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Saturday, August 24, 2013

Procrazyation

So (pause for dramatic effect), I got me one of them boyfriends.  Yep, that's right.  Hell froze over.

And this boyfriend of mine...he wants to have those baby things one day.  Babies. Offspring.  Mini-humans.  Leave it to me.  I finally find the man of my dreams* and he wants to reproduce.  One day.  Not right now, obviously.**

We're in our mid 30's (he's 2 years younger than me so he's actually still considered early 30's.  The dick.) so we don't hesitate to talk about the "serious" stuff like marriage and kids.  So, yesterday, I asked him, "What's your timeline for the having of the kids?" He said five years.  Phew!  I was thinking five years, too.  I'm in no rush.  I know some people I can talk to about the condition of my eggs.  I mean, I should probably find out if they're over easy or hard boiled or whatever.

I told him I was glad he said five years because I'm still very scared and nervous when it comes to the idea of having kids.  It was a lot easier when I just wasn't going to have them.  He's such a dear, he asked me what my fears were.

Really?  Okay, (deep breath) here's what goes through my head when I think about having a kid:

Being pregnant is cool because you get a lot of attention.  But then every mom you know is a fucking genius and knows exactly what you need and doesn't get you anything you registered for because none of that worked for their perfect little snot dispenser.

Then you have the baby and there's a nursery to decorate and a cute little doll to dress up.  But you have to make sure that cute little doll doesn't die because it's not a doll, it's a mini-human.

And then the mini-human starts growing up and you have to make sure it goes to a really good school so it gets a great education and becomes a functioning member of society - and hopefully doesn't get beaten to death or bullied by all the other little assholes it's going to school with (and don't get me started on the asshole parents of those asshole kids). And it'll have friends that are idiots and try to get them to do stupid shit.  Or, what if my kid is the asshole that's bullying or trying to get other kids to do stupid shit?

And it's gonna want to drink and do drugs and have sex and I'm gonna be like, slow down slut, you're 12 [whether it's a boy or a girl]!  And it's gonna be like, you don't understand me at all, you have no idea what this is like, I hate you!  And I'm gonna want to say, fuck you, you little shit, I do too understand and I know exactly what it's like, but I saved my sluttiness for after my divorce!  But I can't say that because it'll be like, what? you were divorced? You were married before Dad? My whole life is a lie! And then I'll have to explain a whole shit load of shit it won't understand because it's 12!

Now, in my crazy head, that's just the "normal" stuff.  There's a whole other can of crazy worms to open.  What if I hate it?  What if I think it's annoying and/or stupid?  What if I look at it as the thing that ruined my life?  Or worse...my boyfriend is quite a creative gem*** so there' s no way the two of us aren't gonna make some dancing/singing/acting triple threat mother fucker of a kid...what if I'm jealous of it?

And this is just scratching the surface.

I told him all of these things.  For real.  And then asked if he still loved me.  He said he did still love me.  And he didn't brush me off with the typical, "Yeah, but it's so rewarding and we'll have little slaves to take care of us when we're old" bullshit.  Instead, he put together a bunch of rational sentences pertaining to his understanding of my fears and why they are valid.  Thank God one of us is a grown up.  Or we'd be in big trouble.  I mean, I'm afraid of unborn mini-humans, for crying out loud.



*I should probably write about him at some point.  It's just that, as it was in high school, it's hard to write about happy stuff!  I'll work on it, though.  Promise.

**Well, not obviously to you because you didn't know I had a boyfriend...and that we've only known each other for two months.

***I found my half gay man!

Monday, May 6, 2013

The incredible shrinking woman

As of a few days ago, I have officially lost 60 pounds.

I asked my mom to make a before and after picture for me like on The Biggest Loser.  The after picture is actually at around 55lbs lost, but I looked thinner in the picture than I was at the time so I figure it all evens out.

The before picture was taken on Easter in 2008.  About 6 months after that I started losing the weight.  A year later I was 45lbs down.  Then I paused and maintained for a few years.  Then I yo-yo'd within a 5-8lb range for a about a year until I started taking dance classes.  I re-lost five and lost another five.  Then I yo-yo'd again, within another 5lb range, until last year when I did the dumb detox.  Then, you guessed it, I've been yo-yoing again.  But, I finally broke the barrier and reached my 60lb goal.  Only 17 more to go to my pre-wedding weight!


Yes, those are both me.  And no, despite what some of my coworkers said, the fat one is not an app.  My favorite response to these pictures was from a coworker who said, "That one on the left, that's a lotta meat on that one.  Prime Rib."

I'd like to think I'm still a prime rib.  Just a leaner one.


Saturday, May 4, 2013

The after party

Well, I was right that there was no fan.  There were a few fabulous people and a lot of wannabe fabulous people.  And a lot of very short people.

At the beginning of the night my friend and I were sitting on a fancy sofa talking and this guy walked up and took our picture.  He must've though we were models.  He was from China, they have excellent taste there.

One of my favorite parts of the night was pointing out the actual models.  It was like being a kid on a road trip and trying to find the most Volkswagen bugs.  Except, instead of cars, it was ridiculously skinny women with painted faces and weird hair that either looked like it had been through a wind tunnel and sprayed in place or wrapped around a Ho Ho on top of their heads and sprayed in place.

We spent the majority of the night on the dance floor, though.  There were photographers all over and a few of them danced with us, but they took pictures of the women all around us.  I said to my friend, "They all want to dance with us, but no one wants to take our picture.  I guess they can tell we're not models!"  She said, "We must look like the escorts!"  Fine with me.  Escorts get to eat.

At one point, some dum-dum grabbed our hands and started dancing us around.  My friend was able to escape his grip and go talk to this cute guy who I thought was gay but turned out to be German (the whole European thing threw off my gaydar), so I was stuck with Grippy McBreak My Hands.  I had to keep saying, "Please don't hold my fingers so tight!" and, "You are going to break my fingers!" and, "When you dance with a lady, you need to loosen your grip on her hand!  You are squeezing the fuck out of my fingers!"  Finally, I took a few of his fingers in my hand and squeezed the shit out them to show him how it felt.  I said, "That's what you're doing to my fingers!  You need to hold a lady's hand like you would hold a piece of fruit.  Be gentle or you'll crush it!" He started to mumble something about making excuses, but was interrupted by a phone call so I took my chance to escape.


So, to sum up my first fashion event after party, I didn't have gorgeous, straight men vying for my attention, but I also didn't bump into anything or trip over my own feet.  I'm counting that as a win!

Friday, May 3, 2013

Are you one of the models?

I'm going to an after party for a fashion event thing in the city tonight.  I've never been to something like this so my imagination is running wild.

I'm not sure what's really going to happen or who's really going to be there, but in my head it's going to be like a scene out of Entourage full of models and fabulous people.  And in my head, I'll walk in in slow motion with a fan blowing my hair.  And in my head, people will come up to me and be like, "Are you one of the models?" and, "That dress is fierce!"  And I'll be like, "Me?  A model?  Oh, stop it!  Go on." and "This old thing?  I only wear this when I don't care what I look like."

And in my head there will be gorgeous straight men all over the place vying for my attention and looking at me like they're confused by my beauty.  And I'll just be like, "Hey." And then walk away as if I have something much more pressing to do - such as studying the pattern on the walls in the bathroom - making me all the more mysterious and attractive to them.


I'm thinking what will really happen is there will be no fan and no straight men and I'll spend the majority of the night switching off between sweating profusely, bumping into things, and tripping over my own feet.

I like the scenario in my head better.  I'll let you know how it goes.  Stay tuned!

Thursday, May 2, 2013

The new man lady doctor

I was due for my annual visit and my lady doctor up and moved on me.  My best friend, Rebecca (the vagina nurse), recommended a new doctor at her office - a man lady doctor.  I've only seen a man lady doctor once in my life and he was extremely awkward.  Rebecca assured me that Dr. D is not awkward and I should just suck it up and get over my weirdness about man lady doctors.  I've been listening to her for 20 years, why stop now?

I made my appointment and sent Rebecca this text: "scheduled to have my hooha inspected by dr. damn D tomorrow.  He better not be good looking or i will pee on your face!"

I learned that Dr. D is a handsome man, but handsome in a you-could-be-my-dad's-friend way, not a how-about-you-throw-away-that-speculum-and-use-your-penis-instead way.  So, all good there.  But it's still such an uncomfortable situation, I can't help but be inappropriate.

When he walked in he introduced himself, "Hi Jen, I'm Dr. D and this is nurse A who will be joining us."  I replied in a sing-song, "It's a party in heeere."  They laughed, he looked over my chart (which wasn't a chart like on the TV shows, it was a file on a computer right there in the exam room) and then explained what he would be doing.  "I'm going to start with the breast exam and then do the pap and pelvic exam."  I said, "Are you gonna buy me dinner first, D?"  He laughed again and said, "We might have some coupons up front."

I laid back to get felt up (in a breast cancer inspecty kind of way, of course) and as he started the exam he said, "So what kind of food do you like?"  For a split second I thought he was trying to lamely distract me from any boob-in-his-hand induced awkwardness, but then he said, "So I know what kind of coupon to look for."  Nice.  Well played Dr. D.

Then it was time to scoot my ass (literally) to the end of the table and prop my feet in the stirrups.  I said, "Usually when I get in this position, people think I'm a slut."  Dr. D. laughed and tried to fight the urge to comment, but couldn't resist.  He said, "How often do you get in this position, Jen?"  Loving Dr. D.

I made it through the most uncomfortable part (with the help of back and forth jibber jabber and nonsense to keep us all laughing) and when we were all done he said, "This has been my most entertaining appointment!"  I said, "Oh, good, so I haven't been banned?"  He said, "You have carte blanche to this office!"

Sweet.  I've been given carte blanche to a place where invasive, embarrassing and uncomfortable things happen.  I really need to learn to harness my power.


Wednesday, May 1, 2013

The Scooby Snack

The Scooby Snack is a guy seven years younger than me that rented out some wiener time in my hoohah for almost a year.  There are a lot of stories revolving around this beautiful piece of man candy, but right now I'm only going to tell the last one.

I had gone out with some friends who got me nice and tossed.  I cabbed back home at the end of the night and called Scooby as soon as I walked in my apartment, around 2:30am.  I was like, "Hey, wanna have sex?"  Or something equally charming.  And he was like, "Yeah!"  Or something equally agreeable.  There were other words exchanged, but I don't really remember them.  Not because it's been a few months since this happened, but because I was that drunk.

He came over, we had the sex, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night to find him slowly and quietly getting dressed.  I found this highly irritating.  Why, you ask?  Because I was drunk!  In fact, for the sake of time, let's just assume that the answers to all of your questions are going to be, "Because I was drunk."

So, I'm drunk and irritated and I say, "Are you seriously sneaking out right now?"  He said he had to go.  I rolled over, facing away from him, and said, "Fine!  Sneak out like I'm some cheap slut!"  He climbed in bed and snuggled me and tried to kiss me.  Very sweet attempts to soothe me (the drunk, profane baby that I was), but they did not soothe me.  I kept turning my head away from him.  I was like, "No!  Just go!  Just leave like I'm some cheap slut!"  He said, "You woke me up because you slapped me in the face and then you farted on me."  Instead of laughing, which would've been the proper response, I said, "Good!  You deserved it!"

I think he still kissed me goodbye after that.

The next morning I sent him a text asking why he left in the middle of the night.  He replied, "First of all, it was 7am [ooooooh, shit]. It just seemed like the middle of the night because of the 3 hours of sleep.  And I've often left at that time to feed my pup.  I tried to wake you up.  I dropped my keys to make noise, I dropped my phone with a loud thud, but it didn't wake you.  And then when you did wake up you turned mean.  It was not appreciated."

So, yeah.  Drunk, mean and disgusting.  That's how you scare away a perfectly good scooby snack.  In case you were wondering.

Friday, March 22, 2013

The inevitable cat post

I am a single, divorced cat owner.  A post about my cat was inevitable.  I named her Princess Dot (after the baby ant from A Bug's Life.  A Disney character, of course), but little did I know that when I got her at 6 weeks she would fully live up to her name one day.  That day has come.

I blame myself, really.  I think it's all the organic food I feed her.  She's become so high and mighty! Sure, she'll lick the pancake batter out of an unsupervised bowl.  A stick of butter?  She'll make it her bitch.  But swat down a nice juicy fly (with the nearest towel, while wincing, swearing and gagging*) and she turns up her nose like she didn't just lick the grease off a pan left out on the stove for too long.  Oh, she'll steal a piece of chicken right off your plate, that little trash can kitty.

So line up, single men!  You've found what you were looking for!  A foul mouthed, mildly offensive, mostly inappropriate, high maintenance cat owner.  I mean the cat is high maintenance, not me.  Clearly, or I wouldn't leave so many things on the counter for that little asshole to lick and then throw up later.  Oh yeah, she's a bulimic little bitch, too!

The end.

(This post was not proof read, Deal with it.)


*I hate bugs.  All bugs.  Especially spiders.  Those evil little bastards, they can smell fear.