Please HELP! Who loves boobies?!?

Please support me and my fellow family and friends as we embark on yet another Susan G. Komen 3-day adventure.

I won’t bore you with the details now, because my site describes it all:  (Go here to donate or look at the info please, even to join the team!)

3 days.

60 miles.

1 cause.

PLEASE spare whatever you can.  $5, $10, $20.  Anything helps.  Even big amounts are obviously appreciated.  But anything adds up.  Please help.  Please.


Walking Into Camp


The Tiring & Trying Parts…


No Explanation Needed.


Camp.  After walking 20 miles, you sleep on the ground.  Yep.


But this keeps you going…


And this.


And there are TONS of funny parts along the way!


Opening ceremonies.

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Motivating signs.


Us walking.

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WE MADE IT!!!!!!!!

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The survivor’s circle during closing ceremonies.  The most powerful part of the 3-day.

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My sister-in-law & I hugging my mother (a SURVIVOR – our reason to walk!) after closing ceremonies ended.

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Raising our shoes to survivors – my FAVORITE part of the walk.  Even though we walk 60 miles, we could never step one foot into your shoes.


Holy Muffin Top :(

I need to go on a diet.  Or start working out.

That’s the first time in my life I’ve ever had to say those two sentences.  Ever.

I was always considered blessed that I could eat whatever the hell I wanted, whenever I wanted.  Well, all I have to say is karma is a bitch.  I know someone out there cursed me to get me here.  Someone had to have said, “Man I just hope that skinny bitch eating all that food gets fat one day.”  Or, “Look at that skinny bitch shoving all that food in her mouth – just wait, it’ll catch up to her.”  Or even, “Please make her fat.  Now.”  So to whoever the hell you were – all I have for you is one finger.  And a big ol’ F bomb to drop.

I canNOT get rid of this baby weight.  With the first two kids, immediately afterwards, I was back to normal, wearing size 0 jeans, eating whatever I wanted.  Not exercising to stay skinny, just naturally blessed as a thin girl.  Not anymore.  It’s my turn to bitch and complain about my weight.  I’ve always had to hear about it, but never had to do it myself.  Now, I am.

So the answer is simple, right?  Work out.  Exercise.  Eat better.

Someone tell me how the f to do that, and I’ll do it.  Give me a schedule.  No, better yet.  Hire me a maid.  And a nanny.  And a personal trainer.  And while you’re at it, have someone follow me around with a fan if I’m hot, or a blanket if I’m cold, but of course, only one that has been kept warm for when I need it to be, like at the hospital.  And make sure everything around me is coated in gold.  Or better yet platinum.  Platinum and diamonds.  Yes, that’s what I want.  Platinum, diamonds, nannies (one for morning and night, per kid), maids (one per person while we’re at it and one for the dog), waiters, servers, ooohhh bartenders…yummmmm….personal bartenders.  And a personal doctor.  Not for the help, just for the medications they can prescribe.  A personal bartender and prescriptions whenever I want?!?!  Hell yeah.  That sounds much better…a little margarita here, shot of tequila there, anti-crazy pill washed down with a beer.   Now THAT sounds like fun.

Wait, am I getting off track?   What the hell was I ranting about?  Oh yeah, my muffin top.  My fat ass and huge thighs.  It’s definitely not ok.  It’s gotta go.  But let me ask: when am I supposed to do all this working out?  When I’m running around with a spoiled ass 6-month-old, who can’t be put down, who takes 20 minute naps?  While I’m trying to get my schoolwork done?  During homework time after school while I’m feeding the baby or trying to keep her from screaming at the top of her lungs while Boy says, “I can’t do my homework when she’s screaming like that!  I can’t concentrate!”  While I’m pushing a vacuum around, holding a baby, trying to shoo the dog away from the vacuum…Or when I’m making dinner for 3 kids and trying to be a referee as well?  It’s like I work in an f’ing circus.  I’m a ring leader.  It’s an open animal barn.  Everyone strap on a helmet and hope for the best.  Make sure you don’t step in dog pee or dog piss along the way.  And who knows what you’re eating.  Just close your eyes and shut up.

I’m thinking the best thing for me is diet pills.  Or prayer.  Or just plain dumb luck.  Or maybe the weight Gods will focus on someone else for awhile…