Heidi in Real Life

The stress I put myself under,   trying to achieve the perfect holiday is a tradition in itself  .    It comes from a well-meaning place—I really want to show my love by doing special things, buying special gifts.   In fact, I want you to be so fucking happy that I eventually feel validated--as a woman, mother and human being. That’s a lot of pressure to feel, much less project onto others.  “Will she like this?” “I hope I don’t hurt his feelings.” “Did I make enough food?” “What if someone isn’t gleeful (and showing it)?” My poor kids!  All that mismatched energy blasted at them, twisting their stomachs, just like mine did as a child.   Nothing rings Christmas bells louder than high anxiety and IBS. In my house growing up, opening gifts was a performance.  If you had a gift, all eyes were on you.  How you reacted to that gift was a math equation.  My mom's facial expression equaled our enthusiasm divided by the n...

Hello.   I’m a dignified 8-year-old Corgi named Freya.   I am Krista’s dog, and I adore her.   But on Fridays, Krista goes God-knows-where and leaves me home with “grandma” (her word, not mine).   Grandma calls it “Fridays with Freya” and it’s special spoiling time for the two of us.   Ugh. Grandma talks to me only in the world’s highest possible squeaky voice, asking me questions that I’m supposed to answer.   Here’s an example: “Who’s the best puppy? Say “I am!””   I’m especially annoyed when she asks me open-ended questions, like, “What do you think?”   I’m middle-aged, I don’t have time for this baby-talk nonsense.   There are times when Grandma leaves me alone at home.   I am totally fine with the peace and quiet of being alone (I’m very mature).   But, because I’m a rascal, I hang my head low when she comes back, and barely move.   She sits down with me, pets me and then I roll over for a belly rub.   If she tr...

I start to write, “SDF seeking NG (nice guy) who….”  and then my hand cramps. I’m tempted to se nd out signals to someone who is embodies the complete opposite of the men I’ve been attracted to (and married) in the past.  That would mean I’d be looking for a poor, stupid, short, stocky, blind man with an organ-grinding monkey, who hates kids and dogs.  Not that there’s anything wrong with blind men. How would that read?   SDF seeking PSSS-BM w/OGM-HKD. My criteria has seriously changed over the years.   I might be seeking someone to be my Euchre partner who likes quiet nights AND who goes where he belongs at night (or when I’m tired, which ever happens first).   When I say the evening is over, you gotta get up outta here. It’s been 31 years since I went on a first date.   Back then, I was looking for someone who sparked my interest.   Now, my pilot light is so dim now—a spark might incinerate me!   It’s funny what ceases to be i...

The fur is really flying in Springfield, OH, as citizens, interested parties and especially pets of voters are enraged and taking it to the streets this election eve.   Many of the pets are out on the front lawn with signs: “The Haitians were GREETING us, not EATING us!” Haitian immigrants can be seen outside too, hugging the cats, dogs and hamsters… and not in a creepy way .    Pets of all size and shape think they can influence the outcome of this election.   Forget about Iowa, folks.     Where the atrocities of false rumors have been spread, they must be addressed and avenged.    “The Haitians have come here due to our low cost of living and plentiful jobs,” said Fido, a mutt, “and they’re friendly to us.   They eat mainly starch anyway, not meat.   Be afraid if you’re a navy bean!” “Yeah, I saw a bald eagle flying around the other day.   Now, they will eat us!” said Rufus the hedgehog, shivering. Donald Trump, lured...

Air- Sweet Air Losing weight rapidly on Mounjaro® has made it so I can finally breathe at night.  This is may be the best result of my weight loss journey.   6 months ago, I was struggling with breathing, mostly because my neck-fat and my large, floppy boobs were strangling me.  I can’t speak for other’s sleep disorders, but mine was completely fat-related.  In the back of my mind, I feared having to strap on a CPAP in the future. My ex-husband, Hyde, had a tiny, baby-sized mouth and the tongue of Jabba the Hutt .   I don’t know how he could even talk .   In 1993, when I started dating him, he had a Model A version of a CPAP.    Model A consisted of a thick, wide hose and a little hat (for his head) to keep the nose-hose in place.   In the shadows of the night, the hose looked like a long, flaccid proboscis that I was hoping was not meant for foreplay. “Hyde, can you take that thing off before we have sex?” “Haaaaaaaah.  Haaaaaa...

Pancreas Bitch-Slapping Mounjaro ® is mostly responsible for my pancreas being kicked into modified submission.   To my endless joy, I no longer need to take Insulin.   My A1C is down to 6.1 and I’m only monitoring my blood sugar. Additionally,   I have no more back pain, and my sciatica has been tamed like a lion with a chair.   I have a lot more energy and I don’t think of things in terms of places to sit anymore. Thanks, Mounjaro! Hairnado! Hair loss is possible with fast weight loss (your experience may vary). The first time I noticed it, I was sent a picture of me in a group shot and I swear my forehead looked bigger. Think Casper the Friendly Ghost.   I blamed it on a lighting problem.   Next couple of months, my bathroom sink wouldn’t drain.   I plunged it out and a major clump of black, slimy hair emerged   “Huh?   How long has that been there?” Not even denying it —just plainly not seeing the truth. A week later, I dr...

  Part 1  -  (your experience may vary) I am a card-carrying fat person.   Fat is in my DNA.  I’ve struggled all my life.  I love food.  My favorite hobby was Sheet-caking. I’m almost 60 years old and I’ve tried almost everything to get thin.  I have Diabetes Type 2 and my doctor approved me for a weekly injectable weight loss drug- Mounjaro®.  My first shot was April 4 th , 2024. A little Ecstasy first: Exit Stage Left About 5 minutes after I gave myself a shot (the needle is tiny and doesn’t hurt at all)—I lost my appetite.  Almost immediately, my body got rid of anything that it had been holding inside it--Earth, Wind, Fire and Water  I burped more times that you can ever imagine.  4 days of this, and then I felt fine.  Not hungry.  Not thinking about food.  And so the journey began—The Deflation of Ms. Heidi. Nothing prepared me for how easy the weight fell off.  Mounjaro is a miracl...

I am still dumbstruck by people who can co-parent and co-exist with someone who has broken their heart.   There is a hollow, gnawing black hole in your body when you end a marriage. A massive, vacuuming abyss, and sometimes the only thing that makes it feel better is imagining your former love dangling above a pit of hungry (hungry) hippos. Later, you’ll catch sight of a family picture with HIM and his fat face in the middle of it, spoiling your happy memory.   You morph into a pulsing, sweaty bull, snorting, stomping-- getting ready to charge.   And then you find a pair of scissors and you cut that face—the face you once loved, the face that now mocks you, out of the picture, leaving a blank silhouette.   Childish?   Maybe.   But I was 24 when I divorced my first husband.   I was a child.   It would have been easier if I’d put the in-law on the end for less compositional disruption.   It would also save me the trouble of sticking a pictu...

Believe it or not, “My Mother the Car” was real sit-com in 1965 starring Jerry Van Dyke who owned a car who was inhabited by his mother’s spirit.   She talked to him via the radio.  Nightmare?  I say yes.  My own car makes passive aggressive suggestions just like my mother did, especially when she was driving with me.   My Honda reminds me all the time about cars approaching me on the right and left.   “I KNOW!” I hear in my brain.   Dolores (my mother) is just trying to be helpful.   There are lights, but that’s not a good enough warning—I need to be beeped at as well. Apparently, I don’t brake soon enough for my car’s taste.   Just as once, my mother’s foot used to stomp on the floorboard while she road shotgun alerting me that she thought I should slow down, Honda flashes a BRAKE warning in orange, large font.   “Yes, Mom, I know, I see the red light.”   Annoyingly, Dolores, as my Honda, will turn down the air conditionin...