It’s Thursday…and that means it’s time for Mama Kat’s awesome blog meme! This time, you voted for me to write six random facts about me & Hot Mess Hubby. Sometimes I think y’all are gluttons for punishment, but here it goes:
1. HMH and I met on the phone at work. I lived in California, he lived in Texas – and part of my job was to call him and request archived documents. We were friends on the phone for five years before we met in person.
2. Four years into our phone friendship, I told him we couldn’t be friends anymore and that I didn’t want to hear from him ever again (he hurt my feelings pretty bad). He called me for about a week before I picked up the phone so he could apologize…and then he drove to California to kiss me.
3. HMH and I have the same birthday – and yes, sometimes we forget. Just the other day he was telling me that the reason he likes to take showers when he gets too hot is because HE is a water sign and it’s soothing to him. I had to remind him that…uh…DUH…so am I.
4. If we’d met in high school, HMH and I never would have gotten along. I was a goody-two-shoes…and he was getting drunk and running wild with his buddies. I give credit to the Marines for making him respectable marriage material.
5. See that American flag pen up there in the banner image on my website? It’s made from wood, believe it or not, and I saw the kit for making it in one of HMH’s woodworking catalogs. I bought the kit and begged him to make it for me in his woodshop. That was five years ago. I’m still waiting for my pen. The picture above is from the internet. But he’s not a complete yutz, I promise. He made the accent table that my Dad’s helmet from World War II is displayed on…and he made the frame for this piece of needlework I stitched the first year we were married.
6. Guilty pleasure from California: police chases. The media in southern California really makes a big deal about police chases. I remember loading the dishes in the dishwasher one night when HMH yelled “POLICE CHASE!!” We both ran in the bedroom, snuggled up and watched. There was always popcorn.
And there you have it: six random facts about HMH and me. Now it’s your turn…tell me a random fact about you!
Things have been exciting lately. I bought a new Dooney. I’m moving forward with the exercise thang (like a moose in molasses, but still moving forward). And Hot Mess Hubby has finally gotten his way after over ten years of poking and prodding at me: I’m writing fiction again. More on that later.
This past week, I’ve also suffered through a few stinging reminders that I am, indeed, a fatty…and I don’t know jack about living in a skinny girl’s world. That will always be the case with me even after I hit my goal weight. I was not blessed with Keira Knightley’s waifish frame. The best I’ve ever been is a medium girl in a small sized world – but that’s okay, because I’ve finally learned that it’s okay to just be me.
I have the very good fortune to be friends with dozens of awesome, kick-ass chicks…and one such kick-ass chick is someone I work with every day. She has the same biting, sarcastic sense of humor as I do. She gets me through the most boring of work days. She also weighs about 70 pounds soaking wet. She is all things dinky and adorable.
Last week she was telling me that she and her husband had dinner at Red Lobster and she was going on and on to the server about how much she loves their cheddar biscuits (who doesn’t). And then she tells me that as they were getting ready to leave, the server brought her a takeout box loaded with extra biscuits.
I stared at her incredulously, which she first took to mean that I was just as thrilled as she was at the generosity of their server, but that’s not why I was amazed. I realized, of course, that my adorable friend had no idea what happens to the fatties when we go out…so I enlightened her. Here’s the conversation I acted out for her:
HMP: OMG, I just looooove these cheddar biscuits!!!
Server: I can see that.
We both laughed, of course, but it’s true. The world wants to feed my skinny adorable friend – and they want to give me dirty looks when I eat a carrot. Understand, I’m not bitching about the fact that no server has ever joyfully offered me a box full of carbs…I’m just bitching about the judgy part.
And then there’s the executive I ran into at work…
Before I tell you this story, I just have to pat myself on the back for not getting fired. It was really hard not to open my mouth and let out some horribly awesome retort, but my entire paycheck flashed before my eyes (didn’t take very long, either) and common sense prevailed.
Let me just preface this by saying that I get a lot of my food angst out of my system by baking naughty things for my co-workers and bringing them in to share. So I kind of have a rep for that. A couple days ago, a teensy tiny little executive chick walked by my desk while my co-workers and I were enjoying the basil mint ice cream I’d made them. Mmmm!
Being the generous and thoughtful peeps we are, we invited the passing executive to enjoy some with us. She declined, of course. I suspect it’s because she only eats small children and baby kittens by the light of the full moon and ice cream just isn’t her thing. As she was flitting by my desk, she wagged her perfectly coiffed head at me and said “You’re so good. My girl is this big (holding her hands about 4 inches apart) and she never makes us anything!”
What. The. Fuck?
Let’s break it down.
Perhaps I’ve just been lucky enough to work mostly for non-douchy people for most of my professional life, but I’m pretty sure executives stopped referring to their assistants as “my girl” after the days of Don Draper and Mad Men. That shit really pisses me off.
And then there’s the “this big” remark. Seriously. Hey, Judgy Judgersons, back away from my desk before I peg you in your tiny skull with my stapler. Honestly.
I don’t know why I’m surprised that there are imbeciles out there who still believe skinny people never eat and fat people eat truckloads of food, but it really grates on me when I run into one. Yes, I do understand that me eating mass quantities of food brought about my four asses – but that’s not the case now. You just can’t tell by looking at someone what or how much they eat…unless they have wing sauce all over the front of their shirt and then you can come to three possible conclusions:
1. They just ate buffalo wings.
2. They’re Hot Mess Hubby.
We have to stop judging each other. This is just getting ridiculous.
Before I go, I promised to finish explaining about the whole writing fiction thing. Hot Mess Hubby has been trying to get me to write fiction again almost as long as I’ve known him. Well, he finally wore me down and helped me tunnel a way through the walls I’d put up about it. I’ve decided that it’s time to start being brave about more than just food and the gym. It’s time to start living loud. Or, in my case, louder.
If you’re a reader and lover of fiction, I invite you to check out my official author website. I’ve started building my writer’s platform while I work on releasing my first piece. I will not be blogging as often on my author website as I do here. HMP is a way of life for me. Nothing will change here.
I plan to share tidbits about my creative process on my author website, release sample chapters, and of course announce my published works. I’ve also started a Facebook fan page for my fiction work – so stop by and like the page…I’d love to see you there. As a rule, I’ll be keeping HMP and my author website pretty separate – so if you aren’t interested in this part of my existence, you won’t have to hear about it here. HMP is about who I am, the author website is about what I create to escape.
One last thing: if you’d like to vote for next Thursday’s blog topic here on HMP, head on over to my Facebook fan page and vote on the poll. You decide what I write on Thursdays.
Here’s hoping we all have a non-judgy week ahead. Hug it out!
Okay, peeps, it’s Thursday again…and you know what that means: it’s time for Mama Kat’s awesome blog meme!!! Once again, I let all my Facebook fans vote on the topic I would write about. The one that won? “Describe a time when you made things…awkward.”
Before I get started on that, I do want to let y’all know that I’m having a GREAT time with this and I really enjoy letting my fans decide which topic I’m going to write about – so I’m officially announcing that you get to vote for the topic every week. Just make sure you’re a Facebook fan and then watch for the poll. Get your vote on!
So…you buncha sickies want to know about a time I made things awkward. Fine. Here we go.
We’ve all been to our share of home sales parties, right? Scentsy, Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, Silpada, ThirtyOne, Naughty Lady, Princess House…the list goes on. My girlfriends are a ton of fun, so I always try to go when one of them has one (and they’ve had plenty for me when I was a Pampered Chef consultant). Up until two years ago, though, I had never been to a Mary Kay party.
I’m just not a fan of beauty parties. I like walking into the store and buying my beauty products. I don’t like to wait for an order to come in, so I’ve never been tempted by Mary Kay parties – but when one of my girlfriends had one, I couldn’t say no. So I went.
The Mary Kay Beauty Consultant who was there was the absolute stereotypical Mary Kay lady. Perfectly coiffed, fabulously dressed, elegantly accessorized, and absolutely adorable…and annoying. She even drove the pink Cadillac. She was like a Mary Kay Fem-bot…but without the hot bod and sexy outfit.
I am not the sort of woman who should be allowed around that sort of woman. From the minute I walked in the door, I rattled her cage with my uncouth demeanor. (I swear, I really was trying to be good!) And I don’t know how much toner she’d been sniff’in, but she would just smile and giggle and tell me what a perfect beauty consultant I would be. That smile never reached her eyes, though, and she was clearly on crack for even suggesting such a thing.
We all sat down in front of our individual little make-up mirrors as she began her presentation and I continued to try to be good. It was just one of those nights where opportunities kept presenting themselves and smart ass crap was flying out of my mouth before I could put the brakes on my tongue. It’s not my fault. Usually I’m a lovely person. Really.
We took our make-up off with the amazing age reducing cleanser, we applied sunscreen and vitamins with peptides to our Mary Kay starved skin, and then it was time…for moisturizer. There had been at least five minutes of no smart assy remarks from me when my girlfriend squeezed the tube of moisturizer and SPLAT!!!
Moisturizer spewed out and splattered all over. Everyone gasped in surprise. The Mary Kay Fem-bot, always the picture of elegance and grace, started mopping up the white cream which, I’m sorry, looked an awful lot like semen. Yes, I’m a dirty bitch. That’s the first thing I thought of when it splattered all over my girlfriend’s top.
“That’s okay, sweetie,” the Mary Kay Fem-bot gushed. “You just squeezed it a little too hard.”
That was it. That was the shit that shut my filter down for good. I couldn’t let it go.
I grinned mischievously at my friends and said loudly, “Yeah, it’s okay…premature application happens to everyone…it’s no big deal!”
There was a lot of hysterical screaming and laughing from my friends. Not so much from the Mary Kay Fem-bot. She nearly imploded. Her mouth closed primly. Her eyebrows got really high. I could actually see her fighting to maintain her butt clench. She grinned flawlessly and said to me, “You’re a hoot!”
So there you have it. I may not have made things awkward for my girlfriends – because these bitches are just as cray cray as me – but I did make things highly uncomfortable for the Mary Kay Fem-bot, who turned out to be quite the delusional hosebag…so I don’t even feel guilty for it. Not one bit.
Now it’s your turn. Share your awkward moment or I’ll head to your house with a tube of moisturizer.
I joined a gym a while back. Ladies only. Sorry, fellas, you can keep your muscly eyeballs off my four asses. I don’t need your weird looks.
After about a month, the frustrating mega-bitch (aka the elliptical trainer) continues to humble me. But it’s okay…because she doesn’t mock me. She waits for me every day after work like a faithful friend and I try my best not to disappoint her, although I haven’t been back to see her since the 7 Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse packed up and left town last Saturday night.
I’ve just patched my sole remaining pair of Frankenpants again and they’re in the washing machine. I wish I had an Extremely Gentle cycle on the washing machine – or the patience to hand wash them. I don’t. Six months into the new year and I’m still struggling with my goal to make exercise a habit. I still have to make things as simple as possible.
Yes, I’ve tried to purchase new ones. The Avenue doesn’t sell them unless it’s January (because fatties only want to work out after New Years). They’ve also lost my business because they no longer carry “the bigger sizes” in their stores. I would probably forsake that rule if it wasn’t for the aforementioned January thing. Other stores in my area don’t carry my size. Catherine’s only carries cotton and/or terry blends that will do nothing but give me friction sores.
I thought I found a great resource for plus sized workout gear when I found Junonia.com. After shipping, it was $70 for one pair of workout pants…and they never came. Junonia kept updating the shipping date further out. Two weeks later, I called and asked what was going on and they told me that my pants would ship in June. Maybe. I cancelled the order. I’m sure they were disappointed, as it seems they had their entire sweatshop working on my big ass pants.
Likewise, Penningtons seems like a good source – but every time I try to order, there’s a problem with their website. I suck at calling customer service lines to order shit. I’m usually doing about 13 things at once and I can’t seem to stand still and order pants on the phone. I’m going to give it one more shot and then it’s the “three strikes and you’re out” rule. Until then, I continue to patch the Frankenpants.
Slowly, I’m moving forward. I am becoming the master of steering around my own bullshit. If I had to work out in a tube top and a sailor hat, I’d still do it – because, damn it, I’m not going to be the victim of my own excuses anymore.
If you’d told me a year ago that I would belong to a gym right now, I would have laughed one of my four asses off. 2013 seems to be on a mission to humble me in every way possible. But it’s okay…because it’s a lesson that I obviously need to learn or I wouldn’t be here.
I thought this year was just about making a habit, but it turns out that it’s about my own self-acceptance. I thought I might have a hard time for a few weeks, but I’d light a fire under my own ass and get going. That’s not what’s happened. Instead, the demons in my head have risen together and danced a jig all over my plans…but still I move forward. Slowly. The demons are screaming and resisting, but they’re going down all the same. I will grab them by the hair and drag them across the finish line if I have to.
When it comes down to it, though, I have faith. I can feel it deep down inside me. It’s the voice in my head that tells me I can handle one more minute on the elliptical…that I can sew the Frankenpants one more time…that, yes, someday I’m going to ride a rollercoaster with Hot Mess Hubby again. I love that voice. And sometimes, when I have a bad day and I can’t hear it over all the bullshit going on in life, I get home and hear it coming from Hot Mess Hubby or see it in the comments you leave me here on the blog or on my Facebook page.
Yes, you can, HMP…yes, you can.
It’s no secret, I’m in love with handbags. I am a self-professed handbag ho. I admit it. I’m proud of it. It’s either this…or cake – and handbags don’t make my pants tighter.
I’ve been obsessing about Dooney & Bourke’s Hydrangea line ever since I saw it – but, like many families today, we’re on a pretty tight budget and I just can’t go running around buying up designer handbags whenever I want. Sure, I could’ve married a rich guy with abs of steel…but I didn’t. And I love my squishy, handsome, unshaven blue-eyed plumber’s crack show’in hubby.
I’m not gonna lie thought: if we won the lottery tomorrow, I could blow some serious money on designer handbags. (Nothing crazy like the $50,000 Birken or however you spell it. WTF is up with that!) Until I win the lottery or become a best selling author, I scrimp and save, empty the change thing in my car, and look under the couch cushions for every penny I can find if I want something pretty like this. Well, my friends, after much scrimping and saving, today is the day that Dooney & Bourke rocked my world. Again.
Here are the pics from my big day at the mall…
I had the Hydrangea satchel on hold…but when I got the store and the I’m-not-happy-with-chicks-who-get-too-excited sales lady brought it out, I noticed the sides were more floppy than I thought they’d be. Meanwhile, as if Jesus himself put it there for me to see, another Hydrangea bag sat perfectly upright on the shelf behind her…calling to me. At the last minute, I changed from the satchel to the Janine satchel. It has a boxy bottom – which is only a good thing if you’re a handbag – and then it’s effing awesome.
Right after this photo was taken, I turned to my girlfriend and said “Seriously, I could throw this bag down and hump it all across the floor if I didn’t think I’d wreck it…or get arrested.”
I hung out at the mall for a while on my own, not wanting to just sit on the Dallas North Tollway in traffic. I ended up being kidnapped by the girl at the Trish McEvoy make-up counter and she re-did my make-up. She was awesome. I heard all about her 24 acres and her pet donkey named Peanut. Not even making that up. She put mascara on me that actually made me look like I had eyelashes. I really enjoyed it.
I knew I’d have hell to pay when I got home because I’m never home late and the giant doggies would be fit to be tied, so I made sure to roll through Sonic on the way home to pick up a Hot Mess tradition: “Payday Hangabers”. Payday hamburgers. The dogs have never been able to pronounce “hamburger” correctly, but we give them a break because English is their second language.
After lulling them into a coma with a bag of meaty goodness, I sat down with my prize.
And here it is…my Dooney & Bourke Hydrangea Janine Satchel. I don’t think I’ll get anything done this weekend…I’m just gonna stare at it.
And now I’m just sitting here with the doggies…high as a kite from my orgasmic handbag score. Like I said: it’s either cake or handbags…and Dooney & Bourke doesn’t make me cry in the changing room.
Now if the Seven Dwarfs of the Menstrual Apocalypse would just get the hell out of town…I’d actually like to get back to the gym!
Happy Friday to y’all!!!