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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.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Annoying Encounters: 3

Last night I went to Saddle Rack with a friend of mine.  It's a really fun place, especially if you have a weakness for all things cowboy and country.  Which I do.  Which is why it sucks when all things not cowboy or country hit on me.

This was my favorite exchange of the evening:

Manchild: What's your name?
Me: Trixie
Manchild: What?
Me: Trixie, ya know, like the cereal Trix?  But Trixie.
Manchild: I'm... (I don't remember his name because I wasn't listening because he was 11)

He introduces himself to my friend and then starts to ask another question.  Probably where we were from because that seemed to be the standard question of the evening.
 
Me: (interrupting) I'm sorry, I was just in the middle of talking with my friend. (Go back to talking with my friend)

A few moments later:

Manchild: Can I get your number?
Me: No, I'm sorry, that's not a good idea.  I'm a lot older than you.
Manchild: Does age really matter?
Me: It does when you're my age.
Manchild: So it doesn't matter than I'm attracted to you?
Me: No.
Manchild (storms off like a manchild)

Poor, sweet little goober.  I mean, okay, I do look a few years younger than I am, but not 10!  Why are the manchildren hitting on me?  Seriously?  You can do better than that, universe!  Work it out!

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Walking penises

I want to meet a man I don't want to sleep with.

Not because I'm not attracted to him, but because I am.  Because, when I look at him, I don't just see a walking penis.  Because the first thing in my head is, "This guy is a cool human," instead of, "Hmm, would I bang this guy?"

Sometimes I feel like a dude.  Only looking for a lay because looking for actual potential is scary in that it requires a great amount of vulnerability and opens the door for a vast amount of heartbreak.  It's much easier just to have the sex.  You know what you're in for and expectations stay low.  And simple.  And heartbreak free.

With low expectations one doesn't picture holding hands* and going on surprisingly romantic dates.  With low expectations one doesn't start hyphenating their last freakin' name and imagine taking freakin' mini breaks together.  With low expectations things can only get better, right?  In theory, yes.  In the life of Jen?  Not so much.

So I'm not sure I want my expectations to stay low, scary as it is to admit.  I don't know, maybe I'm growing out of promiscuity like one grows out of their clothes.  So, I feel like I have two choices.  I can keep my expectations low, simple and heartbreak free with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future; or I can remember that I have impossibly high expectations.  And my impossibly high expectations will either lead me to the greatest love of all (thank you, Whitney Houston) or devastating heartbreak with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future.

Considering cat-lady spinsterhood is a possible outcome either way, I might as well aim high.  This doesn't mean that I don't have anymore old sexcapades to share.  It just means that (hopefully) I won't have any new ones.  Goodbye to walking penises!  Hello to men I don't want to have sex with!  Ya know, at first.  I'm still a woman for cryin' out loud.



*Holding hands, in my opinion, is one of the most beautifully intimate gestures.  I know it doesn't seem so.  But when you think about it, when do we hold someone's hand?  When we're in a crowd.  When we cross the street.  When we're running away from a bad guy in a movie.  It's a way to keep someone close.  It's a gesture that implies if I let you go, I might lose you.  And then the bad guy will get you because I run faster.  Okay, I got a little carried away, but you get the idea.
 

Saturday, January 5, 2013

The No More Alimony/White Trash Party

June 2012 was the last month of my 3 1/2 year divorce induced alimony.  I was on my way to being poor and, by extension, depressed so I did the only thing I could do.  I had a party.  My last divorce related hurrah.  I thought it fitting to make it a white trash theme, and that way I would have a legitimate excuse to make my guests bring food and drinks (I don't think one should host a party unless they can actually afford to host the party, but I'm a bit of a snob that way).  I created an event on Facebook:

Hey ya'll, I'm about to be poor, so dress in your best white trash garb and celebrate my last alimony check ever! 

In true white trash form, this party is BYOE - Bring Yer Own Everthang! I'll only have a few snacks and a tub o' cocktail slop to fill up your red solo cup, so please bring your favorite trashy snack/drink combo to share.

Hope to see ya'll there!

P.S. Please keep in mind, this is a no kids function, ya'll. We don't want to be corruptin' their sweet innocent little minds before their time!


I invited about 60 people thinking only about 20 would attend.  I ended up having closer to 40 R.S.V.P. so my parents were gracious enough to let me use their home as the scene of the crime instead of my tiny apartment.  I should note that my parents were there, as were a lot of their friends.  One thing I like about being a "grown up" is you get to party with your parents.  That is, if you have fun parents.  Which, fortunately, I do.

My plan was to talk with a southern accent the entire evening.  And I did.  I wore an old jean skirt, a white tank top I got online that said, "If you can read this, you're about to fuck me" and a hugely padded purple animal print bra with the straps falling down.  I let my hair dry naturally into a wavy friz and then teased it up like the dickens.  I set up a tattoo station.  I bought almost 200 temporary tattoos and laid them out with a bowl of water and a washcloth so folks could apply 'em themselves.  I put one on my ankle, belly button, bicep, chest, wrist, back of my neck and the cherry on top of the white trash sundae - a tramp stamp.  Feast your eyes on this:


I got the idea for the shirt from a friend who ordered one that said, "I'm not with stupid anymore."  She also wore a fake pregnant belly.  She was a runner up in the costume contest along with my sister who wore matching leopard print bra and shoes with short shorts and a too-low halter top (you know, so as to expose the bra that matched the shoes) and we drew tattoos all over her with eyeliner and lip liner.  We drew "tattoos" on her of hearts, each filled with a different man's name and "4ever" and then drew exes through them.  She had about 10 of them all over her back, chest and arms and she used a combination of smudged eyeliner and eye shadow to make bruises on her knees, but even that couldn't beat my friend who dressed up as a toddlers in tiaras girl.  It was fantastic.  She wore a mint green, strapless, tulle puffed dress with a sparkly tiara and carried a fan made of fake money and a handful of pixie sticks.  The prize was a 40 of beer.  Jealous?

I had my last alimony check blown up into poster size (thank you repro department at work) so that people could sign it.  It's not surprising that the combination of alcohol and a white trash theme equaled multiple drawings of body parts.


I set up a red solo cup stand and made a tub full of a Hop, Skip and Go Naked.  It's made with Pabst Blue Ribbon (or Natty Ice), vodka and frozen lemonade (not mixed with water).  It's surprisingly delicious and has a tendency to hit you like a ton of road kill.  Especially if play beer pong with it.  And flip cup.  Which we did. 

No party - white trash or otherwise - is complete without jello shots, so I made four different kinds.  Margarita (orange jello, tequila, triple sec and sweet & sour), Sweet Tea (lemon jello and sweet tea vodka), Adios Alimony (berry blue jello, vodka, tequila, rum and sweet & sour) and my favorite (pronunciation is key here): Peenya Cohlahda (well...strawberry cohlahda.  It's more fun to say peenya cohlahda, but I couldn't find pineapple jello, so I used strawberry jello, rum and pina colada mix).  I'm thinking I need to start a traveling jello shot business because my jello shots are, as Barney Stinson would say, legen...wait for it...dary!

My parents have a huge island in the kitchen of their triple wide (as one of my friends cleverly named their house for effect), and it was covered in the most delicious of all junk foods.  I filled a crock pot with cocktail wienies and called them Pigs That Can't Afford the Blankets (to be pronounced Peeigs That Cain't Afford the Blaynkits).  Everything else I left up to the expertise of my guests.




And my favorite creation?  The winner of the costume contest brought me this cake along with a sympathy card expressing her sorrow for the loss of my (ex) husband ('s money).  Does it get any more awesome?  I submit that it does not!


Between the "American Made, American Played!" playlist (containing 4 hours of drinking songs), beer pong, flip cup, penny can, costumes, tattoos, southern accents, jello shots, beer drinkin' contest and general shenanigan-filled merriment, you would think there was nothing else I could possibly squeeze out of the night.  You would be wrong.

One of my guests was an old crush I had in junior high and high school.  Thanks to the magic of Facebook we had reconnected.  And thanks to the magic of bars we had bumped into each other a few times since I'd moved back.  He didn't get to the party until later in the evening but that didn't stop me from tattooing his muscle rippled arms and making sure his red solo cup was regularly topped off.  And wouldn't you know?  He wasn't able to drive home that night because he drank too much.  I suppose I wouldn't have been a very good host if I didn't let him crash at my parent's house.  And I'd have been an even worse host if I left him there all by himself.  No, the polite thing to do was to crash with him.  What's the big deal?  It's just sleeping in the same bed.  It's not like I had dirty white trash sex in my parent's house with them sleeping upstairs.  Oh no, wait.  That's exactly what I did.


This was my last divorce-induced party.  It's like the end of an era!  *tear* *sniff* *sigh*  I think you know you're completely healed when you're more sad about not having any more divorce related parties than you are about being divorced.  Damn, I'm good.  I should have that engraved on a pillow.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

The Hangover - but for reals

Looking over last year's new years resolutions I realized the only one I accomplished was to lose 15 pounds (thank you, dumb detox).  Sadly, that was the most realistic of my resolutions.

We're already three days into twenty thirteen and I haven't thought of any resolutions (except for the old faithful - lose 15 pounds).  I'm not gonna be too hard on myself though.  At least I didn't wake up in the ER again.  Wait, you haven't heard the New Year's Eve 2011 story?  Well, good thing I have no shame.  Gather round, kids!  Pull up a cocktail and lend an ear!  Here goes:

There were seven of us.  We went to Walnut Creek.  Well, first we had a few pre New Year's Eve party cocktails before the New Year's Eve party...and not quite enough food to go with them...and then we went to Walnut Creek.  It was one of those wasted-hits-you-like-a-ton-of-bricks situations, if you know what I mean?  I don't remember walking to the second bar.  I don't remember taking my shoes off.  I don't remember walking outside and sitting on a bench.

I vaguely remember throwing up on myself.  I vaguely remember a police officer offering me a ride in either his car or an ambulance.  (Even in my hazy blur the drunk tank sounded way worse than an ambulance, so I chose ambulance.)  I vaguely remember calling all six of my friends and only one answering.

Then I woke up on a gurney in the ER with no shoes, no purse and no people.  (I didn't have alcohol poisoning, they didn't pump my stomach.  They did nothing but stick a saline drip in my arm.  Which did NOT help with the hangover the next day.  Thanks for nothing, John Muir.)  They had me sign some paperwork and asked if I had anyone to pick me up.  I had no phone and no money for a taxi.  I have my sister's phone number memorized, but when I called her phone went straight to voice mail.  Guess what other phone numbers I have memorized?  Yep!  My parents'.  I had to call my parents to pick me up from the ER at 5am.  They were so proud.

When I woke up at their house later that morning I called my sister.  (NOW she charges her phone.)  I said, "Soooo, I'm tryin' to piece together the puzzle."  She laughed.  And then I laughed.  Because really, what else were we supposed to do?  It was like The Hangover minus the tiger and the baby.  Even with all seven of our stories combined, there were still holes.  Here's what I did find out:

My sister and three of our friends didn't even make it to the second bar, they took a taxi home - because a police officer made them.  So there was only me and two of our friends at the second bar.  They weren't allowed in the ambulance with me so they followed in a taxi.  They were going to hang out in the waiting room until I woke up, but got kicked out for being loud and obnoxious.  And took my purse with them.  Which is why I woke up with no money and no phone.  As far as the no shoes part; I took them off, set them on the bar top and left them there.  Luckily, the bartender put them behind the bar and I retrieved them the next night.

It's definitely laughable now, but I'm literally still paying for that laugh - in monthly installments.  In case you're wondering what the moral of this story is, it's not be more responsible or don't drink so much.  No, it's memorize more phone numbers!