Category Archives: random

Head Banger

For the first time in almost an entire year, I went to a real salon to get my Hair Did.

I’ve been putting it off because I am the Proud & Sole owner of the breasts that nourish my child who refuses to take a bottle and I fear if I leave her for a few hours, she MIGHT STARVE TO DEATH.
I finally convinced myself she wouldn’t starve if I left her for an hour or two. I made an appointment and asked my mother if she’d watch the girl for me. She was happy to do it.
You should have seen my mother’s face when she saw The Diaper Bag. You’d think I’d be a pro at packin’ The Bag, having raised two baby boys, but, um, I guess I forgot or something. I packed 10 diapers, an entire box of wipes, a fruit dessert, a bottle of juice, 3 toys, 2 bibs and one jumping activity chair. My mom was like “um, how long is this haircut going to take?!” And I was all “an hour at the most” and then she laughed at me. But I wasn’t laughing. No way, I was fighting back tears because I was leaving my baby girl for the very first time. I kissed her, fought back the tears so my mother wouldn’t laugh at me AGAIN and Off to the salon I went.
I told my stylist I wanted to keep the length, but I wanted lots of layers, then I lost my mind and said “just give me something kinda FUNKAY”.
At first, I LOVED IT. Layers everywhere! All of the dead ends and dead weight GONE! I was in love with it!
But now? I’m getting a little sad because I THINK it looks like Heavy Metal Hair.
I didn’t want HMH. I wanted FUNKAY hair. And in my mind? Funkay hair and HMH are two totally different things.
Perhaps I should have made sure that my stylist and I were on the same “funkay” wavelength before I let her go all Vidal Sassoon on my head because apparently? One mans “funkay” is another man’s “heavy metal hair.”
But hey, let’s look at the positive here. I was gone for an entire hour and a half and my daughter didn’t starve to death.
It’s all good.

I HATE it when that happens!

Whenever Tony says he wants to go to bed, I always beg him to stay up just a little longer because that’s the only time during our lives we have to ourselves. He always says “Sorry, I’m too tired” and I get sad and he apologizes some more and then he goes to bed. However, tonight when he told me he was going to bed, I was all “Ok! I understand, you work so hard all day… GOODNIGHT!” Because…Shhhhhh… I’ve been dying to have the last piece of Kahlua cream cheese pie, but he knew I already had one earlier today and so I couldn’t eat it when he was awake, so I’ve been waiting for him to say he was going to bed since, like, 5pm.
But I think I was WAY too obvious with my “ok, go to bed, want me to tuck you in?!” attitude and he totally suspects I’m up to something because it’s an hour later, and he’s still awake!
I want to kick him t because that  piece of pie is whispering to me from inside the fridge because it KNOWS I can’t eat it until Tony is fast asleep because he’ll be all up in my padded grill about how it’s not cool to eat two pieces of pie in one day.
And because he’s STILL awake, I’m completely convinced that TONY IS SCREWING WITH MY PIE TIME. ON PURPOSE.
Not that I have a pie problem or anything.

A post about ice. (How’s THAT for a title?)

Choose your battles.
That’s one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever recieved in the parenting department. It has saved me from many power struggles that simply weren’t worth the aggravation.
However, today I am choosing a battle. A battle that some might not believe is worth fighting, but I am willing to fight to the death…
HEAR YE HEAR YE ,THE NEXT CHILD OF MINE WHO SWITCHES THE ICE MAKER ON MY BRAND NEW FRIDGE TO “CUBED” ICE WILL BE BANNED FROM USING THE ICE MAKER FOR AS LONG AS THEY LIVE IN THIS HOUSE.
That’s right. I’m willing to fight over ice. Because ice is important. Because crushed ice is much less likely to cause you to lose a tooth and teeth mean a lot to me.
So, back off the switched marked “cubed” or there will be hell to pay.

OH OH! I miss HIGHLIGHTING SCRIPTURES WITH MY PINK HIGHLIGHTER!!

The past few months, I’ve thought about going back to church. I decided to put together a list of the things I miss about church and the things I do NOT miss about it.
Things I miss:
-Worship. I miss singing songs of praise and worship. I miss closing my eyes and feeling the presence of God in my heart, mind and soul through the music. I miss how the lyrics of God’s love for me would make me cry and how it felt as though those tears were cleansing my heart of hurt and pain.
I do NOT miss the one woman who just HAD to draw attention to herself by singing “harmony”, not realizing she couldn’t sing for shit and she was just ruining the beauty of the song. I do NOT miss the upbeat songs and how they encouraged “sister eva” to bust out the tambourine and start skipping down the isles, grabbing everyone in her path, starting a “let’s get jiggy with Jesus” train full of self proclaimed “jesus freaks” getting their “dance on” in the church isles. (And for the record, when Eva grabbed MY arm for ME to join “the train” I put my finger in her face, shook it back and forth and said “NO!”)
-Scriptures. I miss hearing the pastor read passages in the bible that speak of God’s love for me, of how he sent his son, Jesus, to die for my sins, so that I could have forgiveness and eternal life.
I do NOT miss hearing about hell and how I’ll burn there if I don’t obey the scriptures. I do NOT miss how, on occasion, the pastor would put HIS spin on the scripture and how I couldn’t stand up and call him out on it, and how I’d have to sit there quietly pissed off.
-I miss getting a cup of coffee and a cookie after the service and chatting with people about their week.
I do NOT miss getting a call from “sister Evelyn” telling me it was MY turn to serve coffee and then going on and on and on about how we all have a gift and a talent and we should use those gifts and talents for the Lord and how HER calling was that of serving coffee to her brothers and sister in Christ.
As you can see, this list went from deep and spiritual to childish and bitter in less than 30 seconds. I guess it’s like this. I want to go back to church because I miss the connection I feel with God when I’m there, but, for the most part, I can’t stand the PEOPLE who go there, so I am letting “people” keep me from feeling close to God again.
And that is kind of dumb.

“I will NOT touch it in public. I will NOT touch it in public. I will NOT touch it in public.”

While standing in the diaper isle at Target, trying to find my daughters size, I noticed a man looking (staring, actually) at me with a disturbed look on his face. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking “Damn, she’s hot” or anything like that. It was more of a “what in the hell” kind of look. I was trying to remain calm and not be all “What’s your problem, beyotch?” Then, I realised what he was looking at and why he was so frightened..
I was playing with my belly. That’s right, apparently, I play with my belly in public. When I say “play with”, I mean my hands are all up on my gut and I touch it, rub it, hold it while jiggling it around, sometimes, I gently tap it while I’m looking around. Like an old man showing off his beer gut in an attempt to make everyone laugh, only, I’m not an old man, and I’m certainly not trying to show anything off, nor? Am I trying to be funny.
Now that I’m aware of it, I have to fight the urge to PLAY WITH MY GUT. It’s not a big deal when I’m at home. Hell, I make music on it while it’s hanging out here in the privacy of my own home, but doing it in public? That’s just sick.
But how does one break such a habit? What do I do when I start feeling the urges to grab that sack of fatty goodness where babies once grew and start feeling it up whilst out in the real world? Tap dance instead? Randomly sock people in the head?
I suppose it could have been worse, I could have been talking to it.

“Thanks, I got it at Mervyns”

I woke up looking like a freak of nature. I’m horrified and not quite sure how to fix this…

MY LEFT TIT GREW TWICE THE SIZE OF MY RIGHT ONE OVER NIGHT!
I thought if I fed Gabby on that side, it would eleviate it and help balance that shit out, but NO! It’s still totally bigger and you can see it when I put clothes on.
And Ethan has basketball practice today so I HAVE to go out in public.
I suppose I could stuff the other side with something for now, but if this doesn’t correct itself, I seriously am going to freak the fuck out.
(In case you were wondering about the shirt I’m sporting in that totally HOT self portrait? read this.)

Got Rolls?

Sorry, I’m not available.
No, that is not the greeting on my non existant cell phone, nor it is the greeting on my answering machine. THAT is what the shirt in the “big girls” section had written across the front. In sparkly letters.
Apparently, plus sized women like me want to make it sparkly clear to the everyone who walks past us that “we may be fat, but SO?! WE BE IN RELATIONSHIPS, BITCHES.”

Then there was the one next to it.
“Smile. It distracts people” (again, in sparkly letters) Yeah! Smile, it distracts people… FROM THE SIZE OF MY ASS.

Those were just two of the super lovely, totally hip choices.

And let’s talk about the few shirts that didn’t have sparkly messages plastered all over them.
Apparently? If you’re a size 16 and up? You need bows and fake flowers plasted all over your bossoms. You also totally need sequins. to compliment your enormous tits. SEQUENCE SEQUINS, BITCHES! And not just one row of it either. You need like, 4 or 5 rows of that shit.
Perhaps I’m being a WEE TINY BIT defensive here, but can’t a woman of my size get a mother fucking PLAIN COTTON TSHIRT? Why must I advertise that “I’m not available” Or that “I’m all that and a bag of chips” (shuttie!)
GOSH!

Dramaqueenwhore is SO last year

The handle just BROKE OFF OF MY VACUUM.
For no reason. I was vacuuming up the livingroom and SNAP. Off it went.
The 2004 me would have been all “MOTHER FUCKER!” Thrown that bitch across the livingroom while crying and going on and on about how “Now I’m going to have to bust into my ‘We’re Going On Vacation This Summer if it Effin Kills Me’ fund”.
But that was ’04 me. The 2005 me isn’t like that. The ’05 grabbed the keys, went into the garage, found a roll of duct tape, taped that fucker up and kept on vacuuming as though the handle never just unexplicibly for NO FREAKING REASON snapped off.
I love the new me (Thanks, Dr.Phil, you sexy beast, you)
(I also love the MOST of the people who read this blog. So, since it’s “national de-lurker day” or something like that, why don’t you say something if you read my sad, sad little blog and never comment? BUT WAIT! THERE’S A TWIST. How about leaving a TOTALLY RANDOM COMMENT, lurker or not. I’ll give you an example. “Boy, that Gary Coleman doesn’t look 8 anymore and it’s creeping me the hell out!”)
Or! You could totally buy me a new vacuum instead?!