Sometimes the obsessive-compulsive thoughts are unbearable.

It always starts with a negative image.  My feelings of dislike for that particular picture in my mind start to build more and more until holy shit, it’s twenty times worse than I originally envisioned, except now it’s sprouting tentacles and puss is oozing from its orifices too fast for me to escape and gahhhhh! I’m drowning in its gooey disgustingness and being caressed by its cold and slimy spider web fingertips while it whispers in my ear and fondles my private parts.  I fight, gasping in horror, unable to push it away.

It’s like the utter helplessness I felt the time my neighbor made me take off my clothes for him when I was a little girl.

For years and years on end I couldn’t get the sickening smile on his wretched face out of my head.  Every time I saw him thereafter, he’d grin at me, knowing what was hiding under my Catholic school dress code clothing.  It made me feel polluted, dirty.  The stain from under my fingernails that I could never never reach at to clean without ripping my nails out first.  I cried every time I’d wake up from a nightmare involving him, and I could never escape the knowledge that something unfair and horrible had happened to me.  I was too young to understand the fact that it wasn’t my fault, and I thought that I somehow deserved it.

And I never told my parents because I was so ashamed.  As if I had been the one to do wrong.

To this day I have the fear that I am somehow dirty, tainted.  My body has always been a source of embarrassment.

It wasn’t my fault, but deep down inside of me, I feel like it somehow was.

Current Mood: Sad

Okay… this is what I came up with.  Let me know if you hate it. My About page was long overdue for an update.

…..

If sanity is a state of mind, then I’m a brilliant work of art crafted by a God with one heck of a sense of humor.

Tell that one to my psychiatrist and my therapist.  And my midwives, physical therapist, my husband, kids, and every last friend who had to deal with me during the severe postpartum depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and paranoia that nearly killed me after Oops #2 made her grand entrance into this world.  They’d probably give you a huge, toothy smile and wipe the sweat off their brow.  It was a really long year for all of us.

I used to be adamantly anti-drug.  No, for real.  I even went so far as to birth both my girls in the water without any sort of pain meds.  My second was a homebirth, a feat of which I am very proud despite the fact that I desperately want a hoo-haw recall.

If you’re a virgin or a hardcore religious fanatic, avert your eyes.  Oops, that warning was a bit late.  My bad.

Anyway, thanks to wonderfully smart people in white lab coats, not only am I no longer anti-drug, but I consume a lovely SSRI pill on a daily basis known as Prozac- yes, Prozac… can’t you believe I’m that fucking nuts?- that helps my neurons fire correctly so I can stop obsessing about how angry I am that “they” don’t tell you that childbirth is both the best and the worst thing that can happen to you.  Luckily, smart asses like myself exist to warn you exactly how horrible your vagina looks after a kid pops out of it...  Eh hem, but most days, I can function like a semi-normal human being.

Then there are the other days.  But that’s a different story.  See above.

My husband thanks the makers of happy pills as well.  He likes having a sexy wife, though scarred from having two very big babies, who bakes like a fiend and fills his belly with obscene amounts of cookies.  And he prefers when I shower and shave.  Thank you, doctors.  This moment was brought to you by anti-depressants: making everyone happy.

In another life I grew up in Tucson, AZ, survived 8 years of Catholic school, earned a second-degree black belt in Matsunoryu Jujitzu, married my college sweetheart, earned three degrees from the University of Arizona, raised two ginormous, stupid dogs, had two kids, and worked as a fourth grade teacher and a dance instructor.  But then life happened.

Now I live in the gorgeous city of Seattle, WA in my dream home that was built in 1900 near Lake Washington.  I miss my dumb, lovable pooches and want to adopt a homeless dog one of these days when all the boxes are unpacked.  I still teach dance, and I’ve finally learned how to enjoy West Coast Swing competition thanks to all the therapy I’ve been through. It’s been a roller coaster, but I’m alive and kickin’ and full of more piss and vinegar than ever.

When I’m not busy blogging about all the stupid, insignificant details of my boring, ridiculous life, I am a writer, dancer, teacher, website designer, and friend.  Most importantly, though, I’m a mom to two adorable munchkins and wife to a hot-ass computer geek.

I am Tamra.  Welcome to my blog.  Enjoy it and feel free to comment.  But know in advance that if you’re a jackass, I will hunt you down, tie you to a bed, and remove your pubic hairs one by one with a pair of tweezers.  I’m not kidding.

This is my personal website.  Nothing is sacred.  You’ve been warned.

I don’t know if I really am.  Sane, that is.  But that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who actually knows me in “real life”.

I am a writer, a dancer, a teacher, and a website designer.  Most importantly, though, I am a wife to a hot-ass hubby and mom to two adorable little boogery girls.  I have two gigantic stupid dogs, a house with crazy paint on the walls, and a king-sized bed that isn’t quite big enough for me and that cute husband of mine.  He’s a bed hog and completely narcoleptic.  And he flops around like a fish high on crack while he sleeps.  I, on the other hand, am an insomniac.

You will probably quickly discover that I certainly tend to skip along the less beaten path.  Barefoot, preferably.  I grew up in Tucson, Arizona, and my feet are tough from years of dance and walking through the desert as a child.  I hate wearing shorts, so I wear jeans in the 110 degree summer heat. Secretly, I’d much rather live up north near the ocean.  Blue skies piss me off when they happen frequently, which is pretty much every day here.

After surviving 8 years of Catholic School, I went to a public high school where I spent 4 prudish years proving that virginity was for nerdy losers like me.  I earned a second-degree blackbelt in Matsunoryu Jujitsu by the time I was 19, and I met the hubby through martial arts.  Everyone thinks it was through dancing.  Let me set the story straight: it wasn’t. We just both happened to be dancers, and once we figured that out, the rest was history.

So after 4 years of dating, we tied the knot in a traditional Catholic wedding and quickly learned that wedding-night sex is absolutely nothing to brag about.  Nine months later, I was pregnant with our little product of “Natural Family Planning”.  I decided to do it the ultra-granola way and did a water birth with Oops#1 at a birthing center.  Because, you know, hospitals and doctors are evil.

Somewhere in the midst of all that, I worked as a full-time ballroom dance instructor and survived being a full-time student at the University of Arizona.  Eventually, I moved up in the world and had my first “real” job as a 4th grade teacher.  Suddenly- whoops!  The cute husband knocked me up a second time.  That time we decided to do a homebirth since we had a feeling that Oops#2 was going to be a quick birth.  She was.  And it was another water birth.

Unlike most “sane” people, I was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression and anxiety about 4 months after giving birth.  Oh, and a touch of OCD.  If the OCD was about cleaning house, it would be a good thing… but it’s not.

Currently, I spend my days as a Stay-at-Home-Mom, or SAHM, drugged up on anti-depressants that make it possible for me to get out of bed in the morning.  I used to be anti-drug until it was impossible for me to function without them.  Now I thank the stars above that some genius in a white labcoat invented Prozac.  Without it, I would have 3-inch-long leg hair and a permanent body-shaped stain on my sheets.  Oh, and my husband thanks the makers of the SSRI drugs as well.  This moment brought to you by anti-depressants: making everyone happy.

In addition to taking care of my adorable spawn, I design websites, write website content, and blog a lot to maintain my sanity when my kids decide that naptime is really supposed to be “screamin’ down the house!” time.  In the evenings, I teach dance to a few really great and dedicated students who don’t seem to mind my brightly-colored walls and children’s toys littering the floor.

I am Tamra.  Welcome to my blog.  Enjoy it.  Comment on it.  But if you’re going to be a jackass, then don’t bother letting me know it.  This is my personal website.  Nothing is sacred.  You’ve been warned.

Current Mood: Cool

I keep trying to write a new About page, but how on earth does a nutcase define herself?

Current Mood: Alarmed

Oh my dear gawd…

Vulva Portrait Pendant

Not necessarily safe for work unless no one’s peeking over your shoulder.

If you love your vagina and want a pendant made in its likeness, there ya’ go.

You send ‘em a couple photos of your vulva, and the artist creates a duplicate of your woman-parts for you to display.

Do they come in post-I-pooped-a-living-breathing-human-being-out-of-my-cootchie form?

While I do believe that the female genitalia is both a delicate and beautiful part of a woman’s body, I would be mortified for anyone other than my husband to see the mess of scars my poor vagina has suffered from birthing two kids a bit too big for my little body.

I don’t think a portrait of my post-baby vagina could be mistaken for beautiful.  Artistic, sure.  Bloody war battles are depicted in classic art all throughout history.  Beautiful?  Um, no.

Safe to say, there will be no pendant of my vagina for your viewing horror.  You don’t need those kinds of nightmares, and I most definitely do not love my vagina enough to proudly wear it with my little black dress attire.

Current Mood: Alarmed

I never noticed until I moved here… but DAMMIT, something about the cool weather plus the humidity and lack of air conditioning has me sweating obscene amounts when I go dancing.  Even when the room is cold.  In Tucson, it’s hot as hell, so everyone sweats on the dance floor.  Here, yeah, I’m not so sure about that.

So last night I grooved on the dance floor to live blues at this fabulous bar downtown.  Seriously, it has the coolest atmosphere ever… and I’m not usually the kind of person who goes to a bar.  Just not my style.

BUT ANYWAY, so there I was, dancing with hardly a break in between songs, and I realized about an hour into it that my shirt was drenched in sweat.  I’d have been mortified except for the fact that I was wearing a top that didn’t show it.

This is the point at which I would like you to give my friend, Common Sense, a little round of applause.  Common Sense has made it possible for me to dress in clothing that doesn’t show massive sweat stains when I go dancing and has taught me to wear a bra with enough lining to keep my boobies safe from on-lookers.  Otherwise, I’d look like I’d entered a wet t-shirt contest and my nipples would be on display for the whole bar and Seattle dancers to see.  Nice.  Thank you, Common Sense.

Well, I’d been drinking wine on a fairly empty stomach, dancing like a mad hatter, and was sweating like I’d just stepped into a sauna, so the next friend that decided to visit me was Lack Of Self Control.

Lack Of Self Control had me shaking my ass and dancing very suggestively with all my guy friends.  Don’t worry, James is cool with it.  He gets a kick out of his wife when she’s a little tipsy on the dance floor.

“I like you when you drink,” was the comment I heard spoken by a mouth with a huge smile… oh, approximately 267 times last night from various dancers.

Then, then, my friend Diarrhea Of The Mouth decided to come party with me toward the end of the night.

I decided it would be a terrific idea to apologize to every guy I was dancing with for dripping sweat all over them.

Guys must like sweat.  A lot.  Would you like to hear the responses I got?

• No words, just a huge smile. (Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I’m still trying to decide.)
• “That’s okay, honey, we like when you sweat.”
• “Trust me, we don’t mind at all.”
• “Sweat means you’re working hard.  It’s a good thing.”

And my favorite winner of the night:

• “We like you sweaty.  It’s sexy.”

My response was to laugh because what on earth do I say to something like that?  Thank you, kind sir? I mean, come on, I was asking for it, thanks to my darling friend, Diarrhea Of The Mouth.

By the end of the night, my feet were a blistered mess, my mascara was caked under my eyes, the room was still spinning.  I downed a couple glasses of water before announcing that I was going to take a brisk walk along the waterfront, courtesy of my other friend, Lack Of Good Judgment, to help force my metabolism to get rid of the alcohol’s effects before jumping in the car and being a hazard to society.

And this is where I would like to extend a sincere Thank You to my other good friend (you know who you are), for insisting on joining me for my middle-of-the-night-I-drank-a-little-too-much-walk along the pier, freezing his ass off, and assuring me for like the twelfth time that night that guys really don’t mind when women sweat all over them on the dance floor.  Because, if you didn’t know, downtown Seattle really isn’t the safest place to be taking a casual stroll in the middle of the fucking night.  Thank You, Lack of Good Judgment.

And just for the record, I was completely sober when I got behind the wheel.  And James didn’t mind in the least when my freezing cold (and still sweating) ass cuddled up next to him in bed somewhere around 1:00 a.m.

So apparently, guys like when we sweat. Thank you, Common Sense, Lack Of Self Control, Diarrhea Of The Mouth, and Lack Of Good Judgement for joining me on last night’s little dancing adventure and making it possible for me to learn that.

And you, you lucky reader, can thank the Academy for letting its idiot run lose and blog about the ridiculous things that go on in her equally ridiculous, insignificant little life.

*Bows*

Thank you, thank you!

*Polite Applause*

Curtain closes.

………………………

Excuse me, I’m going to make another pot of coffee now.

Current Mood: Mischievous