You’d better put the fun in it.

Before i write this, i need to preface this with an important message: This is not triggered by any hidden news. I did not get any alarming medical diagnosis. I am not planning on offing myself. I do not have any secret foreshadowing of impending doom. As far as i know, i’m on track to die of a heroin overdose when i’m 111 when i’ve taken my teeth out a final time to pay for my smack habit as a geriatric hooker.

I love those people who say ‘If anything should happen to me.’

If? Are you part of some secret master race where nothing bad will ever happen to you? Is dying an option for you? I mean, i thought it was just something that happened to everyone, there is no if. It’s a when. You are born, you die. It’s simple. There’s no ‘if’. But maybe you’re special. I don’t know.

So when i die. Not if. When. Not ‘when something happens to me.’ When. I. Die. This is what needs to happen:

Hubby darling already knows that my body needs to be in the cheapest, most biodegradable box possible. Preferably, it should say ‘Frigidaire’ on the side, and it was stolen from Appliance Sales Plus in the dead of night the night before my funeral. If you see me in some fancy box, you’d better drag my dead ass out of it and put me in some cheap piece of shit because i am NOT going to rot in something that costs over finny bucks.

If there are nasty Gardenias at my funeral, i will come back from the dead and beat the living shit out of all of you.

If no one stands up and tells funny stories about me, i will have failed. If my funeral isn’t full of people laughing until they cry, and then laughing some more, i totally failed. If no one bursts into song, or does an interpretive dance around my ghetto coffin, well, i haven’t done something right.

So there ya go. When i die, come to my funeral, play some Nawlins jazz, talk about that one time i did that dumbass thing, sing, and dance. That’s all i ask.

Now that my last wishes are public, i can sleep tonight, content that if i get hit by a bus tomorrow*, all will be well.

*Getting hit by a bus is a really remote possibility in Mahopac. There are barely any buses, and it would be nearly impossibly for that cliche’ to happen.

Crap. Now that i said it, i’m going to be road pizza. Oops. Um… I love you all? Feel free to laugh at my ironic death?

I know i’m broken, but you can’t fix it okay?

Here’s the thing:  I don’t seem to get cold like regular people.  Everyone else is bundled up like Eskimos and i’m wandering around in a tank top covered in sweat.  I am assuming that this is because i’m covered in a beautiful, whale-like layer of blubber, but it could possibly be that i’m just messed up.

I don’t mind running hot.  It cuts down on my need for sweaters, and i rarely lose gloves because i never wear them.  When everyone else wears 20 extra layers, and i’m in my usual one, i only look a little bit fatter than everyone else!  (Okay, this part isn’t actually true, but it totally makes me feel better, so go along with me, allrighty?)

You know what i do mind though?  I mind everyone who sees me wandering around in my tank top stopping to ask me ‘Are you cold?’  As in, ‘Hey dummy, are you too stupid to put on a jacket?’

Look people, if i were cold, i’d wear a jacket.  It’s pretty simple.  Do i look that stupid?  I guess i do.   And i usually smile sweetly, and say ‘I don’t really get cold’ and everyone looks at me disbelievingly, because obviously i’m just making this up to annoy strangers on the street.

So i’ve decided to change it up a bit.  When people ask me if i’m cold i’m going to stop dead and stare at them.  ‘Is THAT what this sensation is called?  HOLY CRAP, I didn’t know!  I guess i AM… what’s that word that you just used?  Cold?  I am!  Help!  What do i do about it?’

At least this way, they’ll be distracted enough to stop asking if i’m cold, and start asking if i’m crazy.  And then i’ll be all ‘Hey, i’m not the one going around quizzing random strangers on their perceived body temperature.  Who’s crazy now, bitch?!?’

 

 

A true thing.

The world is full of words.  A lot of them are meaningless.  A lot of them are outright lies, and there are half truths, mostly truths, and truths according to one’s perception.

Hearing an absolute truth is rare, and it’s always an experience.

My friend Paul spoke an absolute truth today.  When you hear an absolute truth, you know.  The universe stops, when that stunning, bell-like clarity comes out.  You lose your breath.  It’s an amazing experience.

What this truth was isn’t actually important.  It wasn’t pleasant, but so much of the truth isn’t, now is it?  He was inclined to be apologetic.

Why?  I said.  An absolute truth is.  You merely gave voice to it.  You didn’t bring it into being.

This is absolutely pointless, except that i just wanted to remember the experience of being smacked upside the head with a real true thing.

Good try, Grandma.

There i was, standing in the gym, minding my own business, when a woman came up to me to admire my baby.

‘What a gorgeous baby!’ she gushed over the lump of adorable who sat on my hip. ‘Are you grandma?’

Snarl, weep, sigh. Really? REALLY? Mid-thirties, and people think i’m a grandma? It’s enough to make a girl punch someone in the face.

But, because i am the soul of restraint, i did not punch her in the face. Oh, also? Because i was holding the baby on my good punching arm.

But i came home, took a long look in the mirror, and decided that things have to change.

I’m never going to the gym again.

Hah! Where else can i get 2 hours of free childcare every day? Time for plan B.

I googled. And came up with a million ideas. I’ll improve my posture. Cut out refined flour and sugar. Wear more coconut oil on my face. Drink more water. Drink green tea. Brush my teeth with peroxide, baking soda, and self-loathing. Whatever it takes.

But now, being hungry, smelling of coconut oil, and drinking tea that tastes suspiciously like dirt, i’m wondering if looking like a geezer ain’t actually all that bad.

No. Screw it. I’ll be fine with looking like a grandma when i am one. Until then, dirt tea. Ugh. I can only hope Tori will be a teen mother.

(That was a joke. Laugh. It was funny.)

In which our heroine tries Zumba:

I am not a dancer. Okay, saying that i am not a dancer is like saying that fish are not cats. I mean, Meg and dance are just not related. At all. I count it as a good day when i walk without tripping more than twice. The words ‘graceful’, ‘beautiful’, or ‘dancer’ will never apply to me, unless humans imitating the dancing hippos in Fantasia suddenly comes into fashion.

But i am nothing if not adventurous, and maybe a little angry at humankind, because i’m willing to inflict my version of dancing on the world. And i like to jump around and burn calories as efficiently as possible. I figure that Zumba is probably better at it than watching Judge Judy while trying not to fall on my face on the treadmill.

So yeah. I walked into a Zumba class, with absolutely no idea what to expect. I mean, i think i was expecting something like an aerobics class (which took me approximately a decade to master) where the instructor calls out instructions and you follow them. Easy Peasy. Or something. So when the instructor, whose body looks like the human ideal of what a body could look like, with the right combination of genes, luck, and very hard work, asked who was new to Zumba, i dutifully raised my hand.

‘Okay, here’s what you do,’ she said kindly, leaning close to me. I leaned in too, hoping for some wisdom, or some quick instruction.

‘Dance,’ she said, pointing at her svelte and beautiful chest, ‘from here.’

For a brief moment, i was confused. Was i supposed to dance with my boobs? Was i supposed to bring tassles? But she continued:

‘Dance from your heart, and you’ll be fine.’

Oh. Um. Okay. I quickly tried to get in touch with my heart, to ask its help in helping me move. My heart was no help, as it murmured something about wine and Doritos and went back to sluggishly pumping blood. Asshole heart.

So with the instruction aside, the gorgeous-bodied instructor launched into a series of steps that i could barely track with my eyes, let alone follow with my feet, and the whole class, like some freakish scene from ‘Fame’ followed along. How did they all know how to do this? Why was that 80 year old woman in front of me with a cane able to follow this when i was barely able to march without falling on my face?

Oh crap, everyone switched directions. Oops. Okay, facing the back wall. Oh shoot, now everyone’s front again. Wait! Don’t run me over! Oh… i see, i was supposed to go left. Now right. Now jump. Now … what’s that called? Shake my what now? Why is everyone yelling? Ack!

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the reflection of the red-faced fat lady wearing a too-baggy shirt in dire need of a root job trying hopelessly to imitate the godess at the front of the class completely undid me and i started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And in that moment, i fell in love with Zumba.

You weren’t expecting that, were you? Well, neither was i.

See, my kids humiliate me allll the time. Every time i take them out in public, one of them picks their nose, or their butt, or throws an epic tantrum, and the world judges. I am a horrible mother. I should not have had children. Blah blah blah.

So you see, it’s really refreshing to be an idiot on my own merits.

So i keep going back. The teachers are kind enough not to wince as i waddlingly slink in, and so far, i haven’t injured myself or anyone else. I figure after a few more months, the 80 year old with the cane will have some serious competition in the dance department.  Maybe my heart will stop craving marshmallow stuffed Rolos too.  Yeah, like that’ll ever happen…..

Telling the truth: A guide for the hopelessly dumb.

You probably have one of those people in your life who delights in being a truth teller.  They always say stuff like ‘I’m REAL, you know?  You always know where you stand with me,’  And then they post a million annoying witty pictures on Facebook all with the theme of ‘I tell you the truth all the time whether you like it or not because i am teh awesome.’

If you ever get annoyed at said person, then it’s because you’re ‘fake’ or you ‘can’t handle the truth.’  So rather than get annoyed, i’m going to publish a quick little guide in case you can’t figure it out.  It’s pretty simple:

 

1.  When, if asked for an opinion, you provide a truthful one, usually tempered with kindness and tact, you’re a good friend who tells the truth.  We appreciate you.

2.  When you constantly offer your opinion without being asked, and it’s almost always negative, you’re a bitch with Tourette’s and we all kind of wish you’d go away.

 

Here’s some quick examples of the right way and the wrong way. 

You see a friend.  She’s wearing an outfit that you think makes her look like an overripe banana.  You:

1.  tell her exactly what you think of the outfit.  She wants to know, and well, you pride yourself in telling the truth ALL the time, right? 

2.  don’t offer an opinion unless she asks.  In the scheme of things , this outfit isn’t important unless she happens to run into King Kong, in which case, she’ll at least have a funny story to tell.

If you think #1 is the right answer, you’re a bitch.  You don’t need to volunteer your opinion unless asked, because you’re probably no fashion queen yourself, as your big flapping mouth is not a hot accessory.  So shut it, sister.

If you said #2, you’re awesome.  She’ll ask your opinion if you’ve shown that you have one worth having.  So wait, and be honest.  And pray that there are no monkeys around.

 

Your friend asks your opinion on some artwork she’s considering for her walls.  You hate it.  You:

1. tell her honestly that it’s not your cup of tea and suggest a few other things to her.

2. tell her that you hate it and go on endlessly about how much more of an expert you are at picking art.

If you chose #1, you’re awesome.  She asked because she had doubts, and you’ve saved her from having to look at a Velvet Elvis for the next ten years.  Good job. 

If you chose #2, you’re a bitch.  Unless you’re an art expert, which you probably aren’t.  You don’t need to make someone feel bad for their choice.  And your friend has tactfully not mentioned that the ‘Hang in there’ kitty poster in your living room makes you look like an idiotic 13 year old. 

 

You go to your friend’s house, and it’s either unusually clean or unusually dirty.  You:

1. feel compelled to comment on it in a loud tone of surprise.  ‘Your house is so CLEAN!’  like she was 3 newspapers away from being on ‘Hoarders’ the last time you were over.

2. ignore the disgusting crock pot sitting in the sink and instead remark on how good a cook she is.  (Which is totally true, btw.)

1.  Bitch.  Shut up, go home, and take a long look at your nasty house.  Realize that your friend has NEVER made a single negative comment on it.  Thank your lucky stars that you have such an awesome friend in your life and bake her some cookies.  After you’ve cleaned your kitchen, obviously.

2. Awesome.  You’re awesome, and so is your friend.  Go make her some cookies and both of you can celebrate your awesomeness together.  Plus your friend really likes cookies.  And so do you.  Go on, admit it.  You like cookies. It’s okay.  She’ll eat them with you.  And won’t talk about diets, either.

Your friend asks if you think her baby is cute.  You personally think that her baby’s looks could only be improved by a paper bag, so you:

1. gently tell her that maybe she’ll grow into her looks.

2. say ‘no’ and leave it at that.

Okay, that was a trick question.  Seriously?  Don’t EVER tell a mom that her baby is ugly.  I don’t care how much she pesters you for an answer, that’s just mean.  If you really feel so burdened to tell the truth all the time, go home, look in a mirror, and tell yourself how much of a bitch you are.  ‘Cause you are.

I hope this guide has been helpful.  Because i’m coming really close to punching you in the face.

 

Does Pinterest have a ghetto section?

I am always impressed with those moms who post amazing, creative, beautiful projects for their beautiful, perfectly behaved children.  They appear to do this while remaining youthful, gorgeous,slender, with a perfect house full of nutritious meals with their adorable toddler twins lisping latin conjugations.

I am not that mom.

All four of my kids have fevers right now, with one soaring up to 105.  One drank a fruit slushy and promptly puked it up, leaving me to scrub up a modern art statement of red splatters all over the bathroom.  I haven’t gotten out of my smelly workout clothes all day, and my kids turned their noses up at my attempts at a healthy dinner and had potato chips instead.

So it will be no surprise to you that my attempts at projects are utilitarian, at best.  But as i was wading through piles of crap, i decided that my kids needed a better way to store their dress-up clothes.

If i was one of those awesome moms, i would’ve made my kids something using stencils, or wallpaper, or, i dunno… wood.

I used a cardboard box and two S’mores Stix.  Used.    And lo!

Creative crap!

 

Hey, don’t knock it.  It works.   And if i leave it alone long enough, no doubt one of my kids will decorate my ghetto closet with puke, too.

Why i have purple hair, or living without fear.

When i was in my early twenties, i heard myself saying the same thing i’d been saying since i was about 10: ‘I’d do that if only i wasn’t so fat.’  And i realized that for half my life, the half where i’d actually had control, i’d been busy not doing things because i felt like i was too fat to do them.

It scared me.  It scared me because i could look back and see that i hadn’t really been fat at all.  It scared me because i could look forward and see that being thin was not something that came easily with age.  And i realized that if i didn’t stop this now, i’d waste my whole life not doing things because i wouldn’t be thin enough.  Good enough.  Pretty enough.  I would never be the ‘right’ person who deserved to do those things.  Even if i lost weight, i knew it would never be enough.  If i didn’t stop this cycle of thinking that i was undeserving of enjoying life and living it fully, i could be a size 00 and still put things off for ‘just five more pounds’.

So right then and there, i did what i wanted to do, and what i was scared to do: I went to a n/ude beach.

It was literally the most terrifying thing i’d ever done in my life.  I will never forget how cold my hands were, how a million horrible scenarios flashed through my mind, how i was sure someone would scream ‘Shamu’ and kick me off the beach.

And it was … okay.  Fun, even!  For the curious, the absolutely most non-sexual thing ever.  People did not go around humping each other.  And most interestingly, the most equalizing place ever.  That girl who looks amazing in a bikini, she has lopsided breasts.  That guy who looks great in a suit has a major case of butt pimples.  And it didn’t matter.  None of it mattered.  We were all human, all flawed.  And all enjoying ourselves.  It was a lovely experience.

Magically, i never had an issue with my body again, and lived happily ever after.

Ha!  That’s a lovely thought, but life doesn’t quite work like that, does it?  This didn’t magically stop my negative thoughts, my feeling of unworthiness, of being not good enough, but it did change my actions.  Since then, every year, i’ll catch myself saying ‘I’d do it if i wasn’t so fat/ugly/old.’  And i make myself do it.

So when i saw a girl with lavender hair on Pinterest, i loved it.  LOVED.  IT.  And the first thought that came into my head was ‘I should lose some weight and dye my hair that color.  Well, maybe.  But i’m probably too old.’

And that was it.  I found myself marching into a color bar, scared to death, and quietly asking for purple hair.

They did a double-take.  And a triple take.  Most 30something, unattractive, mothers of 4, who look like they dress to belong on the cover of ‘Conservative Weekly’ do not come in asking or purple hair.

But:

Notice nowhere did i say ‘Attractive purple hair’.

 

I now have purple hair.  For a while, at least.  I actually think i look pretty dumb with purple hair.  But probably no dumber than normal.

But if i hadn’t tried, i wouldn’t have known!  And i would’ve wondered… always.

So the whole point is, go do something.  Do something that you’ve been putting off, because you don’t think you’re worthy of doing it.  Because you know what?  You are.  You’re fine.  Go live your life bravely, take risks, succeed, and even fail a little.  (Or if you’re me, fail a LOT.)  Because even if failures are discouraging, they make for good stories in the end.

 

I am full of ideas. Notice i didn’t say good.

Every time i am about to have a baby, a certain relative who shall remain nameless calls me up to remind me of the hemorrhoids she had after one of her babies was born.  ‘Kiwi,’ she says.  ‘They were the size of Kiwis, and EVERYONE in the hospital wanted to see them.  All the doctors, the nurses, and i’m pretty sure that some of the janitors came to take a look at my backside.’  And every time she says this, i panic and go out and buy a vat of Preparation H.

And every time, i escape miraculously un-kiwi’ed, and then throw away the stuff when i’m decluttering my medicine cabinet.  I have no idea how much money i’ve spent on this, but i always consider it money well spent.  I figure it’s my insurance against fruits on my backside.

Now this morning, as i was going through my medicine cabinet, the tube caught my eye.  The baby is almost 10 months old, so i guess by now i can be pretty sure that any postpartum fruits of my labor would’ve shown up.  So as i went to throw it out, i randomly remembered something that i’d read recently.  Preparation H is good for dark circles under your eyes.

I think calling mine ‘dark circles’ at this point would be kind.  ‘Black holes’ might be more accurate.  I am seriously sleep-deprived these days.  So i decided to go ahead and try it, complete with before and after pictures.  So without any further blathering, here are the results:

 

‘Pardon me, Madam, may i check your bags?’

(Please, notice the well-groomed eyebrow.)

After spending a few minutes wondering when i turned 90 years old, i applied some Prep H to my eye.  It smells like crap.  Seriously disgusting.  But if it gets results……

 

Oh yeah, *that* was worth it.

So what i guess i’m trying to say is, now in addition to looking like a geri, i now smell like one.  Just go ahead and toss that cream.  It’s not worth it.

Why Sybil Luddington kicks Paul Revere’s butt.

Everyone who has sat through American History usually has an idea of who Paul Revere is, and is ride through the countryside to warn the Colonials that the British were coming. 

Sybil Luddington did the same thing, only better.   Let’s compare:

 

Paul Revere was a fully grown man.

Sybil Luddington was a 16 year old girl.

Paul had a partner.

Sybil did it alone.

Paul rode 12 miles.

Sybil rode 40.

The weather was nice and clear as Paul made it through nice paved streets in the middle of town.

Sybil rode in a storm through the countryside.

Paul got caught.

Sybil didn’t. 

Now, a lot of people are going to say that old Sybil was ignored because she’s a female, and history is written about white males, and let’s all burn our bras together in a moment of hatred for the penised-er sex. 

But i have a different theory.  Come on, look at the names.  Paul Revere, Sybil Luddington.

“Listen, my children, and you shall hear, the midnight ride of Paul Revere.”

“Listen, kids, to an old Fuddington, about the brave ride of Sybil Luddington.”

See?  It just doesn’t work.  But i feel like i need to try, for the sake of someone who has been ignored, even though she did it better.

 

Hey kids, turn your eyes away from that Star Trek Tribble,

And listen to the story of a girl named Sybil.

40 miles she rode, on a stormy dark night

To warn the troops of a Danbury plight.

Alone and young, she moved with might,

And the New York militia won the fight.

And then i think it should end with a bunch of shouting of ‘USA!!! USA!!! USA!!!!’

Yeah.

 

I think the moral is, if you want your kid to gain immortality and be remembered in history, give them a name that historians can work with.  Sorry if your last name is Squjylllknyl.  You need to change that garbage to ‘Bawesome’, so everyone can talk about Joe Bawesome the Awesome.