Category Archives: Funny

“I’m sorry I offended you. Could you tell me about this rubber butt?”

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On Labor Day of 2012, Gail and I had breakfast and went mattress shopping. That, however, was not enough to make us look like lovers, so we stopped into our local sex store (or “novelty store” as the Midwest insists it be called), just for fun. Now, I don’t say “just for fun”, because I’m blushing. I say it, because the one we went to is super trashy, even for what it is. We both much prefer the other one nearby if we’re actually buying anything. This one was strictly giggle-worthy.

Fortunately, we were able to make our jokes and comments without worrying about offending other patrons, as the store was deserted. We laughed over the poorly airbrushed photos: “Where is the rest of her leg?!?!” We recounted the time Gail declared that you’d have to be hit pretty hard with a paddle to brand the word “BITCH” into your skin… just before slapping her arm with it to prove her point and realizing that she was, indeed, getting a “BITCH”-shaped welt. We make these trips a few times a year and this was a pretty standard one. Until…

Me: “‘… and then he touched me down there.’ Seriously. That would make for a great children’s audio book. Read by children for children.”
Gail: grimacing and laughing “Ugh.”
Shopwench: “He didn’t call it that.”
Me: “What?” I was confused since neither of us was talking to her.
Shopwench: “He never called it ‘down there.'”
Me and Gail: in unison “Uh… yeah he did.”
Me: “Like all the time.”
Shopwench: “No. He didn’t. He called it her ‘sex’, but he never called it ‘down there.’ I’ve read all three books.” She said proudly.
Me: “Um… yeah. So have I. He calls it that several times. I know, because we make fun of it all the time.” What can I say? I felt like taunting her.
Shopwench: “Well, no, he doesn’t, but that book has been amazing. That book has saved so many marriages. I’ve had women come in here in tears, because that book has done so much for them.”
Me: “Um… okay. I read it. I liked it well enough to get through it. I preferred Bared to You…”
Shopwench: cuts me off  “Yeah. I’ve read it. Fifty Shades was better. I could’ve done without the three kids and shit, but it was a great book.”
Me: waving a white flag “Um… yeah. I didn’t really care for the two kids at the end. I thought that was unnecessary.”
Shopwench: “No. That book has done so much good. You have no idea.” Yeah… I was just agreeing with your last statement.

Okay, lady, first of all, you are getting awfully offended for someone who is presently standing in front of a vibrating rubber butt. Secondly, it’s just a book. The only reason for you to take this much offense to some light criticism of it, that wasn’t even directed toward you,is if you fucking wrote it. Third, we are your customers. We didn’t ask for your damned opinion and keeping that to yourself is sort of your job title, when you’re selling Fleshlights. I said nothing critical about people who were into bondage, shoving marbles into their lady parts, getting sexy hit, or reading erotic novels. I quoted a poorly written one that I’d obviously read, myself. That’s it. If anyone on this planet is in a field that requires a sense of humor, it’s the gal selling remote control vibrating panties. For all you know, I could’ve bought out your entire stock of wooden and suction cupped dildos, had I received pleasant customer service.

Most importantly, “saved so many marriages”?!?!?! HOW? I mean, sure, it’s nice that these women are realizing it’s okay to be strung up like a super sexy deer, if that’s what gets them going; but if your marriage is truly in jeopardy, it’s not because of a lackluster sex life.

sexy deer
If you’re not impressed by my image search results, you’re wrong.

Marriage takes trust, committment and not stealing hundred dollar bills out of my wallet. Cough: I have issues: Cough. Some satin scarves on the bedpost might spice things up, but they haven’t saved shit. Furthermore, you’ve had women come in “in tears” over Fifty Shades of Grey? Were they sporting black eyes? Did you call the police?!?!?! Gail went to the YWCA charity ball supporting battered women and told me that every story of abuse she heard, from men letting the air out of a woman’s tires so she couldn’t leave, to monitoring their cell phones, reminded her of “that awful book you made me read.” So, while most women are adults and can put that alpha male shit into perspective and realize it’s only sexy in a fantasy, if one were bawling and mumbling about Fifty Shades, I’d be inclined to suggest a nice shelter.

We left the store shortly after this encounter with Gail calling me “honey”, because she thought it would be funny, and I bought my next vibrator elsewhere. In the meantime, this has become a marvelous inside joke that can’t be explained to anyone who asks.

screenshot Im sorry I offended you

Get your porn off my smut!

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As I’ve previously declared, paranormal romance is my guilty pleasure. I don’t really watch T.V., so I read book after book after book of what I affectionately and privately call Werewolf Porn or Warlock Smut.

In the last week, I have read 6 books, or 1,800 pages (give or take a few) of my very favorite genre. The thing is, my  title of Werewolf Porn is meant to be ironic, because these books often aren’t even that adult. Don’t get me wrong. They’re dubbed paranormal romance for a reason. I wouldn’t read them to my 9th graders. But LibraryThing, which is far superior to Good Reads, doesn’t even tag many of the series as erotica. On average, I’d declare them a medium on the number of sex scenes. The plots are always incredibly invovled, with an in-depth backstory in addition to the main storyline, which does involve a shapeshifter falling in love with an empath. What can I say? I loved Halloweentown when I was eight and never grew out of that.

Example:

There are three species that control the world: The Changelings, the Psy, and humans. Changelings are shapeshifters. The Psy are beings connected by a neural Internet (not quite a hivemind) and have mental powers, such as telekinesis. They can’t break free of the Net or they die. The Psy shut off all emotions around 100 years ago becaue violence was ripping apart their species. They’re cold and powerful and want to keep it that way by destroying any Psy who are showing a tendency toward power because they can feel. The DarkRiver and SnowDancer Changelings, however, are encouraging the rebellion and a war is a brewin’.

See? That’s no less complex than the latest Janet Evonovich book. It’s more complex than any Nicholas Sparks novel I’ve read. It’s sure as hell more complex than 50 Shades of Grey. Those are still fine options, though, because reading is entertainment. I’m not saying my Warlock Smut is great reading, just that it is reading and it’s pretty much equal to any contemporary literature. So the problem?

slave to sensation

The problem is that that’s the cover of the first in the Psy-Changeling series. The problem is that I’ve been careful not to have that picture show as I’m typing this, because I’m on my computer at work. The problem is that it’s a huge pain in the butt to read about the battle of the Lore, or all supernatural species, while I’m substitute teaching, because I have to make sure that none of my kids get a glimpse of:

no rest for the wicked

There were several sex scenes in that book and they weren’t exactly fade-to-black moments either. But they’re no worse than many contemporary fiction novels. There’s plenty of plot, because I can’t read just plain old erotica without getting bored. I read Bared to You, by Sylvia Day, because I’d read that it was like if 50 Shades of Grey had been written with any level of skill. It was an enjoyable read, for erotica, but I haven’t read any since then, because there’s just not enough going on outside the relationship. I love paranormal storylines and always have, so paranormal romance is great. Sometimes, it is just erotica with claws, and in that case, I stop reading, because it’s dull.

Personally, I often find the covers more offensive than what’s beneath them, because actual pornography is a bigger moral issue for me than literature. As I’ve said before, it’s pretend when you’re reading it. No one is being pushed around (a big theme in most romance) or degraded, because they aren’t real. That naked lady on the screen, though? She had a 3rd birthday party. There was likely a princess cake. That freaks me out.

So, in short:

Get your porn off my smut, because it’s not even kind of subtle to read something with a peice of paper taped to the front. E.L. James can put a classy cover on “I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.”

50 cover

Surely we can get something classier on my Warlock Smut.

How a conversation turns to senseless babble…

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On Fifty Shades of Grey:

Me: “I really don’t understand how people like erotica. There’s just not enough plot for me. ‘I loved the plot! I loved the thick and deep plot.'”
Gail: “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Me: “What plot? Tell that story without abusive sex.”
Gail: “Okay, okay. So there’s this girl and she’s like 22 and has a porn star name…”
Me: “Huh. You’re right.”
Gail: “…and she doesn’t know what a computer is and she doesn’t know what a mechanic is. She’s really plain and she meets this guy who’s really hot…”
Me: “She wasn’t really plain. She was hot and just really insecure.”
Gail: “… and she also hates herself. So one day, he says he… wants to hit her and then play Yahtzee and she’s like ‘Oh my gosh! He said he wants to play Yhatzee with me! So they play Yhatzee… a lot of Yhatzee. Then one day he doesn’t want to play Yhatzee anymore and he just wants to hit her and she cries, because she really misses playing Yhatzee.”
Me: “That was… surprisingly dead-on.”
Gail: “OH! And his mom was sexually active.”
Me: “I said without sex. She played Yhatzee for money.”
Gail: “Or it sounded like she was playing Yhatzee for money. All he knows is that his mom would go into another room with a man and then she died.”
Me: “And there was a Yahtzee board in the living room.”
Gail: “And there was blood all over it… I don’t think Yahtzee’s a board game.”
Me: “We’re clearly quite inexperienced at Yahtzee.”
Gail: “Yeah, I haven’t played Yahtzee in a really long time.”
Me: suggestively “I know. I really need to play some Yahtzee.”

What the hell are we even talking about anymore?

If Rapunzel had a Suzuki…

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When I was little, I used to get so frustrated putting on socks, that I’d end up in tears. If anyone tried to help me, I’d throw a tantrum. That hasn’t changed much. Sunday, on the way home from Mass, my power steering went… then my a/c went… and my battery light came on. I called Chad, because he’s a dear and changes my oil.

Me: “Hey, um… my power steering just went and I was wondering if you could look at my car.”
Chad: sounds like he was asleep “Uh… yeah. I guess.”
Me: “Like… now? I’m sorry. I’m just right by your house and I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Chad: “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”

So, I promptly got lost in his neighborhood, which is pathetic, because he lives in my hometown, like a half a mile away from me. The power steering wasn’t working and it wasn’t any easier to manage while on the phone getting directions. It was at this point that I started to feel far to Damsely for my taste. Finally, I pull into the drive I’ve pulled into a hundred times, expecting grief for getting lost. Instead, I got:

Chad: “Holy shit, did you not see your car was smoking?!?”
Me: “Uh… no.”
Chad: “Do you not see all that smoke?”
Me: “Um… I do now?”

What? I never wash my car, because I don’t care what it looks like. The windows are always that unclear… and I wasn’t looking for smoke. I don’t know shit about cars. As far as I’m concerned they run on equal parts pixie dust and prayer.

So, we popped the hood and smoke poured out. The anti-freeze was boiling. Literally. We could hear it. I’m in church clothes and Chad’s wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt, clearly expecting this to be a quick fix. After poking around for a little bit, with stern orders for me to stand in the yard in case things explode – Like I want him hurt if things explode? Who would fix my car!?!?! Kidding. I’d feel horrible – Chad pulls out a strip of shredded rubber and tosses it aside, announcing that the serpentine belt was out. I knew that term. I knew the dealership had quoted over $80 to replace it, with labor, on my foreign car. Chad tells me to put the car in neutral and pushes it into the street, grabs his keys and tells me to come on, we’re going to AutoZone to get a new belt. AutoZone tells me the nearest one is a twenty-minute drive and I ask Chad to drop me off at my Gramma’s so I can borrow her car.

Chad: “We can just run up there real quick, if you want.”

So, after a trip two towns over to pick up the belt and some anti-freeze, I bought Chad a pop without asking, because I knew he’d refuse the thank you.

Chad: suspiciously “You’re getting two drinks?”
Me: “Yup.”

I just handed it to him without a word. Then I secretly stashed $7 in gas money in his truck (a page from Gail’s book), when we got back.

Two hours later, I was still sitting in the yard, on a purple Indian blanket from the hatchback, to keep from getting my church pants dirty. Jay, who was supposed to be at work, was threading the serpentine belt through the top of the engine, while Chad was under the car, covered in grease.

dear boys

It was the prettiest day of the year so far and I had my wonderful boys spending their daylight hours screwing with my “jap trap” car, as Chad calls it. I was intensely happy that I’d bought each of them Christmas presents. They never get me anything and they never have to, because I know they’ll pay me back eventually. They didn’t even act annoyed with me, just made jokes about my fear of birds when I’d duck at the sound of wings. They laughed and teased like normal while I sat useless on their lawn.

becca convo 1

It’s not that I’m not grateful. I totally am. I’m grateful I didn’t have to work yesterday or today and that Chad wasn’t busy. I’m mostly grateful to be surrounded by Knights in Shining Armor who, literally, want nothing in return. If I could find a boy like that who wasn’t one of my boys, I’d drop to my knees and blow him in public. Then I’d have his babies. Not because of the public oral.. cuz, you know… that’s not how procreation works. Anyway, they’re wonderful. I just hate being any kind of helpless. I’m cherishing the time I’m spending single, because I love knowing that I can do it on my own. But yesterday, I couldn’t. It’s not like I can ever truly return the favor, either. What am I going to do for them? Help them find a book? Hem their jeans? It’s sure as hell not going to be car related.

After the grueling changing of the belt, my car was making a fun new clanging noise. I took it to the mechanic on prayer yesterday morning and realized I had no way to leave the auto shop. I texted Jay, but he said he was working for Chad (who’d succumbed to a stomach virus) and had only had 3 hours of sleep. Awesome. After Chad spent his day off playing mechanic, he got sick. Gail texted, asking about the car. I told her I was stranded and she said she’d come get me since we had plans later anyway. It felt less Damsely for some reason, likely because she’s just family, like my Gramma. I had her take me by McDonald’s so I could take Jay breakfast as a thank you, since he was having a sucky morning. His face lit up.

Rapunzel spent her whole life in that tower, growing out her hair, waiting to be saved, but why? If her hair was that long, she could’ve just used it to climb down. It probably wouldn’t have hurt as much either.

When I met my boys, I was going through a divorce and was utterly shattered as a person. One night, Jay and Chad went to Buffalo Wild Wings with me, even though Ken and Ward wouldn’t go. Then Jay drove around aimlessly for an hour, just because he knew I didn’t want to go home. Another night Chad stayed out until 2:30 in the morning, talking in his truck with me, because he knew I couldn’t go home to my ex-husband. And in return, they got $7 cash and a pop and some breakfast burritos. Somehow, the scales seem uneven.

Ultimately, the car ended up needing a new pulley of some sort and only cost $165 and was ready today. This meant I didn’t have to ask anyone for money or a ride, which would have been the pink and purple icing on the helpless little lady cake: another reason to be thankful. I suppose it’s just part of the human condition to have to need people sometimes, but I still want to throw my socks across the room and scream about how I can do it myself… even if I can’t. I hate that I can’t. But I absolutely love my boys and I absolutely love Gail for being there with a smile and a “no problem” when I do need it. Hopefully I get the chance to be a good friend in the future and return the favor.

Rapunzel was so fucking lazy.

rapunzel

Titanic: An “Over-Analysis”

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So there comes a time in life when you find yourself turning it over in your brain… approaching it at different angles… coming up with pithy comebacks several hours after the fact… because what did he mean you’re “too analytical” and “over-analyze”?!?! It’s not like you couldn’t get through a simple late night meal you didn’t need at an IHOP without going on your “Titanic Rant”! It’s not even a rant! It’s a simple, perfectly healthy, rational review of historical fiction that was completely ridiculous!!!!!!!

Seriously. That internal monologue totally happened when Jay interrupted someone to say “DO NOT get her started on Titanic“, because…

titanicThat version would’ve been so much better.

I’ll open with a disclaimer. On the surface, Titanic is an enjoyable watch. It’s a cute love story with a strong female lead. It’s too damned long, but I have no attention span for movies and television anyway, as I only watched half the last episode of Vampire Diaries, before I turned off the T.V. to read. My appreciation for this movie, however, is with zero analysis and I have it on good authority that I’m incapable of such a feat. End Disclaimer.

Rose would not have spoken to Jack. She wouldn’t have had the chance to do so. She was betrothed to a very powerful man and likely would not have been left alone long enough for her pretend suicide attempt, let alone the many touching moments that followed. Had the former even occurred, Jack would’ve been arrested and immediately hauled away from her when it appeared she’d been attacked. They wouldn’t have waited around to hear the explanation of a hysterical female. He touched a very wealthy man’s fiance and would pay for it. The movie ends and it’s bloody.

Let’s go ahead and allow them to meet, though. Maybe 17-year-old (they discussed University) Rose really is left alone long enough to threaten to fling herself from the boat and gets the attention she is clearly seeking. This was 1912, ya’ll. Women didn’t talk to strange men and no one married for love anyway, especially not the rich. They hardly do that today. They married for social and economic standing. The end. There were two classes back then: upper and lower. The modern day middle class did not rise until the mid-forties.* Rose would’ve been choosing between extreme wealth and extreme poverty and she wasn’t exactly a low-maintenance gal. Furthermore, by choosing the latter, she was dooming her mother to it, too. The woman wasn’t exaggerating when she asked Rose if she’d like to see her reduced to working as a seamstress. This was backbreaking, 16-hours a day, may or may not get paid and still won’t be able to eat, work. It was some of the only work available to women and they still couldn’t survive on it.* All because Rose wanted a little more excitement? Rose was a strong and feisty woman by 1997’s standard, but by 1912’s, she was a selfish brat with no loyalty to her mother, who did all she could to raise her, send her to the best schools, and hide the fact that the money was gone, so she could procure a nice man to take care of her, because women couldn’t provide for themselves.

This brings us to the men: Jack and Cal. Jack was a homeless man. You can put whatever spin on it you like, but the man was a vagrant and a moocher.

“Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people.” – Jack Dawson*

Had she ended up with him, she’d have eventually been the wife of a factory worker, dreaming of the days when life wasn’t so grueling.

Cal, however, was quite the catch for the time period. He was classically handsome, wealthy, and frankly, he put up with a lot of shit from Rose, because he actually loved her. So, he ordered for her at dinner. It was 1912! That was commonplace and no one would’ve thought anything of it, including Rose. He bought her the paintings he hated, paid a man the equivalent of $476.19* today for saving her life, and gave her a diamond that explorers still coveted 85 years later. That’s more than pretty much all women of the day could ask.

“There’s nothing I couldn’t give you. There’s nothing I’d deny you if you would not deny me. Open your heart to me, Rose.” – Cal Hawkley*

I mean, the man only hit her once and it was for cheating on him. That’s really quite the show of self-control by today’s standards. Statistically speaking, Jack would’ve hit her far more, due to economic standing and because she was impossible.* I mean, the woman told penis jokes at a formal dinner. That’s disgusting in 2013, let alone 101 years ago.

“Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.” – Rose DeWitt Bukater*

So, Rose ends up with the millionaire. The movie ends and it’s bloody.

“He married, of course. And inherited his millions. But the crash of ’29 hit his interests hard, and he put a pistol in his mouth that year. Or so I read.” Rose Calvert, 1997*

Rose never would’ve spoken to Jack and she never would’ve chosen Jack, but let’s just say she did. The events progress exactly as they did in the movie and the ship is sinking and she chooses to risk death with a drifter, all for the sake of luuuuuuv. They’re in ice cold water and the lifeboats aren’t willing to rescue them, for good damned reason, because they’ll be tipped and everyone will freeze to death. We’re supposed to think the guys who make that call are douches, but in reality, they’re the heroes who saved everyone on those lifeboats. Meanwhile Jack and Rose find a floating door that won’t hold the weight of both of them. An entire fucking ship just sank and she doesn’t encourage him to seek out more debris, because then she won’t have a chat buddy? They couldn’t have held hands on His and Hers doors? She’s a selfish bitch and he’s a moron, so he dies. Rose goes on to live a beautiful and fulfilling life full of people she loves, as the result of making Jack her sacrificial lamb. She marries and has children and grandchildren.

“Then she marries this guy named Calvert, they move to Cedar Rapids and she punches out a couple of kids.” Lewis Bodine*

Then, just before her death, she presents a diamond worth millions that could’ve taken care of her whole family for generations, and tosses it off the side of a boat to be dramatic, even though no one is watching. I know we have this idea in society that we aren’t supposed to use the word “cunt” for the elderly, but in this case, I’m willing to make an exception. Finally, Celine Dion music plays in the background, Rose dies and is transported back to the Titanic to meet Jack and the credits roll.

Wait. What?!?! She lived a rich life full of people she adored and screwed out of millions, and her idea of heaven is a ship that sunk and killed hundreds of people, just because of a one-night stand from 85 years ago?!?!?! Her whole family got owned.

“I saw my whole life as if I’d already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared… or even noticed.” – Rose Calvert, 1997*

Meanwhile, the early 1900’s American poor lived their own adventures, as in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle:

“… meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man who did the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he saw one—there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with which a poisoned rat was a tidbit. There was no place for the men to wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that would be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under the system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was the cleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they did it; and in the barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water—and cartload after cartload of it would be taken up and dumped into the hoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public’s breakfast.”*

Meanwhile in China… those are her toes:

chinese foot*

“I know what you must be thinking. ‘Poor little rich girl, what does she know about misery?'” – Rose DeWitt Bukater

Nailed it!

I’m fighting the urge to transform these to Chicago Manual format citations.

http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/145

http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1882147,00.html

http://fyi.uwex.edu/financialseries/files/2012/02/Financial-Capability-and-Domestic-Violence.pdf

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120338/quotes

http://www.angelfire.com/mi/peachypenguin/titanicquotes.html

http://www.davemanuel.com/inflation-calculator.php

http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/jungle/quotes.html

http://kuhlcat.hubpages.com/hub/Women-Today-Have-it-Easy

Dear PoF:

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Alright, Plenty of Fish. It’s time we had a talk. No, this isn’t about the guy who took me out and tried to sell me a diet plan. No, it’s not about the man who asked if the reason I hadn’t had any real luck was because I was Catholic… and then called me an uptight bitch when I didn’t respond. It’s not even about Abdul542 and his “Ooh very awesome to me I love to be your friend” message.* It’s about your offensive fucking ads… you bag of dicks.

*Copy and paste. Actually.

offensive ads_1

I am being whored out to whom, now? The cop who’s about to use his furry handcuffs to arrest me for “drinking while sexy” or the one who is working diligently on his 1993 MS-DOS 6.2 with a smile on his face?

offensive ads_2
Well, now, obviously the gaping wound between my legs means I’m looking for someone with money. Fortunately, these guys don’t mind claiming that online… perhaps because they’re only 22? That’s why they haven’t had time to date (or put on clothes), because they work so much! Super believable. I suppose this isn’t a surprising pitch in a post-Christian Grey world where I am to assume the man in a pooka shell neckalce is a “megabajillionaire” without asking questions… or he’ll punch me in the neck… and it will be haaaawt.

offensive ads_3

My profile lists me as average, so I can only assume this advertisement was directed at me, because I’m dating online… of course I’m fat and insecure about it. That, however, does not mean I don’t deserve a well-hung billionaire just as much as the next gal. Fortunately for all chubby ladies, there’s an apparent shortage of pushin’ cushion here in the Midwest, where we’re known for vegetarianism and marathons!

offensive ads_4

Well, we’ve already addressed the weight insecurity, so really, your question about artificial sweetener is redundant at best. Even if that works, though, it’s likely time has managed to kick my ass, because I’m desperate enough to find a partner… online!!!!!! Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if he saw me for the first time and I looked like one of The Golden Girls? But let’s get serious people. This is a free dating site. Like I can afford Botox? Fortunately there’s a cream that will stop “women from going under the knife” to battle their insecurities! You know what else might do that? Botox. It’s a fucking injection.

offensive ads_5

For starters, the headline “Wanted” kind of makes everything look like an ad for a drug trial that may give me either the power to start fires with my mind or an exotic venereal disease. Furthermore, what about this random guy signifies his religious beliefs? Am I to assume the back of his shirt reads “I’m Catholic and I Know It”? He is, however, on a beach, so he must be rich, since you know… those cost a lot?

In conclusion, Plenty of Fish, I must admit that your ads are not going to deter me from using your site, because I’m still too cheap to pay for any other. No, no. The fact remains that what might actually deter me is the last “catch” who initiated contact:

Photo: none

Profession: Job

About Me:

“It makes me laugh when people want a picture on your profile but yet they dont have one themselves lol. People on this this are shallow. And i know i look good cause i am in body building. Kgcbhgcbhfcngc fhjgc ghjh ghjh ghhbfc ghjjh vhjjh”

… but that’s a different rant.

Two Broken Girls

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2 broken girls

Humor: the most entertaining of defense mechanisms.

Oh, for the ability to process emotions like adults.

Frankly, it’s pretty awesome to have a best friend as fucked up as I. They don’t make that Hallmark card.

That’s probably a good call.

Formerly Fat

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In August of 2010, I weighed 260 pounds. I had miscarried and Gail’s little girl had died in the last year. I was starting graduate school and working two jobs even then. I had a husband who wouldn’t get a job and constantly stole from me, refusing to get the hell out of my house even though I’d asked him to leave a hundred times. I couldn’t afford to buy healthy food, when I could afford to buy food at all, I didn’t have time to work out, and it wasn’t really a huge concern of mine considering the debilitating depression I experienced as my life crumbled around me and I kept it from everyone. While I’d been overweight most of my life, I was officially morbidly obese.

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Today, I weigh 172 pounds, up from 160, the lowest I got before I wrecked my back in February. I’d like to get down to 150, but I’m still pretty danged content. I don’t know if I mean for this to be motivating for people trying to lose weight this New Year (my weight loss was not a New Year’s resolution) or if this is just me being grateful that my whole world is different, but here are my favorite things about being “average”.

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The Clothes
I own fucking jeggings. I’m wearing them right now. They’re a size medium, but when I wear my normal jeans, they’re an 8. At 160, I comfortably wore a 6. A 6! That’s fat Anne Hathaway according to The Devil Wears Prada! You know what looks good on me now? An electric blue zebra print tankini. I own that! I also own several adorable sundresses and sweater dresses and I wear them all the time. Dresses rock! They’re like nightgowns, but sexy.

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I should probably take down the Christmas tree, though.

The Cheap Clothes
These jeggings cost me $20. Lane Bryant jeans cost $60. My size 6 skirt from Goodwill cost $3 and looks brand new. The last plus-sized skirt I had was $50. It’s impossibly easy to find super cheap clothes that look adorable on me, because I’m tiny by comparison to my 260 pounds self. I can even find cute Wal-Mart outfits. When I was bigger, Wal-Mart clothes looked terrible on me. They aren’t shaped, they’re just large. Now I can buy $9 jean shorts and they look great. Since my thighs don’t rub together like those of a cricket in spring, they last forever, too. Since my boobs aren’t enormous, I can wear $20 36C bras. My 40DD bra cost me $40. It was on sale.

The Food and Drinks
Thanksgiving Day of 2010, I tearfully told Gail how bad things had gotten in my marriage and that he was finally leaving the next day. Then I drank 8 Long Island Ice Teas, her drink, and our friend’s drink and ate a full meal. The bar tab was $75. Today, after 3 Long Island Ice Teas, I’m too drunk to want another, even if I’m crying.  I can’t even imagine racking up a $75 bar tab at my current size. Meals that would have once been satisfying are now to-go box material. I spend $50 a week on my groceries and it’s plenty. In fact, I’m quite the food hoarder, because I once couldn’t afford it, and have about 6 pounds of meat in my freezer right now.

The Way I Move
Alright. No one who hasn’t been overweight is going to get this one at all. When you’re big, you can’t do that thing where you pull your legs up into the chair and put your chin on them. It’s not an option, because your belly gets in the way. You can’t cross your legs, because you have too much thigh. Running up the stairs or bolting to the mailbox because it’s cold and you were too lazy to put on shoes, causes dry heaving because you can’t breathe. It is physically uncomfortable to be heavy. One of the best parts of being smaller is that I can actually curl up. I bought a papasan chair for myself for my birthday and I spend most hours at home curled up in that chair like a fucking embryo. It. Is. Awesome. They should put that in the Jenny Craig commercial.

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My skinny nest.

I Can Look At Myself Naked
I used to stand in front of the mirror and think the most degrading things. They were usually funny, but still incredibly negative.

“I look like a shaved gorilla.”

Sometimes, they were just depressing.

“I don’t even feel like a woman anymore. If I leave him, no one will want me again.”

I’ve taken 3 baths this week. If you’ve ever been unhappy with your body, you know that taking a bath isn’t relaxing at all. It’s staring at your wet body, thinking “ew” and calculating how much weight you have to lose to no longer be obese. It’s picturing what you look like sitting in said bathtub and analyzing the water level compared to your weight. I actually do things naked now. I mean, I’m not joining a nudist colony, but it’s not humiliating to be alone in a room without clothes on any longer. If I want to do the dishes naked, so I don’t get water on my clothes, I’m okay with doing that. I don’t remember why but I once vacuumed my whole apartment naked. Seriously, not a nudist.

The Self-Confidence
Guess what. I am almost never the fattest person in the room anymore. It’s so rare that I am, that I don’t even check now. It used to be automatic. The hits to my self-esteem still occur, of course. Did he not call me because I’m fat? But now I actually question that. It’s not just a given. When I substitute, the students call me Velma, because I have short hair and sometimes wear my black-rimmed glasses. Occasionally, it’s meant as an insult. You know what, though? They never call me the fat sub. Ever. And that’s terrific.

The Sleep Shirts
At 260, I wore a size 2xl t-shirt. So, working at the movie theater, I had to take the adult large Ice Age promotional shirt and stretch it out and wear an undershirt beneath it. It was humiliating. Today, that is my favorite sleep shirt and one of many.

I Know Who Loves Me
When you’re fat, you think people treat you differently because of it. You’re in line at the grocery store, they open a new register, and there’s a choice between you and a thinner person. They motion for the thinner person. People who’ve never been there would say you’re being paranoid. You’re not. They did subconsciously choose the more attractive person. People are friendlier to me than they ever were when I was 90 pounds larger. That sucks, but that’s the way it is. That’s why the people who loved me at 260 get so much credit for it.

When I met my guys, I was married, miserable, 250 or so pounds, had hair halfway down my back I only wore in a ponytail or pigtails, never wore makeup, and didn’t own anything that wasn’t a t-shirt and jeans. It was at this weight that I became “not a girl, Belle”, invited out to dinner and New Year’s Eve with “just the guys.” They never cared that I was bigger and didn’t dress like a girl. They liked my sense of humor and loyalty. At 160 pounds, they didn’t treat me any different. I got the same jokes and inclusion. Additionally, Gail’s seen me fluctuate from my high school 190 to my college 260 to my lowest 160 and my present 172 and has never treated me any different in ten years. When someone checks me out, I know they wouldn’t have been interested 2 years ago and that’s okay. But it’s always comforting to know that there are people who feel the same no matter your appearance.

So… maybe I was just broken and damaged and never ate or slept when I lost that first 30 pounds and insanely determined when I lost the next 60, but it’s been so awesome to be normal sized for the first time in my life. Just thinking about it encourages me to stay this way, because even in hindsight, being overweight sucked. Happy Resolutioning!

Crap I’d Like to Share: An Almost Post

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Ward: “What’s a blog?”
Me: “Well, you just write… about anything you want. People write about traveling, cooking, dating…”
Ward: “So, it’s writing essays for fun?”

Gramma: “In all my life, I have never seen so many fat young people.”

The day I taught her to text, I left her house and got the following a few hours later:
gramma

The time I tried to sell a friend on 50 Shades of Grey:

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Summer of ’11, Gail and I took the worst vacation of all time. The air conditioner in the car broke as we rolled into New Mexico days before the 4th of July, Gail got strep throat, and my mother was… well, my mother. However, we did leave a basket for the aliens (translate: littered in the desert).

alien gift basket

agb 1

agb 2

agb 3

agb 4

“I’m sorry I insulted your baby on Facebook.”

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I’m not good with apologies.

I’m not just bad with them in general; I’m terrible at knowing when I should apologize and when I should just leave it alone. I do, however, know how to use a semicolon, so it all evens out.

Don’t get me wrong. If I make a complete asshat out of myself, I apologize sincerely and profusely.

Scenario:

I’ve been with one person and Gail’s been with half a dozen, so I make jokes all the time about how she’s a slut. I’m 100% kidding. It’s her body. I love her. If she had sex with 46 people in the next week, I’d mostly be concerned with her mental health, as that’s out of character for her, and I’d want some time management tips, cuz damn. But I wouldn’t douse her with holy water, judge her, or love her any less. She knows this. So she was dating this guy and they’d fooled around for the first time. She’d given me every detail, of course. She seemed a little uncomfortable with what had happened, but it wasn’t that big of a deal… so I forgot. It was a few days later and I was texting her.

Gail: I’ve had a long day and I don’t feel well.
Me: Maybe that’s because you swallow so much cum.

It actually had nothing to do with the guy. It was just a standard joke. She’s used to them. She likes to fancy herself the sweet one, so she surrounds herself with douche bags. That’s her mental fracture, not mine.

silence for about 10 minutes when we’d been texting back and forth

Me: Hey, I’m sorry if that was too much. I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to make you mad.
Gail: Yeah. I haven’t heard from Brandon since then.

OUCH. Poor Gail. Later, she came over and asked:

Gail: “You know how we have this mean and sarcastic relationship?”
Me: “Yeah?”
Gail: “Well, today we don’t.”

Then she hugged me and cried. We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We make sarcastic jokes about rape and our dead babies and other people overhear and think we’re sadistic fucks, when we really just can’t process adult emotions in regards to trauma. It’s our secret handshake.

So, obviously I apologized and did so sincerely.

Then there are fuzzier times when I’m not sure if I should apologize. Invariably, I do and it’s always super awkward, such as the following with a girl from high school who’d recently confided in me about her divorce.

Me: link to a blog on biblical misinterpretations of the subject of divorce
G: Thanks for sharing! It’s so sweet that you always think of me! I enjoyed reading that.

Alrighty then. Now’s the time where normal people end the conversation.

Wait. I just sent her another blog on divorce like 4 days ago.

I’m overthinking this. I should stop now.

She’s got the whole world talking behind her back and I’m repeatedly sending her self-help links? What the fuck? That’s not supportive. I should apologize.

No. You shouldn’t. You should leave it alone.

Me: You’re welcome. I follow the divorce feed on WordPress. I hope you don’t think its pointed like “clearly you need help” or anything. When I read them and they make me feel better, I just think you might like them too.

facepalm cat

:Facepalm:

This is copy and fucking paste, people. That was today. That’s how often this shit happens.

G: Oh no, I didn’t take it that way at all lol.
Me: Lol. good. I just knew you’d been getting religious takes on it and thought that one was interesting
G: It most definitely was.
Me: I’ve been blog obsessed lately. Lol.

Oh my God. Just stop talking. Just shut the fuck up. It’s not improving.

This was minutes ago. Thankfully, I finally stopped.

Then there are the times when I really should apologize, but I’m not sure how.

Coworker L: “Happy birthday!”
Coworker K: “You are the first person who’s said that today! Everyone at school knew and was just like ‘Oh.'”
Me: not even in the conversation and therefore should not be talking “Well, that was horribly ungrateful. What a thank you. Geez.”
Coworker K: looks embarrassed at my deadpanned straight-faced joking “Well, I… I didn’t mean it like that…”

Say something. Apologize.

Coworker K: assures Coworker L that she didn’t mean to be rude as I stand in contemplating silence
Me: “Oh, God, I’m kidding. I was just joking. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

That’s right, Belle. Say it four times seven hours later. Then write it on a slab of wood and hit her in the head with it. Or perhaps, save your humor for the 12 people on planet Earth who get it.

That was a year or so ago. Thankfully, these coworkers are the ones who shelve books part time (Pages), so they have no inclination to work in libraries forever and are the few people in the system who sort of know my humor now… until we get the dreaded new guy.

Me: Hey, did you ever watch Friends?
Coworker C: “Yeah… a few episodes. Why?”
Me: “Well, do you remember the episode where Ross has just moved into the building and they want a $100 donation from him for the retiring maintenance guy and he doesn’t give it and then everyone hates him?”

Why can’t you just ask a fucking question without an obscure 90s television reference?

Coworker C: “Uh…”
Me: “They’re going in on a gift for Pregnant Coworker and they want people to contribute.”
Coworker C: “After payday?”
Me: “Yes. Don’t worry. If you don’t want to donate, we’ll just put your name on Coworker K’s We Hate You and Your Baby card.”

Okay. Laugh or something. He’s clearly not getting that you’re kidding.

Me: “I’m kidding. I’m sorry. The Pages are the only ones I joke like this with and I used to with Coworker N and now you’re the new computer tech…”

Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up.

Then, there are the times when I don’t think I should apologize, because I didn’t do anything wrong.

Gail had said she couldn’t hang out, because she was working. Later she texted about being at lunch with a friend in the city.

Me: Tough day at work.
Gail: Hey, you were working and he was available and I always hang out with you and I never see him. I wasn’t going to just not do anything because you couldn’t hang out yet.
Me: Yeah, I didn’t say you should.
Gail: You pretty much just called me a liar.
Me: Well, I’m sorry you chose to take it that way.

Gail and I never fight. Ever. We’re incredibly in sync and just know what buttons not to push, for one. Secondly, we’re passive assertive people. We don’t like confrontation. I was kidding with the original comment, in inquiry as to what changed her day so drastically. She took it as a challenge to her gal pal loyalty, because she’s insane. I explained later and cleared everything up, but I was so annoyed that she’d assume I was so possessive as to pee a circle around her that I just gave the deliberately antagonizing NOT apology of “I’m sorry that this is your fault.”

Around Thanksgiving, Married-In Crazy Relative went psychotic on me for deciding to make other plans rather than go to her dinner to which I was never officially invited. Actual Relative (also crazy for marrying her) wanted me to just give in and apologize and go.

“I’m sorry that you’re a cunt and I had no say in whether or not I was related to you. We’ve got a pool going on your divorce.”

Yeah, I chose not to apologize at all that time. I think it was for the best.

So, now, here I am, with likely my fifth awkward Should-I? moment of the day.

Cousin’s Status Update:
Soo very thankful for everyone that came over today for Mjs 1st Birthday! Wow! What a great day it was! We are SO blessed! Thank you again! Pics to come!! 😉
My Comment:
I had to work.  😦 kiss her big ol’ ears for me!
Cousin’s Response: She doesn’t have big ears but ill kiss her for you 😉
My Response: Haha. They’re adorable, whatever their classification.

Head in Hands Fuck

You should just leave it. You called them adorable. Even though, they’re enormous and she’s said so before. Ugh. People are weird about insulting their babies… probably because no one insults babies. Who the fuck insults someone’s baby?!?! What the hell is wrong with you?!?! Even if she HAS called her ears big, you’re supposed to reassure her that they’re normal. She probably doesn’t care. Of course she cares. You called her baby a yard gnome.

Do not apologize. Leave it be.

Maybe I’ll actually say “I’m sorry I insulted your baby on Facebook.”

DO NOT DO THAT.