on food and eating and obsessions and, of course, NUTELLA

I overeat.

I eat when I’m not hungry.

I eat when I’m bored, tired, excited, nervous, sad, happy, giddy, infuriated… you name the feeling and I’m eating whilst that feeling is being felt.

I remember sleeping over at my cousin’s house when we were like 10. Kenya is only 6 months older than me so we pretty much were BFF’s. I was in the bathroom peeing and Kenya was in the kitchen toasting bread for breakfast that would soon be lathered with Nutella (we were way ahead of the Nutella craze). As I sat on the pot getting excited about how my teeth would soon sink into crunchy toast with smooth, warm Nutella (that would get stuck to the roof of my mouth because I’d accidentally put too much on), I heard Kenya’s voice travel down the hallway: “How many pieces do you want?”

“Two,” I shouted, thinking that I shouldn’t have the three pieces I really wanted. But at the same time that I spat out my response, Kenya completed her question by adding, “One or two?”

I immediately felt like an idiot. Like I had been caught. Like Kenya, who was into ballet and boys, would know why I wasn’t: because I loved eating food and lots of it.

Did you catch that I was around 10 when this happened? Isn’t that kind of an odd thing to remember? How many fucking pieces of toast with Nutella you wanted when you were 10?

I’m that person that generally remembers very little from back then… partly because there isn’t a lot to remember (boring) and partly because I blocked a lot out (parental split), or partly, perhaps, because of the daily usage of marijuana in the first couple years of my 20s.

Regardless, I don’t remember shit, yet I remember this one time, 30+ ago, when I wanted at least two pieces of toast to my skinny BFF’s one.

Sick. I’m sick. There’s got to be some kind of switch or something in my brain that’s not flipped in the right direction.

Right now, my stomach hurts from today’s food consumption of McDonald’s Egg White Delight (no bacon) Meal (with hashbrown) and large coffee (five cream); an amount of mini Reece’s peanut butter cups that I lost track of after like five; half a blueberry muffin; potato chips; a Smart Ones pasta meal; more chips. It’s 3PM. I still need to eat dinner, too. And it’s Taye’s late night so that means Lovie and I are on our own so that means I’ll probably eat shit.

Not literally of course. (Well to some I’m sure it is literal shit but … you know what I mean!)

I’m not sure what my point is to this, really. I’m fat. I own my fatness. I’m “okay” with being fat, but I’m not. I think it’s the food and my obsession with it that really bothers me. I feel like I can’t NOT think of food. Yes, I need it to survive and all that jazz, but it’s truly an obsession for me.

Maybe I should start smoking again.


no point to this but at least it’s something? uh, yeah, not really.

I want to write. I need to write. But I’m back, once again, in that place when I don’t really know what to write about.

I know stories of my youth will resonate with some readers and may even get a couple people interested in more from me, but I just don’t have it in me. I just don’t.

I’m half tempted to go back to some older posts on older blog(s) and do re-writes. At least it’s something.

Which is better than the nothing I’ve been coming up with lately.

If I had an excuse or two for not writing– life is busy, the kid doesn’t sleep much, work is hell, the dog shat on my keyboard– maybe then it wouldn’t be so bothersome to me, but really I have no excuses. I have the time. I have the desire, I really do. I just don’t seem to have the subject matter.


This is so me. Just add longer hair, no facial hair, big boobs. Click for source.


I just went to the bathroom moments ago. I sat on the toilet and told myself I need to come up with something… anything. I need to post something today, dammit. But what?

Then I noticed my hand shaking. Motherfuck, I hate that this is happening– growing older: I just got progressive or transgressive or something-essive bifocal glasses last week; my hands are shaking more noticeably every fucking day; I can’t stop eating the shit food no matter how hard I try, how often I promise (who?) I’ll do better.

I don’t want to write about any of this and here I am doing just that.

And I don’t want to write about NOT writing because it’s fucking bullshit.

I need to just do it.

I need to just write.

Who the fuck cares what it’s about?

Why can’t I at least throw some fucking fiction out there?

I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.


I’m kind of tired of the internet. I’m tired of having access to so much shit so quickly. I’m tired of reading about missing people. I’m tired of reading about horrendous fucking acts by adults to children.

I just want to shut my eyes to it all, but I can’t.

I can’t because then what?

Dear God, then what?

If I don’t go online, what the shit would I do all day long at work? There just isn’t enough work to do. This isn’t a complaint, nor is it me boasting. It’s just a fact. If I had lots of work to do, I would do it. Gladly. (Okay, maybe not so gladly as I’m sure I’d bitch up a storm to someone.)

But instead, I just lurk… on Facebook, on Twitter, on Reddit, on WordPress, on Blogger, on Message Boards. I click, click, click all day long. My eyes see some strange fucking things, yet none of it makes me want to write. Instead I just judge.


I mean, if I could at least judge here, then at least I’d be writing, but I just can’t do it. I can’t let the thoughts out of my head because I know me and I know… I KNOW… I will submerge myself into those thoughts and the majority of them are negative and for fucks sake, the world is full of enough negative bullshit.

But then why not do Fiction? Submerge myself into a character or two!

Brilliant. But… I just can’t keep it going. I don’t know what the fuck my problem is.

It’s like I’m just not interested in much of anything.


No point to this but hey at least I fucking “wrote”.


living like a dead person

By the time you’re eighty years old you’ve learned everything. You only have to remember it.

Bill Vaughan

My dad’s surprise party is Sunday. He’ll be 80 on Monday. EIGHTY.

I’m not sure why exactly, but for the past several months I haven’t really put much thought into this. I planned a small surprise party at a pizza joint with immediate family for Sunday. I sent out simple little hand-made invites. Everyone is coming. This isn’t some elaborate thing, but it’s a thing nonetheless.

Realizing I still need to order a cake, I wondered, “What the hell do I put on the cake?”

I picked up a big red 8 candle and a big red 0 candle the other day, along with some simple Happy Birthday décor. I plan to get a dozen or so helium balloons on my way to the restaurant Sunday. But what should I put on the cake?

Happy Birthday

Happy 80th Birthday

Congrats for being the oldest living member of your family

Thinking about this led me to think about other things… like the fact that MY DAD IS TURNING 80 IN LESS THAN A WEEK.

While I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this (primarily because I don’t have the funds to do so), this IS a big fucking deal.

And a big deal should be made of it!

So I quickly sent out emails and Facebook messages apologizing for the last minute begging, but asked that people send me quick little anecdotes that involve my dad. Like, “I remember that time we went fishing and you made me stick a hook through a minnow.”

My hope is to get 80 little memories gathered to present to my dad on Sunday.

But now I’m in tears.

The past couple of years have been a bit difficult. He’s been living in an old people’s home (independently) and he feels like he’s “living like a dead person.” Nobody calls, nobody visits.

Anything that ever comes from his mouth is a complaint.

It’s just very difficult to listen to every single time we communicate or are together.

And now I’m realizing he’s going to be 80.


I’m going to be a mess on Sunday. I know it. Worse than when I walked down the aisle six years ago with him clutching my arm.

But, hopefully he’ll at least stop feeling like he’s “living like a dead person.”




The guy I posted about several times was finally found late Thursday, October 3rd.

A cop found his car at the end of a parking lot, backing up to a cornfield late afternoon. It was one mile from his parents’ home, about 10 miles from his own home with his wife of three years and 1-year-old son. The cop was in the area on another call when he spotted the car belonging to Nick.

A search was done in the fields right beyond the parking lot but several hours later they called off the search because it was raining and it was dark.

I knew they found him then, despite not announcing it. I just knew it.

The next morning (Friday the 4th), the police announced that a very decomposed body was found in the fields at about 10:30 the night before (the car was found around 5PM). They said that it was believed to be Nick Steward based on personal belongings on and/or near him.

Later we learned the body had cuts to both wrists, his upper left arm, and his neck (but they think they neck wound may be a result of wildlife).

As of right now, they still haven’t confirmed that the DNA is of Nick Steward but his family have accepted that it is.

The news reports all point toward suicide.

I knew when they announced his car was found Thursday late afternoon that things weren’t good. I suspected from the get-go he was gone–either suicide or just took off.

I didn’t know this man or any of his family and friends.

Still, I felt so incredibly sad when I learned he was found and the state in which he was found.

I can’t even begin to imagine what his family and friends are going through.

Because I was so obsessed with the case, I’ve been still checking any sources I could for information. Last night as I was laying in bed, I went to Nick’s Facebook page and clicked on his friends list. The number of profile photos I saw that included pictures of Nick made my eyes swell with tears. He had so many friends. He had a beautiful wife and an adorable little boy. He had so much.

So why?

I’ve been in the dark place before. I’ve contemplated ending it all. It’s been such a long time since I’ve lived in that place, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I wouldn’t wish that darkness on anyone. So I really do understand why people do it but… in this case… it’s so hard to accept. Mainly because of the one year old, I think. That’s what really slays me.

Ugh. Such a sad story.

Who really knows though? He very well could’ve been murdered–made to look like a suicide. I mean you gotta really want it to cut both wrists, right? Yikes. But if he was murdered… it’s just all so coincidental:

  • he talked to his wife and parents after leaving work
  • he told them his phone was dying
  • he ended up one mile from his parents home
  • a search wasn’t formed for 10 days!
  • police issued a notice of his missing status indicating he was depressed and possibly suicidal one day (about three or four days in) (I actually have proof because I saved a copy of the report to my desktop), but then the notice was retracted within hours
  • his family and friends seem to be so accepting of everything

If this happened to me and I thought for a moment my loved was murdered, oh hell no would I sit back quietly and let it seem like he took his own life.

I suspect they’d do the same.

Just sad. So sad.

But at least this family gets some closure unlike others whose family members never resurface.


RIP Nick Steward



… Gone

That guy I posted about being obsessed with? The missing guy from Lake Villa, IL? He’s still missing. Tomorrow will be day 14 of him being … gone. He just vanished. He was coming home from work and never made it home. They haven’t found ANY clues to his whereabouts. Not his car, nothing. It’s crazy and I can’t stop reading about the case. My husband mocks me, telling me I’m living a Lifetime movie because I’m so obsessed with the case.

It’s hard not to be, though. He lives in the same town my mom lives in. He’s a new dad. I’ve driven the same roads he’s driven many times. And he’s just … gone. Absolutely no clues have surfaced. It’s bizarre.

Of course it doesn’t help–at all–that I started reading Gone Girl before this case surfaced. So my mind was racing with lavish ideas when I heard about Nick’s disappearance. And hello? The guy’s name is Nick, same as the husband in the book. Trippy, right?

Only difference is Gone Girl is fiction and the disappearance of Nick Steward is not.

And that’s so sad for Nick Steward’s family and friends.

Still, I obsess over the case and I can’t help wondering if any of the other people–strangers to Nick Steward–who are constantly thinking about the case, have read Gone Girl. I’m not at all comparing Steward’s disappearance with the missing person case in Gone Girl, but it’s just hard not to think about Gone Girl: It was an amazing read. So wonderfully told. I felt so connected to the characters. I felt like I knew them. Like, they were real people. That doesn’t happen often for me when I’m reading because of the years I spent (college) dissecting the written word. That didn’t happen this time. I was just submerged into the book, into the characters… Wow, I could go on and on about it but won’t because talking about a fiction book and a real missing person just doesn’t sit well with me.

This here below …


This is real life.

I can’t even fathom.