Swamp Monster Sunday

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As a certified swamp monster, I have funky skin and features and…well….I’m just an odd duck. So, the fact I have – in my mid-thirties mind you – fallen in love with makeup (especially colorful eyeshadow) is just the weirdest damn thing ever and mildly embarrassing.

I work for the state of TN and as such, I’m supposed to look like a professional human. Swamp monsters with colorful sparkly glitter smeared all over their faces are not encouraged. So, I bought a few really bright, really fun palettes with all these dazzling awesome colors…and have absolutely no reason to smear them all over my face. It’s been bugging me. I’m too old for this; I don’t even know what I’m doing or how to apply makeup, but I am right this moment resisting the urge to buy a palette of nothing but yellow eye shadow. Do I EVER wear that color? No. Would it likely make me look jaundiced and even less attractive? Likely. But my brain has never been a fan of logic, so I just want it. Here’s a picture of it (That I stole from ColourPop’s website. Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, blogging rules are not well explained, but it’s free advertising and I own nothing of value….so let’s just cross our fingers and hope).

yellow_palette_a_800x1200

As part of the swamp monster package, I am also the owner of a weird body. It’s overly large, pale, ungainly, and uncoordinated.  I have been telling myself I’d lose weight (and become hot in the process….which is COMPLETELY different from losing weight….but I digress) since around the first time I heard someone refer to someone else as fat. My earliest memories are disliking how much bigger I was than the other kids, I towered over them and outweighed them and had to wear a training bra at like…6. Since my weird body decided to malfunction regularly and I go to various specialists quite often, my endocrinologist is extremely interested in things like…my BMI, my proportions, my insulin levels, my exercise routine (I lied and said I had one of those), etc. I really do want to be healthy. So, I actually have to get an exercise routine (ick). And maintain it. And not eat my feelings. And other people’s feelings.

So. I tell you all of that to tell you that I woke up intending to do none of the things I have done today. I woke up and just wanted coffee. That’s it. But, once I got up and got moving, I wanted to puzzle. Mancandy and I are working on a puzzle because we’re old and that’s what old, boring, antisocial people do. We puzzle and we drink coffee (our version of drinking and knowing things).

Mancandy was not in a puzzling mood. I found that annoying, but it’s hard to motivate someone to puzzle.

“Please come sit with me and be as frustrated and annoyed with 87616814 pieces of cardboard that have various portions of leaves that are all the same color.”

Though he did not want to puzzle at that exact moment, he claimed he would want to puzzle soon. That statement made zero sense to me, but I shrugged and tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my beautiful precious time off. I thought of all my pretty, shiny, colorful eye shadows just sitting here while I slather myself in boring colors day in and day out. I decided to play.

The Blue Moon palette was the first thing I saw, so it’s what I decided to smear upon my face hole flaps.

Blue moon

I meant to take a picture to show you how unskilled I am at this. But, I didn’t. I’m going to insert a picture from Pinterest showing what this might look like were I talented. It’s not at all what it looked like, but whatever. It’s my story. Enjoy this much better representation of blue eyeshadow. This is not me (so obviously not me that it’s funny to write it, but please don’t sue me if this IS you, because I’m super jealous and also I don’t have anything worth suing to take).

BM Look

Instead, I went downstairs and announced extremely loudly, “I’m blue and bold, bitches, lets puzzle!”

I found this to be a funny statement. I usually crack myself up. Unfortunately, I had not looked to be sure Mancandy was awake. He was not. But he jolted awake at my declaration and restrained what looked like a fairly strong urge to throttle me. He also looked at my face, which was 1/3 bright blue, and just said: “oh my”. I felt like I should probably be offended by this, but chose not to be. Mostly because he says stuff that could be insulting all the time and I don’t have the time it would take to be offended.

We puzzled for a while. I got 5 pieces into the puzzle and felt remarkably accomplished. Set low goals and you’ll never be disappointed, my friends. We decided we should move the elliptical machine my boss gave us (yay boss!) into the air-conditioned part of the house. As obviously that was the only thing holding me back. So we did. And then he announced he was going to mow.

I hate that moment. I feel like I should do something equally horrible, but I don’t want to do any horrible things. So I declared I would work out. While he mowed. And then I realized I’d said it out loud, the elliptical was inside, and I actually had to do it now. Dread set in.

So I worked out. Put on a sports bra and athletic shoes and everything. I don’t understand these people that say, oh yes, the endorphins, it is a rush, working out is fun, blah blah. I apparently don’t possess endorphins. I spent every single minute of the time I spent on the elliptical screaming internally that I was not allowed to stop yet.

Fun fact, the elliptical is third hand and I am grateful to have it, but it squeaks like you’re skinning something alive. So the longer I worked out, the louder and more aggressive the skinning of the thing became. The cats were horrified. They may be scarred for life. The dog equated skinning alive with thunderstorms and fireworks and started panting and stress whining as if to duet the shrieking machine. So the entire time I’m on the damn thing the dog is singing along to this really annoying shriek squeak, and the cats are running around trying to escape the demonic noise but unable to find a place to do so.

Within 4 seconds I was drenched in sweat. Not just a little glisten, no ma’am and/or sir! I take sweating seriously. So my shirt is stuck to me and my sparkly blue face now has rivulets of blue running down it and on down my neck. It looked like I was painting some sort of river scene across my face, but in my typical “enthusiasm makes up for lack of talent” way. I stopped when I was pretty sure I’d just have to fall sideways off of the machine because I had jelly for legs and was gasping so hard I thought I might pass out. Probably 4 minutes in. No, it was more than that, but not as long as it should have been.

I sat down on the tile floor (likely leaving an impressive butt outline in sweat) to cool my rumpus and contemplated puking. When that didn’t sound like fun anymore I got up and started up the stairs. That was a mistake as I likely can’t go back down now. I’ll just live up here. Please fling food up occasionally. This will be my new diet plan.

I shambled my sweaty, miserable, gasping, slightly nauseous self into the bathroom. Stripped down. Turned on the shower. Turned around to set my hair tie down by the sink and accidentally looked into the mirror.

I looked like I’d eaten a smurf alive…aggressively….in a very messy fashion. My hair was plastered to my sweaty skull and there was blue smeared all over my face. I don’t even know how it was possible to be that gross, but I managed.

A shower has never been so lovely. And now I have to look forward to doing that same thing over and over and over until I’m less horrible at it. Dying young is kind of looking mildly appealing. But that doctor will get to hear all about the “exercise routine” I’m working on.

Just need some W-D 40. Or the cats may not survive it any better than I do.

 

Upright Mayhem

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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.

You’re welcome.

My head doesn’t hurt anymore but my feet are still torn to bits 3 weeks later. Being a girl is complete horse patoot.