Today is The Big Day.
The day when I will sit in front of a panel of 5 people and answer questions like “why do you think you’re qualified for this position?”
(Do they actually ask that question? The last time I interviewed for a job was in 1990, so it’s been a while.)
I’m not nervous at all, which makes me nervous, because, shouldn’t I be nervous?
I guess I’m not nervous because I’ve decided that if it’s meant to be, I’ll get the job. If it’s not meant to be, then I won’t get the job.
I’m surprised by how calm I feel. Normally, today would be a post filled with EXCLAMATION POINTS!! AND ALL CAPS!!!
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I not freaking out? DID SOMEONE PUT PROZAC IN MY CEREAL?
Ok, that felt better.
I’m just hoping that no one on the panel reads my blog, because that might not work in my favor.
“Whoa, I know that woman! She writes about her vagina on The Internet! PASS.”
The longer that I sit here and type, the more I find myself thinking of all of the things that could go wrong in this interview and while it doesn’t make me “nervous” it does make me think that I should take some gas-x.
*pffftatraatatatateeewffaaa*
You know, I’ve been pretty lucky as far as farting accidents go. For as gassy as I get when I’m nervous, I’ve only had two farts slip out in social situations in my entire life, and I almost got away with one of them.
The second one, well, I went ahead and claimed it as my own and moved on with my life. (Although, moving on with my life wasn’t as easy as one may think because when you fart in front of a bunch of kids that are supposed to “respect your authority” it takes a while for them to take you seriously again and to not make juicy farting noises every time you walk by.)
I almost freaked out about “having nothing to wear” but decided that if they don’t like my polka dotted skirt, then I don’t think I want to work for them anyway. (Translation: my polka dotted skirt is pretty much the only one that still fits me and I refuse to buy new clothes in this size. Flat.Out.Refuse.)
I should probably go get ready now, since I have to leave here in less than an hour.
Do you think they’ll notice if I don’t shave my legs?
What’s my name?
Yesterday, I needed to do a little grocery shopping, but I did not feel like taking a shower or putting on clean clothes. That didn’t stop me though. I just picked up the clothes that I had worn the night before, washed my face, brushed my teeth and headed on out to Vons.
The truth is, I don’t really care what I look (or smell) like when I go to the grocery store because, well, it’s the grocery store. I’m there to buy cheese and beef, not pick up hot guys or make new friends! So what if I have toothpaste stains on my shirt or if I smell like butt!
I was about halfway through my shopping list when I heard someone say “Excuse me…”
I ignored it the first time, because I didn’t think they were talking to me. Then I heard it again.
“Excuse me…”
I turned around and saw a woman with a beautiful little girl in her shopping cart.
“Yes?” I said.
“Hi. Are you Y from The Internet?”
(Swear to God, she actually said those exact words and I have the email to prove it.)
I wasn’t quite sure what to say because “Y from The Internet!!!”
I’m not mocking her, because it was sweet and cute and also a little weird because OMG! SOMEONE RECOGNIZED ME FROM MY BLOG! CERAAAAZEEE!”
I think I said “Yes! I am! Hi!”
Or something creative and witty like that.
She went on to tell me how she recognized me, but wasn’t sure, but then she saw “G-Unit” (omg! I call her that on The Internet! And she just used it! Weiiiiird.) and just knew it was me and how she was so nervous but how she couldn’t let me walk by without saying hi.
Because I am a complete jackass, and felt bad that she was nervous to say hi to me, I reached over the display of boxes of cereal and HUGGED HER.
That was wrong on so many different levels. First of all, what if she hated hugs? What if she was uncomfortable with contact from strangers (from The Internet). What if she is allergic to the smell of Ripe Pits?
I couldn’t help it though, my “Impulsive/Gets Overly Excited Easily” disorder took ahold of my arms and compelled me to reach out and hug her! And as soon as I did it, I felt stupid and wanted to say sorry, but didn’t because that would have made it even worse.
She was very nice and actually hugged me back, which made me feel better about having lost all control of my hugging mechanism like that. However, it wasn’t long before my Jackass reared it’s ugly head again. I actually asked her THIS question.
“Not to be egotistical or anything like that, but (are you ready for this!?!) how did you find my blog?”
It actually hurt me to type that out because it’s so LAME.
Seriously. Why did I stop with that question?
“Do you like my blog?”
“Do you think my blog is pretty?”
“Do you ever think about my blog during the day?”
“Would you like my autograph?”
“Does my blog make you hornay?”
God.
We talked for a few minutes and then I told her she should email me sometime. And she did, which was really great because I was sure the hug combined with the stupid question scared her off.
Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I’ve got, I’m still, I’m still Y from The Internet.
Anyway, Lori, if you’re reading this, thanks for saying hi and for being so nice and um, sorry about the body odor.
(You’re probably all “enough with this story! SHUTUP AND SCAN SOME PICTURES ALREADY!” And I’m all “did someone say ‘scan some pictures? I thought you’d never bring that up!”)
When I was pregnant with G-Unit, my husband said one of the greatest things anyone has ever said in reference to My Ass. He said he loved it and that he could “totally rest his cup on it.”
I knew what he meant, like, it was just so out there that it drove him crazy and also, made him want to place a cup on it.
However, I didn’t realize how right he was about the whole “resting a cup on my ass” thing until yesterday.
My ass was seriously begging for someone to place a cup of hot brew on it. I had no idea! I mean, I knew it was big and that it probably deserved it’s own Social Security Number, but I didn’t realize how it “POPPED.”
Like, here’s my ass. “POW!”
(I also didn’t realize on that day that I was singing at my brother’s wedding that my hair matched the wall paneling of my dad’s church!)
I spent a lot of time hating that ass you see right there, but man, what I wouldn’t give to have it back. It no longer gives off the “place a cup on it” vibe. It’s more of a “if you get too close, I will swallow you whole and EAT YOU FOR DINNER” vibe.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, because having an ass that is capable of swallowing people whole could actually come in useful someday.
Think about it.
Niiiice Tans
My Christmas present from my mother was a printer/scanner. I hadn’t bothered to set it up until yesterday, which was probably good in the sense that I’m not sure I’ll ever get anything done around the house because SCANNING! OLD! PICTURES! IS! FUN!
Life before the scanner involved having to take an actual picture of a picture that I wanted to post online. That was very complicated and involved me having to upload and edit photos and so I only did it once in a great while when I really thought there was a picture the internet just HAD to see.
Now, if there is a picture I want to share with the World Wide Web, all I have to do is press the scan button and WHOOMP! There it is!
I’m so excited about my new scanner that my mouth is actually watering right now. And I’m not only excited for myself, I’m excited for all of YOU. Were it not for my new scanner, this would have only been something you saw in your dreams.
Ah, young PigHunter, surrounded by The Ladies.
I have no idea who the girl in blue pants sporting the camel toe is, but I think we can all agree that, clearly, she did not have killer dance aerobic moves. I mean, what’s with the FIST, lady? Seriously, why was she even trying?
I have to admit that I am extremely jealous that those girls had the privilege of dancing with my man pre-Pale-N-Hairy legs. Man, what I wouldn’t give to love up on those young, tan, hairless legs.
(p.s. THE SHORTS!)
Now, in the spirit of “being fair”…
That was me at around the same age as Young PigHunter (15, to be exact.)
Notice that unlike my future husband, I am not surrounded by The Gentlemen. That is because I was a virtuous young woman who loved The Lord and also her foam, overnight rollers.
So, while Young PigHunter was living a life a sin, (I dare you to try to convince me that dancing in THOSE SHORTS in front of hornay young wimmins isn’t a sin!) Young Y was at home, putting rollers in her hair, while singing songs about how great God is.
The funny thing is that it would only be 2 years after that picture of my self was taken that PigHunter would fall madly in love with me and we’d be having our own little “Dance Parties” in the back of his blue Chevy Blazer.
(Up next on The Scanner: Blonde Me. Or maybe Skinny Me in a Leather Jacket)
Because the last time that he busted out the clorox and got on his hands and knees without having been asked happened sometime in 1998
Let’s hear it for the boy. Let’s give the boy a hand.
Electricity
Ok, so, um, like when you hear a very loud buzzing sound from a light that is on and then there’s a mini explosion and it starts to smell like smoke, that’s bad, right?
Because that just happened to the hall light and so, I kind of freaked out and ordered the kids to EVACUATE THE HOUSE AND then I grabbed all of my storage containers with photos and put them in the back of the van just in case this shitty house burns to the ground.
I’m (almost) sure the house isn’t going to burn to the ground now, but I am afraid to plug anything in or turn on anything that isn’t already turned on. (And also afraid to flip any light switches on. Good thing I like peeing in the dark.)
I may or may not have unplugged everything in the house that is not this computer and not the TV and well, I also may or may not have did a little in my pants.
PigHunter is not home and he also does not have a cell phone so I can not call him to ask him if I should keep packing all of our valuables in the car because OMG! The house is going to burn down! Or if I should let the kids back in the house and relax because hahaha.. it was probably just the light bulb exploding and not really a big deal.
Except I’m [high pitched voice]PRETTY FREAKING SURE[/high pitched voice] that light explosion + loud buzzing sound + smoke= a big deal and not good at all.
I have to say that, aside from the fact that I have loaded all of my family photos into the van and have forbidden my kids from coming back into the house and have unplugged almost everything in the house and have DUCT TAPED ALL LIGHT SWITCHES so that no one can flip one on, I have handled this mini crisis with “minimal overreacting.”
Think of the 911 call that I could have made.
“OMG! 911! THE LIGHT EXPLODED! COME AND SAVE US!”
You should be proud of me, Internet. I’ve grown so much.
PigHunter actually got home as I was writing this and is now in the attic “checking things out.”
Which, NOT ENTIRELY OK WITH THAT, because of things like “electrocution”, but for the sake of my sanity, I’m going to go ahead pretend like I’m totally ok with it and chill out with a glass of wine.
(Meredith Viera’s all “oh noes! She drinks wine in front of her children! Bad mommy. Bad.)
A Moment in Time
A few weeks ago, a family friend gave me a stack of pictures from her wedding in 2002. Ethan was the ring bearer in their wedding and also, the free entertainment at the reception.
He was only 4 years old, too young to care what anyone thought, and so as soon as the music started playing, he hit the dance floor all by himself and WENT OFF. The kid danced for probably 30 minutes by himself while everyone watched, cheered him on and laughed until they had tears rolling down his face.
It was hysterical because the kid had THE MOVES and wasn’t afraid to use them.
Andrew wanted nothing to do with the dance floor I begged him to get out there with his brother, but he refused. It’s always like that with my boys. Ethan is a free spirit, not too worried about what people think, not afraid to bust out the Elvis Dance Moves at a wedding.
(Which reminds me of my friend’s wedding last summer. The entire reception, people were begging me to do The Worm. “But I can’t! I have a skirt on! And we all know what happened the last time that happened the last time that I did The Worm in a skirt!” But they didn’t care and kept egging me on and finally, I was all “Tony, here! Hold my wine! Fear not! I’m tucking the skirt in!” and I wormed my way across the dance floor. Ah, he is SO my son.)
I was able to talk Andrew into one dance that day. It took a lot of begging and pleading, but he finally gave in and danced with me and Ethan. I do remember that dance and how lucky I felt to have both of my little guys there, holding my hand dancing with me. I had no idea how much that dance would mean to me almost 5 years later.
That dance that I had begged my oldest son for, the one where we laughed and twirled and sang along to the music was now a memory that a random stranger had captured on film. I held that picture in my hands and I began to cry.
A picture, snapped by a complete stranger, holds more meaning to this mother than that person will ever know. One picture among hundreds taken that day.
A picture that reminds me just how fast the time really flies—how I blinked and that little boy in the red shirt is a few months away from his Freshman year in high school and that little munchkin in the blue shirt is now “too cool” to let loose like he did that day.
I’m so grateful for this picture. It serves as a reminder that I really must cherish every moment. I had no idea that day as I was dancing with my boys that beautiful day in 2002 that 5 years later, I’d be sitting with my teenage son, looking at a picture of that very moment, and hear the words “you know mom, that will be the only picture you’ll ever see of me dancing with you like that.”
(Did you hear that sound? That was my heart, breaking into a million pieces.)
If I had known that, maybe I would have danced a little longer with them that day, or maybe I would have reminded myself to never forget the way their laugh sounded as they were twirling around, or maybe I would have asked someone to take more pictures, or maybe I would have broke down right there on the dance floor, dropped to my knees and begged God to please let them still little just a while longer because I wasn’t prepared for the day that they were too grown to dance with their mama to come so damn soon.
On notice… FEET SHOTS.
I love Flickr. I mean, I love Flickr. I usually spend my early morning alone time– which lately has been at 5am because suddenly, my boys is all “5 in the morning is a great time to start your day!– browsing through my contacts photos and also the photos from the 365 Days group.
This morning, I realized something very profound while browsing through the photos.
Eye close up photos make me feel uncomfortable. I’m not talking about a close up of both eyes, I’m talking about a close up of ONE eye in which you can see all of the tiny red veins and moisture and that little red bump thingy in the corner of your eye. I do not like to see those things up close and personal like that. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the eye is, either. It just creeps me out.
Perhaps my issue with The Eyeball can be traced back to the time that I had to cut open a COWS EYE in 6th grade science class. I will never forget the feeling of that thing staring at me just as I was about to slice it open.
GAG.
Also, men who take close up pictures of their nipples? Please stop. I get all vomitty inside when I see that little erect Man Nipple surrounded by pube like hairs. To be honest, I feel slightly violated by close up Man Nipple photos.
But then, I have issues with nipples in general. Just saying the word makes me feel all dirty inside.
Title change courtesy of Internet Pervs.
Wow.
I had no idea so many people were lurking around here.
I asked that people leave a real email address because I planned on responding to every comment, to be all cute and say things like “thanks for playing along!” Obviously, I didn’t expect 400 (!!!) of you to play along.
This is going to take a while. And I also think it’s going to leave a mark.
Honestly, I was floored by the number of people who came out from hiding! I’ve had so much fun reading through the comments (and yes, I do read them all, silly people.)
There are people who are battling cancer, people who almost got killed by a shark, people who are pregnant, people who cringe when I drop the F-bomb (but still read anyway. Thank you.) There are girls named “Ryan”, people who have DickLords just like mine, there are AEROBIC DANCE INSTRUCTORS!
Speaking of Aerobic Dance… I had no idea so many of you enjoyed reading about my Adventures in Aerobic Dance. (Ha! Ha! “Adventures.”) I figured that they were annoying and not very funny to anyone except me, but I kept writing about it because I was obsessed with it and couldn’t stop myself. (And I was truly obsessed, to the point of canceling doctor appointments and fantasizing about punching Old Wimmins who were trying to take “my spot” in the class)
And yes, I had “a spot” in the class. Front, left, thank you very much.
Anyway, it was pretty great to read that some of you actually ENJOYED those posts and actually want me to start writing about them again. I will, but sadly, classes have been reduced to ONCE a week (blame the Step Class Bitches. IT IS THEIR FAULT.) I plan on making my triumphant RE-Return this coming Monday.
Whoa, I got all excited about Aerobic Dance Class and started talking about myself again. And this post isn’t about ME.
I wanted to mention two of the comments left in the delurking post that struck me as “Hilarious” and that I must share with everyone who didn’t feel like reading through all of the comments.
Let’s start with this one (which happens to be my favorite because she said LUBE)from Kate.
I have 786 reasons to enjoy your blog, but enough about you. Let’s talk about me:
My family doesn’t know this, but my cousin (and close friend, though I’m reconsidering that designation) has, in the past year, became a gay porn star (he was already gay, but not a porn star, just to be clear) and has had mcuh success. Like a lot. But I’m pissed– not because he’s a porn star or gay or crazy, even. Here’s what makes me so hostile and petty and rude and selfish: he didn’t bring a gift to my wedding this past summer. Hello?! He’s a PORN STAR!? Where were the wads of cash? Or the trips? Or even just some nice lube for the honeymoon? Excuse my lewdness, but it’s a thing about me and if anyone’s got a tip about how to weasel a gift out of him, let me know…
p.s. sorry to attempt to make this an advice column.
The nerve! Not even a Tube of Lube? Now, I have to admit that I’m a little jealous that I do not have a gay cousin. Wait, I think that I have a gay cousin, but he does not do porn. At least not that I know of. Now, if any of you clever people who read this (and I now know that there are at least 408 of you!) have any suggestions for Katie and how she can “weasle a gift” out of her porn star cousin, please feel free to leave them in the comments.
Next, I’d like to share with you THIS gem from Metalia. (And let me just tell you that Matalia is pretty damn funny. You’ll see.)
B) In the spirit of your request, however, hi! And something you don’t know about me is that I’ve never watched a soap opera in its entirety. Once, I watched Passions for 25 minutes, because my friend told me that there was a monkey nurse who had wedding fantasies about one of the characters, and I flat out did not believe her. After seeing the monkey in a wedding dress, I was horrified, and stood corrected. Sadly, I was fascinated as well. This is why I do not watch soap operas. I’m obsessed with what I saw until this day. (This is actually from my “100 things” list, so I’m sort of cheating, but it’s something I feel you should know about me, nonetheless.)
I emailed her right away because, while I knew that show was crazy from some of the previews I had seen, I had no idea there was a plotline involving a NURSE MONKEY who has FANTASIES about marrying a dude.
Her response will be filed under “ones that made me laugh until I cried (and quite possibly, ripped one.)”
So, I swear I am not making this up…also, I feel it is extremely important to point out a very key fact that I omitted in my comment: The monkey nurse? Yeah, her name was “Precious.” Not only do people watch this show, but apparently, Professor Google has informed me that a number of nurses were highly upset by this plotline, and its implication that a monkey could do a nurse’s job.
Whatever, yo. The point here is this:
In few brief moments that I watched, this is what I learned: Precious the monkey nurse was apparently in love with a tall dark and studly character on the show. She then had a daydream where she was walking down the aisle, in a monkey-sized wedding gown, towards the guy. I want to say there was a honeymoon sequence as well, wherein she donned monkey lingerie (mongerie?), but I think my brain may be making that up, for it is too good to be true.
Do you see why I can’t get involved with this? It’s just too much awesomeness.
Mongerie. MONGERIE!
Were it not for “delurking week” (oops, there go my eyes, rolling into the back of my head.) I probably would have lived my whole life without hearing that. (Mongerie!) Nor would I have known about The Nurse Monkey who wanted to get in on with The Stud (who was NOT a monkey). I would not have known that there were gay porn stars rolling in The Money who are too cheap to buy their cousins a wedding present. I would not have known about the people who I would not have known about each of the 405 of you that took the time to “introduce” yourself.
In all seriousness, the things that some of you said really did humble me and help put some things into perspective for me. I am grateful beyond words for the support that I have recieved from this little place called “My Blog.”
I don’t expect “everyone to love me.” (And, really? Who does? I mean, it would be nice, wouldn’t it? If everyone loved you? But I think most reasonable people understand that not everyone will. I also think the “NOT EVERYONE LOVES YOU.OR YOUR KID” thing is just something that people like to say to justify being an asshole on The Internet.) I actually think it would be quite easy to hate me after reading what I write here on a daily basis. But, here’s the thing. I’m not trying to be famous, or write a book, or get a TV show and I’m certainly not going around The Internet bothering people. I’m just here, writing about my life, because I enjoy writing. And the fact that people relate to what I write and feel connected to what I have to say is just sweet (chocolate) icing on “The Cake.”
(Whatever THAT means.)
So, thank you again for “delurking” and telling me a little bit about yourself. Now, watch your inbox for my response. It should be there by 2008. I promise.
DO NOT OPEN THIS IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED LAST NIGHTS EPISODE OF THE OFFICE
Come out come out wherever you are.
This week is Delurking week.
I roll my eyes when I say that outloud and yet, I would love to know who is reading but not commenting.
So, in the spirit of being a lemming, I am going to ask that you let yourself be known and leave a comment.
I only ask two things.
That you leave a real email address and that you tell me one thing that I should know about you.
Ready?
Go.
May I please have a side…of thin and healthy? (Or: Titles that make people gag a little.)
There are two bad habits that I have when it comes to food and drink that I am trying to break.
The first one is “can I have a side of (fill in the blank)”
The second is “Extra (fill in the blank) please.”
Let me give you a couple of examples.
“Hi, can I have a salad with extra croutons and an extra dressing on the side please?”
“I’ll have a venti, iced, nonfat, sugar free vanilla caramel macchiato, with LOTS of extra caramel in the cup and on top please.”
And I get pissed off if there is not 3 inches of caramel sitting at the bottom of the cup when they hand it to me. I’m like “IS THAT EXTRA. I DO NOT THINK THAT IT IS. WHAT IS THIS DRIZZLE BULLSHIT?!”
(And I’m not exaggerating, I get a serious case of Squish The Foam&trade if there are not gobs of caramel making it’s way up the straw when I suck that drink down.)
Many times when PigHunter has gone on a fast food run, I had him a list that says something like “two fish tacos with two sides of secret sauce and LOTS OF MILD SAUCE. ASK FOR AT LEAST 10.”
He’ll usually roll his eyes and say something judgmental like “Do you NEED two sides of secret sauce” to which I’ll respond “do you NEED a blowjob? Get my secret sauce, man.”
He’s right and I know it. I don’t need “sides of ranch dressing” or “extra caramel.” I’m pretty sure “thin people” don’t ask for “sides” or “assloads of caramel.” And “thinking like a thin person” is one of my many “goals for 2007.”
So, this morning, I rolled into the Starbucks drive-thru (which, whoops! NOT going to the drive-thru is another goal of 2007, because I really have to break the cycle of being ‘too lazy to get out of the damn car.”) And I ordered my non fat iced caramel macchiato and as hard as it was, as much as it hurt, the words “lots of extra caramel in the cup and on top” did not come out of my mouth.
As stupid as it sounds (and I know it sounds REALLY stupid) I wanted to raise my fist in the air and shout “Victory is mine!”
It has been my experience that the key to success in my Battle of The Fat is winning the “small battles.” (And yes, for me? Not asking for extra caramel or 2 sides of ranch dressing is a BATTLE. And YET AGAIN I realize how STUPID that sounds, but it’s the truth. That is why I am fat, people.)
The key to me having lost 70 pounds was saying “no thank you” to the second helping of mashed potatoes, even though I wanted a second helping with every fiber of my being. It was getting up and taking a walk around the block when I wanted to sit on the couch and eat a bag of Doritos. It was peeling an orange and eating that instead of grabbing the Take 5 bar that my husband bought me while he was at the grocery store. Or it was eating half of that candy bar and saving the other half for some other time instead of eating the entire thing at once.
And of course, it was making my ass go to The Gym even though I wanted nothing more than to sit on the couch and watch TV with my husband.
I know that because I stopped doing all of those things is the reason I’ve put 24 pounds back on and I realize now more than ever that the ONLY way that I’ll lose the weight and keep the weight off is to do those things for the rest of my life.
Or, at least until I’m too old to Give A Shit and I’m like “Pass Grandma the entire pie and give me a fork already.”
And something tells me that those will be the greatest days of my entire life, man.