Word Up this blog follows the life of a fictional character. i know, i know, it sounds like it could be true, and some of it is. but it's mostly WAY exaggerated and not meant to be taken seriously. i mean honestly, who would be THIS ridiculous in real life? also, no vaginas were harmed in the making of this blog. and lastly, this disclaimer is mostly bullshit also. but my therapist made me do it.
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Last week we had record snowfall. 12 inches in one day. You may be thinking “that’s no big deal,” and if you live in… oh I don’t know… A PLACE WHERE IT SNOWS… I would agree with you, but this is North Texas. We don’t get snow. Like ever. Like when it snows, the cities shut down. Shut Down. Because we don’t have the tools, equipment, machinery, the know-how…. to deal with it. It tops the news, there’s 24-hour Winter Weather Blast team coverage on all the major networks, it even breaks into shows like Grey’s Anatomy, for updates.
It’s all very dramatic.
It reminded me of the summer of 1980.
I was ten years old and at day camp. If you don’t know, day camp is the place your parents send you to while they’re working BECAUSE THEY HATE YOU.
I don’t have a ton of brain space dedicated to memories of day camp–probably because I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to block it out–but I do remember this. One fateful day I didn’t get to eat my lunch.
And as you already know, food is VERY important to me.
It’s not like my camp counselor threw my lunch away as some way of torturing me. No. She took my lunch and threw it in the trash bin BECAUSE THERE WAS MAYONNAISE ON MY SANDWICH.
You see, this particular day, June 26th, 1980, the temperature reached 113. A hundred and thirteen fucking degrees.
And my counselor (being most responsible for her 18 years) was worried (I was the only weirdo whose mom put mayonnaise on her bologna sandwich) that I might get botulism.
She gave me a package of cheese crackers to replace my sandwich, but still, that memory sticks out in my mind forever as The Day I Didn’t Get To Eat.
But this story isn’t about the weather, or my parents sending me to day camp, or my lack of sandwich intake.
It’s about mayonnaise.
I love mayonnaise. But… and this will shock you… I didn’t have mayonnaise until I was an adult.
And do you know why?
BECAUSE MY MOTHER PASSED OFF MIRACLE WHIP AS MAYONNAISE.
This is a completely true story.
I grew up thinking Miracle Whip was mayonnaise when in fact it’s nothing LIKE mayonnaise. And that’s because Miracle Whip is totally disgusting.
But me? I didn’t even KNOW about the yummy that is mayonnaise because I was tricked into believing I was already eating it.
So that sandwich back in June of 1980? Did not contain mayonnaise at all. Nope. It was slathered in the impostor “salad dressing” known as Miracle Whip.
You know Miracle Whip is the work of the devil, right? Says so right on the label. 1/2 THE FAT AND CALORIES OF MAYONNAISE
Sacrilege.
Anyway, since my early twenties (when I was let in on “the secret”) I’ve never looked back.
Well, except for when I go to my mom’s for dinner.
We were over there not too long ago and she’d made my spinach dip recipe. I took a bite and knew immediately that something wasn’t right about it. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until…
“Mom, what’s different about this spinach dip?”
“Nothing. I followed your recipe exactly. Frozen spinach, Knorr vegetable soup mix, green onions, sour cream, water chestnuts, and mayonnaise.”
That was it. The mayonnaise tasted funny. It was like it wasn’t mayonnaise at all, but its impostor cousin, Ted. I went to the refrigerator and scanned the shelves. A-ha! There it was, right there on the second shelf. Oh you are an evil bastard.
I grabbed the jar and held it up for my mom to see. “This! Is not mayonnaise, Mother. How many times do I have to say this?”
“Oh, I know you say that. But it tastes exactly the same to me. I’ve been using it for years.”
“Yes, I’m aware that you’ve been using it for years because you tricked ME into believing it’s mayonnaise. And also? It tastes NOTHING LIKE MAYONNAISE. Have you ever even tasted mayonnaise?”
She laughs. “Of course! I eat mayonnaise all the time. I just like the taste of Miracle Whip better. And it’s less fattening.”
Wha, wha, what? There’s no fucking way it tastes better. This is not even up for discussion. Mayonnaise is the nectar of the gods. Miracle whip is made from the gism of a cow. True Story.
I looked deeper into the refrigerator hoping against hope that she had “real” mayonnaise. Holy gold mine, I found it. Way in the back, behind the jam and pickles, was the teeniest jar of mayonnaise you’ve ever seen. Seriously, it was travel size. (which is actually a really good idea)
I pulled it out, unscrewed the tops of both jars and then grabbed a couple of spoons. I scooped some of each on the spoons and handed them to her. “Here. Taste this and tell me one’s not better than the other. If you still tell me that you think Miracle Whip is better than mayonnaise, I’ll shut up about it.”
She tasted each one and made a face. “I like Miracle Whip better.”
Clearly she is Satan’s spawn.
Mayonnaise eaters of the world UNITE!
PS. After that record breaking day in 1980 every retailer in town sold T-shirts that read, “I survived the summer of 1980.” I’m not even making this up.
PPS. There’s no way Miracle Whip is better than mayonnaise.
PPPS. I don’t think you could even get botulism from leaving your sandwich in a hundred degree heat. But when it gets hot again, I will try it. If I can make my own botulism than I can use it as Botox and shoot myself in the face with it.
PPPPS. That last thing probably isn’t a good idea. But I’m known to Speak Before I Think.
PPPPPS. Oooh. New T-shirt slogan perhaps?
I do this thing at night that drives Tommy crazy. No. Not *that* thing. Although he probably wishes.
I lie down, watch TV, and PICK THE MASCARA OFF MY LASHES.
It drives him insane.
Why?
I have no idea. It’s not like I’m picking the mascara off *HIS* lashes.
I don’t see how this affects him AT ALL.
But he still feels it necessary to share his dislike of my nighttime ritual.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Pick off your makeup.”
“I don’t know. Its soothes me I guess.”
???
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Yeah. I know. Why don’t you just go in the bathroom and wash it off? That makes more sense to me.”
“Well, this isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
“Naturally.”
“If I washed it off that would take the fun out of picking it off. Plus, I’m lazy.”
“A-HA! So it’s not something you do to….what’s the word you used?….*soothe* you. You’re lazy–you just said it.”
“Who the fuck are you anyway, the mascara police? Why do you even care?”
“Because it gets all in the bed. I’m constantly batting away your makeup crumbs. And look at your fingers. They’re covered in black shit.”
It’s true. My hands look like I change oil in cars for a living. I spend at least 10 minutes every day cleaning mascara out from under my thumbnails.
I never said it was a sexy habit.
But I can’t stop. I know it probably sounds crazy, but it totally relaxes me to lie there and carefully strip layers of lash-lengthening mascara from my eyelids. Thumb suckers would totally understand where I’m coming from. We need to be soothed, people.
The trick with mascara removal is that you don’t pull out all your lashes in the process. It’s a skill with a difficulty level of 9.4. Because if you’re not careful, you’ll end up becoming one of those women who has to wear falsies to work. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Really, it’s more of a time issue. And the glue? It’s near impossible to maneuver. The few times I’ve tried to apply false eyelashes I’ve ended up gluing them to my thumbs.
Anyway, yes, I pick my eyes at night. Every night. Without fail. So what. At *least* I don’t do the following:
Ahem.
*slurp when I drink coffee
*leave the toilet seat up
*shuffle my feet when I walk
*blow snot out my nose in the shower
*breathe too loudly
*sniff my runny nose instead of blowing it into a tissue (you know the shit *wants* to come out right?)
*leave facial hair in the sink
Ahhh.
That feels better.
One annoying habit versus seven. Clearly, I win.
***VERY EXCITING NEWS!!***
Today over at Aiming Low, we unveil our new look! YOU. MUST. CHECK. IT. OUT!
Since the invention of the Internet (thank you Al Gore), and more specifically Google, I have learned more about things in life than I probably ever would have had I not been privy to technology.
You need to know at what temperature to cook a pork butt? Google “At what temperature do I cook a pork butt?” And BAM, instant answer.
I Google the shit out of everything. And it’s FREE!
It’s like the best deal EVER.
So when it was time to make a paper mache penguin for Harley’s first grade class, I was ready to Google “How do you make a paper mache…?”
But before I could type in the word “make” Google pulled up these answers for me…. trying to guess what I might ask?
 I'm wondering the same thing. How DO you eat a pomegranate? After reading the list I realized I was sheltered as a child. Because I don’t know how to do half of these things. Well, I pretty much have the “How do you get pregnant” thing down. But only because I saw the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High when I was a teenager.
When I typed in the word “make” I got a whole other list of suggestions.
 OK. I do know how to make most of these things. I'm not bragging. I got so sidetracked that I forgot all about the paper mache penguin. And then I got bitch slapped by a seven year old. The girl is serious about her project.
FYI: Did you know paper mache is just flour and water? It’s ONE ingredient from being CAKE MIX.
Mmm. Cake.
Google, oh how I love thee. Even if you are more fucked up than me.
I don’t like being naked. Not even for a minute. I hate looking in the mirror at myself. The thought of it NOW makes me shudder. It’s always been like this. Even when I feel skinny.
Me + naked = OH MY GOD PUT SOME CLOTHES ON WOMAN!
So that’s what I do. I jump out of the shower, towel off as quickly as possible and then hurriedly pull on jeans and the first shirt I see–dirty, clean, it doesn’t matter. At least I’m dressed.
But yesterday I did something outside my comfort zone. I forced myself to stand in my closet in front of the full length mirror and observe. (I’m getting hives just thinking about it)
I was wearing a bra and underwear and I just stood there. I studied the front. And then the side. And then the… OH MY GOD IS THAT WHAT MY ASS LOOKS LIKE???!!!
Just then, Tommy walked in. The horror. Oh the HORROR!
I gasped and covered myself.
He laughed and said, “What are you doing? And why aren’t you dressed?”
See. He knows me.
“I’ve gained ten pounds since Christmas and I just wanted to see what grotesque looks like with my own eyes.”
“You’re so ridiculous. You’re not grotesque. Personally I can’t see where you’ve gained weight.”
“Of course you say that. You have to say that. It’s like in our marriage contract.”
“No. I’m serious. You look fine.”
If one word should be forever banished from the English language it’s the word FINE. (see also MOIST, PHLEGM, OINTMENT and LOVER)
“Don’t say that. I don’t look fine. I look awful. My jeans don’t fit, I need a permit to haul my ass around, and my thighs rub together so much that I’m afraid I’m going to start a fire.”
Rolls eyes.
“Oh. You don’t believe me??? Look!”
And then I proceed to squish and shake my trouble spots RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. It’s like I’ve gone mad.
He holds his hands up and closes his eyes. “OK. OK. Make it stop!!”
Gasp.
“See?! I told you. Grotesque.”
“Maybe you should just work out more.”
“Maybe I should stab you in the throat.”
“You look fine.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“It’s kinda hard not to. You practically take up the whole closet now.” Runs off laughing.
Asshole.
I feel like I should take up smoking or doing drugs. You know, to lose weight.
PS. I told Tommy my plan just now and he said that’s the worst idea I’ve ever had. Worse than getting a mullet haircut in 1985? I think not.
PPS. Was told that God didn’t invent clothes. That somehow Adam and Eve fucked things up for us and that’s why we have clothes. I’m so confused.
PPPS. Am getting calls from drug dealers offering to help me lose weight. Who says drug dealers are bad? These guys have all been really nice. And one of them even takes credit cards. That’s what I call progress.
PPPPS. You should go over to Aiming Low today and read my post about infomercials.
My grandmother (Mimi) is having a birthday this month. She’ll be 86.
If she makes it.
Not because she might die on her own, but because I may have to snap that stubborn old woman in half. Like a toothpick.
Friday started out like any other Friday, until I got this text message from my sister-in-law.
“I’m at Mim’s. Her blood pressure is 220/118 and she’s having chest pains. I told her we need to call the paramedics but she’s refusing. Can you help? She’ll listen to you.”
Option A: Pick up the phone and try to talk some sense into her, but she can’t hear worth a shit and I’d end up getting frustrated and yelling obscenities at her and then not only would she have a heart attack FOR REAL but I’d go to prison for killing her.
Option B: Drive the 20 minutes to her house and yell obscenities at her in person while waiting for the paramedics. Effective AND fun.
I went with Option B.
I texted back, “On my way” and sped north to the area where I grew up.
I walked in the house and spotted my grandmother sitting in her favorite recliner. My sister-in-law was busy checking her blood pressure again. I looked at the sheet of paper where she’d been keeping track of the numbers. They were not good.
I knelt in front of my most precious Mimi and it was then that she noticed me.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you. Are you having a heart attack?”
“No. I don’t think so. I feel fine.”
“So you’re not having chest pains or shortness of breath?”
She was panting away like a dog in heat.
“I feel OK.”
“Your blood pressure tells a different story, Mim. We need to go to the emergency room.”
“Oh, I look terrible!”
Eye roll. “So your plan is to just sit in this chair and wait to die?”
Laughs. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Well you’re not dying on my watch. Let’s go.”
“At least let me change my shirt.”
“Fine.”
I helped her to her bedroom and when we got there, she stopped and pointed to her bed. There were hundreds of papers spread out everywhere. “See that mess?” she said.
A blind person could’ve seen that mess. “Yes ma’am.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been doing all morning.”
??? (I didn’t ask. And I *still* don’t know what she was doing with those papers. Paper Mache? Paper Airplane lessons? Rolling around on it like it’s money? If only I cared to find out)
We walked in her closet and as she began unbuttoning her flannel shirt, I perused two rows of old lady clothes. I grabbed a pullover knit top. She turned her nose up at me and said, “That doesn’t fit well.”
I hung it back up.
Shirt number two. A v-neck sweater in some shade of oatmeal. “That doesn’t match my pants.”
“It’s creamy whitish brown. It matches everything!”
“All right.”
I suddenly felt *MY* blood pressure begin to rise.
She paused to look in the bathroom mirror and said, “I was going to color my hair this morning but decided to mess with those papers instead. Can I at least put on some powder? I’m embarrassed to go anywhere like this.”
I looked in her eyes as she pleaded with me. It’s hard to say no to her. She’s undoubtedly the most precious little old (stubborn) lady on planet Earth.
“Yes. But HURRY!”
Four minutes and freshly applied powder later, we were finally headed to the car. At this point it didn’t seem like she was having a heart attack, but her breathing was scary and the fact that her blood pressure had been dangerously high for over an hour concerned us.
As we loaded her into my huge SUV she said, “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to take shit from you. Now get in.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I SAID PLEASE GET IN AND BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT.”
What’s awesome about being with someone who can’t hear is that you can carry on a conversation with another hearing person in front of the non hearing person and she can’t even hear you–so you can talk about her. And that’s exactly what my sister-in-law and I did. And my grandmother just sat there looking out the window the whole time. Every once in a while during the twenty minute drive Mimi would throw out how she felt fine and wanted me to turn the car around. I chose those moments to pretend like *I* couldn’t hear.
Once we got to the hospital the staff immediately took her back for an EKG, blood work, X-rays…the works. I warned the nurse that she couldn’t hear well. She took that to mean she needed to scream in Mimi’s face. My grandmother said, “Hey, now YOU I can hear.” And then laughed as they wheeled her away.
When she was gone behind the double doors it hit me. My grandmother is old. And fragile. And probably not going to be here another fifty years (as was my original plan). I joke around about her being a nuisance and a pain to deal with, but it’s just that–a joke. If you know me in real life then you know just how very important that old lady is to me. She’s been my favorite relative since I was a little girl. She calls me Queen Bee. So for an instant I worried that maybe she wouldn’t come out of that hospital. For the first time EVER I realized she’s not immortal. She will leave me one day. The good news is it wasn’t Friday. Or Saturday. Or even Sunday.
She’s home now and ornery as ever.
Thank God.
One of the highlights of living in Cowtown (Fort Worth, Texas) is the annual Fat Stock Show and Rodeo. It happens this time every year. That’s why it has “annual” in its name.
It’s a big deal around here. You even get a day off from school. It’s called Rodeo Day. But since most grown ups don’t get off work for “Rodeo Day” it’s just another day kids are out of school, leaving parents with this question, “What the hell am I supposed to *do* with you today? I have to work!”
At least that’s how it was at my house growing up. Rodeo Day for me and my brothers was a day spent at my grandmother’s house watching her “stories” with her. I remember the lineup. Ryan’s Hope. All My Children. One Life to Live. And General Hospital.
Rodeo Day sucked.
Now that I’m grown and have kids of my own, I always try to take the kids to the rodeo every year because I am still fucked up from childhood think they will enjoy it.
So last week I suggested we go and the family was all “Yay Mom, you’re the best!” Or that could have been the voices in my head.
What I think I actually heard was “I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR.” And I was like, “Calm down Ethan, you sound like a girl!”
Beat down and already wishing I hadn’t brought up the idea of going to the rodeo as a family, we trudged to the cowboy store to get cowboy things to wear to the cowboy event.
And this is what Harley came up with.
 She looks exactly like the girl from Toy Story. If only I knew her name. So we get to the Rodeo and what’s the first thing we see? A huge table filled with overpriced toys. Naturally Ethan makes a beeline there where I proceed to spend twenty dollars on crap that lights up and then breaks ten minutes later. Thanks a lot, China.
But what was worse than that was Ethan’s indecision on the toy selection. He wanted the light saber. No. Scratch that. The pop gun. No. Wait. Here’s a shiny pair of handcuffs. He’ll take those. No. Forget that. The light saber turns 3 different colors. Oh, but Harley picked out a light up butterfly necklace. He’ll have one too.
Do you think they sell *real* guns at a Texas rodeo? You know, so I CAN BLOW MY BRAINS OUT!!!
Once we got to our seats and the rodeo began, Ethan and Harley were fascinated with the pageantry of the horses running around the arena and the pretty girls carrying the American (and Texas) flags.
Then… the dude selling sweets came by and stole my happiness. Fucker.
 I would like to blame someone for the fact that he's holding a snow cone AND a candy apple, but I'm afraid the person to blame is typing this right now Finally, after eating his weight in junk food, Ethan started watching the show. He liked the calf roping and the bucking broncos, but he was holding out for the bull riding.
“When are the bulls coming?”
“In a minute. Look over there! That horse is pooping!”
“You said pooping.”
“I know. Poop is funny.”
Laughs and points at me. “You’re funny, Mommy. When are the bulls coming?”
“After this girl finishes making out with her horse.” (Seriously? It was a little weird. This woman was doing tricks with her horse and every time he did what she asked him to, she practically stuck her face in his mouth.)
“Will there be a lot of blood?”
???
“What are you talking about E?”
“When the cowboy kills the bull? Will we see blood?”
“THE COWBOY ISN’T GOING TO KILL THE BULL.”
Starts to cry. “But I want to see that.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m E-fun Thomas Gwenn.”
“Yes, I know who you’re *supposed* to be, but *my* son doesn’t want to see bulls being killed.”
Looks confused. “Who’s your son?”
“I don’t know. Eat your snow cone.”
Makes a face.
“Oh look! It’s time for the bull riding! Your favorite part!”
“I wanna go home.”
Sigh. I miss watching soap operas with my grandmother.
What I’m about to tell you may shock and horrify you.
Many of you may decide to never read me again.
I will totally understand.
Because I realize there are certain things a person can reveal about herself that change everything you ever believed about her.
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I don’t floss.
Like, never.
It doesn’t even cross my mind.
Why?
I don’t know…because I’m busy?
Seriously, I’m not lying about this.
I don’t floss.
Oh, I brush. I brush like nobody’s fucking business. Like three times a day.
But flossing? Not so much.
Don’t judge me.
The dental assistant judges me enough for all of us.
Recently, we shared this exchange.
“So…how many times a week are you flossing?”
“Um. Zero?”
???
“I just don’t like doing it. It takes too long. And I don’t have any floss.”
“Well, I can *give* you floss. You can have all the floss you want. It’s really important you floss every day. It will add five years to your life.”
“Yes, but five years where?”
“Pardon me? I don’t understand.”
“Five years in the middle? Like the part of my life where I’m still going to the bathroom ON the toilet and can chew my own food? Or the end of my life where I’m crapping my pants and have to suck a cheeseburger through a straw? Because that makes a difference whether or not I want five years added.”
???
“So. You got kids?”
“Uh. Yes. I have three kids.”
“And you have time to floss?”
“Yes. I make time to floss because I really believe it’s important for my overall health.”
“Hmm. I’m guessing you don’t eat cheeseburgers then.”
“I do occasionally.”
“I hear if you don’t eat cheeseburgers you can add ten years to your life.”
Sigh. “You’re not going to start flossing are you.”
“I’d rather give up cheeseburgers.”
“We’re all done here.”
To floss or not to floss. That is the question.
And your answer is?……
Here is a recent email exchange between me and Roy, the Customer Service Expert from the spa near my house.
*****
January 18, 2010
Dear Ms. Glenn,
Hope the new year is treating you well. I’m writing to let you know our records indecate you haven’t been in since September. Why has it been so long? Exfoliation is your friend!
We would love to offer you a 20% discount on all of our spa services. I’m sure you could use a facial, am I right?
Please feel free to call and make an appointment at your earliest convenience.
Use the coupon code: DRYSKIN
Very truly yours,
Roy (insert douchebag last name here)
Customer Service Expert
Blah, Blah, Blah Day Spa
PS. We’re also running a special on laser hair removal. You should really take advantage of that service!
*****
January 18, 2010
Dear Roy,
Hi. Thanks for the email, the 20% discount, and the laser hair removal tip. I found the coupon code to be a little offensive. And also a lot creepy. I mean, how did you know my skin is dry? And just so we’re clear, I’M NOT THAT HAIRY!
Roy, I don’t mean to sound like the spelling police, but INDECATE is spelled INDICATE. Not everyone is a good speller–I just happen to be an awesome S-P-E-L-L-E-R. If only there was some program you could use to check your spelling before you sent an email. Hmm.
Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to “take advantage” of your special deals, but thanks.
Best,
Shauna Glenn
PS. Please remove my name from your email list.
*****
January 19, 2010
Dear Ms. Glenn,
Thanks for your reply, although the overall tone was laden with sarcasm. (I used Spell Check for those big words)
I’m sorry if I offended you, that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted you to be aware of our great spa deals. I hope you will change your mind about getting that facial. Or perhaps even an acid peel. You’ll love the way your skin looks after the top two layers melt away. Most women look 20 years younger!
Have a nice day.
Roy
*****
January 19, 2010
Um, Roy.
Who the hell do you think you are? And why the shot at my face? I’m cute! And young (ish), you freak! I don’t *need* an acid peel, thankyouverymuch.
And what kind of name is Roy anyway?
Roy, Roy, Roy, Roy, Roy. When I say that over and over again it sounds less like a name and more like a pus filled goiter.
TAKE MY NAME OFF YOUR EMAIL LIST!
*****
January 20, 2010
Dear Ms. Glenn,
I think we got off on the wrong foot. I sell SPA SERVICES. It’s my job. It’s nothing personal. You could be Miss Universe for all I know. I work on COMMISSION.
Forget I said anything about an acid peel. I’m sure your skin is naturally radiant and ageless.
Use the coupon, don’t use the coupon. I hardly care anymore.
Roy
*****
January 20, 2010
Dear Roy,
I’m sorry for saying your name sounds like a pus filled goiter. I blame my upcoming birthday. The big 4-oh. Yikes. I guess you could say I’m a little sensitive about the aging process.
I would be happy to make an appointment to get that facial. The winter is *brutal* on my skin.
Thanks again for the 20% off coupon.
Best,
Shauna Glenn
*****
January 21, 2010
Dear Ms. Glenn,
I’m so sorry, but the coupon expired yesterday.
Also, I removed your name from the email list so you won’t be getting anymore solicitations from Blah, Blah, Blah Spa.
Have a great day,
Roy
Customer Service Expert
Something has gone terribly wrong.
I’m stressed out.
I’m stress eating.
I’ve GAINED TEN POUNDS.
I’m not telling you this so you’ll say, “Shauna, you’re not fat!”
Dude, I’m telling you I’M FAT.
I *wish* I was making this up.
Seriously. I wish I could come on here and tell you that I am Dead Sexy. I mean nothing would make me happier than to brag about how fine my ass looks in a pair of jeans. Instead I’m here asking if any of you are missing a couple of pig twins. Cuz I found them. They’ve permanently attached themselves to MY ASS. And they seem to really, really like me. Sadly, instead of getting rid of them I just want to make them into BACON.
Mmmm. Bacon.
This stress eating thing is killing me. I can’t seem to stop! Why can’t I be like those annoying people who LOSE their appetite when they’re stressed–instead of Hi, I’d like a Double Cheeseburger, Onion Rings AND Fries.
I’m a complete failure.
I would say I need an intervention but when I think INTERVENTION, I hear PARTY WITH AN AGENDA, and the word PARTY means food and CAKE. And if you brought CAKE to my INTERVENTION I would have to eat it because that would be just RUDE if I didn’t. Thus negating the reason for the fucking intervention in the first place.
(See how my mind works?)
Anyway, I’m trying to diet. I have no choice. I mean even my four year old thinks I’m a fat ass. It’s weird, no one has seem him since he made the “maybe because your butt has gotten so big” remark. I wish him well. Wherever he may be *cough* in the trunk *cough*
Speaking of failing at life in general, go to Aiming Low and watch my VIDEO. It’s the first annual Back Burner Recipe Contest. Vote for your favorite recipe. Never mind the fact that my kids stole my limelight. Fucking kids.
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