THESE THINGS I DO

Brenna asked me a few days ago what I thought her daddy was going to get her for Christmas. My heart hit the floor, and pretty much broke into a million pieces, and I think I died, at least a little...
"I don't know, baby. What do you think?" (Not a chance in hell.)
"Um... I don't know. But I bet it's going to be something really good. Like, maybe a bike. Or a doll. But that BabyAlive doll. He knows I want it."
"Well, you know he will probably try very hard to send you something cool, but it may not get here on time, because he has lots of presents to buy for the rest of the kids, right? And he may not be able to send anything at all." (Hah. He'll try really hard. Like, to the end of his couch.)
"Yeah, Momo, but he's going to do it. Because he loves me so much, and he misses me a lot, and he will at least send a card to me or something. I know he will. He's a good daddy." 
"Yeah, I know, baby. I know." (Some days, I want to hunt you down and string you up.)
 I hope you see this. I hope someone tells you about it. I hope you know how much I've tried not to hate you, because of the wonderful girl I have in my life.
 I hope you know that I've cried more tears over the father you will never be to my daughter than you will ever understand. 
 I hope you know that for years, I have been making up stories about you and the holidays you've never called, or written, or emailed her for. WHY?! Why would I do this to myself? Why do I care about covering for a man who can't be bothered to contact or show any sort of fatherly attachment for one of the sweetest, smartest, most wonderful kids on the planet?
 Because when she asks about you, she is so loving, so hopeful, so innocent. She can't imagine that anyone would not want to know her. And I won't tell her that. 
 And I can't break her heart. I can't ruin her image of you. I don't want to be the one to tell her you're just a figment of her imagination.
 So I'll send her a card and a note this year... with your name on it, of course. And you'll get the credit, and a little piece of my heart will break when she writes you a letter that I will never mail to thank you for the present that you never sent her. And she'll be happy as ever that her faith in you was upheld. 
 Someday, when she's much, much older- I hope she gets to meet you. I hope you will become the parent later in life that you couldn't be bothered to be today, or at any point in the last 8 years. I hope you get the chance to see what a fabulous person she is. I hope you get the chance to love her, and to find yourself sucked into the contagiousness of her laughter. I hope you get to see how her eyes sparkle wildly when she's thought of something mischievous, and how excited a few flakes of snow will make her. I hope you get to see her happy dance, and I hope it hits you right in your chest that you missed so much of this. 
 Personally, a terrible, spiteful part of me is happy about it. You may get credit for things you've never done, and you may be thought of in glowing, wonderful terms in her mind, but I get to see it. I get to be there. I get to hear every word, feel every hug, kiss every boo-boo, and snuggle every hair on that little heathen's head. And you don't. You won't know what a sweet, high-pitched Minnie Mouse voice she had until she was 4 years old. You'll never know how wonderful it feels to have little hands rub your forehead and sing to you while she plays with your hair. You'll never know the amazement when she comes to you and shows you that she just taught herself to ride her bike, and she thanks you for being so proud of her. You'll never know feel the rush of excitement she felt at her first 'big girl birthday party.' 
 This stuff I do? Yeah, it's because I never want to have to explain that you let her down. Yeah, it's because I never want her to sit on the porch, staring into the distance, certain if she looks just a little harder, she's going to see your car driving up the road. I do it because I want to preserve that uninhibited, trusting soul just a little bit longer. I do it because that's what mommies do. <3

Let's All Be Thankful

Thanksgiving is in two days. That's kind of exciting. I'm a fat kid, and I honestly can't tell you how many times a year I think, "SHIT. Is it time for pie, yet?!" And then I immediately have one of those, "Hey, you should really try getting back into running again," phases, where I contemplate the idea of running again in an effort to tone up a bit. Then I remember that no, I don't really want to do that,  because last time I lost a full cup size in my bra and frankly- that sucked. A lot of the perks of being curvaceous have to do mainly with boobage. If I lose boobage, I'm just... bulbous. 

***A worse body description than bulbous I defy you to find. You won't. Nothing's worse than bulbous. NOTHING. And don't any of you try to tell me "moist" is a worse word. You'd all be liars.***

But I digress... With Thanksgiving fast approaching, I decided maybe I should sit down and write out a few things to be thankful for. I'm pretty sure most of you are doing this on Facebook in an effort to garner more likes and to convince people you're actually a very grateful person. I know you bastards better. It's okay. I'm not judging you. Not at all. I will, however, use you in my blog from time to time... So get over that. 

I'm going to make a not-so-traditional list for you. A list of all of the guys I'm thankful for. All the ex-boyfriends, love interests, and friends. You're welcome.

#10. I'm thankful for the one that 'got away.'  I mean, it's not really getting away if I didn't chase you down. Turns out you really were just a douchebag that fed off of my attraction and used me as a fill-in. Convenient. The worst thing you can be, and the one thing that made me punch you in the junk. Remember when that was an "accident?" Me too. 
#9. I'm thankful for the one that tried to make me think I wasn't good enough.  You... Oh, you were a really interesting person, weren't you? No matter how much I did, you always had something to remark upon. "Oh, you got a 96% on that test? It's a real shame you fucked up those other 4%, huh?" "Oh, leave it to a girl to not be able to connect a simple HDMI cord into the right port." Your jokes were intended to be funny, with a healthy dose of slap-in-the-face. I'm pretty sure you liked to remind me you were in charge and that you were a man. Except as it turns out, you have a really small penis. So... just a word of warning: if you've got a packing problem, maybe you should find something beneficial that you're really good at instead of being a doucheclown. I could have overlooked the small dick thing for a lovely personality. You don't have a personality at all. Unless you call disappointment personality. 
#8. The one who was a better parent than I, and he had no children. Probably still a virgin, too. Remember that time you told me not to feed my toddler french fries because she'd choke to death and I'd be a baby murderer? And you were completely serious? And then you told me not to take my kid out in the cold because no matter what I dressed her in, she could catch pneumonia and what kind of parent does that? I remember, too. I'm willing to bet you're a serial killer now. 
#7. I'm thankful for the one who told me I had 'pretty moments' and that I was sorta cute. Sorta cute, huh? Dude. I'm frickin' beautiful. Yeah, not usually immediately after I wake up and my face is all puffy and crazy, or after a hard night of working, or after just about any sweaty activity. Except for cops. My ass has been remarked upon by numerous creeps sitting at bus stops and by men with 4 kids hanging off of their Walmart carts. Obviously, that has to count for something. 
#6. I'm thankful for the one who only came up to my shoulder.  Just kidding, you were a real son of a bitch. I'm not thankful for you. I'm sticking with my height requirements from now on. 
#5. I'm thankful for the one who always wanted me to come hang out, but would fall asleep before I got there. I'm thankful for you. You taught me that an asshole never stops being an asshole. Also, remember this for me, asshat- never offer someone money for coming out to see you, even if it's gas money. Seriously. If I was a hooker, you couldn't afford me.
#4. I'm thankful for the one who wanted to live in his aunt's basement forever.  How's that basement doing? Your fucking dog still owes me for two pairs of flip flops, by the way. Do you need to set up a payment plan? 
#3. I'm thankful for the one that gave me a gorgeous kid, and can't be bothered to send her a birthday card, or a facebook message. Or a text. Or a christmas card. Or a letter. Don't worry, I bought her a card for Christmas, and I'm going to send it for Christmas. I even signed your name. Some day, she's going to know you're a piece of shit father, but today is not that day. Nor is tomorrow. Nor is Christmas. I'll let you disappoint her yourself.
#2. I'm thankful for the one who called me fat. No, seriously. That was pertinent fucking information that completely changed the outcome of both my day and my life. Thanks. I wish someone had told me before. 
#1. I'm thankful for the one who bought me a Nintendo DS for Christmas immediately after we had the discussion that I don't like video games of any sort. It doesn't require an explanation. But seriously. At 23 years old, handheld video games are kind of outgrown. My kid had more fun with it. I sincerely wish I'd taken the iPod when I left. I should have. You didn't deserve it. Remember what I wanted?! Remember what I asked you for? A necklace. Earrings. A vacation. I hope your cat-lady girlfriend lets all of her cats pee on your shit so you can have your mother wash your laundry. 

I'm thankful for all of these guys. (: Know why? Because they were incredibly informative and educational, albeit disappointing in some cases, DICKS. And because frankly, they make excellent stories. And they make me feel better about being alone. I'd rather be alone than in a relationship that sucks worse than driving a Smart Car in a blizzard. Also, because I can be like, "Hey! Douche! You're immortalized on the internets!!! As a douche! Wait, what is that? Did you hear it? Sounds like... Yeah, it is... The last laugh." Bitches, I got it. 

Why I'm Not Cut Out To Be A Man

 I don't know why I think of these things... But they just come to me. Which is a lot like the title of my life story, should I ever get around to writing it. I probably won't. Whoever does write it better have a good fuggin' grasp on the English language. I will haunt a mother fucker who writes about me and totally massacres the grammar.

 So Mr. Guy and I were talking about whatever it is we kids these days talk about, which is never anything less than rated R, and for some reason I bust out with "Well, if I were a man, we'd probably be best friends. But you wouldn't want to sleep with me." Which, is totally true. Let's face it... some guys date girls specifically because they don't want to date men. But then I got to thinking, if I were a guy, I would still be awesome, but I probably wouldn't be beating women off of me. I'd be a total man's man. A beer and chips and burgers and raw meat and peeing outside because we can MAN. And the more I think about it, the happier I get that I have a vagina. Because so much of what makes me ME is only exciting and interesting and cool BECAUSE I'm a girl, and not very many other girls do the same stuff. But men... well most of them do this stuff too much.

#1. My Boobs. Let's face it. They're much too big to be acceptable moobs on a man. Not to mention, not many people look to date men with boobs. It's not that I walk away from them, but if we're sharing bras, I find it to be a bit too competitive of a market, you know? If I had moobs comparable to what I'm packing today, I'd never get laid. Except for hookers. And I'm not paying for sex when I can buy Jergens for 95 cents. And plus, boobs aren't interesting to me. Neither are butts, to be honest. So there's the distinct possibility there would be no joy in my life. Because everyone knows, you can't be a red-blooded man if you don't love boobs. And butts.

#2. I like dick jokes. The bawdier, the better. I'm the first one in with a perverted statement, and I laugh hysterically at movies that are made for teenage boys. I think jokes about dutch rudders are hilarious. I have a great sense of humor, even if it runs on the heavy side of perverted as hell. Guys like chicks who have the kind of sense of humor they don't have to censor themselves around. It doesn't mean they want to date it, but my chances are higher than a man who is always making the same perverted jokes. We ladies call those men "sleazy." 

#3. I like Beer. If I was a man who wanted to sit around and talk about beer all day, I'd be given a trucker hat and told to sit down on my bleacher seat, NASCAR is on. But since I'm a lady, men look at me in an almost reverent awe, and women look at me like, "Bitch, you know you hate that shit." I love both responses. But mainly- I fucking love beer.

#4. I like saying things like 'fingerblasting' and 'douchekabob' and 'vag-monster.' I like saying cruse and obnoxious things. I don't know why, I just do. Men who do this are known as good old boys. 

#5. I'm slightly obsessed with TMNT. And Iron Man. And The Hobbit. And Batman. And gamer magazines. Which probably ensures that if I were a man, I wouldn't ever get laid on a regular basis. Well, mostly not. Unless I found that one specific made-for-me person. But that could take forever. I kind of like the idea that there are numerous randoms I can continue to have hot-not-made-for-me sex with. I don't plan on having any, but the idea that it's available is quite nice.

#6. If I were a man, I'd play videogames. I can't figure them out now. I have too many thigns going on in my head at any given time to actually accomplish anything at all. But if I were a man, I'd play shit like Call of Duty and Gears of War all the damn time. I mean, how can you not? It just seems so obvious. I'd sit down with my beer and non-diet soda and my cheese puffs and friggin' play video games for days. Because I could. And because I wouldn't have 453,463,245 going through my head so I could remember that the red button makes it jump, and the blue button makes it shoot but the red and the blue buttons together, if pressed with the trigger button, launches RPGs and ruins lives. 

#7. I love football. I mean, I LOVE it. I don't care who is playing. I don't care where they are playing. I want to watch it. I love Chicago, but I really love the game in general. The sights. The smells. The turf. The feel. I feel like it's a male-dominated fanbase already, so I'd be lost in a sea of footballers. And UFC... well. Who doesn't like to watch that? It's great.


I can keep going, but really? Who needs to? I'm female for a reason- I didn't stand a fighting chance as a man. That's why. The possibility of reproduction, short of a "Knocked Up" episode happening, was nearly nil as a man. So, by all rights of survival, I had to be born a girl. You're welcome, America. I clearly made the right choice by being born with lady-bits. I give men something to fantasize about and women something to aspire to. Yup. It's a blessing and a curse.


BOOM.

My CPR Certification Has Lapsed- I Won't Be Saving You.

I vacillate between really wanting to be a runner, and really enjoying my couch. It's a really crappy mental tug of war. There's like, this huge part of me that wants nothing more than to throw on my jogging pants(who the hell decided to call them jogging pants? My legs are doing the jogging... Not the pants.) and run like the Zombies are going to get me. Which is totally cool. Because I feel incredible when I do it. I force myself to run until I'm fairly certain my spleen is going to burst forth from my abdomen and call a time-out. Which inevitably makes me push harder next time around. But it also makes me annoyed as shit by the other people on the path... Seriously. Get out of my way, folks. I'm a tear-down and rebuilding MACHINE over here, do you not SEE THIS HAPPENING?! MOVE! 
And it's like people KNOW you don't want them around you. It's like they can just feel you tensing up as they near you, and they then decide to match your speed. This old lady ran beside me for nearly my entire run today, which just pissed me off to no end. How was I supposed to know she was a bit competitive? It wasn't my fault she was going slower than me... So I passed her. I didn't see this as a problem, since I left plenty of room and I didn't cut her off, though I kind of wish I had, now. 
Out of nowhere, she goes zooming past me and kind of huffs loudly as she goes past. She might have been dying a little bit, I don't know... I didn't check. I chalked it up to maybe she ahd the same running strategy as I do, and she speeds up for a bit, then slows down. Turns out... she does. She speeds up to pass me, and slows down so she can be a self-appointed fucking speed regulator and ruin my run. The first time it happened, I figured she'd get over it. The second time, I got pissed. Seriously, lady, you're slower than I am, and frankly, you're just being annoying. I will push you over, and possibly break your hip. And winner-winner, chicken dinner, my CPR certification is out of date, so if you start having myocardial infarction, you're on your own.

I'm just listening to my music and plotting my next move if she should try the same thing again, and of course... She does. This time, I had it planned out. I already figured it out. You know the band The Lonely Island? They have this song... And it's inappropriate, and hilarious, and wonderful, and PERFECT. Just. EFFING. Perfect. She's literally running right beside me, and I just belt it out... "I JUST HAD SEX... AND IT FELT SO GOOD... I JUST HAD SEEEEEX... AND I'LL NEVER GO BACK TO THE NON-SEX HAVING DAYS OF THE PAST..." Truth. I sang it as loud as I could, and I just kept singing. I don't care if that is someone's grandma. I don't care if that was someone's mother. You wanna run with me? We're gonna sing some of my songs, then. Let me sing you the song of my people, Grams. Let me sing you the song of my people. If you don't know that song, please look it up. It will make your day. "She put a bag on my head... STILL COUNTS!"

I read her lips- "I never..." Well, I never asked you to run with me, Sweetpea, so I suppose we're even.  



I have this sick and twisted idea in my head that I want to run a 5K this year. Which is odd, because I've never run a race and enjoyed it in my entire life. Well, not since I was in 2nd grade and Ryan Fletcher was the only kid faster than me, but that was because he was a cheater and cut the corners... Y'all with me? It's just an idea bouncing around in my head right now, but you know... (:

Kevin James Without A Shirt In 'Here Comes The Boom.' I'm Freeze-framing That Shit.

 It's cold. It's so cold in fact, I am currently wearing socks, which is one of those things that OTHER people do. I don't. I flipping hate socks. Know what else I hate? Shoes. If I could walk around in flip flops, all day, every day, I'd be a happy girl.

Which is kind of ridiculous, because I'm one happy bitch right now. Except for the fact that if I step outside in sandals, I'm probably losing three toes to frostbite. I don't know about you, but no one wants to date bitches with only seven of the given ten toes. I know I wouldn't. I mean, feet freak me out, anyway, which I think can pretty much be traced back to hobbit feet and the oddity of their feet being longer than their shinbones, and having more hair than they do on their heads, but I digress. If a guy has jacked up feet, I'm probably not going to be interested. Mainly because all I can think about now is how absolutely fucked up his feet are. I don't give a damn if Kevin James is probably my favorite actor in the whole wide world, and I wholeheartedly plan on taking "Here Comes The Boom" with me into a dark, soundproof room and freeze framing the half-naked scenes- if he has jacked up feet, I will never be able to look at him the same way again. It just won't happen.

LESSON? Don't have fucked-up hobbit feet. Or always wear socks and never let me know you have weird fucking feet. Three years into a marriage, and I will still pull the goddamn plug if you have weird, hobbit feet. I do not give a single shit.  

But back to the weather- It's fucking freezing. I know it's January, douchewagon, and I know it's supposed to be cold. I know. But I had to walk 200 yards between buildings today, and I'm pretty sure my mucus membranes froze in my nose, which forced me to try and breathe through my mouth, which was a horrible decision, because it froze my teeth, and made my lungs feel like they were possibly collapsing, but were probably just calling a strike on account of the bullshit ice-cold air that was raping their air-sacs...

 I just giggled at the word 'sac.' How in the hell have I even gotten laid at this point in my life? I'm like a 16 year old boy, all dick jokes and bad hormones... 

 I decided breathing through the nose or the mouth was a bad option, so I buried my face into my coat, which warmed my entire face quite nicely, but also fogged up my glasses so damn bad I tripped over a damn curb that I KNEW WAS FUCKING COMING. So, that's a big "Go Eff Yourself, GLASSES." But please don't leave me yet, since I don't have my contacts. Although, those probably would have frozen in my eyeballs (hah, balls.) and shattered and sliced my unsuspecting corneas to ribbons. 

And if my corneas were shredded to ribbons, I'd be blind. BLIND. I'd probably be that asshole that's always flipping off the wrong person, and people would have to spin me to face the correct garner-er of my pique. If I were blind, though, it'd probably be more acceptable for me to grope people. I feel like blind folks get a pass. I probably grab a lot of asses. Sorry, guys, I know- as it turns out, I'm not all that classy. Show of hands for those surprised. Socially acceptable groping in turn for not being able to see who I'm calling a doucheprechaun. Whatevs. I'm completely okay with that trade-off. 

 I rarely post serious blogs. In fact, I don't know that I ever have. But this one IS serious, and it does need to be written. The fact is, most of you won't know who I'm writing about. But she deserves this. 

 Do me a favor, who was the last person you talked to? What did you say? Why did you say it? How did you feel saying it? Is that really the last thing you want that person to hear you saying? I'm willing to bet, no. I tend to live my life pretty loosely. I make the rules up as I go along. I don't do what is expected of me if I can help it. I just live. 

 The problem with that is that I rarely take the time to tell people how much I love them. How much they mean to me. How much they've made a difference in my life, and how empty a hole they would leave in my life. I rarely find the time to say, "I love you," because to me, you all know it, don't you? <3

 A wonderful woman died this week, and the truth is... I was completely and utterly shocked. Floored. Totally destroyed. We've lost other people recently, but none that hit so hard as this one. And the reason, which I am about to tell you, is one that I am deeply ashamed of.

Deb was a rare soul. She lived her entire life happy. Always smiling, always bouncy, always fun. Never a cross word, never tears. Nothing. She truly was a selfless lady who made the world around her better. She was always dancing, singing, not caring who was watching, or judging, or laughing. Her joy was making others happy, and she was wonderful at it. 
 The thing is, sometimes it can be exhausting. It can be hard to stand when all you want is to be grumpy and wallow in the anger and sadness that you're currently engulfed in. The last time I was in the store, a few months ago, was one of those days. I had been in a funk all week, and I didn't really want to be happy-happy-joy-joy. I just wanted to say hello to a handful of people and just get out. When I saw Deb, rather, she saw me, her face lit up, and she began the "HI DEB!" standard that I had grown used to over the past few years. She rambled on for a bit about the store and asked me how I was...
 Guys, I didn't want to be there. I just wanted her to shut up. I wanted her to just stop talking and let me be so I could finish what I had started, and that could be it. I generically answered her questions, made an excuse about needing to get going, and promised her I'd visit again soon. And then I left. I didn't hug her, like I normally would have. I didn't tell her how good it was to see her. I didn't tell her all about my life and what I was doing like she wanted me to. I made an excuse. Because her happy energy was ruining my bad mood. 

 I can't go back and tell her I'm sorry for that. She deserved better than that. I don't think she realized I was being curt and trying to get away from her, but I know. And I am horribly, horribly ashamed of it. I loved that lady. I would never, ever have been so short if I had known I wouldn't ever get to see her again. I would have spent a long time telling her about school and what Brenna was up to. I would have hugged her and told her how much I missed seeing her bubbly self all the time. I would have told her what she meant to me. So why even bother telling you guys this? Because maybe you guys need this swift kick in the ass. Because maybe, I'm earning my forgiveness for being a jerk by reminding you guys to never take tomorrow for granted. I dunno. Maybe I'm practicing to be a fortune cookie. 

 Don't wait to tell someone that you love them. Don't wait to tell them what they mean. Don't wait until you can't go back and undo what you've done. She is free and happy, out there in the universe, a ball of positive energy unleashed upon the galaxy. I sincerely hope I don't miss my chance to tell you all how much you mean to me, and how much I love you guys. Because the truth is- I do love you guys. And I always have appreciated you, even when it seems like I don't. 

How Long Have You Guys Known I Was Fat?!

I hate to admit this... But I'm probably not the greatest person in the world. It's been said a time or two, and I suppose I shall address some of my faults...

I laugh at inappropriate things, AND more importantly, times.

I think football is pretty amazing. I think hockey is neat. I would love to watch more UFC. Baseball can suck my dick. And basketball... Well, let's just say I wouldn't pay for them, but I'd take free tickets. 

I drink more beer than is socially acceptable, and with alarming frequency.

Wine is more of a breakfast drink for me.

I love to cook, and bake... and make bacon. And eat bacon.

I don't believe in folding clothes unless someone is seeing my bedroom(which no one EVER does. Don't know if that's good, or just fucking depressing.)

I exercise less than I should for my health.

I'm probably over-confident in my ability to make people laugh. 

And the fact I think I'm pretty friggin' AWESOME.

If these are the faults I can find with myself, with little or no forethought, why the hell is the go-to insult always to call me fat, or some form of it? I mean, do you REALLY think I'm unaware of my stature?

Yeah, I'm the only person in America who hasn't looked in a mirror lately. You nailed it, bitches! :)

Here's the deal- I've been fat my entire life. You're not going to change my self-opinion simply because you're obsessed with your own body size. I'm never going to be a size 6, and frankly, fuck you for telling me I need to be. Do you realize how ridiculous a notion THAT is? I cook waaaaaaay too fucking well to be a size 6. And truth is, there is no one in the world that is going to love me any less because of the size of my jeans. I assure you, my vagina works just fine, regardless of the size of my ass.

If you're going to insult me, tell me how unfunny I am. Treat me like I'm an idiot. Condescend to me. Call me a whore(bwahahahah, oh how funny that is!) But for crying out loud, stop calling me fat. It's like you're the reigning champion of fucktard comebacks. You may as well yell out the color of my hair, too. You know, since we're playing Captain Mu'fucking Obvious over here.

You know what else you can do? Accept that I'm fat. Accept that I don't really give a shit about that. Accept that I'm funny as hell. Accept that maybe, I AM gorgeous, however I choose to be. Because fuck you. Mainly because you aren't smart enough to come at me with anything better than "Hahaha You're fat," loaded into your jokes arsenal. You look like a douchekabob, and I for one, don't like you. But if you come up with a good insult, please let me know. I'd love to school you like the ignorant, napoleon-complexed little prick you are! <3 smooches, loves.

That's all.

Whoa. That felt great. :)