Every damn year the anticipation of the FIRST SNOWFALL renders lifelong mid-westerners panicked and shitting their pants. We are currently expecting, wait for it, 2-5 inches of snow tomorrow! AND possibly 1-3 more the following day! Stop the presses, slap my ass, and call me Shirley. SNOW?? In the end of November?? Blasphemy!!!!
This is Illinois. Unless you can show me your boarding pass from last week and are rocking a savage tan to prove you are from Miami, you need to really get it together. We have four seasons. They are not always the same length, they are not always perfect. But there ALWAYS is a winter. And what happens in winter?? It gets cold and it SNOWS!
I am fully aware that tomorrow there will be barren shelves at the grocery store. Every single person on the roads will completely forget how to drive in the snow. The news in going to be non-stop storm watch. It will pre-empt every TV show. Because as a society we have grown accustomed to being updated every 3 minutes about events big and small and pointless. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat with be loaded with cozy sweater pics and snowflake emojis. I saw an entire family excitedly looking at new shovels and taking turns posing with them at Target. Seriously, you pansy-ass bitches need to pull up your big girl panties get a grip.
When I was a kid it snowed. It snowed a LOT. I am from West Michigan. Winter does not fuck around up there. People shoveled, kids wore snowsuits and mittens and hats. We played outside for HOURS and school was never cancelled because it was too cold. What kind of raging bullshit is that? Too cold? And suddenly we have to name every significant POTENTIAL storm that might pass over our city. I believe this one is called Bella. Oh my fucking god, REALLY?
I am going to possibly put a snow scraper in my car. I will probably wear boots. I will be drinking my Pinot Noir because it keeps me warm and creates enough of a buffer between my annoyance and the barrage of Snowpocalypse nonsense. Let me give you a little lesson in reality. As with anything in life, 2-5 inches is really nothing to post about on Facebook. If we're talking 9-12 inches then give me a call. But until Winter Storm Magic Mike rolls in, shut it.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Can I Have Your Number?
Every single time I've ever made absolute statements in my life saying "That will NEVER happen", it always fucking happens.
"I'll never weigh more than 130 pounds!"
"He'd never cheat on me!"
"I'll never workout less than 5 days a week!"
"I'll never shit myself while wearing sweatpants and no underwear while walking the dog!"
"I'll never have to see what's out there in the world of dating because I'm MARRIED! I can't even IMAGINE!"
Well someone should have shook me like a snow globe and told me to shut my pie hole because when the Divorce Papers Fairy pulled into the driveway (wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and clip on boy's tie), I knew those words should not have left my big, fat mouth.
I'd love to be able to just savor every second of being single, of having the freedom to do what I want, to revel in me time, to write in one of my many journals. To enroll in a cupcake decorating class and 3 book clubs while I let my bush grow out to look like I'm straddling one of the Jackson 5. But the reality is this: I don't want to be single. I have been free to do whatever I want because nobody has given a shit as long as the fridge is full and laundry is done for YEARS. Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I wander into that fucking journal section and somehow end up with three more, all with inspirational quotes about "finding your path" or "strength comes from within" or "who needs a man when you have a decent vibrator". I HATE writing in journals. My hand cramps up, the ink smears from my left-handedness dragging along the page, and I feel pressure to be writing something as prolific as the Malala quote imprinted on the $29.95 leather cover. And I personally like a well-manicured beaver because this is not 1987, not because I expect anyone to see it. If thongs were the panties of choice back then, there's no way bitches would be able to shove all that muff fur up there.
So I am TRYING to date. Trying to find someone who meets maybe 27% of the criteria I have in a suitable companion. I was aiming higher but have had to bring my standards down because there IS no fucking Prince Charming. There is no Mr. Right. I'll settle for "Mr. Ehhh, Why Not?" at this point. There just aren't a lot of men who are single at this stage of the game. Hold on, let me rephrase, there aren't a lot of moderately attractive men who don't mind that I'm (almost) divorced, have 2 kids who occupy most of my time and energy, and live in suburbia away from any fun city options for going out. Starting to feel like I'm going to lead a life of making fleece pillows for church craft fairs.
Even my friends have tried to monitor the single man scene in their small pool of guys they know.
"Oh my gosh, he's the NICEST GUY!"
Translation: He lives with his mom and favors mock turtlenecks from Kohls. And maybe plays with Legos.
"He's not THAT short."
Translation: If I wear heels he can officially use my tits as a travel pillow.
"He's really cute!"
Translation: He's missing teeth.
"His hair is kind of sporty."
Translation: Bald.
"He's kind of in transition."
Translation: Still married but will be willing to take you on as an extra-curricular activity.
"He's a self-motivated entrepreneur."
Translation: Broke as fuck. And smokes a shit ton of weed.
I joined a dating site. Go ahead, make fun. I would. Most of the guys that have similar interests, age range, and situations as mine look like child molesters and are 55-60. Anyone that is hot and early 30's or younger I automatically red flag. There has to be some MILF bucket list they want to fulfill and I'm not about to be the one to do it. Any guy in his 20's usually has to brag about the size of his meat stick after the initial, "Hey, you've got beautiful eyes!" opening line. Really? I've got some needs but Jesus H., I am not THAT desperate, Long Dong Silver. I am leary of men who have never had children. Because the "not sure" about having kids comment most definitely means they want someone who is down to eventually give them offspring. In case we haven't officially met, hi, I'm Molly and I HATE babies. There are very few men who say they are divorced, have kids, and are my age. And frankly, I suspect many of them actually are still married. That tan line looks pretty fresh on that ring finger, SinglStud69. I'll give you an A for effort though.
Not waiting for any knight in shining armor to ride in on his noble steed. Shit, at this point I'll take Paco the exterminator as long as he can show me his last 3 pay stubs, proof of citizenship, and he speaks decent English. Until then I'll be at Hobby Lobby buying 15 yards of fleece because it's on sale this week.
"I'll never weigh more than 130 pounds!"
"He'd never cheat on me!"
"I'll never workout less than 5 days a week!"
"I'll never shit myself while wearing sweatpants and no underwear while walking the dog!"
"I'll never have to see what's out there in the world of dating because I'm MARRIED! I can't even IMAGINE!"
Well someone should have shook me like a snow globe and told me to shut my pie hole because when the Divorce Papers Fairy pulled into the driveway (wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and clip on boy's tie), I knew those words should not have left my big, fat mouth.
I'd love to be able to just savor every second of being single, of having the freedom to do what I want, to revel in me time, to write in one of my many journals. To enroll in a cupcake decorating class and 3 book clubs while I let my bush grow out to look like I'm straddling one of the Jackson 5. But the reality is this: I don't want to be single. I have been free to do whatever I want because nobody has given a shit as long as the fridge is full and laundry is done for YEARS. Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I wander into that fucking journal section and somehow end up with three more, all with inspirational quotes about "finding your path" or "strength comes from within" or "who needs a man when you have a decent vibrator". I HATE writing in journals. My hand cramps up, the ink smears from my left-handedness dragging along the page, and I feel pressure to be writing something as prolific as the Malala quote imprinted on the $29.95 leather cover. And I personally like a well-manicured beaver because this is not 1987, not because I expect anyone to see it. If thongs were the panties of choice back then, there's no way bitches would be able to shove all that muff fur up there.
So I am TRYING to date. Trying to find someone who meets maybe 27% of the criteria I have in a suitable companion. I was aiming higher but have had to bring my standards down because there IS no fucking Prince Charming. There is no Mr. Right. I'll settle for "Mr. Ehhh, Why Not?" at this point. There just aren't a lot of men who are single at this stage of the game. Hold on, let me rephrase, there aren't a lot of moderately attractive men who don't mind that I'm (almost) divorced, have 2 kids who occupy most of my time and energy, and live in suburbia away from any fun city options for going out. Starting to feel like I'm going to lead a life of making fleece pillows for church craft fairs.
Even my friends have tried to monitor the single man scene in their small pool of guys they know.
"Oh my gosh, he's the NICEST GUY!"
Translation: He lives with his mom and favors mock turtlenecks from Kohls. And maybe plays with Legos.
"He's not THAT short."
Translation: If I wear heels he can officially use my tits as a travel pillow.
"He's really cute!"
Translation: He's missing teeth.
"His hair is kind of sporty."
Translation: Bald.
"He's kind of in transition."
Translation: Still married but will be willing to take you on as an extra-curricular activity.
"He's a self-motivated entrepreneur."
Translation: Broke as fuck. And smokes a shit ton of weed.
I joined a dating site. Go ahead, make fun. I would. Most of the guys that have similar interests, age range, and situations as mine look like child molesters and are 55-60. Anyone that is hot and early 30's or younger I automatically red flag. There has to be some MILF bucket list they want to fulfill and I'm not about to be the one to do it. Any guy in his 20's usually has to brag about the size of his meat stick after the initial, "Hey, you've got beautiful eyes!" opening line. Really? I've got some needs but Jesus H., I am not THAT desperate, Long Dong Silver. I am leary of men who have never had children. Because the "not sure" about having kids comment most definitely means they want someone who is down to eventually give them offspring. In case we haven't officially met, hi, I'm Molly and I HATE babies. There are very few men who say they are divorced, have kids, and are my age. And frankly, I suspect many of them actually are still married. That tan line looks pretty fresh on that ring finger, SinglStud69. I'll give you an A for effort though.
Not waiting for any knight in shining armor to ride in on his noble steed. Shit, at this point I'll take Paco the exterminator as long as he can show me his last 3 pay stubs, proof of citizenship, and he speaks decent English. Until then I'll be at Hobby Lobby buying 15 yards of fleece because it's on sale this week.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Na-Ma-Stay-Your-Ass-On-the-Floor
Yoga is officially a "thing" now. Like self-serve frozen yogurt. Or Crocs. Or anal bleaching. I suppose it's not for everyone but I'll tell you what. EVERYONE makes you feel like you are the leper of society if you aren't doing it.
Everyone: "Oh my God you SOOOO have to try yoga, girl! It will change your life!"
Me (silently): ["Shut up, you granola-munching hipster...."]
Everyone: "Yoga will TOTALLY bring peace to your heart. You need it with all you've been through!"
Me (again silently): ["I will find you when you are putting your $14 organic Whole Foods mushrooms into the back of your Range Rover some night and bludgeon you with a jar of Nutella."]
Everyone: "Only the lepers of our society don't do yoga!"
Me (grrrrrrrrr....): ["Fine. I wouldn't want to be a leper. Or a camel-toe sporting sweat machine in those ridiculous yoga short/panties..."]
I tried a yoga class once. It was probably ten years ago at my mega-gym. The instructor was a sprightly young man with ripped arms and legs who was probably all of 20 years old. I think he was wearing a cloth diaper that smelled like patchouli. I believe he might have just completed a hemp milk enema cleanse before teaching because he was WAY too fucking excited and seemed to be weightless as he balanced on one hand with his legs wrapped like a jacked up pretzel. ONE FUCKING HAND!!!!!!!! He encouraged breathing and peaceful tranquil minds but all I could think of was "This is motherfuckingimpossible and I think I'm going to cry." So I cried. And was mortified that I could not do "crow". I was the only one who thought this pose was impossible. The entire class rested their knees on the outside of their elbows and just popped their feet off the ground like it was a stroll in the park. Not me. I was a squatting liability as my wrists buckled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. I never went back.
My favorite cursing dance mom bestie, Tiffany, and I talk in regular voices which is an understood evil in the yoga studio. (After I week we UNDERSTAND, we just choose to talk.) If you can’t chill on your head you are supposed to sit or lie down and I guess focus on your breathing. Oh and NOT TALK. And let’s talk about that breathing for a second, can we? When you deeply inhale and exhale I don’t find any reason to make extra noise. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was on a whale watching tour with all the vibrating, humming, Orca noises emanating from the moist sweat cave. Shut. Up. Do I see a doula in here massaging your taint so you don't tear when you deliver your baby right here at the yoga studio? No??? Zip it, Sea World.
This is not hot yoga, as Bikram junkies will tell you. I have so far not tempted this discipline. The only thing I do at 105 degrees is get Ebola and die. But my class IS hot. It's 90 degrees and when you are even merely sitting in the Amazon jungle humidity, you will sweat your tits off. There is steam coming from a little vaporizer in the back. There is steam coming off of the downward dogging participants. The little foam blocks they give you for remedial yoga newbies who can't balance or touch their toes are made of semi-molten lava. Within 10 minutes I am glistening like I was dipped in a vat of Land O Lakes. It is impossible for me to just grab my ankle as I'm upside down on one leg and it keeps slipping from my greasy fingers like the last chicken wing from a fat person under the couch. I'm sure if someone took a video of this part of the yoga train wreck it would have gone viral on YouTube by now. Though I've brought a full-length mat towel with gripping koom-ba-ya design painted on, my sweaty hog stubs keep slipping like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the end of class the entire room is dripping wet like a gas station bathroom minus the used condoms on the floor.
Yoga music is kind of like spa massage meets Kidz Bop Enya. Kind of tranquil, super hippie, mostly making me show my "What is THIS shit??" face every time a new song begins. Because of the no-talking and the quiet moments we are all supposed to be savoring in our bodies and minds, all other noises are magnified. Farting is totally acceptable in there. You release that ass bomb while you moan out that exhale, Orgasma Queen of the Savsana!!! I refuse to go there. Ever since I received my EQV (Excessive Queef Violation) back in Pilates in 2004, I tend to be an ass clencher. Not a peep from me below the waist, I can promise you that.
Our instructor the other day had us transitioning between movements so fast that between me trying to read my Rosetta Stone Yoga Lingo for Dummies while wiping the pouring sweat from my eyes, I realized we were now facing backwards. Fuck. Now I was an FRG. What an uninspiring view those head standing fart machines had now. I'm sure it was like being the sober one at a party and watching the wasted ones stumble and slur. I wanted to just lie there but the pressure was on.
And just like that, there it was....My nemesis. That God damn CROW. Mentally I was trying not to have PTSD flashbacks to One-Handed Diaper Boy and that day in class so many years ago. Breathe...breathe... I was not going to be self defeated. I would balance up there even if for a mere second! Or..... I was going to totally over tilt forward, twist my wrist, slam my knee on the ground, and almost hit my head.
"You cannot succeed unless you sometimes fall a few times."
The Jedi master was trying to lighten my load of shame. And how heavy it was....
Someday I WILL be able to crow the HELL out of myself. I will be able to stand on one leg and not keel over like someone stole my walker. I will be able to say "Namaste" at the end of class and not feel like a complete fraud. I will be able to do the backbend wheel without feeling like my implants are going to shoot out and knock that humidifier over. I just might even want to consider being a Front Row Girl. But don't expect to see this top-heavy blond in a headstand. I can only clench so much before my butter sweat hemp milk enema queef gets me arrested.
Everyone: "Oh my God you SOOOO have to try yoga, girl! It will change your life!"
Me (silently): ["Shut up, you granola-munching hipster...."]
Everyone: "Yoga will TOTALLY bring peace to your heart. You need it with all you've been through!"
Me (again silently): ["I will find you when you are putting your $14 organic Whole Foods mushrooms into the back of your Range Rover some night and bludgeon you with a jar of Nutella."]
Everyone: "Only the lepers of our society don't do yoga!"
Me (grrrrrrrrr....): ["Fine. I wouldn't want to be a leper. Or a camel-toe sporting sweat machine in those ridiculous yoga short/panties..."]
I tried a yoga class once. It was probably ten years ago at my mega-gym. The instructor was a sprightly young man with ripped arms and legs who was probably all of 20 years old. I think he was wearing a cloth diaper that smelled like patchouli. I believe he might have just completed a hemp milk enema cleanse before teaching because he was WAY too fucking excited and seemed to be weightless as he balanced on one hand with his legs wrapped like a jacked up pretzel. ONE FUCKING HAND!!!!!!!! He encouraged breathing and peaceful tranquil minds but all I could think of was "This is motherfuckingimpossible and I think I'm going to cry." So I cried. And was mortified that I could not do "crow". I was the only one who thought this pose was impossible. The entire class rested their knees on the outside of their elbows and just popped their feet off the ground like it was a stroll in the park. Not me. I was a squatting liability as my wrists buckled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. I never went back.
But yet here I am many years later, a week into yoga classes and I haven’t quit. I still completely suck and fall out of everything with the grace of a drunk on rollerblades. I am a ballet teacher for God’s sake. I have a decent amount of balance engrained in me. Apparently when you take yoga, you throw all that shit out the door. You are basically going to have to start the hell over, like you are learning to walk.
As a newbie to anything I am not 100% sure of that requires trying to be calm as my muscles are stretch-raped, I prefer to stand in the back. This will assure a few things. First of all, the restroom is right there. If I need refuge because I am going to vomit, shit my pants, cry, or simply run away from the instructor, I’ve got my out. Secondly, I have no idea what in holy hell most of these moves are based on their yoga names. Front Row Girls (FRG’s) know what’s up. As I wander sheepishly to the back some are chilling out in handstands and headstands in silence. Even if I decided I really, REALLY love yoga and start hemp enema cleanse club, I cannot fathom just hanging out in inverted vagina camel or whatever it’s called just for fun. Nope.
My favorite cursing dance mom bestie, Tiffany, and I talk in regular voices which is an understood evil in the yoga studio. (After I week we UNDERSTAND, we just choose to talk.) If you can’t chill on your head you are supposed to sit or lie down and I guess focus on your breathing. Oh and NOT TALK. And let’s talk about that breathing for a second, can we? When you deeply inhale and exhale I don’t find any reason to make extra noise. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was on a whale watching tour with all the vibrating, humming, Orca noises emanating from the moist sweat cave. Shut. Up. Do I see a doula in here massaging your taint so you don't tear when you deliver your baby right here at the yoga studio? No??? Zip it, Sea World.
This is not hot yoga, as Bikram junkies will tell you. I have so far not tempted this discipline. The only thing I do at 105 degrees is get Ebola and die. But my class IS hot. It's 90 degrees and when you are even merely sitting in the Amazon jungle humidity, you will sweat your tits off. There is steam coming from a little vaporizer in the back. There is steam coming off of the downward dogging participants. The little foam blocks they give you for remedial yoga newbies who can't balance or touch their toes are made of semi-molten lava. Within 10 minutes I am glistening like I was dipped in a vat of Land O Lakes. It is impossible for me to just grab my ankle as I'm upside down on one leg and it keeps slipping from my greasy fingers like the last chicken wing from a fat person under the couch. I'm sure if someone took a video of this part of the yoga train wreck it would have gone viral on YouTube by now. Though I've brought a full-length mat towel with gripping koom-ba-ya design painted on, my sweaty hog stubs keep slipping like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the end of class the entire room is dripping wet like a gas station bathroom minus the used condoms on the floor.
Yoga music is kind of like spa massage meets Kidz Bop Enya. Kind of tranquil, super hippie, mostly making me show my "What is THIS shit??" face every time a new song begins. Because of the no-talking and the quiet moments we are all supposed to be savoring in our bodies and minds, all other noises are magnified. Farting is totally acceptable in there. You release that ass bomb while you moan out that exhale, Orgasma Queen of the Savsana!!! I refuse to go there. Ever since I received my EQV (Excessive Queef Violation) back in Pilates in 2004, I tend to be an ass clencher. Not a peep from me below the waist, I can promise you that.
Our instructor the other day had us transitioning between movements so fast that between me trying to read my Rosetta Stone Yoga Lingo for Dummies while wiping the pouring sweat from my eyes, I realized we were now facing backwards. Fuck. Now I was an FRG. What an uninspiring view those head standing fart machines had now. I'm sure it was like being the sober one at a party and watching the wasted ones stumble and slur. I wanted to just lie there but the pressure was on.
And just like that, there it was....My nemesis. That God damn CROW. Mentally I was trying not to have PTSD flashbacks to One-Handed Diaper Boy and that day in class so many years ago. Breathe...breathe... I was not going to be self defeated. I would balance up there even if for a mere second! Or..... I was going to totally over tilt forward, twist my wrist, slam my knee on the ground, and almost hit my head.
"You cannot succeed unless you sometimes fall a few times."
The Jedi master was trying to lighten my load of shame. And how heavy it was....
Someday I WILL be able to crow the HELL out of myself. I will be able to stand on one leg and not keel over like someone stole my walker. I will be able to say "Namaste" at the end of class and not feel like a complete fraud. I will be able to do the backbend wheel without feeling like my implants are going to shoot out and knock that humidifier over. I just might even want to consider being a Front Row Girl. But don't expect to see this top-heavy blond in a headstand. I can only clench so much before my butter sweat hemp milk enema queef gets me arrested.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Seize the Made-Up Day!!!
Today is apparently National Dog Day. I don't really know if this is true or some Hollywood celebrity with 7 rescue dogs Tweeted about it at 3am when they were 3 bottles of Grey Goose in at 50 Cent's table and suddenly we all have to celebrate. Today is also Women's Equality today, commemorating when we were given the right to vote because having a vagina used to mean we were inferior. (I'll take having my lady taco to that ugly sack of hairy balls and wrinkly deflated balloon that sits in your pants all day, thanks. Pretty sure Caitlyn Jenner got sick and tired of tucking all that junk up into those 80's Olympic running shorts and now posts "Nut-Free Zone" signs in her house.) Oh yay, two reasons to have a cocktail.
Who decides on all these random days to celebrate??? They certainly weren't anything I've ever heard of nor celebrated when I was growing up. Just more bullshit reasons to inundate social media with pics and well wishes and selfies regarding whatever the hell said holiday is. Just let me stop you right there. Enough.
I think this whole epidemic started with Sweetest Day. A bullshit holiday created by someone who did not have a significant other on February 14th so they MADE UP A HOLIDAY so their "sweetie" could feel obligated to buy them romantic gifts. Not buying into it, no one is getting a card from me, I will not Tweet about my sweetie, I will in fact walk through the Hallmark card aisle and cross out the word "Sweetest" on each and every card with the word "Bullshit" in red Sharpie. If you didn't get some booty on Valentine's Day, tough shit. Not my problem.
I know the extra special days we all post about are the result of our instant gratification demanding culture. Not every God damn day is special. It's a fucking Wednesday. I get to take the trash out tonight. Whoop de doo. We always have to top everything, one-up ourselves, make sure everyone feels special every damn second for mundane reasons because GOD FORBID we just sit still and not watch Netflix or check how many likes we got or sit outside and just look at the damn sky. I put my phone away and read an actual book with real paper pages tonight. I might as well have whipped out my crack pipe with the look my kids gave me.
I believe I missed National Siblings Day. Shit, totally meant to send my brother a card.....Someone please let me know when Dysfunctional Passive Aggressive Family Day is so I can text them messages I'm too much of a pussy to say to their faces. I think it's maybe in November? I think it falls between National Wax Your Back Day and National Bastard Stepchild Day. Correct me if I'm wrong. So easy to mix up!!!!!
I have to go to bed now. Getting up at the crack to surprise my kids with a special breakfast. It's National Have Fun at Boarding School Day. It's hard to fit the scrambled eggs and mini muffins in those prison trays unless I'm well rested.
Who decides on all these random days to celebrate??? They certainly weren't anything I've ever heard of nor celebrated when I was growing up. Just more bullshit reasons to inundate social media with pics and well wishes and selfies regarding whatever the hell said holiday is. Just let me stop you right there. Enough.
I think this whole epidemic started with Sweetest Day. A bullshit holiday created by someone who did not have a significant other on February 14th so they MADE UP A HOLIDAY so their "sweetie" could feel obligated to buy them romantic gifts. Not buying into it, no one is getting a card from me, I will not Tweet about my sweetie, I will in fact walk through the Hallmark card aisle and cross out the word "Sweetest" on each and every card with the word "Bullshit" in red Sharpie. If you didn't get some booty on Valentine's Day, tough shit. Not my problem.
I know the extra special days we all post about are the result of our instant gratification demanding culture. Not every God damn day is special. It's a fucking Wednesday. I get to take the trash out tonight. Whoop de doo. We always have to top everything, one-up ourselves, make sure everyone feels special every damn second for mundane reasons because GOD FORBID we just sit still and not watch Netflix or check how many likes we got or sit outside and just look at the damn sky. I put my phone away and read an actual book with real paper pages tonight. I might as well have whipped out my crack pipe with the look my kids gave me.
I believe I missed National Siblings Day. Shit, totally meant to send my brother a card.....Someone please let me know when Dysfunctional Passive Aggressive Family Day is so I can text them messages I'm too much of a pussy to say to their faces. I think it's maybe in November? I think it falls between National Wax Your Back Day and National Bastard Stepchild Day. Correct me if I'm wrong. So easy to mix up!!!!!
I have to go to bed now. Getting up at the crack to surprise my kids with a special breakfast. It's National Have Fun at Boarding School Day. It's hard to fit the scrambled eggs and mini muffins in those prison trays unless I'm well rested.
Let's Bring the Room Down for a Second
I feel like Jan Hooks in the SNL episode with the Sweeney Sisters (if you are young you probably won't get that reference and that's sad. Look it up on YouTube, that's when Saturday Night Live was genius...) But let's get back to being serious and NOT making you laugh with my post. Tomorrow I will curse a lot and offend many of my readers so don't get your panties in a wad just yet......
When I moved into my house in Plainfield there was this tree on the front corner of my property. It was a skinny, sad looking thing. I think the landscapers planted it askew because any time the wind blew, it tilted precariously towards the road. Because of it's less than upright planting and the fact that it was on the windiest corner in the neighborhood, I fully expected to find it split at the base and destroyed after every storm. Over the next couple of years I noticed a funny thing happen. A branch on the opposite side of where the tree was leaning began to grow across, around another brach as if it were an arm, holding the tree up. I thought "That's interesting but no way will that skinny branch be able to hold this tree if the wind blows hard enough." But that tree started to stand upright. The base got thicker, that helping branch still wrapped tightly across and under, holding on. I stood under that tree many times over the past year and marveled at this. I came home last week and noticed tree trimmers throughout my neighborhood. As I approached my house I noticed lots of trees were thinned out. I actually started tearing up when I saw that they had cut that helping branch from my tree. I went inside, feeling silly for being sad about this. I always thought that tree and its special branch were a metaphor for my life. "The tree is growing stronger because it's helping itself." I sat and realized that this tree had become strong and hardy. It was healthy and able to resist wind and storms. It no longer needed that branch.
This year has been a test of my wills. Going through divorce, feeling desolate and alone as a woman and mother, my beloved grandparents dying in a tragic car accident. I have struggled, cried, moped, been immobile with sadness. But something has changed within me. I feel stronger. I am not afraid to face reality. I am not afraid of people who berate and belittle me. I have stood up to some fears and said "Screw you! Do you even KNOW who the F I am?" I'm not yet out of the woods in a lot of ways. But I'm not afraid because I can't see an exact path to lead me. I see light and know that with every step I am better, stronger. I have helped myself, like that branch helped my tree. But I am free from needing it anymore. I have decided that I am the most important person in my life. ME. I matter to myself and that's all that should matter.
Thanks, tree. In your silent strength you have taught me a lot.....
So moral of the story? If you think you can't do it, you've GOT this, babe.
When I moved into my house in Plainfield there was this tree on the front corner of my property. It was a skinny, sad looking thing. I think the landscapers planted it askew because any time the wind blew, it tilted precariously towards the road. Because of it's less than upright planting and the fact that it was on the windiest corner in the neighborhood, I fully expected to find it split at the base and destroyed after every storm. Over the next couple of years I noticed a funny thing happen. A branch on the opposite side of where the tree was leaning began to grow across, around another brach as if it were an arm, holding the tree up. I thought "That's interesting but no way will that skinny branch be able to hold this tree if the wind blows hard enough." But that tree started to stand upright. The base got thicker, that helping branch still wrapped tightly across and under, holding on. I stood under that tree many times over the past year and marveled at this. I came home last week and noticed tree trimmers throughout my neighborhood. As I approached my house I noticed lots of trees were thinned out. I actually started tearing up when I saw that they had cut that helping branch from my tree. I went inside, feeling silly for being sad about this. I always thought that tree and its special branch were a metaphor for my life. "The tree is growing stronger because it's helping itself." I sat and realized that this tree had become strong and hardy. It was healthy and able to resist wind and storms. It no longer needed that branch.
This year has been a test of my wills. Going through divorce, feeling desolate and alone as a woman and mother, my beloved grandparents dying in a tragic car accident. I have struggled, cried, moped, been immobile with sadness. But something has changed within me. I feel stronger. I am not afraid to face reality. I am not afraid of people who berate and belittle me. I have stood up to some fears and said "Screw you! Do you even KNOW who the F I am?" I'm not yet out of the woods in a lot of ways. But I'm not afraid because I can't see an exact path to lead me. I see light and know that with every step I am better, stronger. I have helped myself, like that branch helped my tree. But I am free from needing it anymore. I have decided that I am the most important person in my life. ME. I matter to myself and that's all that should matter.
Thanks, tree. In your silent strength you have taught me a lot.....
So moral of the story? If you think you can't do it, you've GOT this, babe.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Hot As Balls
It is hotter than Satan's balls in my house. I used to enjoy a good sweat at the gym or when the seasons change because it reminded me winter was gone. Not today my friends, not today.... How you feelin'?......HOT HOT HOT!!!!!!!!!! (Thanks, Buster Poindexter, for that hideous song that is pumping through my head now...)
I woke in the middle of the night all dry-mouthed and sweaty at about 3am yesterday. My ceiling fan was on. I was already sleeping with no covers and not family-appropriate pajamas. Why in the hell was I SO DAMN HOT?? I am only 42. I am not ready to go through "the change". I know I'm carrying a bit of extra "winter fluff/slight depression/divorce flab/I sometimes eat my feelings away" pounds so I chalked it up to that. But after only 2 sips of my morning coffee I felt like I was in a South American rain forest. I thought about wrapping my head in a wet towel turban but then the neighbors might think my marriage is on the mend so I scratched that idea.
"Girls, does it feel really, fricking HOT in here or is it just me?" I asked as my upper lip glistened with a pre-pubescent sweat stache.
"No, I'm fine maybe it's just you, Mom."
They are skinny kids with little body fat, they don't drink coffee, and they are barely coherent before school so maybe they just didn't notice. Maybe I have some crazy ass malaria that's giving me a fever and my brain is frying in my skull!!!!!!!!....
All damn day I had under boob sweat in growing crescent shapes like a leaky breast feeder. Popsicles, ice water, cold showers, NOTHING helped. I sought refuge in my car and probably looked kind of insane as I shoved my face into the vents like a dog hanging out the window. I almost went to the store to get an ice cold 2-liter of Sprite to straddle like a soda donkey. After school my kids finally validated my thoughts.
"Mom, why is it hot as BALLS in here?? Why don't you turn on the air conditioning for God's sake?!"
"It's SATAN'S BALLS hot and it IS on. I think it's broken." I tell them.
Yup, my AC was pumping out hot air like a meeting with my ex and the two divorce attorneys. I set my air at 75 degrees but the temp in my house was 86. Aww, HELL NO!!!!!!
I got advice from anyone who would give it.
"Have you checked the freon level?" Who the fuck do I look like with these nails? It's not Bob Villa so, no, I have not checked the freon level.
"Have you checked the circuit breaker?" After karate chopping my way through Tarantula Web Alley in my back room (accompanied by some total bitch ass screaming) I find it's not a circuit or fuse or whatever the hell that box full of switches is.
"Is your unit on?" Well Jesus H. Christ, let me traipse around the side of my house and wiggle my fat ass through my overgrown landscaping to check. Nope, no noise. No bueno.
Mike, the repair guy stayed with me on the phone as I went all over my house on this little AC scavenger hunt. He was out of breath and sounded like he might have been about to have a heart attack because this time of year he gets a little busy. Or he just sits in his truck with his pants down creeping on overheated women for awhile before he can "get to them". I'd say this explains why Mr. HVAC Peeping Tom is so winded.
"Well I can try to fit you in tomorrow but it will be sometime between 8am and 8pm and we can't give you any idea when your time will be."
Awesome, in 12 hours there is not some hierarchy of who called first or who sounds the hottest via phone or perhaps who can Snapchat a pic of their boobs (with the titty sweat Photoshopped out of course..) the fastest?
"Oh....okay. I'll wait for your call then."
So that's how my night went.
As the thunderstorms set in, I had to shut every single one of my windows and close off any chance of my Indian Sweat Lodge cooling off. I'm not sure if it was a tear or a trickle of sweat down my cheek but I decided it was time.
Time to ride the ice cold soda donkey and hope that I'm wearing pants when HVAC McPervy Mike shows up. Going to check into the malaria remedy real quick in case I black out. If someone finds me dead, covered in sweat like a freshly glazed Krispy Kreme, make sure to let my kids know mom told them to always Photoshop the boob sweat out before you Snapchat....
I woke in the middle of the night all dry-mouthed and sweaty at about 3am yesterday. My ceiling fan was on. I was already sleeping with no covers and not family-appropriate pajamas. Why in the hell was I SO DAMN HOT?? I am only 42. I am not ready to go through "the change". I know I'm carrying a bit of extra "winter fluff/slight depression/divorce flab/I sometimes eat my feelings away" pounds so I chalked it up to that. But after only 2 sips of my morning coffee I felt like I was in a South American rain forest. I thought about wrapping my head in a wet towel turban but then the neighbors might think my marriage is on the mend so I scratched that idea.
"Girls, does it feel really, fricking HOT in here or is it just me?" I asked as my upper lip glistened with a pre-pubescent sweat stache.
"No, I'm fine maybe it's just you, Mom."
They are skinny kids with little body fat, they don't drink coffee, and they are barely coherent before school so maybe they just didn't notice. Maybe I have some crazy ass malaria that's giving me a fever and my brain is frying in my skull!!!!!!!!....
All damn day I had under boob sweat in growing crescent shapes like a leaky breast feeder. Popsicles, ice water, cold showers, NOTHING helped. I sought refuge in my car and probably looked kind of insane as I shoved my face into the vents like a dog hanging out the window. I almost went to the store to get an ice cold 2-liter of Sprite to straddle like a soda donkey. After school my kids finally validated my thoughts.
"Mom, why is it hot as BALLS in here?? Why don't you turn on the air conditioning for God's sake?!"
"It's SATAN'S BALLS hot and it IS on. I think it's broken." I tell them.
Yup, my AC was pumping out hot air like a meeting with my ex and the two divorce attorneys. I set my air at 75 degrees but the temp in my house was 86. Aww, HELL NO!!!!!!
I got advice from anyone who would give it.
"Have you checked the freon level?" Who the fuck do I look like with these nails? It's not Bob Villa so, no, I have not checked the freon level.
"Have you checked the circuit breaker?" After karate chopping my way through Tarantula Web Alley in my back room (accompanied by some total bitch ass screaming) I find it's not a circuit or fuse or whatever the hell that box full of switches is.
"Is your unit on?" Well Jesus H. Christ, let me traipse around the side of my house and wiggle my fat ass through my overgrown landscaping to check. Nope, no noise. No bueno.
Mike, the repair guy stayed with me on the phone as I went all over my house on this little AC scavenger hunt. He was out of breath and sounded like he might have been about to have a heart attack because this time of year he gets a little busy. Or he just sits in his truck with his pants down creeping on overheated women for awhile before he can "get to them". I'd say this explains why Mr. HVAC Peeping Tom is so winded.
"Well I can try to fit you in tomorrow but it will be sometime between 8am and 8pm and we can't give you any idea when your time will be."
Awesome, in 12 hours there is not some hierarchy of who called first or who sounds the hottest via phone or perhaps who can Snapchat a pic of their boobs (with the titty sweat Photoshopped out of course..) the fastest?
"Oh....okay. I'll wait for your call then."
So that's how my night went.
As the thunderstorms set in, I had to shut every single one of my windows and close off any chance of my Indian Sweat Lodge cooling off. I'm not sure if it was a tear or a trickle of sweat down my cheek but I decided it was time.
Time to ride the ice cold soda donkey and hope that I'm wearing pants when HVAC McPervy Mike shows up. Going to check into the malaria remedy real quick in case I black out. If someone finds me dead, covered in sweat like a freshly glazed Krispy Kreme, make sure to let my kids know mom told them to always Photoshop the boob sweat out before you Snapchat....
Thursday, August 13, 2015
A Little Something for What Ails You
I feel violated with too many commercials about ailments and conditions and illnesses I never knew existed until recently. And there are drugs, SO MANY DRUGS, you can take to treat these problems. And guess what?? If something bad happens when you take those drugs that you don't like, you can hire a lawyer to sue the shit out of everybody! This is America after all! God bless these [insanely litigious] United States!!! (But if it pisses you off when someone refers to God you probably can sue them for that, too.)
If you have really bad acne, like zits that are so massive that you have to order a DOUBLE cappuccino or carry a huge cluster of red balloons to hold in front of your crusty boil face, do not despair! There is a new medication that will solve this problem. But.....in case you might have a tendency for explosive diarrhea, occasional colitis, a seasonal colostomy bag, or have random asshole bleeding that may or may not implicate you in a murder, please consult with a physician.
Sidenote: If medication that is a topical ointment for your SKIN can cause problems with your intestines and asshole, I'd say steering clear of that might be wise. But I'm no doctor so what do I know. Maybe your zits are so bad that butt bleeding is a fair trade off. I'd personally stick with carrying those red balloons around....
If you randomly have outbursts of prolonged laughing or crying at inappropriate times, this is a real medical condition that you can be treated for. Shit, I sometimes start laughing so hard at my own texts while I'm in line waiting to pay for tampons at Walgreens that I drool and start crying. No one thinks I need medication, they just think I'm kinda special so suddenly I skip to the front of the line. Accidental awesomeness! I also have been known to spontaneously burst out crying while trying on swimwear or even when the combination of PMS, lack of sleep, and one too many bitchy teen jabs takes me down. But if the FDA has found a drug to lock that emotional instability down, big ups to you.
If you tend to piss your pants when you sneeze, have to do jumping jacks, laugh too hard, get caught off guard by a spider in your face, or frequent surprise parties, you can get a PELVIC SLING like a beachy striped hammock sewn up in your hoo-ha. Sounds like a little oasis of relaxation! And guess what? If you don't want to got through the bother with that procedure, you can wear diapers that look just like underwear so NOBODY WILL KNOW. (Except for the fact that you smell like a Diaper Genie because you literally don't even bother trying to find the restroom at Starbucks after your venti iced macchiato.)
When that pee tarp starts to sag out, you can find a TRANS-VAGINAL MESH lawyer who can sue your doctor for putting faulty mylar up in your business. So no matter if you want to pee your pants or stop it up like the Hoover Dam, it's a win-win.
There are drugs to take if you can't pee. Or if you pee so often a cartoon image of your bladder knows exactly where all the local restrooms are. If you can't get it up with your sexy silver fox self. If your 57 year-old lady friend is dried up like a day old grilled cheese, THERE ARE DRUGS FOR YOU.
If you are sad. If you are extra super duper sad. If you can't fall asleep. If you can fall asleep but can't stay asleep. If you just really like to take naps all the time and not do the laundry. (Okay I totally made that one up but I bet you 50 bucks Pfizer hones in on that little gem pretty soon...) If you have gimpy knees. If you kick your sleepover buddy like a crazed donkey on peyote all night long. If you want to go rogue and eat that damn peanut butter sandwich just to look super bad ass, there is a futuristic Epi-Bot who will shoot adrenaline into your thigh quicker than you can say "tongue tied anaphylaxis". (Unless you have Obamacare then you just have to hope one of your friends isn't squeamish when they have to pull your pants off at Panera and aim for the "Property of Raoul" tatt on your leg. Sorry, the Epi-Bot is considered "non-formulary" medication so screw you.)
All I'm saying is if you can think up a symptom, we will find a pill or procedure to numb you, make you firm, make you agile, make you sleep, make you happy, make you dry, make you wet, make you have babies, make you sterile, make you breathe, open your sinuses, make you poop, and have an orgasm. (Hopefully not all at once because I don't even know what lawyer would take that case...)
*I am a non-attorney spokesperson and any and all claims may be complete bullshit and are strictly mentioned and made fun of to induce possible laughter and probable offensiveness to intended readers. So sue me.
If you have really bad acne, like zits that are so massive that you have to order a DOUBLE cappuccino or carry a huge cluster of red balloons to hold in front of your crusty boil face, do not despair! There is a new medication that will solve this problem. But.....in case you might have a tendency for explosive diarrhea, occasional colitis, a seasonal colostomy bag, or have random asshole bleeding that may or may not implicate you in a murder, please consult with a physician.
Sidenote: If medication that is a topical ointment for your SKIN can cause problems with your intestines and asshole, I'd say steering clear of that might be wise. But I'm no doctor so what do I know. Maybe your zits are so bad that butt bleeding is a fair trade off. I'd personally stick with carrying those red balloons around....
If you randomly have outbursts of prolonged laughing or crying at inappropriate times, this is a real medical condition that you can be treated for. Shit, I sometimes start laughing so hard at my own texts while I'm in line waiting to pay for tampons at Walgreens that I drool and start crying. No one thinks I need medication, they just think I'm kinda special so suddenly I skip to the front of the line. Accidental awesomeness! I also have been known to spontaneously burst out crying while trying on swimwear or even when the combination of PMS, lack of sleep, and one too many bitchy teen jabs takes me down. But if the FDA has found a drug to lock that emotional instability down, big ups to you.
If you tend to piss your pants when you sneeze, have to do jumping jacks, laugh too hard, get caught off guard by a spider in your face, or frequent surprise parties, you can get a PELVIC SLING like a beachy striped hammock sewn up in your hoo-ha. Sounds like a little oasis of relaxation! And guess what? If you don't want to got through the bother with that procedure, you can wear diapers that look just like underwear so NOBODY WILL KNOW. (Except for the fact that you smell like a Diaper Genie because you literally don't even bother trying to find the restroom at Starbucks after your venti iced macchiato.)
When that pee tarp starts to sag out, you can find a TRANS-VAGINAL MESH lawyer who can sue your doctor for putting faulty mylar up in your business. So no matter if you want to pee your pants or stop it up like the Hoover Dam, it's a win-win.
There are drugs to take if you can't pee. Or if you pee so often a cartoon image of your bladder knows exactly where all the local restrooms are. If you can't get it up with your sexy silver fox self. If your 57 year-old lady friend is dried up like a day old grilled cheese, THERE ARE DRUGS FOR YOU.
If you are sad. If you are extra super duper sad. If you can't fall asleep. If you can fall asleep but can't stay asleep. If you just really like to take naps all the time and not do the laundry. (Okay I totally made that one up but I bet you 50 bucks Pfizer hones in on that little gem pretty soon...) If you have gimpy knees. If you kick your sleepover buddy like a crazed donkey on peyote all night long. If you want to go rogue and eat that damn peanut butter sandwich just to look super bad ass, there is a futuristic Epi-Bot who will shoot adrenaline into your thigh quicker than you can say "tongue tied anaphylaxis". (Unless you have Obamacare then you just have to hope one of your friends isn't squeamish when they have to pull your pants off at Panera and aim for the "Property of Raoul" tatt on your leg. Sorry, the Epi-Bot is considered "non-formulary" medication so screw you.)
All I'm saying is if you can think up a symptom, we will find a pill or procedure to numb you, make you firm, make you agile, make you sleep, make you happy, make you dry, make you wet, make you have babies, make you sterile, make you breathe, open your sinuses, make you poop, and have an orgasm. (Hopefully not all at once because I don't even know what lawyer would take that case...)
*I am a non-attorney spokesperson and any and all claims may be complete bullshit and are strictly mentioned and made fun of to induce possible laughter and probable offensiveness to intended readers. So sue me.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
That Bitch, Karma
I just get all tingly in my nether regions when I know that karma is going to bite someone in the ass. Call it a karma boner. I don't like getting lied to, screwed over, made fun of, abused, shit on, stepped on, spit on, sworn at, talked about, or even sneezed on. So when individuals in my world choose to act this way I know they'll get exactly what they deserve. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday life is going to pull them by the back of their neck and say "Uh-uh, I don't fucking think so. Time to pay up, you shit stain."
I make it sound like I'm some kind of crazy evil bitch who can use her mind to make bad things happen to people who have wronged her. I can tell you right now if I DID have that skill I would legit go all Sissy Spacek in "Carrie" and there would be a hella ton of pigs blood being dumped here, there, and everywhere. How kick-ass would that be???
You might ask yourself, "Jivemommy, how can you be so secure in your prediction that karma really exists? " Two words: Teenage Daughters. They are living, walking, bitching, expensive proof that karma is a powerfully frightening force. I wish I would have heeded my own mother's warnings back when I was a hormonal tornado of straight-up bitch, Aussie Sprunch Spray, and self righteousness. Nope, never listened. Know why? Because I knew EVERYTHING.
I was a rotten teenager. I didn't do anything crazy like steal a car or have raging parties with booze and boys (well not at least until college...). I was just a mean, spiteful brat. I was crabby, pissy, moody, irrational, difficult to be around, irritable, and impossible to please. I was nasty to my parents but my mom took the brunt of it. My poor sweet little mom. I asked her why she didn't slap the shit out of me and she told me that with her mere 5-foot stature versus my 5-foot 9 frame I was hard to catch. I deserved to be lassoed and hog tied to the fence in the back yard but cowgirl wasn't a skill my mom had on her impressive resume. She was too busy driving me to dance, working, paying bills, cooking, grocery shopping, keeping our house clean, creating family memories, and building a thick armor of emotional resistance to make my sulking little hissy fits not even phase her. God damn, looking back I didn't even realize what I beast she was. She was a straight up gladiator.
Fast forward and here I am with not one but TWO teenage daughters. I will describe this experience of being their mom like being on a sketchy carnival roller coaster that is completely in the dark that races at speeds up to 150 mph, has massive drops without any warning, and throws shit at you along the way that slaps you in the face. There are loud, booming speakers that randomly screech phrases such as: "Where the fuck are my socks?", "This is all YOUR fault!", "You're ruining my life!", "All my other friends are going!", "You are so mean!", "But I took the dog out last time!", "I hate you", "This tastes like shit.", "You're going to wear THAT?", "Maybe you should do laundry more often!", "I have nothing to wear!", "I need money for [yogurt, movies, water park, candy, makeup]!!", "I don't have to do that because I am my own person!". You are shoved onto the ride with no idea when or if you will ever be able to get off. Occasionally you pop out of the darkness into brief moments of light and peacefulness. But no sooner has the sun kissed your cheeks then you are sucked back into the Teen Abyss of Mom Hell. Enjoy the ride and buckle up. No refunds issued here!
I was told multiple times as a teen that "Someday you will have a daughter who is exactly like you and maybe she will be twice as mean." I am positive I responded with the classic giant eye roll/WHATEVER, MOM!/ stomping away. It's a move perfected by teens across the centuries. I mean how can parents be so damn annoying and stupid?? It is humbling to be a mother of a teenage girl. Just when you think you maybe got it right, you are shamed for having "ratchet eyebrows", camel toe with your workout pants, nothing funny to say, no sense of style whatsoever, bad hair, inability to read minds, and being a horrible judge of whether a watermelon is any good. The biggest compliment you might expect to receive when you cook a meal that is tolerable is "Wow, Mom, you didn't completely jack this up!" Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like not being a failure is a level of success.
Karma pulled up into town about 3 years ago. Her flight landed earlier than expected. She perched herself nicely on my front porch and if the wind blows just right, I can hear her cackling like a damn witch. But that's only if my teens are not having a hormonal rage disorder screaming match because they are freaking LOUD. My mom tends to laugh at me if I expect an ounce of sympathy. If you take my boobs, wrinkles, over processed blonde hair, and slight despair at my lot in life away, you have an exact replica of me in my 15 year-old. Thanks, Karma, you have totally earned your name. You are a straight up BEE-OTCH.
I make it sound like I'm some kind of crazy evil bitch who can use her mind to make bad things happen to people who have wronged her. I can tell you right now if I DID have that skill I would legit go all Sissy Spacek in "Carrie" and there would be a hella ton of pigs blood being dumped here, there, and everywhere. How kick-ass would that be???
You might ask yourself, "Jivemommy, how can you be so secure in your prediction that karma really exists? " Two words: Teenage Daughters. They are living, walking, bitching, expensive proof that karma is a powerfully frightening force. I wish I would have heeded my own mother's warnings back when I was a hormonal tornado of straight-up bitch, Aussie Sprunch Spray, and self righteousness. Nope, never listened. Know why? Because I knew EVERYTHING.
I was a rotten teenager. I didn't do anything crazy like steal a car or have raging parties with booze and boys (well not at least until college...). I was just a mean, spiteful brat. I was crabby, pissy, moody, irrational, difficult to be around, irritable, and impossible to please. I was nasty to my parents but my mom took the brunt of it. My poor sweet little mom. I asked her why she didn't slap the shit out of me and she told me that with her mere 5-foot stature versus my 5-foot 9 frame I was hard to catch. I deserved to be lassoed and hog tied to the fence in the back yard but cowgirl wasn't a skill my mom had on her impressive resume. She was too busy driving me to dance, working, paying bills, cooking, grocery shopping, keeping our house clean, creating family memories, and building a thick armor of emotional resistance to make my sulking little hissy fits not even phase her. God damn, looking back I didn't even realize what I beast she was. She was a straight up gladiator.
Fast forward and here I am with not one but TWO teenage daughters. I will describe this experience of being their mom like being on a sketchy carnival roller coaster that is completely in the dark that races at speeds up to 150 mph, has massive drops without any warning, and throws shit at you along the way that slaps you in the face. There are loud, booming speakers that randomly screech phrases such as: "Where the fuck are my socks?", "This is all YOUR fault!", "You're ruining my life!", "All my other friends are going!", "You are so mean!", "But I took the dog out last time!", "I hate you", "This tastes like shit.", "You're going to wear THAT?", "Maybe you should do laundry more often!", "I have nothing to wear!", "I need money for [yogurt, movies, water park, candy, makeup]!!", "I don't have to do that because I am my own person!". You are shoved onto the ride with no idea when or if you will ever be able to get off. Occasionally you pop out of the darkness into brief moments of light and peacefulness. But no sooner has the sun kissed your cheeks then you are sucked back into the Teen Abyss of Mom Hell. Enjoy the ride and buckle up. No refunds issued here!
I was told multiple times as a teen that "Someday you will have a daughter who is exactly like you and maybe she will be twice as mean." I am positive I responded with the classic giant eye roll/WHATEVER, MOM!/ stomping away. It's a move perfected by teens across the centuries. I mean how can parents be so damn annoying and stupid?? It is humbling to be a mother of a teenage girl. Just when you think you maybe got it right, you are shamed for having "ratchet eyebrows", camel toe with your workout pants, nothing funny to say, no sense of style whatsoever, bad hair, inability to read minds, and being a horrible judge of whether a watermelon is any good. The biggest compliment you might expect to receive when you cook a meal that is tolerable is "Wow, Mom, you didn't completely jack this up!" Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like not being a failure is a level of success.
Karma pulled up into town about 3 years ago. Her flight landed earlier than expected. She perched herself nicely on my front porch and if the wind blows just right, I can hear her cackling like a damn witch. But that's only if my teens are not having a hormonal rage disorder screaming match because they are freaking LOUD. My mom tends to laugh at me if I expect an ounce of sympathy. If you take my boobs, wrinkles, over processed blonde hair, and slight despair at my lot in life away, you have an exact replica of me in my 15 year-old. Thanks, Karma, you have totally earned your name. You are a straight up BEE-OTCH.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Tits
Mine are huge. You can see me coming around the corner 2 minutes before I can see you. They are composed of half fat and yes, to no one's surprise, half silicone. (If this is news to you, you clearly have zero grasp of a woman's anatomy. Is your only reality video games with cartoon anime chicks? Unless I am Octo-Mom Dairy Barn, the fun bags are bought and paid for. Duh.) To all the young girls out there contemplating getting boobs for a boy, here's my advice: Don't f-ing do it. Don't go with your man to "see what you will look like as a D". Don't get bullied by a male doc or a nurse with Pam Anderson boobs. You will have fun with them for awhile. They are a cool novelty. Everyone stares at the beach. Men will whistle. You can't see your feet. They are bouncy and perky and when you lay on your back they don't slide under your arm pits like a pack of melted ice cream sandwiches you left in your car overnight.
Pretty soon real life sets in and you get OLD. I'm not talking shriveled Tales From the Crypt geriatric with tennis balls on your walker. I'm talking about that hazy area of 40's where you absolutely should NOT be looking at anything in the juniors department, PacSun, Forever 21, or Hollister. Let's maybe take the word "old" off the table. Mature? Like you piss your pants when you sneeze or do jumping jacks but NOT because you can't remember where the john is. Your body is not like it was when it was 20 or even 30. So the jubblies that were like a prize-winning Jello mold back in the day are now only getting the look you give to the carnies who run the parking lot fairs on Memorial Day who have three teeth and a tattoo of the Confederate flag on their neck. Shit, they are pretty much only worthy of a sad Target sports bra which acts like a sling to confine them like a bowl of rising dough.
Speaking of which, let's talk about working out. All the Itty Bitty Titty Committee members who are going to read this and be up in my shit saying "I WISH I had boobs!" can skip ahead a paragraph.....If you want to play the "Let's Take Molly's Tits to Work Day", I will need a yard of some sort of ugly Spandex fabric, duct tape, barbed wire, and 17 pounds of Pillsbury dough, any variety. I am going to fashion a singular tube of the Spandex into a kangaroo boob pouch, secured at the bottom of your ribs by the duct tape which will dig in and make your back fat look soooooo sexy. I will shove all 17 pounds of the dough into the pocket. I will then fashion shoulder straps from the barbed wire. There is an All-You-Can-Carry shoe sale at Nordstrom and the first ten lucky customers to the shoe department get in on that craziness. Ready, set, GO!!! Run!!!!!!!!!... Tell me you want big boobs for a day one more time. This is my high impact cardio life. If I have to wear 4 bras to do Insanity knee tucks so I don't give myself a black eye, I'll take a pass, Shaun T. (Between the boobs and the bladder, I am a walking liability. How many Shamwows do you have on hand?)
The go-to bra Mecca is Victoria's Secret. Everything is colorful and pretty and bright and sexy. Until you tell your tape measure-wielding sales girl the size you need. You say it in a whisper and try to be lighthearted about it. She assures you "They aren't THAT big!!" then does a high pitched fake machine gun laugh which exposes her lies. She kneels down and has to enter a digital code into the bottom of the bottom drawer so that the sub-floor storage room opens up to reveal the Mamma Jamma Jug drawer. Shit just got real. The sassy tropical bra in a 32B you saw on the mannequin is an actual to-scale map of the Bahamas. Not cute. It could be used as a shield for the military. She grabs threes bras in your size and throws them over her shoulder like a fat swimmer who's been dragged to shore. You witness an ACTUAL bead of sweat dripping down her temple because transporting them to the fitting room is like a Cross Fit workout. The cotton candy pink wallpaper and surgery room bright lights aren't doing you any favors. Can we put a damn dimmer switch in here???? You notice that the cage bra is actual recycled prison cell doors cleverly adorned with gold buckles and satin. WTF? The sales girl casually pounds on your door with her sappy sweet "How's it going in there, Molly?" Bitch, you know exactly how it's going. It's going downhill faster than Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. You exit and attempt to toss the reject bras into the pile with everyone else's things. They act like some sort of brassiere bowling ball and knock all the other lingerie to the floor.
"Didn't work out for you?" she asks with a smirk. I want to flick her on her teeny tiny American Girl nipples but my rotator cuff is jacked from trying to unhook the Prison Sexy Collection made of real wrought iron.
I have been to the "big girl store" for bras that are meant for business. And when I say "meant for business" I mean bras that will pretty much guarantee I'm not getting any business other than brochures for cat adoption, Spanx, and trans-vaginal mesh lawsuits. Can there be a happy medium between the lacy Date Night Nipple Yarmulke at VS and the tan corduroy, mock neck turtleneck bra from Soma? Why is there no gray area here? Is there no hope for a mature woman who is neither nun nor porn star with a big rack who can use your one-size-fits-all bandeau as a scrunchie? Until someone can help figure this out, I'll be doing not cardio on my couch. If I change my mind, Shaun T., you will know because Braless Molly sounds exactly like a Clydesdale horse galloping. Giddyup.
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