neck, itching at your underarms and making your butt sweat. Oops, you spilled some milk, no big, watch it bead and roll away like it’s been personally offended by the physical contact. Run and play all you want, you can’t wrinkle the motherfucker. 

 


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Shopping for a whale

Halfway there and I am over it. Annoyed and anxious. I want a fucking cigarette. I feel huge and uncomfortable. Have I ever felt contentment for more than half an hour at a time?

Who the fuck said pregnancy is beautiful, fatty fetishists most likely. Lay me on a beach and watch the spectators gather because I am a fucking whale. When this boy is done cooking so am I because I am not eating for a long time.

I bought clothing today in the fucking PLUS SIZE department of the thrift store! I kept saying “I am pregnant that’s why I am buying this hideous black tent dress….I would never wear this style but I’m pregnant and growing by the second….oh god am I really wearing this.” When the clerk tried to have a conversation with me about kids I hurriedly grabbed my phone and mouthed an apology to her as a response. I don’t know how people tolerate me, I sure fucking can’t most of the time.

After shopping for massive amounts of stretchy black fabric to cover my bloated rotundness, I went out to lunch by myself. The chirpy hostess greeted me with “congratulations!” What the fuck?! What if I really was just fat? She then explained that my crazy Mother has apparently announced to everyone in the neighborhood that I am pregnant or more importantly according to her, that she is going to be a Grandmother. Everyone can go fuck themselves.

God, I just want to live my life as if I were invisible.

P.S. I’m fine, please don’t worry about me.

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Sensible shoes and a Mom bag

Heels have always been a staple of my daily wardrobe. Not too high or crazy, just 3 extra inches to lengthen the leg and force the body into proper posture. I am already 5’9″ so I usually walk around at a full 6 feet of fluorescent clothed and black bouffanted womanliness (ridiculousness). I know I tend to be a bit on the drag queen side at times, I just get carried away. I feel most comfortable like this, so fuck it. However, I am experiencing bouts of unsteadiness with my new growing pregnant body and have resigned myself to the reality of (gasp!) sensible shoes. I Purchased 2 pairs of simple black flats. I feel so awkward walking in these things, it’s more like plodding than walking (or am I doing the pregnant waddle?)

Flats are for children, not for women. And a pregnant child is definitely not a style decision I ever thought I would concede to. As a child I had a style all my own. While other kids donned spandex and scrunchie socks, tight ass GUESS jeans and floppy knits I took it old school. I wore pink dresses, beaded cardigans, white ruffle socks and black and white saddle oxfords. My style may have sprouted from the fact that I was forced to wear the special orthopedic style saddle oxfords due to my jacked up ankles from being born a clubfoot. The wonderful thing about being a clubfoot is that you have naturally high arched feet that are perfectly content in high-heeled shoes. I have no other side effects from the condition that I am aware of. It is really only in third world countries that you see the horrific effects of clubfoot gone untreated, such a shame since casts and good shoes are all you really need to correct the deformity. So, I learned early on to take what I was given and make it my own unique thing. I have to wear these shoes? Fine, I love them so much I am going to create a whole persona based on these fuckers! I love the fact that I never felt pressured to dress, act or think like my peers. I hope I am able to pass on this trait to my kids, it makes life so much more fun when you can be yourself without the fear of rejection or ridicule.

My goal is to find a way to rock these flats and make them my own. So what it if I waddle, I’m pregnant for fucks sake. Stop acting like a girl trying to fit in with the thin pretties drinking an iced latte for lunch wearing stilettos and worrying about which nail salon to go to. You are grown ass pregnant woman wearing sensible flats and a mom bag stocked with water and protein bars and you are looking for a bathroom not a nail salon.

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