Am I the only one who sees that the song “Butterfly” by Crazy Town is about making a woman have an orgasm? “Come my lady, come come my lady, I’ll make your legs shake, you’ll make me go crazy.”
Am I? Or is it just me.
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This morning, I’m driving to work with my sunglasses on and it’s raining. It’s raining and everyone has their headlights on. So I put MY headlights on and there I am driving in the dark and it’s raining and I’ve got my sunglasses on.
Sometimes it’s really hard to be this cool.
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I am completely still nauseous today. My coworker keeps telling me that I must be pregnant. Um. No. I really get sick of that sometimes. It’s so not funny. But it never fails.
Two years ago, I got the flu and threw up at work. It took exactly 43 seconds for it to spread around our department that Weetabix threw up and maybe she’s pregnant. Um, lessee, half the fucking department is out with the killer Austrailian flu and I heave and it’s because I’m pregnant.
Yeah. Ok.
My sister came over giddy because she had heard that I got sick. Because she works at the same company I do, which is, at times, a mixed blessing.
“Would you tell me if you were?”
“What, sick?” I said through puke breath as I was gathering my things to go home.
“No, PREGNANT!” Her eyes were big, like Cindy Lou Who looking at her roast beast.
People, if this is how it feels to be pregnant, I highly doubt that the species would continue. Or that people would have more than one kid. Because I could NOT see spending nine months or whatever feeling nauseous and dizzy and pukey.
It’s mainly the people who already have children who are claiming this, too. Have you ever noticed that the only people who are all “Have Kids!” are people who already HAVE KIDS?
I think that they get sick of seeing how much fun and freedom we childless have and want to make us stop reminding them of what their life was like. Before kids.
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Thank god for Diet Coke. It is my entire nurishment right now. Wonderful, cool, bubbly nectar of the gods.
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LadyAtWork says that she needs my measurements for my Renaissance Festival costume. ohmygod. Is it possible to lose like 60 pounds in 20 minutes?
I have this intense fear of measuring tapes. It’s linked to my fear of gym class.
I was traumatized by the many many times I had to strip off my clothing while shopping for wedding dresses. There is nothing in this world like having a Church Lady Wannabe “helping” you squeeze your size 26 bod into a size 16 gown. These women become your best friends because they are in such a position of power over you. At any moment, they can assess your sad, pathetic thighs or your tummy, and look down their noses at you. So you suck up to them. And when they tell you that something makes you look good, you practically burst into tears like a Miss American contestant being handed a tinfoil crown. It’s that powerful. And when one comes toward you with a measuring tape, well, you’re trembling because you know that your back fat is simply not acceptable.
One of the Dress Ladies was trying to sell me a wedding dress with a three foot butt bow on it.
“Um, but if you put a three foot bow on my butt, won’t it make my butt look three feet wide?”
There was silence and you could see the little hamster inside her head running frantically to spin the wheels of her brain.
“Well…. it’s not going to do it any favors.”
Ok, if I’m spending $800 on a dress, I want it to do me some favors. I want it to wax my car and pick me up from the airport at 11:00 pm at night. I want it to whisper in my ear “Damn, honey, you look FINE!”. I want it to push me and pull me and contort my body into that which is acceptable by 21st century fashion dogmas. And most importantly, I DON’T want it to make my butt look three feet wide.
But because I wanted her acceptance, I stupidly tried the dress on anyway. It was not a good thing. My self-esteem took a nose-dive that day. But it made the Dress Lady happy, see. Cause I didn’t want her to think I was a bitch. It’s a bad enough thing to be a fat chick but to be a fat bitch is another thing.
But it all comes down to the fear of measuring tapes. And the measurements it provides.
The measuring tape reveals every chimichanga, every volleyball game where I didn’t give 100%, every damn television show and hour spent online instead of running frantically around the block/city/nation.
Yikes. Hold my hand, please.
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“Measure” is one of those words that if you look at it too much, it starts to look wrong.
Do you see how close it is to “measles” or “mealy” or “meal worm”. That’s what I’m saying. This is not a coincidence.
