I live in a zoo

Today was wonderful. The last day of school for both of my kids. We woke up and practically skipped down the stairs.

The sun was shining.

The moose were playing ding dong ditch.


Welcome to Alaska, where having moose on your doorstep in the morning in normal. This mama and her newborn twins were just hanging out on our doorstep when we got up. Bitchy creatures, they are. I cracked our front door to try to get a better picture and she tried to charge at me. Even better? They were chased into our neighborhood by a grizzly, which wildlife officers later spotted down the street.

I really feel like I live in a zoo. I love it.

The Arc

I randomly joined Planet Fitness the other night. I had downed a few glasses of wine, which are definitely not on my strict diet plan, and thought it would be a fantastic idea. A gym where hot bitched in sports bras and freakishly muscled douchebags aren’t really welcome? Fuck yeah, I’ll take it! Sure, its in a seedy part of town, but its dirt cheap and never busy. Which means people won’t look at my flab in my stretchy pants.

Now, I’ve been to a gym a handful of times in my life. I would only use the treadmill or stationary bikes, depending on which area had fewer people. Ellipticals are the devil and kill my knees. I don’t know why the hell people are always saying “its SOOOOOO much easier on your knees!” Bullshit. I feel like Nancy Kerrigan after Tonya Harding took that tire iron to her knees. After awkwardly touring the facility, I asked the the hell these weird elliptical-esque machines were.


This, friends, is the Cybex Arc Trainer. It is the craziest contraption and makes you look like a doofus. It utilizes an arc motion and is like a half stairmaster, half elliptical hybrid. It. Is. Awesome. My knees didn’t cry and I didn’t jump off after 6 minutes because I felt like I was dying. Yet, I supposedly burned more calories than I would have on the ‘lliptical. Score! So, it looks like I’ll be parking my fat ass on this gadget for an hour a day until we head to Arkansas.


So, there are a million and one groups on Facebook for wives of various military installations. They are a mixture of vents about the military, questions about lord knows what, and catty comments.

The latter are always reason to pop some popcorn and bust out the wine, especially when they appear on Friday nights or during a deployment.

Earlier, one such comment appeared on a page I frequent. This fucking twatwaffle decided to share that, while she was at the pool, an overweight woman had the audacity to wear a bikini. She added that she shouldn’t wear it due to her size and that is was somehow having a negative impact on her time at the pool.

What. The. Fuck.

So, you, miss middle aged bitch who is FAR from skinny, have the right to publicly shame this woman? I think its pretty damn amazing when ANY woman that isn’t a size 2 has the confidence to rock a bikini. Hell, I haven’t been to a pool in years because the thought of anything short of a scuba suit makes me want to vomit.

This is why I can’t stand to be around people. I’m pretty sure that I would still avoid them if I was normal and not burdened with social anxiety.

Little Dumplings

I’m from the south. Land of butter, Crisco, and heavy cream. A lot of elbow grease and love goes into every fattening meal. One of my favorite meals growing up was chicken and dumplins. Not dumplinGs. The letter G does not exist south of the Mason-Dixon line. I remember my great grandma simmering a whole chicken on her old gas stove all day. Then she would carefully make the dumplings, rolled out and cut into perfect little rectangles and dropped into the simmering broth. It was heaven in a bowl.

Now, I love some old fashioned roll-out chicken and dumplings. But, lets face it, sometimes you want a quick meal because the spawn are whining about being hungry and you really can’t stand the thought of chicken nuggets and boxed macaroni. The solution? Crockpot chicken and dumplins, which can be thrown together in a pot on the stove in 30 minutes if you have some extra roasted chicken to use up.


2 cans of the super cheap, tiny Pilsbury biscuits

2 cans cream of chicken soup

1 cup chicken broth

1 package of boneless chicken thighs

2 T butter

3 celery ribs, diced

1/2 medium onion, diced

1 C heavy cream


Here’s what you do. Saute the celery and onion in butter until they become translucent. Dump it into your crockpot and mix it with the soups, broth, and chicken. Let it cook on low for 5-6 hours. When there are thirty minutes or so left, cut the biscuits into pea sized pieces. I flatten them with my palm first because I’m weird like that. Drop the dough into the pot and let them cook for the remaining thirty minutes. Give it a gentle stir every ten minutes, but don’t go crazy or the biscuits will die a quick death. Before serving, stir in the cup of heavy cream. Liberally salt and pepper and serve with dinner rolls. Because we all know this meal is severely lacking in the carb department.

If cooking on the stove, us pre-cooked chicken. Once your liquids have started to simmer, add the dumplings. Stir in the chicken and cream at the very end.

Its not me, its you

When you have social anxiety, everyday tasks will make your palms sweat, your stomach churn, and your heart race. I plan grocery trips during slow hours. I shovel snow late at night when neighbors aren’t out and about. I have yet to meet any of my husband’s co-workers.

Its hard. So very, very hard. I see so many happy, free spirited friends that have yet to meet a stranger. They are naturally inclined to walk up and start a conversation with someone new. They love going to parties and events. They strike up a conversation with a neighbor. I see events and coffee gatherings being posted on various groups for military wives and wish I could go, but I can’t. My husband can’t even mention a work event without me freaking out. I can’t go to the gym, despite my desire to work out, because of the large number of people there. I walk with my head down, staring at my phone, when I go to the bus stop in the morning to avoid eye contact with neighbors. My anxiety is so bad, I get nervous ordering takeout over the phone. I have to take a small dose of my anxiety meds before going into a salon because oh my GOD, hair chicks never stop talking. What drives me crazy is the constant assumption that I am stuck up, rude, or mentally deranged because I ignore people.

Please, if you are going to form a negative opinion about me, let me show you my bad side first.


Redeeming quality


Its big.

Its cold.

Its full of blood thirsty animals.

But it has this. The aurora borealis. A mesmerizing dance of lights across the night sky.

Saint Patrick’s day proved to be one hell of a show. Hunter and I trekked to a remote area of JBER just after midnight. Just as we were about to give up our chase, the sky exploded overhead with vibrant ribbons of green and pink. Now, I’m the most atheist agnostic chick you will ever meet, but this night almost made me believe in some higher power. Almost.


Sofa bison transformation

I’ve been a fat kid my whole life. I can’t recall a time where life didn’t revolve around delicious treats, chub rub, and shopping the “pretty plus” section of the JCPenney catalog. Weight has been a struggle ever since I woke up at 15 and realize holy fuck, I’m fat! Its amazing, really, that I survived those hyper-sensitive pre-teen years without realizing was a little cow I was. After becoming a mom three months before my 17th birthday, getting married, and having another baby, my body is quite the disaster. Prior to meeting my husband, I had been on a liquid diet known as drink your sorrows away because you are emotionally screwed and will die an old cat lady. Its a really effective diet if you can overlook the liver damage and possible social stigma. Anyway, by forgetting to eat because I was too busy downing the rum and Coke, I went from a fluffy 152 to 118. As a vertically challenged chick, that was pretty awesome. I was able to slip into a size 4/6 without issue.

Then I met Timmy (the husband). The bastard was always taking me out to nice restaurants, so I slowly added 22 pounds. Not a huge deal, as I was too sucked into the relationship to realize I had moved into a size 8. Damn those jeans with weight gain concealing Lycra blends. Naturally, I became pregnant, we got married, had a baby and BAM. I turned into a full blown sofa bison. Now, Timmy will be the first to admit that he can be a dick. To my surprise, he never has said a single thing about my weight. He always insists he finds me attractive and never asked me to shed a single pound. Sweet, but fuck that. I knew I was a grotesque pile of lard, complete with nacho cheese dripping from my chins and Dorito crumbs stuck to my tits. I had somehow packed on over 40 pounds over the years after Aiden was born, blossoming into a behemoth 218 pounds of beefy woman. I did half-assed diets, crash diets, fasts, and any other scheme I could find to lose weight. I would drop down to the 150′s and climb right back up. Why? Because I was a genius! I thought that, upon reaching my goal weight (or close to it), I could eat like a skinny bitch. You know the ones. They happily chow down on a burger and fries, wash it down with a Coke, then grab a gallon of ice cream for dessert. Guess what? Those bitches lie. I concluded that they 1. eat laxatives like candy, 2. purge religiously, or 3. obsessively workout. I’m guessing #3 is the winner. Screw that, I hate to sweat.

This brings us to the here and now. I’ve lost 18.2 pounds in the last three weeks. Yes, doing HCG. Yes, its batshit crazy. Yes, I am tired of eating the same damn things every day. But you know what? I’m wearing my badass big girl see through panties and will suck it up. I want to be a skinny bitch when I go home to Arkansas this summer. These milky white legs would like to walk to streets in some shorts and other cute clothes that don’t resemble a circus tent.