Are you afraid of the question, “Who Do You Think You Are?”

How do you answer it?  Let’s try it out. You be you and I’ll be me. Here we go. 

Me: Who do you think you are?

You: Um, um, um…. 

Me: Um… No! No! No! 

Listen, Mama! You know exactly who you think you are and you ARE exactly who YOU think you are.  If you think what they think, just because they think it, without thinking about what you think, and how you want to think about the way you think, then you are going to BE what they think and you’re not going to think much of yourself. 

Don’t cha think?

Take responsibility for who you think you are. Own it. 

Then… Shout it out.

And if you don’t like the way you answer the question, ask it another way: 

How frawesome am I? 

Yeah. I’m all that. 

And so are you. 

But who cares WHAT I THINK?

It was the only plausible explanation. 

Who was this kid? 

What the hell?

No really. What the hell????????????

I’ve survived living with teenagers of various ages for the past 13 years. And I believe I have finally  tamed the wild beast. 

In me.

Which means I am now immune to their alien ways. 

Case in point: 

Isn’t she adorable?

I am serious. She is the perfect teenager. She meets every developmental milestone for her age: 

–extreme eye rolling causing the eyes to appear completely white;

–extreme hearing loss, as indicated by the need to turn up the volume when playing music and never responding when spoken to; 

–extreme tiredness, except when friends are around; 

–extreme boredom, especially in the presence of two adults named Mother and Father; 

–extreme non-compliance, because non-compliance magically makes everything fair; 

–extreme texting: apparently this is now categorized as a developmental milestone for teens; 

–extreme facebooking: ditto; 

–extreme twittering accompanied by extreme laughter at adults who say “twittering.”

Guess what? I am happy to play the role of The Obnoxious Parent. And I would much rather think of my teenagers as being perfect at being… teenagers. They’re behaving exactly the way they’re supposed to. Frankly, I’d be concerned if they weren’t so perfect. 

So when one of them decides it’s necessary to give me the silent treatment, I respond with extreme logic: 

Yeah.

It goes like that. 

You want MORE?

I am everywhere. When I look in the mirror, there I am.

When I look down at my feet, that’s me too.

When someone calls me on the phone, I answer.

“Hi! It’s me!”

Except when it’s that credit card guy who tries to scare me when he says, “We have something important to tell you about your credit rating.”  Then I pull a David Copperfield.  (LOOK… if his hair were longer he’d look just like me!)

But mostly, I am here. Except when I’m there.

Whenever you see me, there I am.

I amaze myself.

How do I do that?
Once, when I was running, I tried to hide on myself. Just to see if it was true that “you can run but you can’t hide.” I wanted to find out what I would do if I couldn’t find me.

Well, let me tell you, it was scary for a minute there, but then I just looked down and saw my feet, and my hands. Then I pulled out my compact full-length  mirror (so as to properly stay in the lines when applying my lip gloss!) and SHAZZAM, it was me! Again. What the hell?

Do you think it’s because of my shoes?

Whatever it is, I love this about me. 

Over the past couple of years since I’ve been blogging, many of you have been encouraging me to turn my crazy ass drawings into note cards, so I’m going to give it a shot… the only problem is, I can’t decide which ones.

I’ve become so attached to the Worst Mother that I can’t remain impartial enough to choose the ones that best suit her “Smart Ass” attitude.

Which ones do you like the best… pick at least four, and please leave your comments below. Or suggestions!! I’d be happy to hear any thoughts/ideas you may have.

Here are the nominees:

Thanks for playin’!!

Cast your vote, below.

Everyone loves her. Men love her. Women love her. Caterpillars love her!

Katty is amazing.

A.

M.

A.

Z.

I.

N.

G.

But try telling her that. No really, go ahead and try. Then get back to me and tell me how many times you’ve bashed your head against the wall.

Katty LOVES to find all the things that are wrong with her. She’s not pretty enough. Or smart enough. Or thin enough. She says these are the reasons she doesn’t have a man in her life. Correction: she has men in her life, but she says they are all, quote: unavailable, end quote.

To which I respond, ever so tactfully:

Katty’s men are definitely available.

They’re available on their terms.

Katty doesn’t have any terms. Not really. She says she doesn’t think she’s entitled to have any.

At which point I kick her in the shin. (Because she only has one.)

And guess what? It works.

Of course, my version of a kick in the shins includes a chaser of advice, which she promises to take.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Still…. I proceed. With caution.

Of course, it’s pointless for Katty to get some terms of her own if she doesn’t really believe she has a leg to stand on. (Pun intended. Brilliant!)

My point, and I do have one, is that Katty has PERFECT men in her life. She calls them “unavailable” to let herself off the hook. But these men have qualities that match up with Katty’s expectations of the kind of men she “deserves.”

Until she changes her expectations (which requires a reassessment of her own self-worth), those perfectly “unavailable” men will keep showing up.

Isn’t it cool how that works?

Today’s AFGO was brought to you by the words “pun” and “chaser.”

AFGO = Another F*ing Growth Opportunity. Have you had one lately?

As if it’s a thing to become, or attain, or accomplish or get done. 

Unworthiness often hides in funny places: behind athletic trophies, professional degrees, or bags of Doritos. 

Sometimes it’s declared emphatically, as in: I am not worthy. 

Or variations thereof: 

My teeth aren’t white enough. 

I have a thyroid problem. 

My car is out of gas. 

I can’t cook.

Yeah.

Whatever.  

Anyone who burns Hot Pockets is definitely walking a fine line. 

Just sayin’. 

But here’s the deal… there are definitely some requirements when it comes to worthiness, and I am going to tell you what they are so that you never ever have to question your worthiness factor ever again. 

Ever. 

As in… 

Never. 

Here they are: the top 4 + 1 things you need in order to be worthy of worthiness: 

     1. A torso. Arms and legs are optional. The only reason you need a torso is to hold a bunch of organs in place, but if you come up with another way to do that then you can ditch the torso, too. It’s always good to lighten up. 

     2. A heart, usually found in the torso. The heart must beat. Any rhythm will do. 

     3. A head… the better to hold one’s brain. Size and shape of head irrelevant. 

     4. Lungs. And the ability to breathe out and then in.  I mean in, and then out. You get to decide, actually. 

     5. Lip gloss. Even though lips are optional, you should carry lip gloss. 

And that’s it. 

No really. THAT’s it. 

Don’t start with the but-but-but’s.

I won’t stand for it. 

You are worthy. Just because. I said so. 

And do not go all Demi Moore on me and say you have some kind of fundamental flaw. 

That’s just not true, Lovely Girls (and Token Males). 

It’s not. 

What a relief, right? Please believe me. I know everything.

EVERYTHING. 

I am not shitting you. I would never do that. 

You love me too, right? 

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Hey look, did you notice?  My comments box is working again. Please leave me a comment and tell me you love me if you meet the requirements for worthiness. Then, go HERE to read about my Hot Pockets experience and how it ruined my chances of becoming President of the United States.

THEN, press the share button so your friends and family can get some worthiness too.  You must do this or the internet gremlins will hunt you down and all manner of bad things will happen. Ok, that’s not true. Don’t you hate it when you hear that. I do. I was just messin’ with ya. Love you. Mean it. 

You know… the kind that feels kinda “off” before it even begins. 

I hadn’t felt like this in a very long time, so it took me a moment (or two) to get my $h!t together. 

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Yeah, it kinda went like that. 

What do you “think” to get yourself out of a funk? 

There. I said it. Oh oh…

INCOMINGGGGGGGGGGGGG….

I guess the disguise didn’t fool Them.  

Damn! They find me every time. 

Wait. I thought I killed Them and They. 

Jeesh. My work is never done! (Incidentally, I just made some cookies in the shape of dead people. My kids loved  them! Sickos.)

Okay, so I guess some people don’t want to hear that there’s no such thing as easy from the The Worst Whatchamacallit. 

They want things to be effortless. Easy peasy. 

Why are They and Them afraid to do hard things? 

Wait… I know. Because Their definition of ‘hard’ SUCKS! (I’m pretty sure I killed Their, too.)

Equating hard with painful and boring and arduous makes just about everything seem…well… hard. 

No wonder No One wants to do hard things. (BT Dubs: No One is still on the loose. If you spot No One, let me know asap. I have my bow and arrow on stand by.) 

Yo! The Worst Mother ain’t afraid of no nothin’ hard. She be fearless. 

Telling yourself (over and over and over again) that something will be too hard, or require too much effort, or won’t be fun, is exactly what makes it so damn hard.

Oh, the things we conjure up in our heads. 

Here’s something to conjure up in that adorable little noggin that houses your mind that wants to make up stories about how hard everything is: a new definition for the word hard. 

Whenever you tell yourself something is too hard to do, say this to yourself: 

BULLCRAP (or any reasonable facsilimile, including: bullshit, bullwinkle, bulloney, bullinachinashop, bulldogsintiaras.)

Then follow it up with any one or all of the following: 

     * I am not going to believe 63.8% of the shit that mind tries to convince me is the gospel truth;

     * My mind is just trying to trick me into NOT doing something that I actually want to do; 

     * Things are only hard if I define hard in a negative way;

     * I can do ‘hard’ MY WAY. 

Let’s go girlie. 

What is it you want? 

Have you been telling yourself it’s too hard to get it for yourself?

Stop that shit, dammit! You’re lying to yourself.  

(You can always tell you’re lying to yourself because you’ll feel absolutely schmutzy when you listen to yourself drone on in your head.) 

Try something like: I want this dammit. I know what to do. I want to give myself the gift of __________ (whateveritisyoukeeptellingyourselfistoohard) and nothing is going to stop me.

Or you can always just say…”Hard. Easy. Easy. Hard. It’s all Greek to me.” 

Because you’re a Smart Ass. 

Now giddyap cowgirl!  

(If my comments box is still not working by the time you read this I may need to be consoled. Or sedated. Please send peanut butter cups.)

Why is it okay for birds to be angry, but when it comes to people getting angry, it’s just not done. Properly.

Anger is necessary. 

Anger is a gift I give to myself. 

Have you ever seen me angry? Oh. Em. Gee. Here are some of my most exquisite angry moments.

Enjoy!

Yeah. I know. It’s not pretty.

But it’s real.

And hell hath no fury like a mom who’s had her peanut butter cup stolen!

To deny one’s anger is tantamount to denying one’s thirst, as Harriet Lerner says in her groundbreaking book, Dance of Anger. I read Dance of Anger twenty years ago. I have had to buy so many more copies because I keep giving it to my girlfriends and it never comes back.

If someone let me borrow that book I would NEVER give it back.

I have read it so many times that I believe I have it memorized.

Anger is a signal.

It’s not nice to ignore a signal that you’re trying to give… to yourself.

I love to see my children get angry. Okay, maybe I don’t love it, but I have learned to appreciate it.

Yes it can get all messy and ugly.

But they have learned– from a mom who has made it her mission to teach her children to express their shit– that anger + coherence is a necessity.  

The coherence part is an acquired skill. An important skill. It should be taught in schools.

Because anger left to its own devices can do a hell of a lot more harm than good.

Especially the misplaced kind.

The thoughtless kind.

The shoot-from-the-hip kind.

The kind of anger that is meant to cause hurt. That kind of anger is wasted. Useless. Damaging.

But anger that is thoughtful; understood; respected… that kind of anger is an AFGO* … It is a gift.

Yes my little Cherubs. Anger is a gift. To yourself.

Once you learn the art of expressing anger, feel free to give it whenever you damn well please.

(ps: I am so angry at my web guy because he hasn’t turned my comments back on yet! I’m going to have to go kick him in the shins. Please leave me a comment HERE instead. I really want to hear from you.)

*AFGO = Another Freakin’ Growth Opportunity. Have you had one lately?

And so it goes.

The battle with food never ends. As long as you believe food can talk to you, you will stay in a struggle.

But food cannot talk. 

It doesn’t have lips. 

When we say things like, “the cupcake was calling my name,” we hand our power over to the cupcake. 

Oh, and another thing: food is not your friend.

Food is NOT your friend, Silly! And it CANNOT comfort you. It doesn’t have arms, for goodness sakes. 

Oh dear. I understand. That can be difficult to accept. Because if food is not your friend, if it cannot talk to you, if it cannot comfort you, then what? 

What’s left? 

And that is EXACTLY the question we ought to be asking ourselves. Who or what can we turn to when the pursuit of happiness seems so elusive? If not food, what then? 

Our bodies are hard-wired to fight, or take flight, whenever we face a harmful or stressful situation.  

We run. But unless we know what we’re running from, we just keep running. For some people, the running takes them straight to the refrigerator. 

It’s a temporary fix. A band aid. A trick we play on ourselves.  

Until we know better. When we know better, we do better, as Maya Angelou always says. 

Once we realize that food is just a bunch of ingredients in a bowl, we take our power back. Because the only power food ever has is that which we willingly give to it. We get caught up in a vicious cycle. 

That’s the good news. It’s all good news my little Chicklets. There is no bad news. It’s not necessary to kick yourself in the shins for having had a love affair with food. 

You didn’t know any better. And now you do. 

Put food in its place and use it to feed your body. 

Then figure out what it will take to feed your starving mind. One thing’s for sure… it’s not food. But of course you knew that already, because food has never ever ever never solved a problem, found a cure, paid a debt, saved a marriage, or erased the memory of a bad childhood. 

Only you can do that. 

Now that’s what I call power. 

Go get it.

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Psst: I actually made this blog post into a video… check it out: Food doesn\’t have lips! and let me know what you think! 

NOTE: Sorry the comments section is closed. My site is “having some work done.” Please consider leaving me a comment on my FB page. That would make me so happy.