I had an epiphany yesterday. I was standing in the middle of a Walmart pharmacy section with my newly purchased box of Samoas a bunch of little girls conned me into buying even though I probably won’t eat them. Those girls are so shifty. Have you ever had those Girl Scout cookies before? They are akin to tequila for me – every bite makes me want to strip down, put my underwear on my head, and do a seductive rendition of the chicken dance for everyone. Sexy, eh? I really know how to party. I was minding my own business, but then I was interrupted.
Walmart Lady: Is something wrong?
Me: I hate it here. That’s it … I hate being here. It’s driving me crazy.
Walmart Lady: Uhh, is there something that happened? Can I help you with something?
Me: Oh, no. Not here here. I mean, I kind of hate it here. Why does it seem like Walmarts are always in dusty old warehouses where they once held a bunch of Chinese kids hostage to make their clothes? Is that why your stuff is so cheap? Where are the children now? Where. Are. The. Children?!
Walmart Lady: …
Walmart Lady: I don’t know nothin’ about no Asians!
Me: *turns and quietly leaves*
I’ve come to hate living in this town. I’m not entirely sure where it stems from, but recently I’ve had the overwhelming feeling of needing to get out. Sheep aren’t made for the suburbs. There’s barely any room between the houses, silence is nonexistent, and it feels like privacy is hard to come by. I miss the country. I need to take some deep breaths of fresh air – cow shit and all. I’d even rather be closer to the beach.
I tried to ask my Mom for advice while I was driving home, and her wisdom was ‘just follow your heart!’ What kind of crappy advice is that? My heart is just telling me to go to the refrigerator.
I think it’s time to move.
I have no friends. In full disclosure – I’ve been known to participate in weird satanic rituals like slow dancing with my cats and pushing on people’s bruises when they least expect it. (Am I the only person who sees a bruise and has a hard time resisting taking a stab at it? I can’t be.) I don’t really blame anyone for steering clear of me. I would. But, I got an email a few days ago that was asking for advice and I got super excited because I felt a new friendship blossoming. That was until I read it and realized this person was 100% trolling me and trying to be a smart-ass. It’s still probably one of the best emails I’ve ever gotten and deserves to be shared.
This seems weird but I was hoping I could ask you a question. Everyone I know seems to give me candied, sugared-down advice and is pisses me off more than helps. I’m asking you to be blunt and tell me what I need to hear. Please don’t kiss my ass. You ain’t gettin a piece of it either way. I just need some honest feedback. It’s a doozy, but here it is…
My wife has named her lady taco ‘Winifred.’ It’s not a terrible name. I know it could have been something even worse like Lester or Jerry Seinfeld. The problem is is that my grandma’s name is Winifred. She did this shit on purpose to torment me. Now every time we get into it, all I can think of is how much I enjoy my grandma’s warm apple pie.
Do you have any better name suggestions for my wife’s muff? How should I handle this delicate situation? Am I being unreasonable about wanting her to change its name? I think we just need to come up with something a little more sexy for her beef curtains. This is urgent. Thanks.”
I love the internet.
I was six the first time someone called me fat. I was sporting my favorite Rainbow Bright swimsuit with a frilly top at the local pool, casually working on my Thriller moves, and waiting in line for my turn to dive (or spastically belly-flop) off the diving board. I was crushed. Until my older sister stepped up, pointed at the kid and said, “well… your nose is so big it looks like you have a deformed penis growing out of your stupid face!” God bless her. Where would we be without siblings?
(Check out this real-life penis nose. Poor guy.)
I’m sad to admit – I am the ugly duckling of my family. The odd one out. The spare. My sister and brother were born with skinny genes and have an innate love for physical fitness. They wake up every day at 5 am, hit the gym, down their disgusting spinach smoothies and egg whites, then go about their day at work. In Blair’s world – it’s a struggle. I was not graced with a good metabolism or the love of getting super sweaty and peeling my smelly clothes off every day. When I wake up, it’s to visions of strawberry-frosted donuts holding hands and wading through a pool of chocolate and licking whipped cream off each other. It takes every ounce of my being to get those thoughts out of my head. Every. Morning.
After decades, my doctors finally gave me some answers and we found a ‘way of eating’ that would agree with my body. Sadly, it has to be alcohol-free, caffeine-free, low-carb and sugar-free. So when I step up to your counter and ask for a decaf coffee with sugar-free peppermint, sugar-free vanilla, and two Splendas, I don’t need your eye-roll. I don’t need the sigh of exasperation, or the side glance to your coworker. I don’t drink this overpriced crap because I want to. I’m not trying to be a difficult because it’s fun.
I have no choice, Skinny Bitch. I hope one day you’re forced to only eat salad for two meals every day.
(Yes, I know skinny people have medical issues too.)
After following my husband around the house and doing my best impression of Count Chocula singing ‘Do You Want To Build A Snowman?’ for thirty minutes the other day, I was thoroughly disappointed when I woke up and there was just a layer of ice on the ground. Where was my six-to-eight inches of snow, Weather Channel? Where?! Has anyone ever heard of job where it’s perfectly acceptable to be wrong 75% of the time? It’s maddening. Screw you, Al Roker. S c r e w y o u. Luckily, it’s not the first time in life I’ve been lied to about 6-8 inches, so I got over it pretty fast.
So, my good friend Winter has finally arrived here in North Carolina. I invited him with open arms and when he came he quickly laid his blanket of white all over everything. I was happy. For a little while. Until I saw that it wasn’t enough to build a snowman or have a snowball fight in. I mean, I guess we could chuck ice at each other. It would probably cause some gaping wounds but it would be fun. Right? Fun. (Maybe I could invite the neighbor boy I hate to join us.) Then, when I was laying in bed this morning, I realized it was cold as hell in my house. Of course, on the coldest day of the year, and probably the one time we are going to get ice/snow this entire season, our heater has to stop working. Why, God?? WHY? Life is cruel.
I’m spending this cold day cozying up with my favorite Christmas presents from this year and last:
(Tora-kitten who I got as a gift last year. She isn’t a kitten anymore, but her name has stuck.)
(Fuzzy sheep socks that a fellow blogger mailed me for Christmas this year. How cool is that? Thanks chosenperspectives !)
Now, onto more important issues, like – where the hell can I find a box of Count Chocula? And I wonder if any local weather stations are hiring, I’m sure I’m qualified enough to predict the weather.
Okay, obviously I’m slow as hell and this post is weeks late, but… Merry Christmas! Woo! Most people have moved onto their New Year’s resolutions. ‘RIP‘ to all those sad gingerbread cookies and chocolates that got trashed due to new weight-loss goals. Have you ever heard of anything so sad? Tragic. So tragic. I hope everyone had an amazing holiday full of too much family time and food.
Did any of you get anything cool for Christmas? Or did you give someone a particularly fun gift? Here’s the gift I found in the store for my brother this year. He’s a fan of hot sauce, and I’m a fan of anything to do with inappropriate humor (especially ass-related.) It was a match made in Heaven –
Nothing says Christmas cheer like an invitation to have your ass explode.
I have a few New Year’s resolutions this year. A big one is to start blogging as much as I used to. I’m also planning to add some different types of posts. I’m not sure what they will be… so bear with me. Hopefully y’all will be seeing a lot more of me around here again. Sorry. Kind of.
I hope everyone’s 2017 is better than their 2016.
Do any of you have really strange recurring dreams? Like the ones that are so vivid you are 100% convinced you’re about to ride your adult-sized tricycle off a cliff and you can feel both of your legs snap when you finally make contact with the ground again? You wake up sweaty, your pillows stained with tears, your dog whimpering in the corner, and you’re praying to God your legs are, in fact, still attached and not going in wonky directions. That 10 seconds between waking up and figuring out whether it was a dream or real life = terrifying. Purely terrifying.
I have a recurring dream about losing my teeth. Sometimes they are straight falling out, other times they are just wiggly. I have pretty good dental hygiene, so I don’t know where this stems from. I Googled some time ago about it and got multiple reasons for the dream – feeling powerless, talking about things that should remain private, getting old. They are all over the charts, so I don’t know if I really believe in any of that crap. All I know is that I’ve developed an extreme fear of myself losing teeth, and other people losing teeth near me. This is a problem when you spend a lot of time with 7 nieces and nephews under the age of 10. Teeth are falling out left and right. If the Tooth Fairy were real, I’m pretty sure it would be like her ultimate sex fantasy around here. Or a serial killer’s. Either way.
Well, apparently it’s standard issue where I live for a dentist to give out necklaces to kids for them to keep their teeth in. I’ve never heard of this, and was mortified when my 6-year-old niece showed me hers. I tried to slap on a smile when she asked to show me her first lost tooth. I even gave her a nervous laugh when she asked me to hold it for her. While she explained her entire dentist trip she playfully stabbed me with the long root of the tooth that was still attached. (I’m cringing just thinking about it.)
The worst part: when we played a very long, drawn out game of Monopoly she used her tooth as her player piece. This girl really knows how to torture me. She’s lucky she’s my favorite. (I’m allowed to have favorites, right? Oops)
I don’t think this is a dream I’ll be able to stop any time soon. Damn kids. Why can’t I have a normal one like showing up to school without shoes on? Or not wearing any clothes while I’m giving my acceptance speech for when I receive my Nobel Prize? At least I’d be accepting a million dollars so the nakedness of my ass wouldn’t bother me.
Yesterday I turned 30. I think I was supposed to go through some sort of emotional upheaval or personal crisis over the milestone, but I’m welcoming it with open arms. I had a great day of chicken wings, cheesecake, and shopping… which really leaves me with nothing to complain about. Life seems to get better as I get older, so… peace out, 20’s. Your awkward, booze-filled, ramen-noodle-eating years won’t be missed.
(I’ve done 7 of these. Ouch. I’m particularly good at #25)
The only thing the age of 30 has made me realize is that I’m passing my prime to have kids. All of the cheerful Christmas commercials showing kids ripping open gifts and baking cookies for Santa aren’t helping the situation either. Damn all this holiday joy. Damn it! Just kidding, I love Christmas. My ticking biological clock has straight slapped me across the face. The constant reminders from my mom are brutal too. (Okay, maybe there’s a slight emotional upheaval going on here. Don’t tell anyone.)
I really did hate the majority of my 20’s, though. College was not the best time of my life. The only thing memorable about my 21st birthday was being puked on by my friend while I had to remain sober enough to take care of her. When I was 24 I got food poisoning from Taco Bell and had to use my car’s leather seats as a toilet. At 26 I split my jeans in the middle of Target and introduced my right butt cheek to the world. Good times, my friends. Good times.
I’m hoping my 30’s go a little better. Let’s get this shit rolling.
When I was eight I befriended the weirdest girl in the neighborhood. You know, the type that all the other girls ignore and whisper about in their bedrooms while they rip their Barbie’s heads off and stuff them down their tops pretending they magically sprout a set of boobs overnight. Having boobs is all the rage according to my young nieces (and all the men in my life, for that matter) … didn’t you know?
I met Shelby one summer in Massachusetts when she was selling lemonade in front of her house. I was pretty shy as a kid but I approached her for a very specific reason – she was wearing a furry purple bunny costume. I knew right away I had to know this girl. Shelby was stunning with red curly hair and green eyes that were reminiscent of the sea glass I liked to collect from the shores of Cape Cod. Over the two years we were friends, I think I only saw her face a couple of times. She loved her bunny costume, and when people asked her about it, her response was always ‘because I’m a bunny… why wouldn’t I dress like one?’ She didn’t care about the incredulous stares from adults in the stores, or the ridicule she got from the little shitheads in school. Shelby was strange. Shelby was different. Shelby was a bunny. Shelby was fucking Shelby. She taught me such a crucial lesson at a young age – to be proud of the things that made me weird and to never hide them. To embrace the different. I think about her often.
(Imagine my horror when I saw Donnie Darko years later.)
Where are the Shelbys of the world now? Why isn’t it okay for someone to be different? Why is it so hard to celebrate people who don’t live the same way we do? Damn, we don’t even have to celebrate them… but we could at least be kind enough to keep our shitty opinions to ourselves. I don’t care if you have pink hair, a face tattoo, you accidentally got pregnant at 15, or you’re attracted to someone of the same gender. It has zero effect on my life. Are you a good person? That’s really the only thing that people should care about. Apparently all of America needs to have a meeting with an eight-year-old in a bunny costume. Where the hell is Shelby when you need her? Will the real Slim Shelby please stand up? We need you to save mankind.
I haven’t been around here for awhile. I hope everyone’s holiday season has kicked off in a positive/happy direction. I know some people are having a shitty month (especially because of the election) but I hope everything else is good with y’all. Next week we will all be able to stuff our feelings down with food. Bring on the holiday cheesecakes!
I’m still slowly finding my way out of the sludge of my months-long-hiatus on this blog. I’m not sure why it takes me so long to write a post now, but I’ve been plagued with some pretty severe writer’s block. Everything I write makes me cringe like a 14-year-old who has parents that go out of their way to embarrass them as many ways as possible. (You know, like when your mom dropped you off at school in her pajamas and didn’t bother combing her hair or putting a bra on? Damn, those years were rough.) I used to crank out posts every other day, but now I’m only managing one a week. Brain? Hello? Are you in there? Your presence is requested on the poop deck.
I don’t normally respond to blogger awards but I thought it would be fun to answer some questions, then ask you guys some. I like learning about you guys anyways, considering I spend a lot of time reading your blogs. So, answer my questions, okay? Answer them or else!
Here are questions that were asked of me by hotmessmemoir. She’s the one who nominated me. She kicks ass, so check out her blog:
You are given an unlimited amount of money by Daddy Warbucks. The only stipulation is it must be spent on a dream you’ve had. What is that dream? I’m assuming this means the money must be spent to make the dream come true? That’s what I’m going with, at least. I’m not very good at remembering dreams… but I have a recurring one where my brother is super pregnant. I’d choose that one, hands down. Why? My brother can be douchey sometimes, and it would bring me great pleasure to watch him waddle around in public munching on a turkey leg while everyone gave him dirty looks and shielded their children’s eyes. The horror!
What are you really good at? Embarrassing the people who are ballsy enough to go in public with me. It takes skill. Need some tips? Hit me up.
What have you never learned to do? Anything ‘yard’ related – like rake, mow, or anything else outside. My family was very old school growing up. The girls did the inside work while the guys did outside. I helped pull weeds for the first time last year (at the age of 28, mind you) for all of 5 minutes. Alex laughed at me the whole time because I hate to be dirty. Needless to say – that 5 minutes was long enough. Never again, I say. Never again! I can fold laundry like a champ and make an ass-kicking homemade mac-and-cheese though.
Here are my questions for y’all: (answer some, all, or be lame and sit and the corner and pick your nose and flick it at the wall. Whatever floats your boat.)
- Think of the person you dislike the most in this world. If you had the ability to force them to eat a full plate of anything you wanted, what would it be? ( I would choose a nice corn and rabbit turd salad tossed with a deliciously warm cat-piss-vinaigrette.)
- What do you have an irrational fear of? Spiders? Heights? People who pick their nose and flick it at the wall?
- You’re going out to dinner tonight – what type of restaurant are you going to? Mexican? Chinese? American? Italian?
- If you’re a blogger – do you have aspirations of writing a book at some point? (Really curious about how many bloggers have the end goal of becoming a published author or if you’re just doing it for fun.)
I like to think I’m a mature adult even though I’m 100% guilty of randomly losing my shit in laughter over things like farts and people falling down. What can I say? Sometimes it’s hard to keep your cool when farts sound like quacking ducks and when you get to witness first hand someone so engrossed in their phone that they trip over their own feet. I love to watch as their phone flies into a nearby puddle and everyone stops what they are doing and stares at them like they are their pathetic Aunt Judy who had too much to drink and wet herself on Thanksgiving last year. Everyone has a crazy family member like that. Judy never learns, does she? Damn it, Judy! For shame.
I’m the self-proclaimed queen of laughing at inappropriate times. It’s not immaturity, though, right? Maybe I just have a great sense of humor. That’s it. That’s what I’m going with.
In late June, Alex and I went on a road trip to Michigan to go to my cousin’s wedding. Honestly, I’m not close to my extended family. At all. We live far apart and I have more in common with my neighbor’s pet rabbit that eats it’s own poop than I have with the majority of them. They are nice people, though, and since we turned down the last two wedding invitations, we felt obligated to make an appearance this time. We crammed a lot of driving into a short period, and by the time the wedding ceremony rolled around… we were exhausted. I was well into the zone of being sorely overtired. When I get to that point- I have severe issues controlling myself. You know, when you’re so tired you would probably succumb to laughter even over something as lame as a popsicle-stick-joke. It’s tough for me. Really tough.
So, when the girl in the pew in front of us was audibly complaining to her mom about her tights making her underwear ride up her butt, I couldn’t help it. She was soon deep up there, digging a wedgie out for a solid minute. Fingers jammed up her butt as she danced around in place trying to get it free. I lost it. In the middle of a quiet church ceremony that was actually quite beautiful and romantic. The mood was ruined. Everyone turned and stared at me in abject horror. I could feel the death stares burning holes through my skin. It was awkward as hell. I grabbed my shit and got out of there while I still had a little self-respect left.
That was the day I came to the sad realization that I’m the Judy of my family. Not that I’ve wet myself on a holiday yet, but I’m only 29. There’s still time to accomplish that goal.
Silver lining – maybe I won’t be invited to any more weddings.
(Random note – 16 more days left until Fall! I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of it being so hot I can’t step outside without my nipples feeling like they are roasting off. Woo, hurry up, Fall!)