- Boys do not understand that if your snot rag misses the garbage can, it does not magically levitate into the can when you don’t bother to pick it up. There’s no notice that I am that magic levitation. ME! I AM THE MAGIC!
- Boys do not seem to notice when they leave a really gross mess in the toilet. I don’t know what goes on with dudes butt’s since I’m not a dude, but I swear they are different. They leave such nasty messes. And it doesn’t seem to bother them to the point I’m not sure they even notice it. If you do notice it, why would you leave it for everyone else to gaze upon?
- Boys think I’m stupid. When I ask a question (this morning I asked if they’d taken their allergy meds. I was told yes.) and they immediately busy themselves doing the things they JUST TOLD ME THEY DID ALREADY they don’t seem to think I notice. Here’s a notice to the male squad in my house, just because you aren’t in my line of sight doesn’t mean I’m unable to hear what you’re doing. I hear you digging into the allergy medicine with gusto. You can just say “Oh, I’ll take that now.” Not “YES I already DID that!” with slight attitude. See if I remind you next time. You can drown in your own snot.
- Very, very rarely, boys will make you smile. Usually right when you’re about to break them into pieces for 1-3. And I’m pretty sure they know what they’re doing and it’s just a way to keep from being broken, but it works. I’m almost positive it’s the only reason humans didn’t die out.
- Come on guys, seriously, you MUST look at the toilet once you’re done. Who wouldn’t? Apparently, it’s the equivalent of an elephant going in there, you MUST look at that in wonder (you are still pretty small…..how did that even come out of you without surgery?!). So when it leaves a trail, why wouldn’t you clean that you disgusting little wierdos?!
Happy snowy Saturday folks! This one will be a brutally honest chat about female stuff. I am unsure why something that’s completely natural (sort of…my endocrinology professor had a lot to say about this but for our purposes….) and happens to roughly 50% of the population is such a taboo subject, but I’m kind of over that. Life would be easier if we weren’t all desperately trying to pretend your oven’s cleaning cycle is this hideous, disgusting thing that couldn’t POSSIBLY be happening.
If you’re wondering why in the world anyone would bring up such a massive turn off of a conversation starter there are a few reasons. 1. My oven just finished up with its self-cleaning cycle and I’m still a little bitter about it. 2. A friend of mine sent me a link to an article that made my brain juice start pumping. 3. I am seriously bamboozled at the fact even hinting about a menstrual cycle makes everyone cringe.
Things I think should be discussed.
- Birth control and the fact it can make you lose your mind.
- PMS can also make you lose your mind.
- Neither of those is fun.
- Thinx is the best thing I’ve ever bought. Seriously.
- Maybe, if we weren’t all annoyingly prudish we would save others a ton of misery. And money.
The first time I tried birth control I didn’t think anything of it. I had horrible skin, my cycles were miserable, and that’s what you did when you didn’t want to have a kid. There was talk about the fact I would probably gain weight, but when you gain weight just smelling food you kind of assume you will gain weight when you take anything. On the upside, my cycle might be more regulated, less of a burden, and less painful. All of that sounded like the cat’s pajamas.
I have a weird habit every time I cycle. I decide that whatever relationships I’m in (romantic for the most part, but I’ll aim at friendships or family in a pinch) are falling apart and we should probably go our separate ways. Even knowing I have that tendency I am convinced, every single stupid month, that things are going horrible and everyone hates me and I should just move into a broken down car under an overpass somewhere and wait for death. It’s super dramatic. And not without logic, I am not completely irrational, there’s enough truth in it to make it feel completely justified. I take small, normal issues and magnify them and obsess about them until I can’t stand myself. Now, to be completely fair, I have been in some pretty shitty relationships. I am extremely lucky in friends; I’m extremely stupid in romantic affairs. It’s a balance of sorts. So there were plenty of times I was absolutely right to be dead serious about trying to get out of relationships. But as soon as the storm passes, I just go back to the same old and the entire thing cruises on autopilot until my hormones go wonk again. All that to say, sometimes I’m right, but the trigger to the extremes is always my cycle. I hoped the birth control would ease the hideously strong cramps and the bizarre need to completely melt down every single month. It’s exhausting knowing you’re not really “you” and even though you know it will pass, the highs and lows and emotional roller coaster is exhausting. This gives me an extremely high amount of empathy for those with any sort of mental disorder. Fighting like hell just to be yourself is the worst. I’m lucky that I only have to do it ¼ of the month. Full time would take strength I’m not 100% sure I have.
Fast forward a few months. I’m regular like clockwork, but everything in my mind is muted. I don’t care about anything. At all. I’m sad but it’s like I’m experiencing it through a filter. Nothing dramatic, not yet. Just this muted hopelessness. I didn’t notice any of that. I was just doing the usual, going to work, going home, trying to pretend I wasn’t in the worst relationship in the world, pretend everything is okay, etc.
All of that seems like red flags now, but then it didn’t even strike me as abnormal. It happened so slowly. I just got used to the fog. I was considering the best speed to drive my truck into a tree when I realized something was wrong. I was too numb to be very worried, but it sidetracked me enough to distract me from the tree. I didn’t actually have any thought about suicide, I just found myself aiming toward the tree with no emotion aside from very mild curiosity.
A lovely friend sent me a link to an article about a woman who went for years thinking her mental disorder was her own, only to find out decades later that it was the birth control. I stopped taking the pills the same day I almost played tag with a large pine. I woke up, surfaced from the fog, and refused to touch them after that. It breaks my heart that years of emotional anguish could have been spared the author if she’d known. I wonder how many teenage girls and young women are diagnosed with disorders brought on by birth control.
The same friend also sent me a link to an article about male birth control studies being canceled because of the side effects. The same side effects that are widely considered acceptable/minimal for women to live with their entire reproductive lives. Life is rich sometimes.
I am too scared to get the arm implant. Any systemic hormonal change worries me. It’s such an insidious change I am scared I won’t notice that I’m losing myself again. Not until it’s a bigger problem than I’m equipped to deal with. And I don’t fancy digging an implant out of my own arm in a panic.
Another fun part of hormonal mayhem is migraines. A few years ago I was to the point of having debilitating migraines every month. Horrible pain in your think-melon and your back (I rarely get typical gut pains, my cramps almost always scream through my lower back) make for not much fun at all. When I spoke with my doctor he mentioned an implant placed in the uterus to avoid the systemic hormone implications. It would last for 5 years, minimize the migraines and cramps, and might even make the whole kit and caboodle go away! Oh, say it ain’t so! Sign me up! Notice, I wasn’t worried about procreation, birth control can be used to treat a wide variety of issues. Some of us are going to be hormonally challenged no matter what. And despite my concerns about the impact on mental health, I am not in any way saying birth control is a bad thing. It’s not. It’s a total game changer. I’m just concerned about the side effects. For most people they are minimal. For folks like me, they are subtle but incredibly impactful. Mental disorders are not socially acceptable on the best days, for girls and women in the prime age to develop/manifest mental disorders, how often is the birth control even mentioned as a possible contributor? Maybe it is, all the time, and because I didn’t seek help for my depression I just don’t know. I hope that’s the case.
Anywhooooooozle, let’s talk about the fun stuff for a bit. Thinx! Or whatever brand, that just happens to be the brand I’ve used. I am so very sorry I didn’t try them sooner. I wish I’d had them from the time I started this whole stupid business. I’m still a faithful disciple of the mind frame we should just lay eggs and have the whole process be simple and less messy. Alas, messy is just how things go. And for those of us with ovens who clean with gusto, hideously embarrassing leaks are part of life. Pads are gross and unreliable. Tampons are impossible for me and have health risks of their own. Not to mention the cost associated with buying these products like clockwork. And if you have any of a miasma of health issues that create extremely heavy cycles for long durations, those costs add up.
I’d seen ads for Thinx online and was pretty sure it was a gimmick. No way could something that awesome exist. It was too good to hope for. So I ignored it. For years. But I read every article about someone trying them, all the reviews, etc. One particularly horrible cycle I decided to buy one pair just on the off chance they even sort of work. I have never been so excited about a pair of underwear in my life.
I love them. LOVE THEM. At the time I worked retail and was on my feet constantly, working the floor, unloading trucks, ordering product, whatever. I couldn’t take bathroom breaks all the time. It was like a new lease on life to be able to sleep all night during that “time of the month” and not be extremely uncomfortable in a mini-diaper nor having to soak and wash the bedclothes. I washed them and took them to work, to try them out on a truck night and see how they handled it. It was fantastic. I wasn’t, again, uncomfortable in a thick, cumbersome pad. I also didn’t have to try and sneak off to the bathroom concealing a giant pad. No one could tell anything was going on at all. I wasn’t uncomfortable or nervous about leaks. I could completely forget I was cycling. Which was miraculous.
Since that point, I’ve staggered purchases of Thinx until I have several pairs and can just use that and it is such a wonderful purchase. I wish I’d had access to these when I was a child (yes, that’s right, I started cycling at 9 and that’s super ridiculous). These are fantastic for young women to avoid embarrassment at school. These are perfect for women at work, whatever that work may be. These hold up to abuse, they are well worth the money you spend on them, and they’re comfortable. If you are a chick, or know a chick, or parented a chick, or may do so in the future, keep these in mind! They are the best purchase I’ve made, like, bar none. We spend much too much of our lives just trying to get through the not-at-all-fun experience of menstruation, these make it easier. Get them! BTW, just in case anyone wonders, I am not in cahoots with Thinx (although I totally would be if they’d let me be!). They don’t pay me, I bought everything at full price, etc. I just love them. Especially for women with really ridiculous ovens.
So, that’s all I’ve really got on this at the moment. If you have questions about Thinx, no matter how nitty gritty (I tried to not be in any way offensive with this…which is hard because I’m naturally offensive), ask them! I am a crazy Avon lady with these things, I’ll discuss at length and in great detail should anyone want it!
After tossing and turning for hours I decided to take a sleep aid last night about 2am. I reasoned that it wasn’t a work night (although if we’re being honest I still call them school nights in my mind), I could sleep in, and I wouldn’t end up staying up all night. It didn’t kick in until 3am or so. I passed out hardcore.
At 9am I felt someone staring at my not in any way attractive but peacefully sleeping form. I dislike being looked at. Especially lately.
I am currently doing epic sword clashing battle with a flare-up of extremely not-at-all-fun atopic dermatitis (often labeled eczema). Skin stuff, so what, right? Well. When one has an immune system that panics as strongly as mine does this equates to the skin on 90% of my body erupting into these delightful red ulcerated areas that itch like hell. In some areas, the inflamed areas gang up into little groups to have what I can only assume are gang wars for turf on what’s left on my body. My entire body aches, itches, burns, and the affected areas are extremely fragile so if I so much as breathe they break open and bleed. Which makes them itch.
I’m pretty sexy.
Thankfully my doctor prescribed a brand spanking new treatment that will hopefully calm my immune system down. It takes time, so in the meantime, I’m on fairly high doses of prednisone. Roid rage is real yo. Also, roid swelling is real. Also, roid appetite. I am STARVING. ALWAYS. So what little of my jaw bone and waistline I’d recovered from my lack of sugar before the holidays is now firmly squished into its comfy layer of fat. My eyes have disappeared again. My cheeks ate them. It’s just a cool thing they do.
Then I got sick. I have one hell of a cold that turned me into a snot factory. So. Um. Yeah. What tiny little bit of self-confidence I was clinging to has been completely destroyed. I’m a mess. Just a snotty, hacking, oozy, fat mess.
No place to go but up, right?
So when they finally got all the medication figured out and I was given the initial two injections. One common side effect is eye irritation. I now look like a demon with bright red, squinty eyes. I am winning.
So back to this morning. I feel his eyes on me. I rolled over to hint that he should go away. He got up, chatted with the dog who was loudly dancing, and after taking 15 forever’s to loudly brush his teeth they finally left. I settled into some seriously good dozing without distractions.
After 3.6 seconds the door slams open and he’s stomping in jabbering about the fact I need to get up. He happily warbles some garbage about me not being able to sleep tonight if I don’t hurry up and get up. Not that he knows anything about that because he falls asleep as soon as he lays down, but whatever, I’m not bitter. I tried to ignore him but he zipped all the blinds open and jumped onto the bed.
I sat up to glare at him but he shoved mail into my lap completely unconcerned.
I tried to keep glaring but my eyes hurt. Blinking hurt. Sleep would feel so freaking good. I tried to lay back down but he turned on the tv and an obnoxiously loud comedy came blaring out.
I was forced to leave the room to find coffee so as not to murder him. It would have been so satisfying, but I don’t want to be homeless just yet. With my record, that’s on the agenda to complete my transformation into disgusting, but I want to wait until it’s a bit warmer before heading that direction.
Add to the list of grievances, we had a conversation in which I had to explain to him (and to his mother in a separate, also mortifying, conversation) that Victoria Secrets doesn’t make clothes/underthings for my water buffalo size self. They should, we like buying over-priced clothes as much as anyone else, but unless you want to buy ridiculously overpriced perfumes or lip balms, my type of body can’t shop there. And his mother always sends me gift cards that I feel are a very thoughtful gift but not terribly useful.
No one should ever have to say to anyone MY ASS DOESN’T FIT INTO ANYTHING THAT COMPANY MAKES. ANYTHING. EXCEPT, LIKE, SOCKS. AND THAT’S PROBABLY STILL A RISK.
I know I’ll be less melodramatic and full of a bit less disgust once I’m off the prednisone and the diet gets rolling and I start to see some results, but today I am full to bursting of self-loathing. Just a big pile of suck.
Things that made me angry/want to cry/think about smacking everyone on the planet Louise style:
- I use a lot of coffee creamer and I get judged. Not that anyone judged me today, no one was even in the kitchen when I poured excessive amounts of creamer, but I remembered that I do get judged because I abuse it and that just set me off. Rational, right?
- Pork chops in the fridge have gone bad and a pig died for nothing.
- The stabby bushes out front are ugly and stab me and I hate them and Mancandy sees no reason to spend money on making the house look nicer nor less stabby. I think he has a lovely house and he should make it look nice, our home should feel and look like a home. He could not care less if it looks like a yard sale inside and some sort of hodgepodge mess outside. The stabby bushes threatened to make some serious rage waterworks happen.
- My slippers aren’t downstairs. Downstairs has the hardwood floor. I have no idea where my slippers are, but they aren’t here and this is where I need them and I’m full of rage.
- I tripped over the cat and I feel pretty certain it was a murder attempt….ergo the cat hates me. So much angst at this one.
So there ya have it. I’m a mess today. And if you can’t be not-a-mess you should at least be able to acknowledge your ridiculousness. Right after you have a meltdown because you have the wrong scent shower gel in the shower and LIFE IS RUINED.
I have been trying, genuinely, to stick to my low carb, really strict diet. It’s not horrible; it just takes effort that I generally don’t put into, like, anything…but I was doing okay. There have been some rough patches where I decided to fat girl swan dive into sugar saturated anything. I have this self-destructive streak that ensures as soon as I see any results (like the fat waddle under my chin shrinking and a jawline kinda peeking out) I immediately have cravings so intense it’s physically painful.
Thanksgiving was rough. I went wild. Like, hog wild growled if anyone touched my food, or got near my food, or walked into the room while I was sticking my head in the feeding bucket. I told myself when we got back to TN I’d get back into my groove.
We got back late on Sunday and when Mancandy offered to order delivery I was completely on board. One last Harrah before reining in my out of control inner child. Chinese sounded good after gorging on Turkey and stuffing.
I was hungry so even though it did not taste amazeballs, it was what I had, so I stuffed it down my gizzard. It was a disappointing Harrah. Mildly sad, I unpacked, sorted out animal medication and supplies, and glared at Mancandy who was thoroughly enjoying his dish. I do not care to suffer alone.
Keep in mind it tasted like cardboard and I ate every last bit. Tell me that doesn’t indicate a mental issue.
But alas, we had to go back to work so our routine needed to go back to normal. Comfy pj’s, brushed teeth, sleepy time meds down the hatch, and into peaceful slumber we crept. Except right before I was really asleep my stomach moved. Not just a gurgle or blurp either. That sucker moved from its normal location to my throat in a move that made me break into a sweat immediately.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good.
I flew into the bathroom and through the door to the “water closet” at lightning speed. I didn’t stop to grab a trash can. That was a tragic mistake on my part. Of course, our trash can has little cut-outs so it wouldn’t have been great, but I digress.
I honestly didn’t know what to do. Kneel? Sit? WHAT IS GOING ON AND WHERE IS IT GOING TO COME OUT! I was drenched in sweat, everything hurt, and I was insanely nauseous but did not trust that I was safe to assume puking would be the only fun I’d have. I decided I’d rather clean up puke, so I sat.
I pictured the scene from aliens where the wee little alien protrudes through the ribs. In my mind, it would be bursting from my gut. I was about to open the door and grab a towel from the stupidly tiny towel closet when I heard a throat clear.
Mancandy was in the bathroom! Code red! This is NOT a drill!
I’m dripping sweat and cramping like my guts were in a vice grip. This was about to be real ugly real fast. He needed to leave.
“Um, are you okay?”
I went into a coughing fit that ended in a gag, and a weird “glurp” sound I’ve never made before.
I can hear him shuffling his feet and breathing his not sweaty normal breath.
“Can you just throw a towel down outside the door? I think I’m going to be sick.” Understatement. Such a massive huge gigantic ridonculous understatement.
“Can I do anything to help?” He was being so nice. I doubled over on a particularly vile cramp and my body flashed hot and cold at the same time. My mouth was doing that gross drooling yet dry thing that happens right before you puke.
“No. Thanks. Oh god, I can’t talk, it’s go time.”
And it was.
I will spare you the details, mostly so I can keep a tiny amount of my pride intact.
But it was bad. So very, very bad.
I basically exploded.
There wasn’t room for embarrassment in the middle of it. I was just trying to survive.
There are little adorable frogs that puke up their guts, shovel out whatever offends them, and swallow their stomach back into the correct location.
I envied them. Desperately.
The violence of the episode ensured it was fairly short-lived. However, the after party meant I had to brush my teeth over and over, a quick sink bath to be less sweaty and gross, and then pass through the bedroom to get to the cleaning supplies and mop (it was a war zone).
He was sitting on the bed. I felt it was my duty to warn him, “Don’t go in there.” We blinked at each other.
He finally said, “That was really loud.”
I immediately blushed so hard my ears turned to fire and the shame made me wish to melt through the floor into a swampy mess of monster downstairs.
Side note: I inherited my Dad’s natural defense mechanism, involuntary scream puking! It’s a great party trick. Think puking, but while you’re heaving up your guts you scream out your rage. Involuntarily. Just BLAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGG at the top of your lungs.
He’d never been exposed to that little quirk. He was startled. I didn’t know what to do. I nodded and went to get cleaning supplies. I was walking as quickly as I could through the room on the return trip, dreading the job ahead, and he cleared his throat again.
“I don’t even really know what just happened. I thought you were trying to die politely without bothering me but I couldn’t stay and listen to….that. I didn’t know humans could make those….noises”.
How does one respond to that? I just went into the bathroom, slammed the door, and tried to get through as fast as possible. I may never eat Chinese food again.
By the time I got everything cleaned up I was cold and everything hurt. I did not want to go back out to the bedroom. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was pretty sure we probably shouldn’t talk ever again. You don’t come back from that. I’m a swamp monster at best, but listening to a swamp monster blarg is probably on a totally new level of not good.
I contemplated crying, it seemed like the correct response (very girly), but it was too much effort and I couldn’t spare what little water was left in my body. I kept my face down and shambled to the bed, crawling in on my side and staying as far away from him as possible. Humiliation doesn’t cover what just happened. I may have PTSD. He probably does too.
I could just feel him wanting to talk to me. I curled up, tried to shrink my giant self into a smaller form, and prayed he’d just fall asleep.
“Did you know there’s some kind of frog that pukes up its own stomach?” he murmured from the other side of the bed.
I couldn’t help but smile. I muttered that I had been jealous of them a little bit ago.
“Dear God that was so loud,” he said.
“Shut up” I replied.
I learned to drive/drove in tiny towns in the deep south or mountains in the west until the past year. There was no public transportation. The one time I tried riding buses while visiting my aunt in NY I got on to a bus that took me to New Jersey. Eventually, we figured out the bus on one side of the road takes you to the other side of town. That’s what I should have done. Instead, I picked the wrong side of the road. There were no signs. It was just something bus people knew.
Nashville traffic is the worst, so I took a closer look at riding the bus. Less gas, no stressful driving, less wear and tear on my already old and pitiful SUV, and the bus terminal is across the street from where I work. However, I’m socially awkward at my best, so trying to figure out where to be and when to be there and where to get off and etiquette vied with nervousness about bumping elbows with potentially unsavory characters.
My first day of the riding the bus I made my first bus friend. I’d somehow taken the wrong bus into work and was packed like a sardine on a bus stopping every other block the entire way into town. It smelled bad and I was pretty sure I was not cut out for bus riding. I started out with the entire bus to myself but after a few stops, it was obvious I’d be lucky not to have someone on my lap by the end. I assumed that before 7 in the morning most people hadn’t started to churn out body odor. I was wrong. I also assumed people, even people who drank heavily, did not start before 7 am. I was also wrong in that assumption. I had also, conveniently, not thought about the fact people that are below the age of 18 might ride buses. Turns out, they do! In large numbers. Many without parental supervision.
I had decided bus riding was not for me when, arriving into the terminal dreading the ride home, a slender, colorfully dressed lady began talking to me as if we knew each other. I was too surprised to do anything other than respond in kind. She made me think of an exotic flower, lovely dark skin complimented by tropical colors in long skirt, wraps, bangles, rings, and a hair wrap. Her southern accent was charming rather than the “you sure do have a purty mouth” variety. Within 15 minutes I was given all the ins and outs of bus travel, knew how long she’d been commuting via bus, how many cats she had, and that she had an adult son. Once we got on the correct bus she immediately told the bus driver my story, explained that my vehicle was on the other side of the expansive lot and I needed a drop off closer to it (which is not how things usually work and likely against policy). She also told me where to sit in the bus itself to create the least motion sickness (I live on Dramamine), which side the sun would beat down on during the long ride home, and who else were regulars.
A stunning young lady was exceedingly pregnant and I learned her due date, her husband’s name, and that she was going to have a little boy once he finished baking. I still find her to be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in person. Her little boy is beautiful and we all got to see pictures of him right after he was born because bus people text their bus friends life-altering moments.
Bus people are predominantly African American and female on my route. I adore them. There are a few men, mostly African American as well. Of the regulars, I’m usually the palest (and the least fashionable). My first bus friend is still my favorite. I love her enthusiasm for life, her ring-bedecked fingers, her genuine concern for everyone around her, and her sass. A gentleman from Puerto Rico started riding a few days ago. She had him laughing and at ease within the first 5 minutes. They now race each other to beat each other to the front of the line.
We all have our favorite bus drivers and our favorite traveling groups. We look out for each other. One of the riders is a tiny, elderly lady. She was proud that she’d gained weight as was now a massive 95 pounds (up from 92). She is insanely adorable and every time I see her I want to keep her in my pocket always. She’s had back surgery and walks with a distinct stoop. She uses a walker with little baskets that often hold her giant purse and occasionally other goodies. She usually has her curly white hair pulled up with bright barrettes I used to think of as children’s barrettes that will now forever make me think of my new friend. She rides the bus system alone and has trouble getting her walker into certain places. Onto and off of the bus for example. That’s never a concern on our route. We all know our assigned roles. She is never without plenty of help, even the bus drivers hug on her and fuss over her.
It is impossible to be a bus person and not feel a bit like a member of a small UN. All ages, all walks of life, customs and rules all its own, and no matter how easy it is to be discouraged with the constant ugliness that feels like it’s getting worse, I don’t think that society is falling apart. I think we’re exactly as we always have been. The loudest ones are the assholes. And the regular folks just trying to live are like my bus people. A young Hispanic man racing an energetic, gregarious black woman to the bus line. A middle-aged, quiet, unassuming black man carefully helping a tiny, frail elderly white woman off of a bus and across the bus terminal. A gathering of young and old, dark and pale, grinning and cooing at the picture of a newborn baby. We see pictures of the vacations experienced, warn about upcoming construction, and give and get tips about good sales or new businesses opening. I really thought this would be an adventure I would just endure. Maybe have a few stories about inappropriate behavior. It never crossed my mind that I would enjoy riding a bus every day. For hours. In horrible traffic. But it’s been refreshing and fun and touching. The 33X crew is a good group. I am excited to have such a fun, diverse group of folks to be inspired by. Now I just have to find time to write about this stuff, because while I absolutely understand the tragedy and horror of addiction, high people on buses are hysterical.
I am failing at girling. I started a new job in an office where people dress like adults (hence why I’ve been MIA for a bit – job plus company in town equals exhausted, hassled me). I can’t wear jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and my hair in a floof. The only part of that I was able to salvage was an “artfully tousled bun”, aka a floof with a bit of extra work. I did a small bit of panicked adult girl shopping (a few bras that weren’t 10+ years old, dress pants (there’s not enough booze in the world to get me in a skirt), and a few tops that were in the “blouse” section of the website (which I haven’t visited in 6+ years).
Trying to shop for clothes is a good way to make me drink anyway, everything is either too small, too revealing, too grandma, too trendy, too horrible to allow me to exit the experience with the tatters of my self-esteem still in my possession. I hate shopping and I especially hate shopping for uncomfortable adult shit. But, it had to be done. I won’t get paid until the end of the first month so my poor credit card is moaning from the extra weight because not only is “business casual” clothing uncomfortable and generally unflattering, it’s also expensive as hell.
Then I realized after walking in the one pair of girl shoes I possess, female specific shoes are not actually meant to walk in! No….no silly girl! You can stand in them fairly easily, but if you walk more than…say….3 feet you will BLEED. I dripped blood into my stupid girl shoes all day and by the end of it I was angry. Very very angry. So I ordered some girl crap specifically recommended for comfort. The ONLY pair I could find on clearance had heels, but it was a pair of boots and the heels were clunky, so I felt fairly confident I could handle it. I’m an idiot.
Why you may ask?
Here’s what happened before I even got the stupid heels.
I felt pretty okay with life. I had on some relatively girly crap and was wearing dress-ish cowboy boot looking things. Minimal heel, broken in, no issues. I figured this would work until my girl shoes arrived in the mail. Nashville traffic is a beast so I get to my parking garage to catch the shuttle early. So do a lot of other people. There’s a small set of stairs leading to the shuttle area. Lots of folks stand there waiting in a line to get on the shuttle. I started down the TINY number of stairs (seriously, like three) and for NO reason at all my foot goes out from under me.
Sidenote: I’d rather eat a turd than fall down. It’s a phobia of sorts. It’s not rational, but I will fight like a champion of awkward to stay upright.
I did that awkward windmill arm rubber legged dance thing you do when you try to catch up to yourself to avoid falling. I also made a loud monkey bellow “ooooooohhhhhheeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhh” kind of deal to go along with my impromptu performance. I caught up to myself and burst out laughing because you just KNOW when you look like an idiot AND I was amazed I was upright. Primo idiot material had just happened. I burst out laughing, turned bright red (even my ears were burning), and couldn’t quit giggling as all of the other commuters stood there not even smiling and staring at me. We boarded the shuttle. I’m snorting and gagging trying to get myself under control. I think it was the adrenaline from a near death experience that had me in its grips.
I then tripped over nothing and smashed my face into the storage bump thing over the seat I was trying to get into. It made a very loud clunk. Everyone is now staring at me in horror.
I have one hand smashed against my forehead that was quickly beginning to throb and pulse and one over my mouth to try and stem the tide of awkward laughter. I plop down to try and get my shit together, but I can’t stop laughing. I’m shaking and making weird snorty noises and then because God hates me I laugh/snort/belch this loud dying moose sound. Which made me cackle like a witch. No one else was laughing. Just me.
So that was my first commuter shuttle ride.
Since then I’ve worn heels. I’ve had a “not quite a fight but a something” with Mancandy. I’ve had a Candy Invasion where most of the Mancandy crew was here. There’s a lot going on, plenty of stories to tell. I’m going to have to work at getting them all down, but for now, this one should suffice. If you ever feel awkward, just read this and realize you’re coordinated awesomeness in comparison.
My head doesn’t hurt anymore but my feet are still torn to bits 3 weeks later. Being a girl is complete horse patoot.
I’m doing battle. They don’t realize it, but we are at war. We have a garbage can and a recycling can in our kitchen. The garbage has a built in incentive to remove it regularly, it reeks if you don’t. We’re both fairly quick to take that out to the big garbage can in the garage. The recycling, however, ends up the leaning tower of plastics. It has become an art form to stack recyclable stuff on top of the can, I’m assuming everyone (kids and in-law types included) assume that if your piece drops then you are responsible for taking it out (not that they do) so there are intricate little towers built every single time. Like a weird Jenga. And there’s this assumption by all that taking recyclables out means only taking out what’s actually in the can. Anything that can be stacked to the side should be left inside to fill up the empty can immediately upon returning from the garage.
I enjoy when the small humans are here because I can make them take care of these things. However, there are down sides. Putting liners back in the cans must be brought up every single time. If they don’t put a liner in they then forget liners existed and all the snot rags and bits of leftover food end up in a concrete of grossness at the bottom that I then have to scrape out. Also, when taking trash/recycling out to the garage they feel it is appropriate to leave the door to the garage wide open. Letting my very very precious air conditioning escape, along with all of the animals. Trying to catch cats that don’t want to be caught in a hot, stinky, messy garage is the epitome of herding cats. By the time I get them in the two “normal” cats are angry and look for something to pee on. The dog is chewing on mysterious items I then have to wrestle her to take back. And the special cat is busy twirling his stress and usually has some sort of grease or oil all over him leaving little black kitty prints on the floor.
Not only this, but everyone overlooks that the lid of the garbage can is disgusting. I’m the only one who manages to see the gunk on it. Well, the dog notices and tries to help, but I don’t know what it is most of the time and refuse to let her do so. I have this crazy notion that if you smear some sort of thick mucus type substance on the lid of the pain, YOU should clean it up. My gender does not equate with I want to clean up all of your most disgusting habits and secretions so that you don’t have to spend another second away from your video games.
I’m just about to the point of temper tantrum. Which none of them have seen yet, and so thereby do not fear. They will learn. They will feel my wrath. And if they let out one single molecule of the deliciously cooled air in this house I will smite them and make my name legend. The end.
PS. I feel this post is proof I would be a bad mother. They would not live long. The end, for realsies.