I started working out recently. You have to understand how ridiculous that statement is. I am as lazy as they come when it comes to exercise. I think the walk to the mailbox is too far. It just really isn't my thing. However, dressing the part - totally my thing. I look like I belong in the gym once I get there. But aside from the cute tank, sneaks and spandex pants, I am an obvious mess. Half-way into any aerobic class - or whatever the hell modern term is used - I am gasping like a fish and looking like I am about five seconds from a heart attack. I sweat like a roasting chicken and what little hair I have, is matted to my face and the back of my neck. I think I might even smell like a mix of onions and feet. I want it all to end the minute I start. People say they get energized. I lay on the floor for a crunch and I want to nap. But nevertheless, I am trying. Or was trying. I really don't want to go back to the gym because of course I had to have a small snafu. Or maybe it would be better to say "sna-pu". I was just lying there, stretching out like the instructor was saying...minding my own business at the end of class...wondering if anyone would miss me from the death that I felt was near upon me...when the instructor guy walks up to me, kneels down and takes my leg in his hand. The music was soft and his move was slow. I said nothing, I looked around - no one seemed to care. I looked at him and looked away quickly. He was saying something to the class about relaxing. He now had my leg up over my head and was pushing it down into my shoulder as far as it would go - I could practically lick my kneecap. What? What was he doing? Oh God, now he was leaning on me and slowly pushing my leg in little pulses. Some stretch thing? Something else? I was too unfamiliar with this to really know what was going on and he knew it. He was totally fucking with me...right? He kept talking to me and the class about relaxing. I looked around again. Everyone looked chill but all I could think was not to get too relaxed that I would toot in this guy's face with my big leg in the air and my ass all up towards him. He finished with me and proclaimed the class complete. I stood up as he turned to walk away. Geeze, after that, the guy could maybe buy me dinner. Huh. I passed the mirror to get my stuff and noticed at that point that my ass crack was one huge line of sweat. It was spreading down my thigh and when I swiveled to look at my front, I had two lines of sweat where my fleshy thighs made a "V" around my vag. I looked like I might have pissed my pants there was so much wetness. Why? Why? Why? OMG - did that guy see my perspiration problem? Ew. This is why I hate gyms, and working out and swussy (swampy pussy, for those of you not in-the-know). No girl should have to have her heated-up lady bits on display, if no one is getting laid in the end. I once saw some motivational poster that read "sweat is fat crying". Well apparently, my ass was crying me a river. I couldn't wait to get out of there and back home where I would happily drown my fat sobbing sorrows. But first - a shower!! Ick!
I shop online for pretty much everything – clothes, shoes, appliances, toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, cases of gum - anything. I wasn’t always this way. I used to love going into stores – the bright lights, all the pretty things, the smell of new clothes and plastic shopping bags! (OK sorry, that last one might be weird). But it changed when I became a mom and it seemed impossible to take the kids shopping. In fact, I remember the exact moment I said I would never shop in a store again. I had both girls with me and was going to try on a bathing suit. Ella was around six and Vanessa was about three, still in a stroller. Since the stroller wouldn’t fit in the fitting room, I sat Ella on the bench and put Vanessa on the floor on my jacket in our small dressing space. I turned around for a split second to look at myself in the mirror and Vanessa crawled out under the dressing room door. This may have been fine if the dressing rooms were tucked in the back of the store. Instead, they were right in the middle of the place. She crawled away fast like a little bug scurrying for it’s life. I tried to open the door and couldn’t – it was completely locked or stuck or something. It tried for seconds to open the door, twisting the knob furiously. In a state of panic, I crawled under the door after her. Do you know what that must have looked like? Here I was a giant grown woman, wearing an ill-fitting bikini waaaaaay before it was flattering. I was crunched up like a ball to make it under the door – all my milky white middle was stacked like rolls on top of each other and my big fleshy ass was high up in the air. When I caught up to her I picked her up to hug her because I was glad I didn’t lose her. And, holding her was helping to cover up my half undressed body. Look, I never care about being overexposed but it has to be on my terms. Because then I am sucking in or I know my tits are hard (and looking perky) or I am standing in a position that flatters. This was not one of those moments. At all. I walked back towards the dressing room, still using Vanessa as my body shield. I found Ella playing with a tampon that she clearly pulled out of my purse. She held it up and said “candy?” I shook my head in disbelief and defeat. That would make this a perfect shopping excursion – everyone seeing me leave the store with my runaway baby and my other kid sucking on a vagina cork. That night I started my online Amazon account. Can you blame me?
A few years ago Adam and I were vacationing in the Dominican Republic and we were happily getting our drink on at the pool. As with any good resort - afternoon pool games were planned! At the encouragement of Adam and strangers around me (because I really need to impress people I will never see again apparently), I agreed to enter a poolside Arm Wrestling / Beer Drinking competition. Not wanting to seem like an outsider, and honestly thinking I was cool in the moment (Ugh, when I look back on this now) I got out of the pool and walked on stage while trying to get everyone around to chant with me “Nuevo Jersey!” . I think I actually thought that whoever was called up next to compete with me, would feel intimated by my massive support system of earlier mentioned, strangers in DR. (PS – I don’t really speak Spanish so let’s just imagine how annoying I sounded saying “Nuevo Jersey” over and over again in an intoxicated, Jersey girl accent. ) And clearly – I was annoying to the monstrous German woman who was now my challenger. Shit. I am tall – an “eek” under 5’8” and overall big in size – but this woman cast a shadow on me. I think the one piece bathing suit she had on was actually one of those horrible looking wrestling outfit things that I find to be more like pornographic lederhosen. Anyway – the game was to chug a mug of beer while being in the hand-in-hand position and as soon as the first empty beer can hit the table, the guy holding our hands in position would release them. You know where this is going, JA?! (That’s German for “yes” – BTW). That woman drank her beer faster that I can inhale air and slammed my arm down with such ease, it was like I was made of rubber. The announcer guy felt bad – or was just an evil person – and told me he’d give me one more shot with this woman who looked like Flash - Fucking - Gordon. I didn’t want to admit defeat so I did the challenge again. Rumor had it she opened her second can of beer with her teeth before guzzling it down, while I was busy trying to chug as fast as someone with a past full of funneling experiences at frat parties. Needless to say, I didn’t win and while he claimed her victorious, I just sort of toppled over into the pool…which had to look just pretty….to drown myself. But Adam and my new stranger friends convinced me to just drown my embarrassed feelings instead. For the rest of the trip, I was fondly greeted around the resort as “Nuevo Jersey”. Sorry Jersey!! I really should do us all a favor and promise NOT to represent our great state while traveling outside of the US.
Something I worry about:
Getting in a car accident, going to the hospital via ambulance and winding up there in a comatose state. With a tampon in. And no one checks. And, if it's winter, under my tall boots, I have on mismatched socks. Now I am known as the patient with the fashion faux-paux.
Something I fear:
Same situation but now I am in a coma for weeks. No one grooms me. My bush looks like Bob Marley's afro and I have random chest, neck and chin hairs that sprout up miraculously. And they are black. Over time, this could get horrible and now I am the hairy female patient. Ack! Why won’t anyone help me out here?!
I seriously wonder about these things. I have already admitted that I am the worst driver. What if I really do get in an accident and wind up in a coma!? I might have Adam sign a contract to promise to check my vag for the cotton mouse and always visit me with a razor. I can't be all vegetating looking like a Sasquatch with a rip cord. Yikes!
During my delivery with Ella, I knew I was having a C-section. And while I wanted the drama like in the movies of the wife screaming about her water breaking and the husband panicking – forgetting her overnight bag as he flees the house for the hospital and drives erratically – I was glad that I was able to prepare for the big day. Since I knew exactly when I would be going in, I was able to get groomed up. I got my hair dyed, my nails done, my bush whacked. Even with all of that primping, I wasn’t loving the idea that while I was on the operating table in between the epidural and being sliced in half to have a person pulled out of me, my bottom was totally exposed to students that were observing the delivery as part of their student teaching program. As I swung my legs around to get on the table, my entire bottom was in full view. One student began scribbling on his clipboard. I startled him when I yelled – “Hey! Hey! You better not be drawing me.” The poor thing looked at me, looked at his clipboard and looked at me again, while a fellow student slowly peeked over his shoulder to see what in fact he had just done with his pen. He stammered as he replied, “I am not. I am writing some notes.” I harshly replied “Let me see.” He turned his board towards me and there was no drawing, just writing. “Well OK then.” I said and then I made a stern face “No one is allowed to draw me right now. I know you may want to but that isn’t ethical.” Looking back on this, I am certain those poor students are still talking about me as a crazy person. Because who in their right mind would want to draw a pregnant person's crotch? I can't image it would sketch well.
Like toilet paper on a shoe, someone should really tell you when you have a size sticker on your new pants. Obviously I forgot to remove it. If it said size two or four, I’d walk around proud as hell. I might even rip it off my bottom and put it on my forehead. But really – a size 12 sticker still hanging around? Not sure anyone would be showing that off with pride. Is there really a need for those stickers anyway? I know it makes it easier to find your size when clothes are folded on display but it is too risky expose such potentially sensitive information. We, women should just be able to cut the size tag out of the inside of our pants so that we can claim to be whatever size we want. Just like when we lie about our age, weight, hair color and bra size. We even alter the length of our hair and eyelashes with extensions. Wow - when I write it like that, it is so clear that we are manipulative little creatures. But hey - if we get away with it - why not?! Oh BTW - I am 33, a real blonde and a 38C. Yup. That's me.
Before my kids were born I had two instances that have stuck with me, partly making me the self-conscience person I can be today. The first, I went into a European dress store for a skirt suit for a job interview. I had heard that store was great with lots of professional clothes to choose from but I was warned that all of the staff was from France and very snobby. I figured I’d browse on my own and ignore them. Little did I know that the store was super small and the minute I walked in, I was the center of everyone's attention. A salesperson walked over to me with her thin self and in a thick French accent she said “Oh, you.” -- pause to look me up and down while pointing to my bottom half (big) and to my top half (small) – “You will need separate sizing.” What? Ew. Who the hell says that? Shortly after this gem of a moment, or maybe because of it, I went to a plastic surgeon to see about getting boob implants. For this second experience, I was called into the doctor’s office for the consultation and immediately upon sitting down, he looked at me and said “Yes. With your body size, you should definitely have larger breasts.” Look I am not saying I disagree – if I put on a few pounds my gut can protrude more than my tits. But again, what the hell? How can people be so blunt and fresh and simply evil? On principle, I didn’t get the suit at that store and I never got the implants. Well, that’s what I will tell myself – I actually couldn't fit in the European sizing (my ass was too big) and the implants were too expensive. Guess I will just have to shop at regular department stores for my pear shape body and be happy with my little pits.
I was an angel this year for Halloween. This didn’t stop me from cursing, drinking and telling totally inappropriate stories at a party. From too much of all those good things, at the end of the night, I stumbled into the house with my heels in my hand and knocking my wings crooked. My extensions had gone lack luster and my red lipstick that I reapplied within the last half hour of the party, had somehow gotten smeared on my face. I was a hot mess. Just as I went to walk up the stairs to head to bed, it was obvious I wasn’t going to make it. I ran to the bathroom, hugged the bowl and made a deal with God to let me live. In exchange for this, I swore I’d never drink again and I would be a much better human being. I couldn’t imagine what God was thinking as he looked down at me – a drunken angel woman, hugging the bowl and barfing while of course wearing my halo the entire time. Hardly heavenly….
For years I have wanted breast implants and for years Adam has wanted Lasik. Not willing to splurge on both, we realize we’d have to choose between the two procedures.
I wore a professional black dress to a client meeting the other day. After work, I was meeting my girlfriends for dinner and so I wanted to change into something a little more casual. My chosen attire for girls night was a white and blue striped dress. Considering that, I avoided wearing colorful panties and wore white lace ones so that you couldn't see my underwear through my dinner dress. When I got to the client office I went to the bathroom before going upstairs to the meeting room. As I was drying my hands, I turned to look at the back of my dress in the mirror and realized that anyone could see my white thong through the thin dark dress. Oh. Come. On. So naturally the only solution was to take my underwear off. And now there I was, in my first meeting with a new client without my panties. A "Sharon Stone" move would make a great first impression, wouldn't you say?!
Collection of comic strips that illustrate the madness of my life - career, marriage, motherhood...me!
Click on any of the categories above or the "previous" link at the end of the page to see some moments that have stripped me of my sanity.