Goals: The result or achievement toward which effort is directed; aim; end
Selfish: Devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one’s own interests, benefits, welfare, etc., regardless of others.
Liquor: How a male animal cleans his mate (ok, that one might be a bit of a stretch, but I was on a roll)

Well, so now that 2016 has finished kicking our
ass I’m looking forward to my life in 2017.

We lost Prince but we got Batman vs Superman.
We lost Zsa Zsa but we got Zika.
We lost Bowie but we got killer clowns.
We lost Gene Wilder but we got Pokemon Go.
We lost The Good Wife but we got Fuller house
We lost Muhammad Ali but we got the Ice Bucket Challenge.

Yup, pretty fucking awful.

And so here we are…2017.

Last year, or maybe the last two years, became my Year of Fear. The idea was simple: do one thing every day that scares you. I jumped off a cliff into a lake, I parallel parked, I wore dangly earrings with a pair of jeans, and I started saying yes to things that made me uncomfortable. Some were big. Some were ridiculously small. But they all counted.

To me, 2016 was the slap. Now I want 2017 to be the hug.

I’m taking off my superhero cape and wrapping myself in a warm blanket of selfishness. Actually, let’s stop calling it selfishness. Let’s call it self-care. It’s not about me, me, me. It’s about putting me first once in a while. That’s the goal. The Year of Me.

Let me unpack this a little more…most all of us have been on a plane and listened to the flight attendants give their safety speech. Try to get past the visual of them blowing up the life-vest like a little pinky sized pee-pee…what do they always say?

“Put your oxygen mask on first, before helping others”.

It sounds backwards, but it makes perfect sense. Most of us are hardwired to put everyone else’s needs ahead of our own. But if we’re running on empty, we’re not much help to anybody.

It’s like when I hear, “A happy mother equals a happy child.” Personally, I’m still convinced high-speed internet has something to do with it too. But just because a saying is a little cheesy doesn’t make it wrong.

Take these “Just Because…” gems, for example:

“Just because I’m looking at you doesn’t mean I’m listening”
“Just because it’s handmade doesn’t mean it’s cheap”
“Just because I can’t sing doesn’t mean I won’t sing”
“Just because it’s a hole, doesn’t mean you should stick your finger in it” (Fine, I might have made that one up, but it still holds true. Sorry hubby)

I’m not sure when being selfish became synonymous with being a douchebag, but here we are. My answer to this is in 2017 is I’m declaring myself the supreme leader of Douchebagistan and the borders are open to all who want to embrace the lifestyle with me. Who says that being selfish makes you a bitch? That makes about as much sense as a dentist trying to have a conversation with me while she’s got a couple of metal sticks in my mouth poking and prodding.

Let’s be clear, as much as I’d like The Year of Me to consist of nothing but Netflix and an all-wine diet, I still live in the real world. I have 2 kids (3 if you count the hubby), 2 dogs, my mom and all the other responsibilities that I treasure, but that doesn’t mean that me and my needs always need to take a backseat.

I vow to myself to stop putting shit off. I love to read, sleep late, experiment in the kitchen, take a candlelit bath, and simply have an hour where nobody needs anything from me. It’s time to stop pushing me to the bottom of the list or God help us, off the list. It’s easy to lose a bit of ourselves along the way, and to that I say No Fucking More!

2017 “The Year of Me”. You can find memes galore on the internet about “Ain’t nobody got time for that”. Well then call me Dr. Nobody, because I’m making time for that…who’s with me?

The post Welcome to Douchebagistan, Population: ME! appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

No sugar. No dairy. No processed foods. No coffee.

Yes…no fucking coffee.

When I told my husband, he just looked at me and said, “I don’t know what’s left for you to eat. But if it’s what you want to do, go for it. More coffee for me.”

My thinking was simple. Even if I hated every minute of it, maybe I’d learn something about what was actually in my food. I read labels all the time, but I’m usually looking for the organic seal or the non-GMO label. I don’t spend my grocery trips reading every ingredient like I’m studying for the SATs.

Which, by the way, turns a one-hour shopping trip into a three-hour tour…a three-hour tour…

Whoops. Sorry. I’m back.

I made it six days before I was ready to sell my soul for a sandwich and a glass of wine. Sandwich optional.

But something unexpected happened.

I felt…better.

Not “I can run a marathon” better.

More like “my stomach finally stopped trying to kill me” better.

That’s when it hit me.

It was probably the dairy.

For years I’d blamed everything else. Stress. Eating too fast. Bad restaurants. A “sensitive stomach.” Growing up, my mom was convinced I had what she lovingly called a “spastic colon.” Apparently watching enough Marcus Welby, MASH, Quincy, Trapper John, St. Elsewhere, and Doogie Howser qualified her for an honorary medical degree from Bullshit University.

Thanks, Mom.

Looking back, the signs were ridiculously obvious. Ice cream always came with stomach cramps. Cheesy casseroles were basically a warning label. Milk and I had been enemies for years, and somehow I never connected the dots.

I’m not a doctor, so don’t take my word for it. Do your own research. But once I started paying attention, it became pretty clear my body and dairy were no longer on speaking terms.

Sometimes we get so used to feeling a certain way that we assume it’s normal. We adapt. We work around it. We tell ourselves, “That’s just how my body is.”

Sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes…

Turns out it was the milk.

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