#LetGo

Being a human person on this planet in the last 300 years, and more so being a woman human person on this planet, we are told from the time we are very small that looks are the most important quality we posses. The way we look, our physical attractiveness and how fuckable we are/ how long we can hold that title trump all other qualities we have. A woman's kindness, strength, intelligence, athletic ability, humor, wit, ingenuity, leadership, empathy, and artistic talent don't mean shit if she isn't also conventionally physically attractive. And we've swallowed this crap and bought into it and put it up on a pedestal as Gospel truth mostly because our mothers did, as their mothers had before them. A cycle of inter-generational self abuse. Decades of negative inner monologues, of missed social gatherings, of crying in dressing rooms and hiding under layers of makeup or clothing or both.

As a 31 year old woman, I'm finally fucking sick of it. I'm done.

By done I don't mean that I have the mental willpower to never have a negative thought about myself again. I mean that when I do think something negative about my physical appearance, when I begin the "I cant/I shouldn't/I'm not ___enough" I am actively pumping the brain brakes and shouting "NO!!!" super loud in my brain face like you would when the dog starts to pee on the carpeting. I'm over telling myself what not to wear, what not to eat, how not to act. I'm just fucking done with it. I'm tired of fighting who I am and who I have the potential to become. I'm sick of trying to make myself fit into the box of what is acceptable for a woman to be. Have you ever seen I Heart Huckabees? If not, get that shit on amazon video or something. One of the stories in the movie involves a swimsuit model realizing that she just wants to eat a fucking brownie without wanting to kill herself for it and wear 18th century bonnets and overalls all day because that's who she really is inside. 

That's pretty much where I am at. Bonnet and overalls and a big ass bag of Mickeys donuts. Sitting in my driveway barefoot, watching the birds fly around.

Look, I'm not telling you to stop caring about how you look, or to stop setting fitness goals or to stop lifting small vehicles at Crossfit or writing meal plans or redoing your makeup on your lunch break or making sure your shoes match your work blouse. If those things bring you joy and DO NOT BRING YOU STRESS/DO NOT MAKE YOU THINK NEGATIVE THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF, by all means, you keep on rocking in the free world sister. I just want you to make sure that anything you do that somehow involves your appearance, you are doing 159% because it makes you feel good and not because someone/the world told you to.

You do not need to change who you are for other people.

I repeat: YOU DO NOT NEED TO CHANGE WHO YOU ARE FOR OTHER PEOPLE.

On the left is me 5 years ago at my wedding. I P90X'd and ate chicken and green beans for a month to get to that level. On the right is me a week ago. 5 years have past, two big ass baby boys, and shit looks differently. Here in the States, it is no longer socially acceptable for me to wear a two piece. I'm supposed to fucking throw in the towel and hide my stretch marks and skin saggage  and extra fat from the delicate eyes of the masses. I'm supposed to feel ashamed. I'm supposed to feel lazy. I'm supposed to feel unhealthy. I'm supposed to do whatever it takes to fix this or hide this from the world. Buy a big ass box of Spanx and pretend this isn't what my body looks like now after growing and birthing two lives. But guess what? This is reality folks. I look like this now. I'm not going to hide it or cover it up or pretend its not there. Maybe Ill get super motivated next month and bust my ass doing some fitness program and my body will look close to what it did at my wedding. Maybe I'll start mainlining liquefied donut holes and gain the 75 preggo lbs back. Maybe I'll do neither and this is how I look from now until the end of my days.

The point is this: how I physically look truly impacts the rest of the human population exactly zero percent. Am I a decent human being? Yes. Do I try to be kind and do no harm as much as possible? Absolutely. Do I go out of my way to help people? Yes sir. Am I funny? Your mom sure thinks so. Can I still rollerblade and ride my bike like I did in my 20s? You bet your sweet ass I can. Do I know my great grandmas meatball recipe that came over with her from Italy? Yup. Am I  trying to be the best parent I know how to be? Every single day. Can I read faster than lightening? Indubitably. Am I a tiger in the bedroom? Ask my husband, but duh, yes.

Are you starting to see a pattern? Are you catching my drift? These are the things that matter in life. Who you are and how you act and what you do and how well you do it. How you look is but one tiny facet in the jewel that makes up YOU. YOU have the power to stop kneeling before the alter of the False God of Womanly Perfection, you just have to take a mental step back and let go.

I went to the beach over the 4th with my family and I wore a bikini and it was weirdly one of the most freeing moments of my entire life. Not even when I looked like an extra for the Victoria Secret fashion show did I ever feel this liberated in a swimsuit. It was like I finally exhaled after two and a half decades of holding my breath.

I want for you to exhale too.



I love you you beautiful majestic stallions

Have a wonderful day

~Maria

Angel Food Cake-a-thon

Greetings!

Today I decided to try and make an angel food cake out of a box--don't get it twisted--because I'm having friends and kids over and its approximately 765 degrees out so eating brownies or heavy pie would kick you directly into Type 2 Diabetes. When its hot you must eat light feeling desserts because you cant just not eat a dessert when you have guests over. Its one of the commandments.

At the store I picked the only angel food box mix that was available.

I didn't look at the back because I was more concerned with the fact that my two and a half year old just decided its super great to slam the tiny baby shopping cart he was pushing into the back of my knee--after he put 3 bags of cheese popcorn into it. After getting it home, and after doing 75 other things, I was finally able to take a gander at this beast. I was instantly like oh fuck this noise. This is a box mix. I am used to maybe 3 or 4 simple instructions. Its why I enjoy baking. Its simple, its easy, once its in the oven your only job is to make sure you don't forget to set a timer. Not so with angel food, my friends, not so.

Lets start out with a general overview of the instructions, shall we?

There are 14 items in bold print and one sentence that is in bold print and CAPS LOCK.

THIS CAKE IS NOT FUCKING AROUND. 

We are already off to a bad start. The top right corner has a sentence That Feels The Need To Have Every Word In It Capitalized. Do Not Eat Raw Cake Batter. Ha! Ok. I'll also not eat an entire tub of noosa in one sitting. STFU Box. You don't dictate my life. Raw cake batter is not the equivalent to pure Colombian grade heroin, so just settle down. 

Ok first step: Move Oven rack to lowest position or middle position. Not sure why move needs to be in bold. You're already yelling at me. We are literally on step one. I look at my oven, think meh, there are 3 racks in there, I'll just put it on the middle because if there is one thing I absolutely will not tolerate its being yelled at by a box of fucking cake batter. I refuse to move the rack out of defiance. *This decision will come back to haunt me later.

Alright step two: Beat Cake mix and water in extra large bowl on low speed for 30 seconds, and then medium speed for one minute. Ok, that's oddly specific. I get out the stopwatch on my phone and prepare to follow these directions because I'm afraid if I don't the box will grow a tiny cardboard hand and slap me. I should mention before actually mixing at these precise timed intervals, I neglected to fasten the mixer attachments completely because I had to run upstairs to give a hug to a half asleep toddler who somehow managed to hit his head while sleeping in a crib. Naturally, I lost one spinner to the batter during my episode, at which point I grabbed it from what was becoming an increasingly frothy liquid and threw it into the sink. Onward we go--things are going so well!

You may recall from 2 paragraphs ago that I was warned NOT to eat the raw cake batter. Again, for no reason other than to show an inanimate object it cant control me, after mixing I dip my finger in and have a taste. It tastes like if you poured pop into a solution of watered down vinegar and sugar. Unpleasant. How will this turn into a delicious cake? I have no idea, clearly.

Next I'm told to pour this nasty vinegar/pop batter into some pans. There are differing instructions for all the different pan options and at this point Ive just stopped caring, and grab the first two pans in my cupboard, which happen to be acceptable. Success!

I pop these babies in the oven on the middle rack and set the timer for 40 minutes because the terrifying CAPS LOCK and bold sentence screams at me to DO NOT UNDERBAKE or you will unleash the fires of hell upon you and your children's children until the end of times. In my haste and apathy at these bitch ass instructions, I ignore the side note about batter overflowing if you use a certain type of pan because I'm all like I don't even know what that pan is, this doesn't apply to me--NEXT. 

Cue 20 minutes later, and while I'm doing my best to eat an entire container of hummus without coming up for air, I decide to stroll past the oven and see how my special little cake friends are doing. To my horror quickly turned apathy, I realize why there was so much fuss about the location of the god damn racks. One of my cakes has decided to grow through the rack above it like one of those poor trees that grows around a bike chained to it from the 18th century or something. In my haste to fix this situation I neglected to take an oven picture, but once having extracted the top rack, I did get a photo of the damage still clinging to it. So professional!

Lucky for me, I obviously didn't divide the batter evenly, so only one cake was seriously disfigured because of my hubris. I decide to go back and reread the rest of the directions to prevent another catastrophe, because at this point I'm guessing that this cake is going to require me to stand on my head while reciting the Sri Lankan National Anthem while removing it from the oven because it is the most high maintenance dessert ever. 

And look at that! The final explanation of what should be the easiest thing about baking--taking the already baked thing out of the fucking oven--is the longest paragraph in the instructions! I am told I must IMMEDIATELY turn pan upside down or on its side depending on the type of pan and am told to look on the side of the box for picture examples on how to not fuck up setting a pan down. This box couldn't fit all its bullshit onto the back, it requires an extra side with actual illustrations. 

Jesus take the wheel. It also reminds me to only set the pans on a heatproof surface to cool, which is good because I was planning on balancing them on my baby's head until I read that. 

The edges and tops are crispy as hell because I was so scared after messing up the rack thing that I was determined I would not underbake the entire thing as well. My brain is a constant mix of caring a lot and not giving a fuck at all, so this process was a roller coaster of emotions for me. 

The results:

One angel food cake that looks like it was run over by a child on a bike 

and 

One angel food cake that is pretty and gets to sit on a fancy platter as a reward for not being a mess like its brother. 

What have I learned from this experience? Angel food cake is a fussy bitch and even though I learned the hard way that the instructions do serve a purpose, in the future I will be buying this shit from the grocery store premade. 

Thank you for your time. Have a great HumpDay my Sex Kittens

~Maria

Some things I think about

1) I really do not know what I would do if I were to lose the majority of my face in a grill explosion or chimpanzee mauling or mistaken identity acid bombing. I think that as a courtesy to others I would need to wear some type of head covering. Because whenever I see stories on TLC about people that survived a fire all I can think is what a complete fucking crock of shit it is that you not only have to live with what has been described as the one of the most painful injuries known to man, one that never completely stops hurting, but on top of it you now look like a fucking monster. That's just bullshit.

2) How long do redwing blackbirds live? Does bird time feel like human time? Is 3 bird years the same as 80 human? I hope so. It already feels like we don't get enough time here, imagine if you were a fucking bird.

3) Why are there no female chefs at Benihana? What do I need to do to become one? I don't want to buy an $875 knife but I'm pretty sure that's got to be a requirement.

4) In public I make a point to not look at my phone while waiting for things even though it feels uncomfortable at first because what really feels uncomfortable to you is being alone with your thoughts and if that's the case then you are already fucked from the get go.

5) The universe is unbelievably mind blowingly crazy. I hate that I cant see it from where I live, not really anyways. I need to get to a place where I can.

6) If someone ever tries to steal my car with my kids in it, I think jumping on the hood and using the screwdriver I need to start keeping in my pocket to smash the windshield will scare the thief enough to pull the car over and run. Out crazy the crazy. It is the only way.

7) I want to know all the different ways to disable different large animals if they are attacking me or someone I love. Or just like even. Like, supposedly you punch a shark in the nose to get it to fuck off. Do you choke out a puma? I mean either way, you're going to get fucked up, but it'd be nice to know the best chance Id have at getting the thing to go away.

8) Where the hell am I supposed to keep my cell phone in my car that wont result in it being flung through the god damn windshield in an accident? In my bra? Because its not very helpful in case of emergency if its 138 yards away in a ditch puddle.

 9) I sometimes honestly do not comprehend how any of us survived toddlerhood. Like between acting like a complete asshole that by any other human standard would warrant being left in a cornfield, to knowingly jumping off the bed onto a sideways laundry basket, it really boggles my mind.

10) When I know that severe weather is on the way, I always put on my tennis shoes. I have a storm survival box with food/diapers/water/dog leash/phone charger/band aids/flashlight/radio, etc etc, but you better bet your ass that if your house gets flattened and you need to climb out of wood and cement and glass and nail filled rubble that you're going to be happy you decided to put something solid on your feet instead of a god damn flip flop.

11) I try really hard not to judge the conversations of people at coffee shops. Its difficult.

12) I loath when parents make their small children jog with them. They are fucking 8 years old. They don't need to go for a god damn run. If you are raising them right they should still have the metabolism of a dormouse and wont need to begin jogging until their mid to late nevers. Just knock it off. Put them on their bike for Christs sake.

13) Being a parent is really really hard at times. But kids are awesome. They don't give a fuck. They just live. They are inspiring. Plus taking care of something that completely jump starts your maturity. Its a good thing over all. I recommend it.

14) I love coins and whenever I hold one I think about who touched it and how many places its been and what kind of crazy shit has it seen. Coins are the inanimate flies on the wall of our lives. They probably see all kinds of fucked up shit. On your nightstand could be the nickle that was in the cup holder of OJ as he drove his white bronco into the sunset. I bet coins just naturally become pervs because of all the sex they witness. Also don't you dare ever spend a Sacajawea dollar. They are the closest we have to real treasure and should be treated thusly.

15) I know tacobell isn't real Mexican food but I love it for what it is just as much as I adore authentic Mexican cuisine. B) Taco bell is the fast food establishment that's made me sick the most, yet it remains in my heart and in my craving bank. I got sick off thin mints once when I was like 7 and I cant even smell them without wanting to vom. Black magic TB. You evil temptress.

16) Car horns are for honking. Like, that is their main function. IDK if its a Midwest thing but I'm the only person I know who uses their horn at least every other day. Ive gotten really good at using it for different corrections based on the duration of the beep. I'm honking to let you know you need to get your shit together in some way. No need to thank me.

17) Real life calorie counting is so incredibly depressing I cant believe there are people out there that do not have to do it out of medical necessity that continue to and can actually get out of bed in the morning. Fuck that. Thats why I have a fitbit. I walked 10,000 steps today mother fuckers and burned 2500 calories, I can eat this entire pizza by myself!!! I WILL LIVE FOREVERRRRRRR

18) If you enjoyed this let me know. I could do this shit all night. My brain never stops.

19) Love you love buggies

~Maria