adventures in awkward

Random-As-Shit Thursday Thoughts

1. I’m going to be honest here – you guys scare me sometimes. Not the majority, but more so the people that land on my blog by random search terms. I don’t know why people are searching for ‘shameful awkward mom porn’ or ‘sheep boobs’ and landing on my page, but there is zero porn here. Zip. Nada. I’m pretty sure I’ve never even talked here about sex before. Is that what Google thinks of me? They lump me in with the porn sites so I’m attracting all the perverse freaks of the internet? Maybe I should give them what they want. I can start posting pictures of sheep boobs. Here you go, weirdos.


2. I keep seeing online that people are calling Lady Gaga ‘fat’ and saying she had a ‘pot belly’ during her halftime performance the other day. What the hell is wrong with people? I wish I could drag everyone who said this crap by their hair and smash their face into a vat of horse semen. (Okay, now I’m starting to understand why I get the porn lovers.)

If this is fat, then I must be the size of Hagrid when he’s nine months pregnant. 

3. I really don’t care if you hate that I swear or not. It drives me crazy that people purposely stalk my posts and go out of their way to tell me how bad of a person I am multiple times a week through comments because I throw a swear word or two into my writing. IT’S A WORD, PEOPLE. I’m not hurting anybody. It’s not like I’m going into public and telling kids to go fuck themselves and punching them in the face. Not that it’s any of your goddamn business if I was. I’m 30. Not 12. I don’t need lectures from people twice my age like they’re my mother. I’ve had to block TWO people this week from my site due to them doing this for nearly a year now. If the ban didn’t work – hopefully they will see this and kindly f u c k o f f. (End rant.)

adventures in awkward

I’ve had one of those headaches lately that’s so painful it feels like Satan is throwing a Pampered Chef party in my brain and the only thing he is  selling is a set of rusty knives. Since it’s a party – I’m assuming they are dancing, flailing them around, and getting a little stabby with each other while Hitler and Hussein invade each other’s territories in the bedroom. It is Hell, after all. As are those home-hosted parties that your friends guilt trip you into attending just to sell you crap you don’t really need. Man, I hate those. You have to go, though, or you’re not being supportive enough because this is the income they use to feed their children. You don’t want to be the reason little Betty Sue starves, do you? What about sweet young Gary? SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.

On the plus side, my migraine got me out of going to a SuperBowl party that I didn’t want to be at. The only problem was, was that the party was at my house. How awkward is it to go to a party when one of the hosts is hiding upstairs in a dark room crying as they eat buffalo wing dip with a spoon?  Kudos to my husband who had to answer the endless flow of questions about my whereabouts all night. Poor guy.

How did you spend your SuperBowl evening? Are you pissed the Patriots won? Do you not give a crap either way? Did you watch the Puppy or Kitten Bowl instead? (I recorded it so I could watch it later!)

I love polls, so answer this random question! Remember, it’s anonymous – so you have to answer truthfully! No one will know.

Coming Soon



adventures in awkward

Random-As-Shit Thursday Thoughts

Long before I started this blog, I had a baking blog. SURPRISE! If I could do anything when I grow up (forget for a moment that I’m 30, married, and spend the majority of my nights knitting as I watch Golden Girls reruns like a crotchety old woman) besides writing, I would be a chef/baker. I’ve thought about revisiting the old blog a lot lately, but… I have a serious problem. What the hell do I do with all the shit I make? I can’t eat all that sugar. I don’t understand how people who are baking things three times a week at home avoid weighing 600 pounds? Where does it go? Who can I pawn stuff off to? WHAT DO I DO? 

I’ve made a dire mistake. I offered my brother-in-law and his family of five to stay in our house for a few weeks. They are moving out of a rental house and buying one, but for some reason the bank has put a short delay on the loan process. I was in a good mood and trying to be extra kind for a change, but the second I got home the panic set in. What did I get myself into? As someone with pretty severe social anxiety, having five extra people in my house 24/7 is the stuff of nightmares. How am I going to avoid them without seeming rude? *Deep breath* 32 days left until we are invaded by messy children and hell rains down on the Sheep household. Pray for us.

I would rather have my nipples bit by ravenous mosquitoes than go to the gym, but I’ve been making a concentrated effort lately because I wanted to kick off February strong. Now, to preface this story, I have to let y’all know I have a severe bathroom phobia. When you throw in the ‘gym’ factor – where every ass that touches the seat is smelly and covered in sweat – it gets a thousand times worse. I had to pee so badly yesterday, but I thought it would be smarter to hold it. Well, that was until I got to the squat machine and peed myself a little. Yep, I peed myself. In public. Like a three-year-old who didn’t want to use the potty. For shame. 

adventures in awkward

My laptop broke last night. As you can imagine, this caused a very mature reaction consisting of me screaming bloody murder as I drop-kicked it out the back door into a puddle. It’s now resting with a failed baking recipe I made that also got the heave-ho out the window yesterday. Classy, eh? I may or may not have an anger issue. The jury’s still out.  (The neighbor’s must think I’m slightly nuts, though, as there’s always things flying out of my house into the graveyard of my backyard.)

I was nominated for an award over the weekend, and thought I’d answer the questions I was asked. I’m not going to repost and fill it out like I’m supposed to, because where’s the fun in that? Rather than nominate other people, I asked some burning questions to y’all at the bottom of the post. Answer them, damn it! I mean…. please.

Here are the questions I was asked by EntirelyErika :

1.What made you want to blog?
2.If you could collaborate with one person on your blog, who would it be and why?
3.If you could meet one person {alive or dead} who would it be?
All 3 of these go together for me, so I’m going to answer it as one question. I would collaborate with the same people I would meet, which would be Walt Disney or JK Rowling. They are quite different, but they have both accomplished my #1 goal in life (minus having a happy family): to captivate an audience and inspire wonder. Whether I accomplish it through writing novels, screenplays, or blogs – one day I will do it. (I hope!)
4.You just won $1 million dollars, what do you do/buy?
A little farm in the middle of nowhere with sheep, goats, and chickens. And a month supply of Olive Garden’s bread sticks. 
5.How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
I’ll have to consult with my husband. He is the residential expert on wood.

Here are my questions for y’all. Answer them. Don’t answer them. Sit in the corner picking your nose and judging the rest of us who are cool enough to answer. Whatever floats your boat. 

  1. You’re stranded in the middle of nowhere with the cast of Friends. You can’t find any food, so your only way to survive is to turn into a cannibal. Which two do you eat first, and why?
  2. If you had to pick a theme song or movie that best represents your life, what would it be?
  3. What did you eat for dinner last night?
  4. Do you have a favorite blog post that you wrote and want to share? Post the link!


(Don’t worry – I always pick up the crap I throw out there. I’m not that weird.)

adventures in awkward

I have an unexplained love for hearing people’s painful dating stories. Especially when they involve terribly awkward people that have no concept of what to say on a first date. (Here’s a hint – talking about sharing a toothbrush with your dog isn’t something that should be revealed right after you discuss what you do for a living.) Horrible Tinder date stories are my jam. I think my love for it stems from meeting my husband at the young age of twelve and never actually having dating stories of my own. I’ve missed out on something, so I have to live vicariously through others. It’s a rough life, what can I say?

Alex and I were out to dinner last night when we took note of a very quiet couple in a booth near us. The poor guy was sweating; beads on his forehead, rubbing his palms on his pants underneath the table. Honestly, it was uncomfortable to watch. When he left the table for a few minutes, the woman grabbed her phone and dialed quickly. “He seems really nice, but we have nothing to talk about. Give me something to talk about! Help, I’m dying here. He’s coming back. Bye.”

So, much to the extreme embarrassment of my shy husband, I sprung into action. I walked over to their table and started to sing ‘Can’t Touch This’ by MC Hammer, and busted out the best running man anyone has ever seen. Threw in a couple pelvic thrusts. Bent over and tried to do a little twerking, but failed horribly. (Let’s not talk about that.)

Man: What… the hell are you doing?

Me: Giving you guys something to talk about.

Man: *laughs* This is… the strangest dinner experience I’ve ever had.

Me: Now you have something to bond over! Carry on… *moonwalks back to own table*

After that, every time I looked over they were talking and laughing. Probably at me, but it got the job done, right? So, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say I’m the best matchmaker there’s ever been. A modern day Cupid. I like to think they will find me in a year or two and be a happily married couple wanting to name their first-born-child after me.

I’m going into business. Are you single? I’m here to put on an awkward display and lend my sick dance skills to you. Hit me up.

If you have a weird dating story, feel free to share! I might laugh at you, though. Fair warning.

adventures in awkward

I have a seriously high butt crack. I know that’s a weird thing to put as a first sentence of a post, but I’m going with it. Because it’s true…. and quite unfortunate unless you like to give out free peeks to poor unsuspecting people any time you bend over or lift your arms. She’s like an overly friendly sorority girl who can’t keep her shit straight and her clothes on – everyone gets a show. Yes, it’s a she.

My niece was telling me how she was uncomfortable with her knobby knees over the weekend, and I decided to share my woes about my crevice-from-hell with her. I thought it would make her laugh because kids are supposed to find butts funny. Instead she told me I was the grossest person she’s ever talked to. The grossest. Harsh words, right? I mean, I can’t change the size of it. Sure, sometimes I eat food after it falls on the floor or wait a little longer than I should to shave my legs… but the grossest? Damn.

On a serious note – 

Does anyone else find it sickening that we’re cultivating a society where girls as young as 10 (probably younger in some cases) look in the mirror and are already picking out things they hate about themselves? Their skin is too pale, their foreheads are too long, too fat, too skinny, or maybe they have too many freckles. At ten years old they are thinking this. This is a little early, don’t you think? We are the cause of this. It’s sad. This is way too young. 



adventures in awkward

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: …

Me: *stares* 

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.

Coming Soon


adventures in awkward

ask the sheep

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.

“Dearest Sheep,

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.

adventures in awkward

to the skinny bitch at Starbucks

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.)

adventures in awkward

it’s a bit nippy in here

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.