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You’re a prick. 

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Posted in Uncategorized

Within Six Hours

My diet has been all messed up recently.

I fell off the food wagon.

A few months back, I bought the Eat to Live book and everything was going really well. And then I saw a recipe where I could eat whole wheat pita and that’s where the spiral started (well, that and work/school stress).

I’m not going to turn this into one of those body sadness posts (even though it feels that way). I gotta get that shit in check, for real. But in all honesty, I did whip up a pretty awesome stir fry with all the veggies that were about to turn over to the rotten side (and I added a thing of tofu) tonight.  The sauce was just a mix of whatever I had on hand: miso paste, fish sauce, balsamic vinegar, honey, blah blah.

It was legit.

Anyway,

Last week I was scoping out ModCloth for some deals. Their entire line has changed from what it was six months ago. Long gone are the dinosaur dresses and pencil skirts with candy on them. Now every article of clothing seems… monotone.  Maybe they’re just gearing up for the Pumpkin Spice season. Who knows.

What caught my eye though, was this mystery grab bag they were offering for $15. I was game and I placed my order. Today, I got a half sweat-shirt that says “Lazy Daisy” on the front with half assed bedazzled daisies.  I’ll probably give it to MD’s girlfriend.  XL my ass.

Inside the package though was a coupon for one of those meal delivery services. The coupon is for $35.00 off my first order.  The hell! $35.00? So I logged onto the website and looked at what they were offering.

First of all, the picture under “Family of four” shows a smiling couple with two small children. So, yes, in theory, that Family of Four package would work out great- we all know that the kids pictured in that photo wouldn’t even dream of eating a kale risotto. More helpings for the parents! Yay kale!

So, I started clicking around for the “Family of three, one of which is a giant teenager” option.

None.

Take heed meal delivery people- you need to start offering meal plans to families with teenagers.

Think of the profit increase! You could include a fancy, thick loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, 18 slices of ham and three different kinds of sliced cheese (and that’s just the lunch portion). There could be a snack option that includes an entire box of cereal and another gallon of milk, complete with a tub of yogurt and three bananas. And if you could, make Pop-tarts a crumbled topping. And Hawaiin rolls to make sandwiches out of. And salad. With veggies. But no cucumbers. Pint sized chocolate milk. AND FOURTEEN BOXES OF MAC N CHEESE.

All for $4.99 per person, per meal.

Please?

Hey, a Mom can dream, right?

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Challenge accepted

Five years ago, my girl Cat and I decided to challenge ourselves.

Not to one of those ridiculous Pinterest squat challenges
Not to one of those doodle a day projects either

No.
We challenged ourselves to write once a day on our blogs.

Sounds easy enough, but damn, was it difficult. And that was five years ago.

Cat and I “met” one another through Blogger several years back. I think Miles may have just started Kindergarten when she found my blog. And it wasn’t until Miles was in sixth grade that we would actually meet in person (side note: Cat gives the best hugs, her dogs are hella cute and so is her husband).

The other night we were texting and she brought up doing another round of Blogust. Could we do it? Could we make it? The deal was set- we would try to write at least three times a week. Okay, maybe two.

I miss blogging. Or writing? Journaling? I don’t know what to call it.

I’m going to accept this mini challenge because I need a place to brain dump.

Between work, college and home life- my mind is constantly swimming with To Do lists. Really, all I want is a To Don’t list.  There are nights when I get home from work, that I have zero motivation to do anything. The enjoyment is gone and I must get that back.

So Day 1, in the bag.

Cat, we’re now tied.

XO

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Remember when

A few weeks ago I sent off a batch of letters to pen pals around the globe. Some of them I know personally, some I do not.  You never know when you put that stamp on the envelope if the person receiving your letter will like what you wrote about.  I seriously agonized over this.

Is my handwriting too tiny? Did I doodle too much? Do I sound like a moron?

Who knows.

Apparently, letter writing is coming back! Except for this time, there’s this whole crafty science to it. Like a real craftiness.  Case in point: washi tape. It’s tiny, cute and according to Pinterest, there are thousands of things you can do with… tape.  You can outline the envelope, make little triangle banners, make your own as a stamp, frame photos, get extra OCD with your daily planner (more on this shit later).  The washi tape makes me happy. It’s cute and I feel a sense of accomplishment when I use it. Like, “Hey! I just used this fucking semi-sticky tape with balloons on it to make a statement on my mail!”  When I was in high school and wanted to get fancy with tape I did one of two things:

  1. Used it to hold my eyelids super taut while I learned how to use eyeliner
  2. Used blue or black pen to draw on it, which was then used to seal a note.

I should probably use it on my taxes.

When I was a kid, I had a few pen pals. I remember going to Shoneys and on the way out, they had these kids magazines. On the back, there was a section for pen pals. I KNOW. Looking back, what a recipe for disaster. You never knew who you were writing. Always a crap shoot. Of course, no one’s parents really knew either.  I’m assuming my parents just thought I was doing this letter writing thing with school.

The first letter I received was from a girl who wrote me in pencil. She wrote me on wide ruled paper and her letters were huge. I distinctly remember the entire letter. I’m not sure how that’s even possible. She wrote about how she had a pet guinea pig and she put scratch and sniff stickers all over the top. In my response to her, I wrote in pen (because I was a fancy, smart ass nine year old) and about how jealous I was that she had a pig for a pet! A REAL PIG Y’ALL. I had no idea what the hell a guinea pig was.

She never wrote back.

In high school, I picked up a newspaper of some sort (I want to say it was the Nashville Scene) that had a pen pal section on it as well. So I picked out a few names and started writing away. Within a week, I had a response from an older gentleman who liked to read books and write poetry (go figure). He had read all the classics and I was really impressed that he made it through War and Peace. Not once, not twice, but three damn times.

My god.

I sent my response off with doodles on the margin and explained the only book that I truly loved was Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. I talked about my boyfriend and probably a slew of other dumb shit. A week later, a response. I thought it was awesome he wrote back so quickly.  When the third letter arrived, my Dad came stomping up the stairs yelling my name.

Apparently, I had been writing a convicted felon in Kentucky.

And that was the end of that.

Writing letters, as we all know, seems to be a lost art form. With texting, snapchat, Facebook, Twitter, blah blah blah- why would you sit down to write someone? Because why not? I had forgotten how difficult it was to actually start a conversation when no one was there to instantly respond or like what I say with an emoji. The struggle was real you guys.

Yet, I made it work. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to my new found global friends. I tried not to make too many smiley faces with my pen and kept the doodling to a slight minimum. I even used my washi tape to reinforce the envelope. Because I’m fancy n’ shit.

I’m looking forward to receiving those response letters from Germany, France, Norway, Canada, New York, San Fransico.

I see you and I raise my glass.

Because we all know that any mail is better than junk mail.
And bills.
And those damn penny saver fliers.

 

 

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Political Fatigue

Just moments ago, I noticed my dear friend posted on Facebook and used the phrase “political fatigue.”

Damn, if that doesn’t sum up everything, every which way and immediate.

I just finished taking a political science exam and writing out my own thoughts for an essay about the Iron Triangle. To be honest, I didn’t even know this term existed. When I took political science the first time, it was 1997. My book was hardback and we didn’t write opinion pieces. We read. Took notes. Read more. Took tests. I failed every bit of that class (and not for lack of attendance, much like my step aerobics class). I did go. I sat in tiny wooden desks (I’m not even kidding) and they had tops that resembled a painter’s palette.  Okay, it might have been a bit longer than that, but not by much.

In 1997, I was studying to be a history teacher. Total passion. My first roommate in college was a sorority girl who showed up, shook my hand and then promptly told me she was moving in with her boyfriend. She left a forwarding number should her parents call. She had sandy brown hair and wore smart looking outfits- fitted jeans and t-shirts that had capped sleeves. I remember specifically the yellow shirt she had on because the stitches at the top puckered, which reminded me of flowers.

Anyway,

I never saw her again.

So I was free to lay about this tiny cell of a room and read all day and all night. The walls of my dorm were cinderblock and painted white. The floor was brown tile, similar to that in my junior high school. The bed was terrible and plastic.

No, I wasn’t in prison, I promise.

We didn’t even have an elevator. That wasn’t an issue until my second year, when I lived on the fifth floor. The only perk of living up there was the bathroom was sprawling and there was a claw foot tub. I know, how Sylvia Plath of the University.  Only once did I see anyone in the tub and it was unfortunate.  I stumbled down the hall one morning to shower, which was early for me, considering I worked third shift at a gas station/murder mart. As I kicked open the door with my foot, shampoo under one arm, loofa in the other, there was Jen, sprawled out in all her bathing glory.  She was nice. Always trying to get me to go out and do things with some of the other girls. I did go once. Jen drove an old Mustang. The year escapes me, but it was the model that is most desired. And it was red. My thighs stuck to the black pleather seats. There was no air. We drove for hours on back roads and I couldn’t wait to get home and read.

That’s all I did. Read and smoke cigarettes in my room.

Napoleon. Henry VIII. Mary Queen of Scots. Jefferson. Bukowski. Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee. Cleopatra.

On and on.

Nights and nights.

Yet, the political science stuff was lost on me. How was it that I could read an entire novel on Napoleon, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open for three pages about Congress? I failed that class. Twice.

And here I am now, twenty years later, taking it again.  Struggling to keep my eyes open reading about Congress, the Iron Triangle, Federalists. The only difference now, is that I can open my computer and Google anything I have a question on. I can hold my phone up and say, “Okay Google, tell me what’s the big deal about …” and my phone tells me!

Twenty years ago, I had to drag my ass into the library and hope to God there was someone at a table who could give me a run down on the next three chapters (there never was). This time around is different. Aside from the fact that I’m twenty years older, I also “get it.” I’ve voted. I’ve screamed at the tv. I’ve paid attention to local elections and state elections.  On top of the reading and papers, there are also weekly discussions. I’ll spare you the grim details, but today, I just about came up out of my chair when I noticed the reoccuring theme:

Not voting.

A good chunk of my classmates didn’t vote because they didn’t think it would matter.

THIS IS EXACTLY WHY IT MATTERS!

I did manage to keep my emotions in check, but did bring it up with a few classmates who had mentioned the above. I mean, you didn’t vote? AT ALL? We are in a political science class! I just… words escape me really.

So, before I start to rage out again, I will say that I’m pretty sure I just passed this last exam and I’m still working on some responses for my classmates discussion topics.  Which brings me to the point of political fatigue: I’m over it. It’s shoved down our throats every waking hour of the day. It’s splattered across the web. Social media is the devil- splitting families, friends and lovers due to their beliefs.

And here I am, taking a political science class.

God help me.

Just four more weeks.

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Sun’s out, Twins out.

Growing up, I was flat chested.

My busty girlfriends would say, “Your time will come!” or “You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear a bra!” Yet, I would stand in the bathroom and look at myself and just feel bummed out.  It was a very Judy Blume moment. You know, one of those “Are you there God, it’s me…”

In seventh grade, I made an executive decision to stuff my bra with toilet paper. I spent at least an hour in the bathroom getting the scrunching of the toilet paper just right. I didn’t want to appear too lumpy. I couldn’t fold the toilet paper either because that wouldn’t do much for the mission at hand. There was an illusion I had to create and I thought I pulled it off beautifully.

That day I was sporting a tiny white bra that had lace on the top part of the cup. No underwire, because let’s be real here, there was no support issue. As I walked up to the bus stop, my best friend yanked me away from the crowd. “Dude, did you stuff your bra?!”

“Yep. Looks good, right?” I gave a little runway walk and put my hand on my hip.

She turned me around so that my back was to the other kids at the bus stop. “Well, you went a little overboard. What are you, a C cup? Is there an entire roll of toilet paper in there? Jesus.. here…” And she shoved her hand down my shirt and pulled out a good bit of my hard work. Then she started adjusting my bra. Squishing the toilet paper. Molding it to look just right. She took a step back and said, “There. That looks more believable.”

God bless best friends.

The bus ride went along as normal- excruciatingly long (we lived out in the country and our high school was a solid thirty-minute commute) and classes were uneventful, until lunch break. As I sat with my best friend, we noticed people starting to whisper and point. “They’re on to me, aren’t they?” I asked. She leaned in close to me and said, “There’s a rumor going around that we’re lesbians. Yankee lesbians!”  We started laughing. “What? We’re not lesbians!” We agreed that maybe pulling toilet paper out of my bra on a street corner at 6:15 am wasn’t the best idea we’d had. The brutality of pre-teens in a situation such as ours was not lost on us. It was also a time when acceptance was a tiny seedling- so the rumors escalated and the teasing continued. No mercy was shown.

Anyway, we overcame the rumors and went on about our day.

Our weeks.

Our years.

Our Decades.

Five years after graduating high school, I was married and pregnant.

I went to bed one night slightly flat chested and woke up with a massive rack. Hand to heart, that’s how it happened. While I slept, the big man upstairs was like, “J needs a nice rack. She’s gotta feed that baby.”  My husband at the time was like, “Where did those come from?” I’m pretty sure we high fived one another.  That morning I spent a good hour in the mirror admiring myself and marveling at human biology.

My time had finally come.

After my son was born, the twins stuck around. My Dad told me that shortly after I moved back home, that he was at the local gas station and a few people were discussing how I must’ve had my boobs done.  In that moment, I realized I’d been called up from the minors:  I was part of town gossip!

There is a point to this if you’re still reading. I’m not just here to talk about how I came of age and the good Lord blessed me with a great rack (well, that’s part of it. Boobs are awesome, can’t lie). What I’m getting around to, is bra culture.

Currently, I have two drawers full of cute bras that give me coverage and are sensible. The ones with the wild patterns I save for when I wear black shirts because no one wants to see teal leopard print through a white shirt. Or maybe they do. Yeah, they probably do. I see you, there in the back, smiling.

Earlier in the year, I noticed that bralette’s were making a comeback. When I was in eighth grade they were in style- but not as lovely as they are now. I had a yellow one back then and it didn’t do much for me, except create a barrier between my tiny twins and my t-shirt.  Recently, a few of my girlfriends had been singing the praises of these sexy sports bras, so I decided I’d try one out.

Well, three actually.

The first one was too small and I felt like I’d smother.

The second one was too big and I would just fall out.

Last night, I picked up my third (and in my mind, final attempt at being somewhat fashion forward). It’s black and lacey. It’s cute. It fits.

Or so I thought.

Normally I give new articles of clothing a test run at home before wearing them out in public. I need to make sure that there won’t be any mishaps or uncomfortableness. Sometimes you buy a bra and it fits, only to wear it an hour and your back is screaming for relief. This time, I threw caution to the wind and just put the bra on and got dressed for work.

Everything was working out fine until half way into my commute something felt off. Like a little too breezy. I looked down and noticed my boobs looked weird.  At a red light, I pulled the neck of my shirt out to take a glance downward.

Well. Look at that.

Lucy left boob is just HANGING OUT. Apparently, she too likes to throw caution to the wind.  What an attention whore!

In case you’re wondering how my Friday will be, I’ll  just be here in my office, constantly adjusting myself. Thankfully, I don’t have any in-person meetings today nor do I have to be on television or go through TSA.  Let’s all hope that my coworkers are accepting of my peekaboo boob. If it becomes too much, I could always just rip this bralette off and go free.

I’m kidding. No one needs to see how low they go.

Although, nothing screams casual Friday like a wonky tit, amirite?