You need a good Spanxing

Since I’ve been Little Debbie Downer lately (Debbie’s snack cake addicted alter-ego), I thought I’d add a little levity up in here and write about a topic I’ve meant to write about for a while now: Spanx.

(Ass Fatteners, *aka* Zebra Cakes: Artificial, chemical deliciousness)

I was reminded while listening to Rush Limbaugh discuss Spanx on air for the first time last week how hilarious it is for men to wrap their minds around the most wondrous creation of all time. Although apparently Spanx has ventured into the land of men by introducing a beer-gut flattening undershirt, men will never truly appreciate the bittersweet invention that women everywhere are sporting.

Unfortunately for me, I knew what a girdle was (and the stark necessity for it) by the time I hit my pre-teens. When my junior prom rolled around in 1994, the interwebs wasn’t exactly around in a useful form then, and if you were bigger than a size 14, which I was, there wasn’t much in the way of stylish prom dresses for me to pick from.  If you’re a prom-going fatty now, the world is your fucking oyster, thanks to the internet and the advent of fatty-fat stores that sell age-appropriate dresses. But back in 1994, I had two options: go to Dillards’ women’s department and buy one of their 2-piece, tea-length organza suits that would look better on a grandmother of the bride, or get all Project Runway and design that shit myself, which is exactly what I did.

(In case you’ve never wandered into the women’s section at a department store, this is the kind of frumpy ridiculous shit that passes for “formal wear”)

My first foray into fashion design was ill-conceived, to say the least. In my head, I knew what I wanted…and in my head, I thought I would look a certain way in it. But let me tell you this, without any hesitation: no one looks good in satin, especially fat people. Think I went with a shadow-hiding black satin? Nope. I went for look-at-me, red satin. A nimble-fingered Asian lady worked with me for weeks on getting the sweetheart neckline and accompanying rhinestone outline (I know, I should be killed for that) just right. The sleeves were oversized bows that covered half of my arm, because even at 17, I hated my arms as much as I do now.

(it was like this, but red. and long. and on a fat chick.)

Does it just go without saying that prom dresses from the 1990s were just all-around total fuckery?

My dress though, to be sure, was a stark departure from the kinds of dresses my friends were wearing. Again, Texas: 1995. Sequins were de de rigueur when it came to formal wear. And when I say sequins, I mean head to toe. It was some really bad shit.

(I’m really not kidding)

As if things couldn’t be any worse, to smooth out my bulges and bumps, I needed a girdle. Mother took me to a department store, but even then, the girdles offered weren’t exactly in my size. My best option was the type of girdle that looked like a super-tight, nude bathing suit. Difference was, this girdle had what my friend and I later affectionately referred to as “teeth” in the crotch. Yes, a seemingly handy pee-hole (it wasn’t, trust me) that had 3 or 4 hook-and-eye closures. It was madness. You knew better than to drink when wearing one of those things, since if you had to pee, it meant hiking up your floor-length ball gown, taking off the equivalent of a lycra swimsuit, and then spending 15 minutes trying to shimmy your fat ass back into it.

(sorry for the Granny nips on this)

The thing about these swimsuit style girdles is that they didn’t really come in appropriate sizes, in that they were usually listed by cup size…even though there was much more to the girdle than the bra part. So while my boobs may have been a 38C, the rest of me was a size 16 or 18. Which meant, once I squeezed into that fucker, the fat had to go somewhere.

So while it may have smoothed out my stomach, all of a sudden, I had bulging little rolls of fat at the top of my thighs that looked like I was smuggling two wiggling ferrets on my hips. That and the damned thing was so constrictive, I didn’t even dream of eating at dinner beforehand, much to the consternation of my date. And I spent the entire evening stifling painful gas since, well, in case you didn’t know, being in uber-tight undergarments, especially ones around your stomach, make you gassy.

Imagine, too, if you will, my desire to match my lipstick with my dress, so naturally I smeared myself with an Estee Lauder lipstick (shade: Alabama Road Whore) which to this day, I can’t pull off. Seriously. Red lipstick is anathema to me. No matter my hair color, whether I have a tan, if my teeth are super-white, or what, I CANNOT pull off that shit. And yet, back then, I tried. Couple my clown-mouth with my tightly pulled up-do (complete with the obligatory doo-doo roll curls on either side of my head) and a cheap tiara, and I was just a big pile of BITCH NO. Tim Gunn would have queefed in horror, for sure.

(Taylor, I love ya, but this is just not the look)

This is to say nothing of the inherent unsexiness that comes with my planned after-prom adventures. I had personally wanted to get laid afterward, and a fleshy too-tight girdle that made me look like a popped can of biscuits wasn’t going entice my then-boyfriend, and neither were the foreboding girdle-crotch teeth which served as a virtual chastity belt and thwarted my attempt to unleash sexy time. Not that it probably would’ve happened anyway, since my boyfriend spent part of the evening talking to the flat-chested yet oddly big-assed girl he was cheating on me with. Junior prom was an epic fail.

(now imagine a flat, wide ass on her, and that’s who my boyfriend was screwing around with. and she had buck teeth.)

The following year went just as horribly, down to me designing my own dress again. Thankfully, I had learned my lesson about satin and opted for a flowy, empire-waisted black chiffon thing. It was hideous in the way that a dress designed by a chubby 18 year living in deep East Texas circa 1995 is expected to be, but it was a sight better than the year prior, for sure. Still, the ill-fitting girdle was underneath, snarling hook crotch and all. What made my senior prom so shitty is that a) my date was a first-rate rat-shit dickhole and b) two other couples accompanied us, neither of whom I knew well at all, meaning the whole evening was awkward as ass, and c) my high-rolling boyfriend sprung for a 15 year old Lincoln limousine for all of us, and the son of a bitch broke down on our way to a neighboring town for dinner and back so many times that we missed our whole fucking prom.

Oddly enough, that black chiffon dress went with me to college, where it unfortunately made two more appearances (since, again, plus sized formal clothing stores for young people still weren’t available online until at least 7-8 years later). And every time the dress made an appearance, so did the girdle. My friend and I each wrested ourselves into one, bitching the entire time, and then had to sit through dinner feeling very “fat guy in a little coat,” as we were sucked and constricted every way you could imagine. Later, while my date passed out (naturally), I ended up drunk in the bathroom with my friend’s date who attempted to pee but ended up flashing his dick at me multiple times. I’m not sure I peed the entire evening, since doing so would have meant releasing the cracken that was my bridled crotch, and once those hooks popped loose, there was no going back.

So before Spanx came along, I endured a lot at the hands of girdles. And I’m almost positive that wearing said girdles never improved my chances in the love department. And after all, that’s what a girdle’s designed to do, right? Make you look flatter here, perkier there, less jiggly everywhere, just to make a dude all “hubba-hubba” over you. Knowing the (lack of) results I had, I should have just worn cotton briefs and not given a fuck.

So I’m not really sure when I first wiggled into a pair of Spanx. I’m thinking it was sometime about 7 years ago, because at first, I started out wearing regular old Spanx, the kind that went from waist to knee. However, when I sat down, although my stomach was impressively flatter, I now had an even bigger tire around my midsection, since the Spanx cut me in half. Which, you know, happens when fat meets “too tight.”

It was then that I found my Holy Grail of Spanx, The Higher Power. I could write hundreds of Shakespearean-esque sonnets about these fuckers. The Higher Power Spanx come up right below your bra, meaning it smoothes out your tummy tire AND back fat, as well as your ass, hips, thighs and stomach. And ever since I first cocooned myself in one of those bad boys, I’ve yet to step out in nice clothes without one.

Not that Spanx don’t have drawbacks. First, for being little more than semi-comfortable pantyhose uppers, they are, at $35+, expensive as shit. I always buy mine on ebay for about half price, but even then, $15 or $18 is a lot to spend on something that won’t last three foggy mornings. That’s right – they rip. I either rip them while trying to wrangle my wide ass into them, or they simple destruct in the washing machine. Wanting so badly to squeeze every last figure-flattering breath of life out of them, I once wore a pair that had a giant hole right in the ass. Not that anyone noticed, but I felt conspicuous, like I was walking around naked. And Katy bar the door if a strong breeze picked up that day.

Because, you guessed it, I’ve flashed my Spanx on more than a few occasions. I’m not sure what would be more disturbing to someone: catching a glimpse of me in a pair of three year old mesh hipster panties from the Old Navy since-discontinued plus size lingerie line, or seeing me in a pair of nude-colored Spanx, oddly contained like a fat larva.

And once, upon arriving home from work, my mother breezily informed me that she could see my Spanx – in that, my dress was shorter than the Spanx. It was thrilling to know that I had been sashaying around my office all day basically announcing to the world that I wear a modern-day girdle.

Want a challenge? Try getting out of the shower in the heat of summer and trying to pour yourself into a pair of new Spanx. Ever see the Friends episode with Ross and the leather pants? Very similar. (And yes, most of my most memorable life experiences have some correlation to an episode of Friends. I am a product of the 90s, what can I say?) #ChanandelerBongForever

Paolo hates my Spanx. He’ll sometimes call on his way over.

“What are you wearing?” he’ll ask coyly.

“A cute dress,” I say.

“And Spanx,” he declares flatly. “You’re wearing those goddamned Spanx, aren’t you?”

And there’s the rub: they’re not sexy. They do not promote sexiness. Men, I’ve found, have no interest in why we wear them, they just wish we didn’t. Regardless of the fact that they’re crotchless (a likely enticing quality), Spanx are still boner-killers.

And yet, we wear them, in the dim hope that if we smooth out just the right things, Spanx will turn us into boner-makers.

My ass is swaddled in Spanx for about 50 hours a week. Most of the time I forget I’m wearing them, because it’s like they’ve fused with my skin. In fact, I’d feel weird without them. But it’s not like I enjoy wearing them. I wish I were petite and lithe enough to not even own a pair (do women like that exist? Or do even the skinny ones feel the need the Spanx themselves?) but that’s just not my reality.

For as much as they don’t bother me at work, I cannot wait to roll those fuckers off of me once I get home, take off my bra, put on some cotton briefs (boner killer #2), elastic waist shorts (#3) and a t-shirt. At home, I am all about comfort; out-and-about, I am all about not jiggling.

I made my bed; now I can barely get out of it

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m PMSing (truism: I wanted chocolate today, and I haven’t wanted chocolate in a long while. My sweet tooth has waned considerably in the past year or so, as my cravings for creamy, fattening things has tripled) but I’ve been having the same obsessive thought for weeks now: I truly think I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.

We all know those narcissistic motherfuckers who are chronic compliment-fishers.

“Oh, I’m feeling so fat and bloated today!”

“You’re a size 2…you could never be fat. You’re skinny!” (In my mind: “Ho, your ass is still wearing junior sizes. Gently go fuck yourself with a splintery stick.”)

For those of us who truly have the self-esteem that Honey Boo-Boo Child is destined have by the year 2020 (witness the soul-changing fuckery if you haven’t already: )

other people’s coerced flattery isn’t soothing. So what I’m saying is, for those of you issuing a standard, “Oh, silly! You’ll find someone!” I am not convinced…though your insincerity is more than mildly annoying.

This isn’t a passing nagging thought like I had when I was 27 and still hopeful. No, now it creeps in at the worst times. And it seems…constant. I think about ending up alone with the frequency that a 16 year old boy thinks about sex.

Though I did have a convoluted dream the other night. (Let’s see if I can a) relay it in short order and b) not bore you senseless with it.) There were groups of people grouped according to colors: red, blue, yellow, white, purple, etc. My future was going to be determined by the color I chose. I knew a few details of each group. Some contained great looking men (i.e potential partners), others contained money, others world-class destinations, one famous people. One group, the red group, didn’t have any discernible perks. It was sort of a surprise. There were no guarantees. After much thought (especially after I learned the white group contained Ben Linus – the sexiest mofo on TV… EVER…)

and after almost choosing the blue group which contained my high school crush, I chose the red group. When I joined them, I realized it was full of women….really independent women I instantly respected.

Then I awoke. Was that supposed to be comforting? Because I spent the next hour chiding myself for not tackling Ben Linus to the ground and dry-humping him voraciously. (Seriously, creepy is sexy to me. Will probably meet a serial killer online in 3…2…)

Reassuring dreams that turn my pitiful singlehood into a scenario worthy of a Beyonce song or not, I am still scared out of my fucking mind. Because after my parents are gone, that’s it. I got nothin’. No family. Sure, you always have friends…to a point. But unlike Courteney Cox, I don’t expect them to drag my single ass along on vacay with their kid and cracked-out husband.

A friend may extend a pity invite to you for Thanksgiving (along with several weirdos they also pity-asked),

but at some point you’re going to find yourself in front of a half-dead Christmas tree, watching Miracle on 34^th Street at 3 am while you drink Wild Turkey straight from the bottle. It’s going to be lonely. It’s going to be depressing.

And yet…what’s the alternative? Run out and try to find someone? That could be just as, if not more, disastrous than being alone.  There’s a reason the TV show, “Who the (bleep) did I marry?” exists (and that I experience extreme relief at being single while watching it). I fully believe desperate women attract horrible men.

I wouldn’t mind a late-in-life marriage, if I knew that the time leading up til then would be filled with great sex and a vibrant social life. I mean, look at Streisand. She landed Marcus Welby (I still would, any given day). So how did she fill her single days before The Brolin? Hell, I wouldn’t mind being single, either, if I had her money. I’d have a few gay guys on payroll (gayroll?) to lunch and bitch with. I’d pay my girlfriends’ way on a roap trip up the Amalfi coast. I’d turn my housekeeper Helen into a confidante whether she liked it or not. It wouldn’t be horrible. Money may not buy happiness but it can sure as hell buy you a willing entourage.

I was thinking about Butters, for example. If not for my mother, Butters would probably be put in the pound if something happened to me. Who would care? Who would she go live with? All my friends either have tons of pets or live out of town/state. See? That kind of shit is depressing to me. That’s literally the kind of stuff that wakes me up at 5:30 am and keeps me tossing and turning. It’s terrifying. Not to mention the thoughts of rotting away in a nursing home without a spouse or kids or grandkids to even bring me a pack of Werther’s and a word search puzzle. Fuck!

If ever a fable pertained to my life, it’s the tortoise and the hare. While I shrugged off all my friends who got married young and started families, I went merrily along my way, getting useless degrees, taking off time to find myself (i.e. being a lazy shit), having an emotional breakdown over someone who wasn’t worth it, and dating people I knew damn well I couldn’t have a happy future with. The result? Well…nothing. Not a fucking soul on the horizon who’s interested in pursuing a life with me. Ovaries that are in the process of committing hara kari. Aging parents. Friends with lives and families. That old idiom, make hay while the sun shines? Yeah, well. I didn’t. And now I am hay-less, for whatever that means.

What’s so horrible is that I’m not, by my nature, an optimist. So do I spring out of bed in the morning and say, “Today is a new day, and I can change the course of my life! I feel strong and invigorated!” No. I grumble at 8:30 and nearly roll over the cat, as I spend at least 90 seconds hobbling toward the kitchen because I feel like I was kicked by a rabid mule during the night. My first word of morning cheer usually consists of uttering the word “fuck” about something or other, and I’m almost always late to work. (When I started last year I was supposed to get here at 8:30. I now routinely get here between 9:30 and 9:45. Screw it. If I’m staying here til 7 or 8 at night, I ain’t in a big rush to get in.) My days run together: work a little, putz around the internet for most of the day while waiting around on other people, listen to Limbaugh, eat a fattening lunch (that routinely takes an hour and a half) and feel my ass growing numb until it’s finally time to go home, where I fix a drink (or 3), microwave something that’s considered partially edible, corporal cuddle Butters and then fall asleep at 1 am. There is nothing inspiring about my life, except maybe the few hours a week I’ve begun spending with the shelter kittehs. And even that has proven to be depressing as fuck. I am only a euthanized cat or two away from crying my eyes out about it.

Like I said, I’m PMS-y. So my inner-cuntiness is coming out, which should surprise no one. (It took everything I had not to eat one of my co-workers alive today, since he apparently lives to be the biggest, butt-holiest wrench-thrower of all time — and yet, always, ALWAYS, manages to sashay his ass out the door before my team does.)

I will go ahead and attribute my alone-ness to my weight and my weight alone, because admitting it’s anything else (my salty attitude, my penchant for saying too much, my general tendency to be a misanthrope, my inherent laziness, my lack of adventure and obsession with cats) is just too hard. Chalking it up to my gigantic ass and semi-pregnant appearance makes it easier for me to pout in the corner and say, “Well, what a shallow asshole. If that’s all he cares about, who wants him anyway?” When the truth is, for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say that *I* wouldn’t even date me if I were a dude. I’m just…not attractive, and have very little to offer. I might could pull off a few good months (provided I tried really hard) but eventually I’d get all comfortable and let the real me come out, and he’d lose interest.

Once upon a time, there was this guy I really wanted to go out with. Or at least get to know better. A friend of mine recently suggested I put myself on his radar; I declined. If I weighed 130 lbs, I definitely would, and the results could very well be exactly what I’d hoped for in that scenario. But that’s not the reality. And, as Winona and Ethan reminded us in the 90s, reality bites. It’ fucking sad as hell for me to come to the sobering realization that I have pissed away my life and happiness by hating my body, and abusing it endlessly in so many different ways. All that really stands between me and maybe a family someday is weight. That’s it. What a seemingly easy thing to remedy…except it’s not.

Because for me, it’s so intertwined with comfort, rage, rebellion, habit, and numbness. If I take away the thing I self-medicate with (to say nothing of alcohol) then I have to sit in that anxiety and soul-hunger for an untold amount of time…much more than I’m comfortable with, for sure. So much of my life has been uncomfortable – painful, even – that I seek comfort wherever I can get it. It’s a hard thing to release, even for as much as it hurts me.

And for that comfort, I am paying the ultimate price.

My husband will never a hipster be

I’ve been a bit MIA here for a few reasons, none of which I’ll go into because frankly, they’re just not that interesting. I’ve mainly been sitting around, waiting for something to be entertaining enough to write about. Thanks to a Facebook posting of a crunchy liberal friend-of-a-friend, I think I’ve got a topic. More on that shit in a minute.

First, a few things.

My ever-present (apparently treatment resistant) depression aside, I did manage to drag my fat ass out of the apartment last weekend and drive to a county north of The Big City where I spent my Sunday volunteering with a shelter full of kittehs. It was divine. Two were adopted by nice families while I was there, and I got to love on several of them without getting my face scratched off. While part of me will freely admit that I’d rather have slept til 2 that day, eaten a quick lunch and then gone back to sleep until 6 pm (yes, effectively sleeping away an entire day, and virtually assuring myself that I might not fare so badly in prison after all) I feel like I did some good. Of course, I came home and dodged Butters, who wondered where I’d been. I made a beeline for the bathroom, locked myself in and scrubbed down so she wouldn’t know I was unfaithful.

Second, you should visit this blog: Bitches Gotta Eat. (bitchesgottaeat.blogspot.com) I came across it by suggestion and have not been able to stop reading it, nor have I been able to stop dry-wheeze laughing in my office during business hours, either. The woman who writes it is, I strongly suspect, my soul mate. We really should have apartments next to each other, where we could talk about our boyfriend-less lives, discuss our darling cats, say the word “fuck” over and over, lament our horrible online dating experiences and marvel at our deceptively slender ankles.

Her blog? Is offensive as shit. Which is why my tacky ass gravitates toward it. She is truly a national treasure.

Anyway, so today on Facebook (which is how 87% of my stories always start out) a friend-of-a-friend (henceforth known as FOF) posted an article scribed by a writer dude in Chicago detailing the 7 things he finds sexy about women now that he has turned 30. The FOF is what you might call my polar opposite. God made me, and then God made this dude and laughed to Himself about His raw talent for creating two bitches totally different from one another.

FOF is one of those guys who would refer to himself as a feminist. (I have a vagina and wouldn’t refer to myself as a feminist.) Currently, he’s into workshops where guys and girls get together and stare into each other’s eyes for 5 minutes at a time or some such touchy-feely shit. He’s into alpha-guy sports (read: not NFL or NBA, but kayaking and ashtanga yoga), and is probably freakishly regular due to the amount of fiber he takes in from food like kale shakes and conflict-free granola or some such bullshit. He is one crunchy motherfucker. He’s probably saving for a Prius and undoubtedly hates Republicans. See where I’m going with this?

So he posts the article (which can be found here: http://www.chicagonow.com/lists-that-actually-matter/2012/04/7-things-i-find-attractive-in-women-now-that-im-30/) I responded, in no uncertain terms, that he would, essentially, hate my ass. He “liked” that comment.

So here’s the list.

At number 1 on the list of things this hipster shit-stain finds himself drawn to is, “She says no to soda.”

Um. I started drinking Tab when I was 4, motherfucker. Saccharin was one of my main food groups as a kid (which, oddly, would explain a lot, especially that tail-like appendage I’ve been growing since ‘82 ). So, what…you spring a chubby from seeing a chick chugging a mocha fucka soy caramelita crappacino with whipped cream on top? Thanks, Bucky, but if it’s health-conscious (read: thin) chicks that steam your corn then I think the chick sipping a Diet Coke might come out victorious. But not to you, of course. No, no. Guess you’re fully on the Michelle Obama “No! That’s Bad!” junk food train, huh? Congrats, sheep. Why aren’t you just grateful that she’s not sucking down Everclear? I could see where that’d be a turn-off. What about a Capri Sun? That’s not soda…so that’s not gross or off-putting to you? Sunny D? Maybe perhaps you should be more specific. I mean, does your girlfriend just drink watered down green tea and Smart Water? I bet she’s exciting.

(Oh wait. I should say early that this wet fart of a man is admittedly single. I wonder why. Read on.)

#2. She has a library card.

I don’t have one. Haven’t had one since I was about 9 and I would make my mother take me to the children’s section of our local library (then located in a dank, windowless basement of a building downtown) where I’d check out Mr. Men and Little Miss books, because my freakishly developed brain required intellectually stimulating material like that to absorb.

Frankly, if I want a book, I buy a used copy off of Amazon or ebay for $4 or so. I like writing notes in the margins, underlining important passages and maybe even passing the book off to a friend when I’m done. Guess that makes me a dumbass. And, as he asserts, not very community oriented. Considering my local library down the street shares a parking lot with a Condom Sense and a liquor store, I doubt I’m missing much.

#3. Her dog obeys her.

Because, as he explains, a person’s animal is a reflection of themselves.

Hrmmpfh. Gotta be a motherfucking dog, huh? My cat is beautiful, looks great in pink, is obsessed with Hello Kitty, is preternaturally lazy, can be staggeringly funny, looks like a total fat ass and enjoys sleeping 18 hours a day. Yup. Pretty much a perfect reflection of me. Unlike a dog, however, Butters has an agenda all her own, and it doesn’t coincide with me asking her to do something. So if that’s evidence that she’s ill behaved, then so be it. Dude’s probably one of those hot-house lilies who can’t handle cat dander or something, so of course he’s a dog person.

(Actually Butters)

#4. Refrigerator is responsible.

*smacks face* Of course! You’re one of those despicable turds who looks into my grocery cart, then at me, then back at my cart, then back at me so you can squint your disapproval at my 3 cases of Diet 7-Up, cat litter, bottle of ranch dressing and pot of spreadable cheese. I know you. And I hate you. I want to strangle you with your own scarf.

Oddly, my fridge is not that offensive. My freezer would be, if you could tell what was in it, and if you weren’t first distracted by the Hot Pocket that just fell onto and broke your toe. No, the real offender is my pantry. It is literally cram packed with shit. And not necessarily junk food. Just….stuff. Cat food. Plastic straws. Packets to dump on meat in a slow cooker. 6,700 different Keurig pods. A half bag of stale tortilla chips from a year ago. Unopened bottles of salad dressing. Ziploc baggies. Lard. (I meant to make homemade refried beans one time and never got around to it. Don’t you judge me. I guarantee you that shit would come in handy in a zombie apocalypse.) I could see where it could turn off neatniks and perfectionist vegans, for sure. The good news? I don’t like neatniks or perfectionist vegans, so. We are pretty much anathema to each other.

#5. Productive hobby.

Author admits he wanted girls to be into tanning and kick-boxing when he was in college — “anything to make her hotter.” Now he wants her to do something sustainable and exciting and not “shopping or television based.” What about sleeping? I’m really good at that. You’re going to lose a lot of me not being interested in my TV-based hobbies. What about surfing the internet for 16 hours a day? No? I like reading and talking to my cat. Still nothing? Well damn.

#6. Laid back and elegantly simple.

(hangs head) Oh, my, my, my. I mean, I partially consider myself laid back (like when I’m sleeping. I don’t get worked up about shit when I’m snoozing). But then when I was driving to work this morning, and found myself gripping the steering wheel, riding the ass of the Ford S-10 in front of me (who was driving the speed limit in the fast lane during rush hour without a fucking care in the world) and hollering at him to get his “goddamned, shit-ass, mouth-breathing, knee-toucher ass out of my fucking way” I realized that perhaps traveling in a car with me isn’t the most relaxing experience out there.

Elegantly simple? I turned what should have been a separate dining room in my apartment into a makeup room. With…just makeup. Drawers and drawers of makeup. I know men would like to believe that all it takes to have skin that looks like this is a teacup full of products, but those (straight) men are ridiculous for believing such fuckery. Glowy skin like this does not happen on its own. Layers of makeup that don’t look like layers of makeup are totally necessary. Do I look good in broken-in jeans and a t-shirt? Don’t own jeans, so….NO. Every night Paolo asks me what I’m wearing and then quickly answers his own question with, “Let me guess. Elastic-waist shorts. A bra. Cotton undies. A t-shirt.” That is my version of elegantly simple.

#7. Embraces information.

I read FoxNews.com daily, but I bet what this pretentious turd is talking about is someone who scours The New York Times or The HuffPo, and listens intently to NPR. I would listen to NPR, but it would interfere with Rush’s radio program, so.

I occasionally skip over to CNN or PMSNBC to see what they’re barking about, and regardless of my source, I always take what I hear with a grain of salt; otherwise, I would turn into my mother who literally believes anything in writing.

I’m no dummy, but I don’t think he’d get a lot out of arguing the beauty of a flat tax with me.

#8. Your ex-boyfriends are guys I can respect.

Yikey shit. Considering that I *started* this entire blog because my then-ex boyfriend was as horrible as an asshole full of raw shrimp, I think I would probably also fail this category as well. Everyone always asks me why I ever dated Parker, and I never have a good answer. Apparently, this powder puff gets a case of the cold feet if you roll out an undesirable boyfriend, since it causes him to question your, I don’t know, sanity or decision making or some shit. Perhaps he should be more concerned not with girls with crappy boyfriends in her past but ones who are friends with all their exes but also have herpes. Prioritize, my brother.

So that’s that. I’ve yet again been shown how I am –now in many ways! – unattractive to men (albeit emasculated pantywaists I wouldn’t want anyway).

I should just point out that I myself prefer relatively smart men, including ones who can MOTHERFUCKING COUNT. His article is titled, “The 7 things I find attractive in women now that I’m 30” and then goes on to list 8.

He probably went to double-check the list but his hipster beard got in the way and threw off his numbers.

I can haz ass chewing?

When I was in kindergarten at a private school (spent the rest of the years slummin’ it in public schools) the headmaster called my mother for an appointment in his office. He expressed his concern about me – said that I hadn’t been paying attention, I was doodling, and I never wrote my own name on my assignments (true – I usually wrote that my name was Daphne, after the red headed perpetual kidnap victim on Scooby Doo). Gently, he broke it to my mother that I was, in fact, very possibly retarded.

People in Guam could hear my mother scoffing at such an accusation. She told him to test me, and they could discuss the results afterward. When the test results came in, I was promptly moved to the 5^th grade reading class, the headmaster shut his pie hole and my mother threw that bitch a “My daughter probably reads better than you, shitass” shank eye.

But my intelligence, much like my early-in-life propensity for height amongst girls my age, soon began to ebb. When I was young, I apparently had a very high IQ…or so said my mother, who always believed I was off-the-charts smart. (I was not.) When I retested in college (it was part of a test for a learning disability that I apparently have, which is why I was failing Italian miserably) it was like Forrest Gump levels of low. Mother never accepted this, but I believe it. I have a very panicky sensitivity about being perceived as stupid, because there have been so many intervals of my life where I have felt about as intelligent as a box of Jessica Simpson’s hair.

In fifth grade, while part of the gifted & talented program, my math teacher (who was crazier than a shit house rat, but still) told me I had a mental block about math, and that’s why I wasn’t good at it. I was in there with people who would go on to take college level calculus in high school, and I remember feeling lost. Totally at sea. Ditto that a few years later when I had to take geometry in high school. I remember I actually made a 12 on a test one time. Out of 100.  A motherfucking 12.

Fast forward into college, when I flunked out of Latin and damn near Italian. And when I had to take my Physics for Liberal Arts final, I blanked. So, I turned to my creative writing roots and did when I knew best: I wrote the professor a letter, and told him that surely he’d seen me all semester in his class, surely he’d seen me scribbling notes, and surely he knew my artsy ass didn’t understand a damned thing he’d tried to explain. So I just made a list of everything I remembered from that semester, wrote it in a bulleted list and hoped for the best. I passed with a C-.

All of this is to say that today at my job, the universe not only pissed in my cheerios, but decided to go ahead and drop a deuce while it was at it. I won’t bore you with the minutia, but as the writer, I get shit thrown at me all the time. Shit I literally know nothing about – it might as well be written in Sanskrit. And I’m to then tweak and tune it and turn it into something that makes sense to our readers. So I’d gotten all these copy points from the CIO, and I didn’t change too much. A preview of the email went out to everyone, including the CEO. He had a big case of DO NOT LIKE. He then says something caustic to my boss, who then kindly (quite gently, actually) ripped me a new asshole, because apparently, I should have known better. I should have come to him (????) about the story earlier.

My environment can be, oftentimes, incredibly hectic. Lots of the higher ups change their minds, seemingly on a whim sometimes, and last minute changes and story swap-outs and changes to verbiage are made. And a lot of times it can feel really arbitrary, especially when you’re still sitting here at 7:30 at night and someone’s trifling over the fucking shade of red on something.

The thing is, I’ve felt incompetent at every job I’ve ever had. Only when I was freelancing, writing about makeup and fashion, did I feel like I knew what the fuck I was doing. And I truly enjoyed myself. The problem was, I couldn’t make a living at it. When I first moved to The Big City in 2005, I took a job as an administrative assistant with a non-profit group. It was a small office – just 4 of us – but we answered to a very wealthy and influential board of directors. The president of the foundation was, let me see…how to put this…probably the reason the word “cunt” was invented. If this bitch and Charles Manson were dangled over a bridge and I could only choose one to save, I’d actually have to take a few minutes.

She was phony, condescending, neurotic, a micromanager, a perfectionist, totally inappropriate, shrill and mind-blowingly evil. She wanted me gone after a month or so, and even suggested that perhaps I had something “wrong with me” since I couldn’t answer the phone, lick the taints of the board members and catch the extra space between two words in a thank you letter all at the same time. She got HR involved and gave me a scathing review, in a way to get me to quit. At the early advice of a colleague, I had been keeping a file on the old bitch, of all the shitty emails, all the inappropriate comments, all the threats, all the examples of her being Satan’s concubine, and typed up a 9 page rebuttal of my own, complete with written evidence and turned it over to HR. I was then obligated to give her a copy, and I enjoyed watching her sit there agape as she read it, because she didn’t know I had it in me.

She personally hated me, and I fantasized about running her over with my car. After 9 months, a near nervous-breakdown, countless nights of coming home, crying and then drinking until I passed out, I handed that old hag my resignation.

And even though I knew she was, at her heart, just a total cunt, I second-guessed myself after I quit. I wondered, “Was she right about me? Am I incompetent? Am I stupid? Am I careless?”

Even years later, at a long-term freelance job that I was hoping would turn into something permanent, I was hired as a marketing writer at a residential real estate company (I know – I fell asleep just typing that). Perhaps someone had thrown water on my former bitch of a boss and then poof! Like a Gremlin,  Katherine formed – because she was horrible. She made my supervisor – a grown-ass woman – cry her eyes out one day. She was ruthless. (She also admitted to me that she cried when Obama was elected, and I immediately hated her because I just can’t with people like that. The day my ass cries over ANY politician getting elected will be a cold day in hell. It just smacked of phoniness to me.) Anyway, I couldn’t please her either. She knew I knew nothing about real estate (then why did you hire my ass?!) but couldn’t understand that I couldn’t a) read her narrow mind or b) suddenly have knowledge about a market of which I knew NADA. After a month, my services were no longer required. Again, I felt hugely incompetent, and thought back to my previous experience with Eva Braun and wondered if she had a point about my inherent idiocy.

Because the learning curve here at my current job has been so huge, I am just now after a year feeling like I might know what I’m doing, until, of course, I have a day like today where I sat at my desk afterward and fought back tears. I do not handle criticism well at all, especially from a superior, and especially especially from a superior I happen to respect. It feels like a form of rejection to me, and it’s very hard for me not to then take those sentiments and run with them, using them as an excuse to beat myself to pieces.

I know that I don’t catch onto things very easily. I am not a quick study. Oftentimes, I have a hard time understanding the simplest things. My mind wanders. And when I feel overwhelmed, anxiety skyrockets up my asshole and I’m prone to then break down in tears until I work myself into a full-blown panic attack.

Thankfully, I kept my composure today, and realize that my boss being irritated with me was because the CEO had said something irritating to him. It happens. And actually, he was pretty diplomatic about it, but I still felt like a 12 year old getting in trouble from a very disappointed father. (I have huge issues there, since I am tireless in my need to please, entertain and amuse my father.)

But it’s not easy, this “not being the bright one” thing. Especially when you were raised to think you were the second coming of Steven Hawking by a mother who saw nothing but your potential. Having said that, she was also highly critical of me when things didn’t go according to plan, and that was often. She rode my ass like Zorro, and I came to be a very defensive little shit when someone criticizes me. I don’t often respond well – or even maturely – to it.

You know, at the end of the day, two sticks in a bucket: fuck it. I’m sure it happens to everyone. Maybe my sensitivity to it is just heightened because of my background and the fact that I take everything personally and am the equivalent of a human sponge: I soak up everything and hold on to it, good or bad (especially bad).

Everyone just wants to feel like they excel at something, and for as much as I think that writing is my strongest skill (and it is), writing about the dry shit I do as a day job does not fall into that category. And my utter lack of business acumen doesn’t do me any favors, either.

This day has exhausted me mentally. So my of-slightly-less-than-average-intelligence ass is going to kick up my feet, have a few draaaanks, and watch my gay boyfriend Bob Harper hiss at fatties on TV. Tomorrow is, I hope, another day.

I’m Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Few Hundred Guys, Asking Them to Love Her

Something not particularly new or unique occurred to me the other day. In that, it’s one of those thoughts that has tumbled around the gray matter also known as my brain a few times before, but to actually focus on it in a blog post might flesh it out…even to the point where it makes me uncomfortable. And unfortunately, it’s not something incredibly flattering, either, like realizing that you have ridiculously good breath or are the best fucking hopscotcher this side of the Mississippi.

No, what I realized is that all of my life, I have been chasing one thing: love. See? Not a terribly original realization, and certainly not one that’s not been had by a frajillion other people since the beginning of time. Still, it’s like having a disease that has existed for thousands of years, afflicted many and yet there’s really no good cure.

If I’m going to get specific about it, I’ll say that I am chasing love of the romantic variety. Sure, I could have (and still could) used more acceptance, understanding and unconditional love from my family. But I know that with them, at the end of the day, they’re pretty crazy about me in their own WASPy, side-hugging kind of way. Nay, the love I chase is strictly the romantic kind.

The horrible part is, it started when I was very young. Like maybe 4 or so. (Any moms reading this blog, remember that when you’re looking at your toddler. Remember that in a few years, they could start developing patterns that will last a lifetime and it’s your job to see it. I say that since I doubt my own mother would be able to identify this glitch in me.)

I distinctly remember always “liking” someone. I always had crushes, I was always the secret admirer. It was probably around the age of 5 or 6 that I wrote my first love letter that I can remember, to my first grade teacher’s son, a blonde rascal who clearly thought that girls still had cooties and couldn’t have cared less about me. Still, it didn’t stunt my gall to churn out my feelings with a crayon and a Big Chief tablet and hand it to my teacher with a straight face and ask if she’d deliver it to her boy.

Embarrassingly, I never stopped with the love letter writing. I bet there are literally 100 people located all over the world (I get to say that because of a torrid kissing affair I had in high school with a Hungarian exchange student) who have some form of love letter from me. In fact, I’m notorious for them. It’s kind of a running joke with my close friends that I am an unabashed love letter writer. Creatively speaking, this should surprise no one, but these letters never had anything to do with expressing my creativity. They most certainly had everything to do with me trying to find someone, even at a very young age, who would love me forever. I wrote those letters because I desperately wanted one in return.

Saying that, I must also add that I desired that love because, also at a young age, I felt overwhelmingly flawed and, I suspect, unlovable. To have been looking for the same thing for damn near your whole life and failing to find a lasting version is beyond discouraging. As I grow older, and my prospects of having my own family dim considerably with each passing day, it gets close to being very, very depressing as fuck.

I would say that my quest for love (and ratcheting up of the love letter penning) really came to fruition in junior high and then, of course, moved on to high school where it hit a fever pitch. I can distinctly remember having long, unrequited crushes on almost every boy in my school. Three-ring binders from this era reiterate the point: how many times can you scratch through someone’s initials on something?

Most of the time, my advances were for naught. While I felt like a bloated rhinoceros most of the time back then, I was actually pretty cute. (I still feel like said bloated rhinoceros but for good reason.) Still, I was obsessive, prone to off-putting bouts of unprovoked jealousy and, at my heart, was a total drama queen with a romantic edge. It didn’t make for a good combination. Still, I think back to that young version of myself with a mix of wistfulness, sadness and sobering truth.

Despite my annoying and forceful proclamations to damn near every boy in my school, I still maintained to be generally well-liked, if not just harmless. Usually, the speed with which I knowingly decided to like a boy and subsequently gave up on his narrow ass was freakishly fast. After all, there were other fish in the sea.

We’re talking a dogged pursuit here, people. Thinking about it in a cumulative way makes me wince, even now.  What’s striking, though, is that I needed it at such a young age. And I can assure you, when I was 13 and in the throes of undying love with Stan (who captivated me from 6^th – 12^th grade), I would have sworn that the 35 year old me would be happily married by now, all problems and glitches resolved.

I need to be loved more than almost anyone I know. And yet, it escapes me. Sure, Paolo tells me he loves me, and I believe he does, but it’s not in the way that I need. It’s a love that will fade one day into maybe a fond memory, but I can’t imagine it’s forever.

What’s tricky about this is that for as much as I want to be loved, I also do things to keep people at bay. I can’t help but to think that my weight is a great example of this. Certainly, it’s repellant to most men and has been since I was young. Back then, even being 15 pounds heavier than your counterparts was a dating death sentence. It’s something I feel like I’ve been judged on my whole life. I am almost certain that if I weighed 130 lbs, I would have the one thing that has managed to elude me all of my adult life: a loving family. It’s a grim reality, and frankly, I’d rather stick my head up my own asshole than do something about it.

And considering how being “not loved” has affected me, I’m not sure if I’m even a viable partner for anyone anymore. Part of that is because my life is a mess: I’m fat, I’m chronically depressed, I am inherently lazy and can barely look after myself. The other part is purely, internally emotional. And as I get older, I have begun to steel myself much better against rejection, to the point where with Paolo, I do love him, yes, but after a certain point I could give a fuck less. It’s the same reason I didn’t crumble to bits when Brodkey and I split. After two breakups/breakdowns in a row, I decided that I wanted to be able to walk away if I had to, and stay upright. With that comes an accompanying barrier that’s hard to get through. Slowly, I am trying to acclimate to the frightening speed with which my life is barreling toward a big pile of DO NOT WANT.

So the girl whose only real desire (past wishing all of my 3^rd grade year for a magic mirror – blame Disney) was to be loved has what…quit? Given up? Possibly yes. As I told my bestie last night, not everyone is guaranteed love, family, kids or happiness. There’s a reason the word “spinster” exists. I am literally terrified that I will spend my golden years in a state-run nursing home where I sit in the corner and drool while the shifty orderlies steal change from my purse and no one comes to see me because my parents are dead and my friends are busy with families of their own. Sounds dire, and a bit dramatic, but I have this deep dread that it could be my reality. (I hope the world ends before then. I really do.)

The girl who once so believed in real, true love that lasts forever, who has amazing parents who are still crazy about each other after 42 years, has hardened like amber into this grumpy shut-in who couldn’t be more apathetic if she tried. It’s not what I pictured for myself. Not at all.

Sexy times, zombies, hairless things and bad dreams. Just a day in the life.

Well, I certainly got my battery recharged this weekend. Yes, Paolo came to see me Friday night. I was feeling like I’d just been kicked by a donkey, and almost told him I’d take a rain check, but I hadn’t seen him in about a month, so I said, “Sure. Come on down.”

(You’re the next contest on The Vagina is Right!)

It was delish. I really try to relish every little second with him because I almost know that as it’s happening, it’s going to be maybe the last time I ever experience it. I’ve only had physical chemistry like that with one other person, so I’ll get while the gettin’s good, thankyouverymuch.

We didn’t do much – I had on shorts, a t-shirt, flip flops and my hair in a ponytail. And my glasses on. I was beyond giving a fuck.

(I really am the human Cathy.)

My upper back/shoulder blade area was killing me (he massaged what he said was a sizeable knot out of it) and I’d had a long week.  But we sat on the couch, made out like crazy which is so, so, so underrated, especially when you have someone who’s as good a kisser as he is. *fans self* Then we watched 30 Rock, laughed, ordered in PF Changs and then…um…did sexy time stuff. It was divine. As one friend of mine put it, “Sounds like a perfect night for a 30-something woman!”

Let’s see…what else did I manage to do this weekend? I got my geek on by watching some of Ken Burns’ documentary about the Civil War. I got to 1862 before I had to switch it off and watch Too Cute on Animal Planet. There was actually a cat featured named Butters! Brodkey was the one who alerted me to it. He had seen TV Butters (read: he had also been home on Saturday night watching Animal Planet) and knew that he rightfully had to inform me. (It was part of our contract when we broke up.)

(If Butters were albino.)

Speaking of whom, I had a horrible dream about Brodkey this weekend. He was marrying a girlfriend of mine, and naturally, I had been asked to be a bridesmaid. I had already assured everyone that the situation was totally copacetic with me, but when we walked into the church I started to panic. He looked so happy at the altar and she looked lovely and I just broke down. I kept thinking, in my dream, that it should have been me up there, not her. I actually woke up in tears, which is a rarity for me. Like, that probably hasn’t happened in over a year.

You know, for once, I’d like to have a dream that’s not fraught with a bunch of worrisome shit. You know? Just some peaceful, fluffy images of kittens and such. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve been ass-deep in The Walking Dead this season, which has managed to scare the bejeesus out of me. I can’t even sleep with my back to the door for fear I’ll hear that signature snarling they all do and turn around to see a half-rotted gay neighbor of mine, hovering over me, ABOUT TO EAT MY FACE OFF.

Of course, if I’m going to get eaten by a zombie, I’d prefer he be a gay zombie. That makes a horrific situation just a little more palatable, if you will. I then spent an inordinate amount of time wondering what would happen in a zombie apocalypse (I wouldn’t last 3 foggy mornings), especially to Butters. I can’t come up with a good ending for either of us.

( Also see this post about Kitten surviving a zombie apocalypse, which is most fitting, since it apparently features Butters’ brother from another mother)

As for the rest of my life, work is neither here nor there. It’s predictably and depressingly warmer in Texas than everywhere else in the United States, and like my elementary and high schools of yore, the powers that be don’t even think about turning on the A/C until May. So it’s hotter than Satan’s jock strap up in my office. My skin just sticks to my desk. You know how some people have seasonal affective disorder in the winter? I’m the opposite. Nothing makes me crankier than a bright sunny day when it’s 86 degrees outside. I like it gray, overcast, high 40s and the smell of leaves burning in the air. Which, in Texas, is about  six days out of the year. I really should live in Northern Canada or San Francisco or something.

Speaking of which, I still manage to be fat as mud, despite feeling like I don’t eat very much. I need a haircut. I need to re-color my hair. I don’t think I’ve shaved my legs in over a month. (But before you wrinkle your nose at that, JUDGEY, it’s a funny thing: it’s like I don’t have leg hair. I also have hardly any arm hair. I can not shave my legs for a month and not only does the hair that DOES come back stay blonde and invisible, my legs still feel smooth. Ask Paolo. This freakish phenomenon of mine only extends to my arms and legs, since yes, I still pluck my eyebrows and occasionally recoil at what I perceive as a little mustache on my upper lip. Anyway, I guess I get it from my paternal grandmother, who was also mostly hairless. I don’t think she ever even shaved her legs, not once.)

One of my besties is coming to see me at the end of the month, and I’m actually using a vacation day to have a long weekend with her. She’s the only person I can be seated next to in a communal bathroom (read: college) and still do my business. We’re *that* close. I was supposed to go to DC later this month to see said Bestie and several other really good college friends, but for several reasons, I couldn’t go. So she’s coming to see me afterward during her spring break.

Let’s see…what else. My upstairs neighbors (straight couple, natch) fight like crazy. They both *scream* at each other and occasionally, things are thrown. Seriously, it’s like someone unleashed Louis Farrakhan and Rush Limbaugh in a room together. Thing is, I can’t tell exactly where they are upstairs. I don’t want to call the po-po on them and get the compulsive vacuumer hauled off instead (since I doubt the two are one in the same). Can you imagine just having knock-down drag-outs like that…and continuing to live together? But hey! That girl? She’s got a boyfriend/husband! That automatically makes her happy, right? Yeah, mmmkay. I just look contentedly over at Butters and turn up my Paula Deen show on Food Network a little louder to drown them out. (By the way, that butter-obsessed bitch made a Croque Madam last night…buttered grilled bread with ham, cheese, homemade mayonnaise and a damn FRIED EGG on top. I almost came.)

Well, you’re all caught up now. No more exciting things to report. I will go home and draw the curtains to put a damper on that blasted sunlight that streams through my windows til damn near 9 o’clock now. (I am light averse, BTW. Everyone at work makes fun of me because I never turn on my overhead office light. I sit in darkness (blinds drawn, natch) with only a lamp on. My mother has referred to me as the human mole before because of my love of darkened places. Go figure.

Que sera sera

Another ex of mine, Charlie, got married last weekend, and naturally, I got my Spanx in a wad about it. It didn’t make me sad, per se, because we’re friends and I’m truly happy for him. It just made me…nostalgic. And before you ask, no: he wasn’t the one who got away. But he was a great boyfriend for three and a half years. He was a significant reason I made it through grad school without becoming a crazy person. He was very thoughtful, affable, likeable, sweet natured, a good sport. I loved him. I just wasn’t ever IN love with him.

And of course, I know now why: we never would’ve worked. He was very young when we started dating – 19 – and although mature, he wasn’t quite sure who he was yet. And I wasn’t too sure what I wanted yet: Charlie was my “Wait, no I don’t” phase of “I want marry a man exactly like my father.” He was into music and art and weed and, although I didn’t know it at the time, a budding hipster (he has since fully bloomed, which is yet another reason we wouldn’t have worked out. I can’t with hipsters).

So I stared at the picture of Charlie with his new wife and thought, “Okay. They make sense. They fit.” I’m more than a little envious – with each passing day I feel like I am falling further and further away from finding a life partner and realizing that my life partner may, in fact, end up being a hoard of cats.

(Not one of you bitches had better get me this for my birthday.)

Charlie and I parted amicably, of course. We both knew it was time. We awkwardly ate a hamburger that last day, and I kept wondering if this was the last time I’d ever see him. After all, I was moving back to Texas and he was finishing up college in Boston, followed by a move to Philadelphia. (Turns out no — I was in Boston in 2007, and he had moved back there, so we met up and spent a few hours together. Since he now lives in Europe, NOW I doubt I’ll see him again.)

My mom was in town to help me move, and I had told Charlie, “Listen. She’s going to bitch about how much stuff I have, and I want you to say nothing. Sucking up to her now does no good, and it pokes the bear.” (I am the bear.) And don’t you know, as we all sat on the patio of my mother’s hotel room, overlooking the quaint New England downtown, she predictably launched into a tirade about how exhausting it was to pack up all of my things. We both looked at Charlie for a response, and he ducked his head a little and said, “Well, you do have a lot of stuff.” If there was a grain of doubt in my mind as to whether or not I was doing the right thing by breaking it off, I knew then I was right. If we’re together, you do not get to team up with my family against me. My parents use it as evidence of what a wuss the guy is, and it gets the dude in deep doo-doo with me.

Still, it smacks a little when an ex (especially a nice one) gets married and/or has a kid. Especially one you spent that much time with. Even though I’m totally okay with the outcome, there’s still a big “YOU WEREN’T THE ONE FOR HIM” sign flashing in my head. And, as it turns out, I haven’t been “the one” for anyone.

What’ll really blow is when Brodkey hooks up with a new chick. Because I said, after we broke up, that he would end up marrying the next girl he was in a serious relationship with, and I hold true to that still. And Brodkey had so much promise. So smart, so funny, so pleasant to be around. Of course, there was an element missing, and as much I as I thought he was The One, we couldn’t have worked either. We’d make great roommates though. But yes, when I see his relationship status change one day (and it will) I know my heart will sink a little.

There was so much goodness there, and for the right girl, I suspect he’ll be the perfect match. Oh look, someone turned on the “YOU WEREN’T THE ONE FOR HIM” sign again. That fucker is bright.

The older I get, the more content I know I’ll be with just simple happiness. When Charlie and I were together, I bought him clothes because I wanted him to look preppy, which probably totally insulted his inner hipster. I made him promise me he wouldn’t vote for Al Gore in 2000. (I so know he totally did anyway.)

I truly attempted to mold him into who I wanted and needed him to be. I think some women, if they snag their men young enough, can actually semi-succeed in this task. I’m well past it now. I’ve quit trying to change who I’m with because for me, it’s always proven to be a useless exercise that results in frustration and resentment. So finally, around the age of 32 – my Brodkey era – I quit. Because whomever I end up with will be firmly ensconced in their own personality, as am I. I mean, good luck coaxing me out of my inherent laziness.

You know, I would love to come home to a cute little cottage-y house and see my huge bear of a former Marine husband cooking something in the kitchen.  He’s funny, he kisses Butters’ head while he gives her an asthma treatment, he’s a Libertarian and he likes a girl with a big fat ass. Maybe even throw a kid into the mix. That would make me happy.

Until then, I’ll have to learn how to be happy myself. By myself.

It’s official: I sleep more than your average housecat

If I had bigger balls, I’d bring a pillow and a binky to work and sleep during my lunch hour. My ass has been exhausted lately. Not just physically tired – lay down on cold wet concrete and fall asleep tired. I came home Friday night and by 6:30 p.m. I was in the land of Nod. Right now, all I want to do is get home so I can sleep from 6:30 – 8:30 and then get up and have dinner and marvel at the meth heads on Intervention while I sip a cocktail.

(I’d be remiss if I mentioned Intervention and didn’t post this gem:)

I just feel fizzled lately. Everything’s fizzling. My practically non-existent energy level has left the building. My ability to give much of a fuck about anything has also gone bye-bye. To say I am feeling anti-social is an understatement. I had to make myself go to the grocery store on Sunday. (The thought of suffering a whole week without my organic 1% milk was my motivator.) And even Paolo and I are fizzling. Yes, you read that right.

Now that he’s working (sometimes 12, 13 hours a day) I just assume that I won’t see him. Even on the weekends, when he doesn’t work, BabyMama usually does. Or wants to go out. So he’s on Daddy duty. I mean, it’s probably been over a month. And I haven’t gotten my shit hot about it. Don’t get me wrong; it’d be nice to see him. But I’m just as happy sitting in my shorts and t-shirt with no make-up and watching reruns of SVU while corporal cuddling Butters. It feels like we’re sort of fading. And that’s okay. Maybe it’s normal.

I’m shocked by how little of a shit I give about things anymore. And yet, I’ll wake up at 3 a.m. and stay awake for an hour (against my will) fretting over shit in my head. It’s like I can’t turn off my brain. Then I drift back off until 6 a.m. or so. Same thing. And then when my alarm goes off at 8:20, I feel like a band of dudes sneaked into my apartment and flogged me, soap-in-a-sock style, a la Full Metal Jacket. I often awake feeling like I haven’t slept at all.

A co-worker just claims he was diagnosed with adrenal failure after taking some 30 minute test where he blew into a tube or something. I’ve looked it up online and the Mayo Clinic sort of pooh-poohs the entire idea of it, but I thought I’d throw it out there to see if any of you knew anything about it or had any opinions. I’ve long thought I had fibromyalgia, but one doctor I went to told me I didn’t (because I tested negative for any/all autoimmune disorders, of which fibromyalgia is one), so I had no choice but to believe her. Still, I’ve heard that’s a tricky thing to diagnose, and that some people wind up seeing 10 different doctors until they’re properly diagnosed and treated.

My new shrink, Benji, has even talked about putting me on Adderall. Fun! Now Lindsey Lohan and I can hang out. Maybe Demi and I can sneak into frat parties and do whip-its together! *sigh* I’ve actually been on Adderall before – my Russian shrink from many moons ago who was convinced I had ADD gave me a boatload of it. Trouble was, he decided that was the most important thing to treat – not my depression or anxiety. You can’t give Adderall to someone who is depressed with a tendency toward anxiety if they’re not being treated for it. But he did. And I was a basket case. Didn’t like it much at all, though taking it now might yield a different result.

The thing is, I don’t feel motivated to do anything. My fucking Christmas tree is *still* up. Dishes sat in my sink for 9 days before I washed them. I ate off a serving platter last night because all my plates were in the dishwasher. This is not normal. This is not human. Being this tired, this exhausted, this sleepy, this unmotivated. Because I don’t want to be this way. If I had a little more energy, and needed less sleep, maybe I’d get out more. Maybe I’d get bursts of wind and swirl around and get shit accomplished. I am so, so envious of my friends who, like, hike and chase after toddlers and run half marathons and have clean homes. I have no one to look out after except myself, and even that seems to be over my head. So lazy.

Part of me thinks my weight is a culprit, and I agree – it’s not helping. But I’ve been 40, 50, 80 lbs thinner and had similar maladies and complaints. I’m back on my thyroid and anti-depressants (for the most part) so I should expect to be feeling better on that front.

I honestly think I am on God’s timing here, because I would be a horrible mother right now if I had children. I wouldn’t want to do anything with them, or play games or cook them meals. I would stick them in a playpen while I napped. I’d skip bath time and put them to bed dirty with snot caked on their nose and a diaper full of piss. See?! Wretched.

Paging Bob Harper

I wish I had something salacious to write about, but my life’s been quite boring lately.  I’ve been busier than a one-armed whore with crabs at work lately, slinking in to my apartment past 7 p.m. Doesn’t sound bad, except for my ass gets tired at 10:30 so there’s not a lot of “me” time. (A testament to this fact: my Christmas tree is still up. And I light up that bitch every night because by God, I am festive.)

I haven’t seen Paolo in a few weeks – nothing unusual there. He landed himself a full-time 8-5 job, so I’m happy for him on that front. Although BabyMama threw him out, he hasn’t really seemed to have left her place. So there’s that. Of course, I’m not feeling very fuckable lately anyway. Despite his persistence that I am sexy and his constant pleas for nude photos (I don’t. Bitches please.) I am not feeling ze sexy.

I’m sort of at that tipping point, where I know I have to quit fucking around and DO SOMETHING about the things that are making me unhappy in life. My lazy gene kicks in and whines something about how it’d just be easier to lounge around on the couch and snack on fried beige things, but that voice can only dominate for so long. Benji, the new shrink, has ordered a battery of tests (bloodwork) for me and I am not looking forward to getting that done, because I know the numbers won’t be glowing. When not to test someone’s cholesterol? When they’ve been on a shrimp-eating spree for the past month. (Really been craving skrimp (shout out to my N’awlins people), crab and fish lately. And milk. Always milk. If shit is creamy it’s going down the hatch. I’m beginning to wonder if I have a food allergy.)

(Watch it. It’s a great way to spend 12 seconds.)

I’ve got to ascertain how much fight I have in me. (Is there a pill I can take to increase my fight?)

Because, ladies and gents, a fight it will be. A fight against comfort and soothing. A fight against instant gratification. A fight against the status quo. A fight to be satisfied eating a motherfucking apple for a snack and resisting the urge to run down to Ravi’s deli downstairs for a delicious Twix.

I’ve realized about myself that I must be soothed at all times. I am stress-averse and when I feel even the slightest hint of anxiety, I look to quell it however I can: fried beige things, alcohol, cutting, shopping, sleep, procrastinating, whatever. This makes sense and coincides with when I first started gaining weight – around 8 years old. I remember having anxiety attacks at a very, very young age and of course, I had no way to articulate how I was feeling or even if I did, getting someone to believe and treat me would have been next to impossible. So I grabbed what was available to me: food. When you’re an addict (and I believe I am, inherently – it’s why I’ve never done drugs, because I would be that wasted ho who clubbed her one-legged diabetic grandmother over the head for her last dollar) you will use whatever you can to tamp down that anxiety that bubbles up. If I like something, I can’t get enough of it. And only once can I think of something that I was addicted to that I gave up and haven’t picked back up, and that’s smoking. Go figure.

Thankfully, I’m back on my meds, and slowly they’ll work their way into my system and my ass will calm down a bit. I’ve never been one of those assholes who feels like her creativity or personality is hindered by anti-depressants. Quite the opposite. Still, even with all my meds, I don’t feel as focused or motivated as I’d like. I’m curious as fuck about where those qualities from from – I mean, for real. What’s the difference – mentally – between my “I don’t give a monkey shit” attitude about pretty much everything, and someone like my attorney friend with four young chirrun who manages to run like 7 miles a day? I’m convinced that the answers to almost every ailment are brain related. (Okay not really. But a lot of shit is.) I just wonder why mine’s so goddamned lazy. My brain is the equivalent of a 23 lb housecat.

Advice assholes always will tell you to start out small. So today, I did. Instead of ordering my crab wontons from PeiWei (oh, how I love thee, with the creamy fried goodness) I Jareded on over to Subway. Now, did I get double turkey and put cheese and mayo on it? Yes, yes I did. But at least it wasn’t fried. And I’ve been drinking more water at work (drinking it ice cold out of a wide-mouthed aluminum container is appealing to me for some reason) and less soda. So. Trying to start an exercise and diet on the same day is NOT going to work for me (unless Bob Harper’s standing over my ass hollering about how he’s going to work me until I puke or die) so making small changes will have to do.

Eventually I will have to find a program that suits me and my body type (sinking feeling this is either Atkins or Paleo) and stick with it. I will have to lay off drinking as much as I do – both milk (I go through a gallon and a half of organic 1% milk a week) and alcohol, since they both have calories. And when I lose a little and feel more comfortable and confident, I can go back upstairs to the gym at my apartment and try to not make eye contact with the super-fit gays and the toothy, overzealous trainer who looks at me like a dog looks at a pork chop every time he sees me. I just know he wants to Bob Harper the fuck out of me, and it’s not happening. (Oddly, not comfortable with male trainers (unless it’s, you know, actually Bob Harper). Would rather a female talk to me about strengthening my core, whatever in the hell that means. Ditto with vaginacologists, but that goes without saying. Male gynos? That’s like me being a penis doctor or something. At some point, it’s about relatability.)

I have farted around for years, appeasing myself at every turn. I have petted and consoled myself, and more often than not, taken the easy road. But I know, deep down in the bottom of my ass, I am going to have to change if I want to live a certain kind of life. You know, the kind where you don’t die completely alone, and lie in your house to rot for months because no one misses you, to be eventually consumed by the 27 animals you have living with you, and only for a police officer to find your vibrators and weird fetish porn. Because that’s where my life is headed, no joke. (And no, I am not telling you my fetish.) I can’t attract a relationship-oriented partner looking like I do, I don’t think. I mean, I’ve tried, on the Fatty Seeks Fatty websites. All I got were guys who looked like a tick about to pop and were in Seattle and wanted to know more about me. So whether I say it’s for my health or so I live the life I want, I have to lose the chunk.

Will I always hate the whores who are natural athletes and love working out? Yes. Will I always long to be a person who has a normal relationship with addictive shit? Yes. I will mourn every fried beige thing I have to turn down. Because it’s time to just feel it – feel the anxiety, go through it, and not self-soothe.

Or I could just get a refill on my Xanax.

Nope. This is not happening.

Today has been one of those frustrating-ass days when literally all I have done at work is fart around online. Oh, and take an hour and a half long lunch to nosh on crab wontons and watch episodes of Addicted (like Intervention but without the joys of having Jeff Van Vonderen say the same thing to every meth head he counsels)

on Netflix in my office. I say it’s frustrating because sometimes I prefer to be busy. Surfing the internet for 8 hours can be boring, especially when sites you’d normally look at (insert your own private thought here) are blocked at work. There is only so much gossip about what 26 year old Demi Moore has in her bony-ass claw that I can handle in a 24 hour period. (Girl, you are now freed from the world’s biggest douchebag manchild. Flourish. Go find someone with chest hair. I spoke to Bruce Willis and he concurs.)

(Tom Selleck and his hairy chest: always, forever. And he’s a Republican. SWOON.)

So I’m vainly staring at myself in the bathroom mirror at work the other day when I noticed something. (And no, I didn’t go to the bathroom just to stare at myself. I actually had bidness to attend to.) I peered back at my reflection and leaned forward. No, I thought. Surely not. I went over to the full-length mirror and got eyeball to eyeball with my own reflection. And there it was, straggling up toward the light. Wiry. Belligerent in its marked difference. A wayward soul.

A motherfucking gray hair.

Oh hell no, I said out loud to no one. I almost ripped myself bald trying to pluck it out, which I did. Also, because it’s my nature to be both sentimental and weird, I saved it. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and brought it back to my office. I was still in disbelief.

Maybe it’s blonde, I figured. Maybe it’s a strand I missed the last time I colored my hair. I laid the hair on a black surface and stared at the truth. Gray as gray can be. My very first. I texted Paolo. To which he replied, “Shish. Shush.” I left the hair in a special spot on my desk, where it still sits. (A testament to the cleaning crew no doubt.)

I know plenty of people who went gray at early ages, and most of them wear it well. Especially the dudes. They get all Clooney and shit with age. Women? Well, put it to you this way: I feel more like Kathy Bates than Diane Keaton. I do not feel regal. Guys on dating websites don’t want to bang the fat, gray haired chick.

 (While I think Paula Deen is very attractive for someone her age, it’s entirely too soon for me to embrace my inner memaw.)

Which is why my ass is going to CVS post haste to get my Perfect 10 haircolor. Gray? I’ll be goddamned. I saw a picture of a 91 year old women today who is a full-out ginger, and that’s the kind of bitch I want to be. Faking it until my dying day. I started using Sun-In back in the 80s and haven’t seen my natural haircolor sense. And now ain’t a time to start.

Still, it’s not like I’ll have that preserved look about me. You know the look I’m talking about. Those women who fight age until their knuckles bleed. The ones who are pinched, plucked, sucked and pulled tighter than a drum (Adrienne from Real Housewhores of Beverly Hills, I am looking at you).

I mean, it’s not like I have a lot to preserve, for one thing. It’s not like I can exactly recall a time when I’d like to press pause and freeze that version of me because I’ve always been dissatisfied. (Correction: I’ll take early spring, 2005. I looked pretty good then. Not perfect, not ideal, but good.)

I always assumed aging wouldn’t happen to me, mainly because I feel eternally 15.  There’s a large part of me that has Peter Pan syndrome out the ass. I’m just in denial that it could ever happen to me. I’ll lose my hearing, get diabetes, and break a hip all while wondering how that can happen to someone my age. I think I would feel more my age if I had a mortgage, a spouse and kids to be responsible for, too. I think that’s part of it. My thought is, I shouldn’t be allowed to get a stray gray until I’ve actually lived a little. I shouldn’t be able to get old until I am old, dammit.