"I don't get it," she said. "Why isn't anybody hitting on you?"
Looking around, I notice group after group of men, sitting together, staring at each other, drinking their beers and not generally saying a word. For a moment, I double checked our location to make sure we weren't in a gay bar... not that there's anything wrong with gay bars but as a 29 year old single woman, spending endless hours in a gay bar will not help my dating life.
"We don't do things that way anymore," he said. "You have to go online now. Nobody goes to a bar to meet people. You go to hang out with the people you already know."
Really? I have to go on the Internet? Is that what we have come to is meeting people through pixels and digital signals? I mean, if I wanted an electronic relationship, I'd stick with Mr. Buzzy. But after weeks of contemplation and yet another endless weekend spent laying on the couch watching bad TV, old movies and an outing at Walmart, I'm beginning to think that something needs to change.
Living in the city is great but can be so incredibly lonely at the same time. I mean, at 29, I feel like I don't really need to make any new friends, as most my close friends have been around for nearly a decade or more. How do you replace that? You can't. But it's even harder in the city. The majority of the people that I speak with daily are my coworkers, or the rude customers on other end of the phone line. Believe it or not, but I will go days without my phone ringing and the truth is, I quit doing all the calling when I realized that I was the one doing all the calling, visiting, driving, etc. It's hard when your friends aren't where you are, and even harder when you start to realize that maybe your friends aren't the only thing geographically displaced, but the relationship itself.
I never thought striking up a relationship, or even getting a dinner date, would be so difficult. There was a nice piece of dark chocolate that kept hanging around my cubicle, talking to my coworkers and giving me the shy eye. He was tall, handsome and at least I know this one has a college education. Then he saw me standing outside smoking a cigarette... hasn't looked at me since. Whatever happened to not judging people? It's not like I was shooting heroin into my eye or anything. Oh well, I don't really like sleeping where I eat if you know what I mean.
The creeper at the gym continues to end up on the treadmill behind me, on the weight machine next to me, and pretty sure if he could follow me into the locker room, he would. He's nice enough but I'm not attracted to him, and I don't think that's judging, I think it's chemistry. But this dry spell is beginning to really bother me. Even the homeless men aren't giving me any attention. I think that may be an all time low.
"I'm not going to lie, you're intimidating," she said.
"Now that I know you, you're awesome, but if I didn't, I'd be scared to death to approach you," he said.
FLASHBACK: 4th grade. New boobs. Catholic school. Nearly shear blouses. Torture.
I was bullied all through grade school, middle school and most of high school. I used to be quiet and shy, overly sympathetic, a premium listener and an all around good person. Somewhere in those years of puberty and emotional distress, I had turned into a pushover, always wanting to be part of the cool crowd. A follower by fault, I often found myself getting into sticky situations, constantly jeopardizing my better judgement for a moment of fitting in. I was a doormat. But somewhere, somewhere I developed a huge fucking pair of steel balls and razor sharp forked tongue. Somewhere I became the people that I hated. Somewhere in learning to stand up for myself, I became, well, cold, callous and unforgiving. In learning to protect myself, I started a war.
I don't think I'm ready for Internet dating. I'm not sure that I would even know how to begin. It all seems so awkward to me. I'm too old fashioned. I want to believe that I will meet "the one" or even "the one for right now" through some serendipitous moment. I want a TV embrace. I want kinetic energy and chemistry. I want a dark room with bright lights in the corner and for that first meeting awkwardness to feel exhilarating.
The truth is, I want the same thing every other girl wants. I've learned to be dominate in every other area of my life out of necessity and survival. So, when it comes to men, I don't want to have to pursue them. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to be chased a little. Don't get me wrong, I don't like games, but I don't want to be the only one reaching out. Besides, even my last booty call left with no warning, and without giving me any booty. I mean, I get hit it and quit it, why do you think I called? But it's hit it THEN quit it, not just quit it. I needed a little action and I eventually got some from ol' faithful, Mr. Buzzy, but it's not the same. Off track. Anyway, I want someone to want to spend time with me, to want to take me out to dinner and hold the door open for me like a gentleman, to not get embarrassed when I laugh a little too loudly. At the end of the night, I don't want them to be afraid to pull my hair a little when we're in bed. Like I said, I want the same thing as every other girl.
So faithful readers, how do YOU feel about online dating?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I Pledge Allegiance to My Ass
As I sit perched on the couch, under my lap blanket, watching the season finale of Law & Order: SVU, I can feel my thighs slowly expanding. I haven't been to the gym in over a week as I've been battling a combination of a cold and allergies. Hard to run when you can't breathe. I feel terrible. Like I've broken some sort of pact with myself... like I've betrayed my cellulite. Damn Catholic guilt.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Golden Oldies
I can't believe that I haven't written in a month or more. This is what happens when The Girl becomes involved in a long distance relationship (see previous blog). But that is all over now. No more A. And I'm okay with that. I broke it off. Long story short: don't lie. Don't lie about something stupid. Don't say things you don't mean. Regardless, he's still texting nearly daily which means that That Girl must be awesome in the sack. Not to toot my own horn but beep mother fuckin' beep!!!
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Love Is A Battlefield
Spring is rolling in and That Girl is beginning to realize how much has changed in a year... how much SHE has changed in a year. At this time last year, she was 70 pounds heavier, incredibly unhappy, in a dead in town with a job that just fired her... she was trying to survive. At the end of this very long and unseasonably cold winter, That Girl is anticipating spring with an anxiety she hasn't felt in a long, long while. To quote The Byrds' famous hit Turn turn turn, to every season, there is a change, and a time for every purpose under heaven. (okay, I removed all the "turn, turn, turns"... I think you got it smart folks!)
Things are changing and I'm always really insecure with change. I am a control freak and I like being able to at least have a finger on a situation if not both hands around it's neck. I have started a new job that came with its' fair share of challenges in the past weeks. And... sigh... there's a new man in my life. This alone brings an incredible amount of anxiety, insecurity and reckless thinking and day dreaming.
Let me introduce you to A. We met when I walked into that trashy little bar mentioned in the last post. He's a regular but before you get the wrong idea, he's there for the cheap booze and free entertainment... just like me. He's clean cut, handsome in a familiar way and was apparently immediately smitten as he watched me walk confidently into the bar, best friend, W taking the lead. As W walked up and said hello (she already knew A), she stuck out her hand to shake his. She was greeted with a disappointing smirk and open arms, an invitation for a hug. She obliged and I immediately became aware that he was whispering in her ear as he was leaned down and she is significantly shorter than he. I just had this feeling that he was asking about me. And he was. He introduced himself with a firm, soft skinned, handshake.
We stood having drinks and making idle chit chat for a good portion of the evening. I was really comfortable talking and joking around him which is highly unusual as it has been my experience that when I feel attracted to somebody the filter between my brain and my mouth that generally doesn't exist comes out of nowhere with a fierce vengeance and I can't seem to put a sentence together. It's as if all my years as an awkward teenager compound into moments of sheer stupidity and I end up looking like a total ass. But somehow, with A around, I didn't have a problem... making an ass out of myself! You see, as the evening neared to an end, A looked at both W and myself and said, "So, what are you ladies doing later?" to which I promptly responded without missing a beat, "Your mom if she's lucky!"
A, W and the others erupted with laughter and I became overwhelmed with embarrassment. I felt my face turning red, a shade of red that you can only find in the big box full of Crayolas. I immediately apologized... what if his mother was dead? Why do I always think that a "your mom" joke is appropriate humor? (Remind me to fill you in on the your mom joke shouted down the hallway of the high school I used to teach at when a students whose mother was on the school board yelled "What are we doing in class today?"... you do the math on how that one worked out!)
Within moments of A leaving the bar that night, he texted W and said, "Your friend is really cute." She of course told me about the text because that's what friends do. I smiled. He was cute, too.
The next evening, we went back to the same place and secretly I hoped that he would be there. He wasn't immediately but as we neared the end of our first drinks, he strolled in and right past us as he appeared to be looking for someone else and he was on his cell phone. Not wanting to appear... well, stupid... I didn't try to flag him down or anything. A few minutes later, there he was, sliding into the booth next to W, across from me. We chit chatted, discussed our plans for the evening and commented on the locals.
I'm not quite sure what it was or is, but somewhere between two sentences that were ending and beginning paragraphs, there was a line break, a moment of silence that was filled with my brown eyes meeting his. My stomach didn't flutter, my lady parts didn't quiver, my palms didn't sweat. Instead, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing slowed and so did my heartbeat. Somewhere between the period and the capital letter, there was a sense of peace that I've never felt before. I'm not sure that I blinked. I know that he didn't.
9 days, over a thousand text messages, a few hours of phone calls and an email later and I keep waking up with a smile on my face and fear in the back of my mind.
A lives 200 miles away. A didn't graduate high school although he is highly intelligent and tells me that he wants to go back and get his GED. A makes me think about things that I haven't thought about ever... like actually deserving love. A thinks I'm beautiful.
Sigh... I'm not THAT girl... the girl that swoons over men... the girl that ignores her head and lets her heart lead her feet... the girl that lets magic interrupt her paragraphs. Geez... it's only been 9 days and this guys gotta grip around my head already. Don't get me wrong... A isn't perfect by any means. In fact, there are a few parts of his past that aren't very appealing (nothing terrible, I promise!) but can I hold his past against him? Not unless I expect him to hold mine against me, I suppose.
It's spring... the season of love, or in this case, a really REALLY big like. I can't help but wonder... can I be that girl?
RENT: five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes... how do you measure a year in a life? how about love.
Things are changing and I'm always really insecure with change. I am a control freak and I like being able to at least have a finger on a situation if not both hands around it's neck. I have started a new job that came with its' fair share of challenges in the past weeks. And... sigh... there's a new man in my life. This alone brings an incredible amount of anxiety, insecurity and reckless thinking and day dreaming.
Let me introduce you to A. We met when I walked into that trashy little bar mentioned in the last post. He's a regular but before you get the wrong idea, he's there for the cheap booze and free entertainment... just like me. He's clean cut, handsome in a familiar way and was apparently immediately smitten as he watched me walk confidently into the bar, best friend, W taking the lead. As W walked up and said hello (she already knew A), she stuck out her hand to shake his. She was greeted with a disappointing smirk and open arms, an invitation for a hug. She obliged and I immediately became aware that he was whispering in her ear as he was leaned down and she is significantly shorter than he. I just had this feeling that he was asking about me. And he was. He introduced himself with a firm, soft skinned, handshake.
We stood having drinks and making idle chit chat for a good portion of the evening. I was really comfortable talking and joking around him which is highly unusual as it has been my experience that when I feel attracted to somebody the filter between my brain and my mouth that generally doesn't exist comes out of nowhere with a fierce vengeance and I can't seem to put a sentence together. It's as if all my years as an awkward teenager compound into moments of sheer stupidity and I end up looking like a total ass. But somehow, with A around, I didn't have a problem... making an ass out of myself! You see, as the evening neared to an end, A looked at both W and myself and said, "So, what are you ladies doing later?" to which I promptly responded without missing a beat, "Your mom if she's lucky!"
A, W and the others erupted with laughter and I became overwhelmed with embarrassment. I felt my face turning red, a shade of red that you can only find in the big box full of Crayolas. I immediately apologized... what if his mother was dead? Why do I always think that a "your mom" joke is appropriate humor? (Remind me to fill you in on the your mom joke shouted down the hallway of the high school I used to teach at when a students whose mother was on the school board yelled "What are we doing in class today?"... you do the math on how that one worked out!)
Within moments of A leaving the bar that night, he texted W and said, "Your friend is really cute." She of course told me about the text because that's what friends do. I smiled. He was cute, too.
The next evening, we went back to the same place and secretly I hoped that he would be there. He wasn't immediately but as we neared the end of our first drinks, he strolled in and right past us as he appeared to be looking for someone else and he was on his cell phone. Not wanting to appear... well, stupid... I didn't try to flag him down or anything. A few minutes later, there he was, sliding into the booth next to W, across from me. We chit chatted, discussed our plans for the evening and commented on the locals.
I'm not quite sure what it was or is, but somewhere between two sentences that were ending and beginning paragraphs, there was a line break, a moment of silence that was filled with my brown eyes meeting his. My stomach didn't flutter, my lady parts didn't quiver, my palms didn't sweat. Instead, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing slowed and so did my heartbeat. Somewhere between the period and the capital letter, there was a sense of peace that I've never felt before. I'm not sure that I blinked. I know that he didn't.
9 days, over a thousand text messages, a few hours of phone calls and an email later and I keep waking up with a smile on my face and fear in the back of my mind.
A lives 200 miles away. A didn't graduate high school although he is highly intelligent and tells me that he wants to go back and get his GED. A makes me think about things that I haven't thought about ever... like actually deserving love. A thinks I'm beautiful.
Sigh... I'm not THAT girl... the girl that swoons over men... the girl that ignores her head and lets her heart lead her feet... the girl that lets magic interrupt her paragraphs. Geez... it's only been 9 days and this guys gotta grip around my head already. Don't get me wrong... A isn't perfect by any means. In fact, there are a few parts of his past that aren't very appealing (nothing terrible, I promise!) but can I hold his past against him? Not unless I expect him to hold mine against me, I suppose.
It's spring... the season of love, or in this case, a really REALLY big like. I can't help but wonder... can I be that girl?
RENT: five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes... how do you measure a year in a life? how about love.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tales from the Lipped
That Girl has been a very, very busy beaver lately (pun intended!). My weekends have been full of one hilarious event after another... events that make me contemplate the need to shock the gene pool like it's being prepped for the summer season! You see, people have not stopped amazing me. Each and every moment is full of another astonishingly stupid human move!
Encounter at IHOP on a Saturday night:
Let's set the scene. It's nearly 2am. I've had a couple of beers... literally a beer or two. Pulling up in front of the local IHOP, I'm greeted (and blinded) by four police cruisers, cherries blazing.
Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by a girl holding a towel against her bleeding face. Interesting, I think to myself. As we are seated, I look towards the restroom to see a police officer holding open the door and a girl washing her eyes out with soap and water. What the fuck happened here, you ask? Well, apparently, a small food fight turned into a domestic battery incident as the girl in the bathroom had apparently thrown a glass that shattered as it hit the other girl in the face. Then, there was apparently some pepper spray, blood splatter and a whole lot of commotion. Really? It all started with a tasty little sausage link to the forehead and ends with the emergency room, assault and battery charges and a face full of cayenne pepper. Sounds like an eventful evening to me! Stay classy ladies!
Oh, speaking of classy ladies, I've been notincing a lot of VPL's (visible panty lines) lately. In fact, as I picked at my scrambled eggs, the restaurant began to fill up with bar goers. Here's a wise word to all my well-rounded...uh...er... or just round women out there: just because it went on a mannequin doesn't mean that it should go on you! Leggings should not be painted onto legs that look like they are tree trunks that just survived a hail storm. Oh, and they definitely shouldn't be trying to conceal your granny panties because we can all see that your panties are migrating towards your ass crack , or they are ruffled. Either way... um... textured panties (whether natural or because you're a fat ass) don't belong under spandex pants. I know they say that fashion can hurt but I think they were referring to ultra high stilettos, not MY EYES!
A weekend away... slummin' it!
This past weekend, I traveled to a city just a few hours away to visit a very dear friend. Upon arriving late Friday night, we ventured out for a few cocktails. We were tired. I'd already worked eight hours and then driven three. She had been off work for nearly 6 hours anticipating my arrival. We decided to go to a divey little bar with cheap booze where she knew that we didn't have to do any sort of "maintenance" before leaving the house.
Side note: I love divey bars. I really enjoy being with salt of the earth people as they tend to be incredibly entertaining. This particular evening and the one that followed left my gut as sore as a Canadian whore's vagina after the closing ceremony of the winter Olympics.
Upon entering the bar, we were greeted by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Walmart. When I say that this bar was divey, I mean, it was trailer park central... and not the good ol' double wides, but the aluminum can variety. We were by far the best looking and classiest ladies in the bar. I could have shit my pants and still been a step up from at least a third of the patrons.
It was kareoke night. Oh how I love white trash kareoke! I spent the evening listening to a woman who had some pipes but really thought that she WAS Whitney Houston. I wanted to tell the woman that crack is whack and that she should keep her day job but instead I just giggled and lip synched as she wailed and warbled her way through "I Will Always Love You". She was a Kareoke Queen...
The show wasn't over though. It was filled with people taking the stage, which was really a patch of dirty tile next to the pool tables, singing one bad rendition of a good song after another. This was their American Idol moment... repeated every Friday and Saturday night. My ears were bleeding and my mouth was running a million miles a minute. I spewed a running commentary regarding the performers, their lack of singing ability and filled the moments in between with my own song lyrics (generally crude).
The highlight of the kareoke encounter included a death metal version of Micheal Jackson's "Beat It" and a boy-on-boy duet of "Nightshift" by the Commodores. The scream-o "Beat It" boy screamed better than the man that sang like he was Elton John... the only problem was that the Elton impersonator couldn't sing, nor could he read and therefore only said about half of each fucking word. Really? Really. The boy-on-boy duet was pretty fucking amazing, as it was quickly turned into "The Mother Fuckin' Nightshift". I like to think of it as an urbanization of a classic. Thank you boys for the creativity! It was a delight to my ears... especially in comparison to any of the other vocal vomiters...er...singers.
The truth is, I don't really have the balls to do kareoke. I know I can't sing well. Why would I try? I barely sing outloud in the shower, let alone in a crowded bar. I could have laughed all night at the dumbasses that really though they were fucking good! The sad part is that I could tell that this WAS their moment, the moment they lived for every fucking Friday and Saturday! How sad for them...
The weekend was topped with more trailer park moments... the kind that make you rethink ordering another drink at the fear of becoming what you're surrounded by. Example: 50+ year old woman, shit faced drunk, fighting against gravity will all she had. She began her evening with one man and ended it with another. Neither gentleman was eye candy... in fact, more like eye composte. Her dirty jean jacket and stained denim jeans (wedged firmly between her ass cheeks... the pants, not the jacket) were only the tip of the iceberg. She danced, and then fell down. She stood up and then fell down. She walked over to our table as we took bets on how long it would be before she fell down again... looked at us and slurred "eeny, meeny, miney, mo".
"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around," I replied. She fell down. I guess that's what it's all about.
I've done the kareoke thing. I won't be doing it again any time soon. I mean, really, there's not a stage that's ready for another rendition of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time". Instead, I think I'll just keep on being a dancing queen.
Encounter at IHOP on a Saturday night:
Let's set the scene. It's nearly 2am. I've had a couple of beers... literally a beer or two. Pulling up in front of the local IHOP, I'm greeted (and blinded) by four police cruisers, cherries blazing.
Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by a girl holding a towel against her bleeding face. Interesting, I think to myself. As we are seated, I look towards the restroom to see a police officer holding open the door and a girl washing her eyes out with soap and water. What the fuck happened here, you ask? Well, apparently, a small food fight turned into a domestic battery incident as the girl in the bathroom had apparently thrown a glass that shattered as it hit the other girl in the face. Then, there was apparently some pepper spray, blood splatter and a whole lot of commotion. Really? It all started with a tasty little sausage link to the forehead and ends with the emergency room, assault and battery charges and a face full of cayenne pepper. Sounds like an eventful evening to me! Stay classy ladies!
Oh, speaking of classy ladies, I've been notincing a lot of VPL's (visible panty lines) lately. In fact, as I picked at my scrambled eggs, the restaurant began to fill up with bar goers. Here's a wise word to all my well-rounded...uh...er... or just round women out there: just because it went on a mannequin doesn't mean that it should go on you! Leggings should not be painted onto legs that look like they are tree trunks that just survived a hail storm. Oh, and they definitely shouldn't be trying to conceal your granny panties because we can all see that your panties are migrating towards your ass crack , or they are ruffled. Either way... um... textured panties (whether natural or because you're a fat ass) don't belong under spandex pants. I know they say that fashion can hurt but I think they were referring to ultra high stilettos, not MY EYES!
A weekend away... slummin' it!
This past weekend, I traveled to a city just a few hours away to visit a very dear friend. Upon arriving late Friday night, we ventured out for a few cocktails. We were tired. I'd already worked eight hours and then driven three. She had been off work for nearly 6 hours anticipating my arrival. We decided to go to a divey little bar with cheap booze where she knew that we didn't have to do any sort of "maintenance" before leaving the house.
Side note: I love divey bars. I really enjoy being with salt of the earth people as they tend to be incredibly entertaining. This particular evening and the one that followed left my gut as sore as a Canadian whore's vagina after the closing ceremony of the winter Olympics.
Upon entering the bar, we were greeted by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Walmart. When I say that this bar was divey, I mean, it was trailer park central... and not the good ol' double wides, but the aluminum can variety. We were by far the best looking and classiest ladies in the bar. I could have shit my pants and still been a step up from at least a third of the patrons.
It was kareoke night. Oh how I love white trash kareoke! I spent the evening listening to a woman who had some pipes but really thought that she WAS Whitney Houston. I wanted to tell the woman that crack is whack and that she should keep her day job but instead I just giggled and lip synched as she wailed and warbled her way through "I Will Always Love You". She was a Kareoke Queen...
The show wasn't over though. It was filled with people taking the stage, which was really a patch of dirty tile next to the pool tables, singing one bad rendition of a good song after another. This was their American Idol moment... repeated every Friday and Saturday night. My ears were bleeding and my mouth was running a million miles a minute. I spewed a running commentary regarding the performers, their lack of singing ability and filled the moments in between with my own song lyrics (generally crude).
The highlight of the kareoke encounter included a death metal version of Micheal Jackson's "Beat It" and a boy-on-boy duet of "Nightshift" by the Commodores. The scream-o "Beat It" boy screamed better than the man that sang like he was Elton John... the only problem was that the Elton impersonator couldn't sing, nor could he read and therefore only said about half of each fucking word. Really? Really. The boy-on-boy duet was pretty fucking amazing, as it was quickly turned into "The Mother Fuckin' Nightshift". I like to think of it as an urbanization of a classic. Thank you boys for the creativity! It was a delight to my ears... especially in comparison to any of the other vocal vomiters...er...singers.
The truth is, I don't really have the balls to do kareoke. I know I can't sing well. Why would I try? I barely sing outloud in the shower, let alone in a crowded bar. I could have laughed all night at the dumbasses that really though they were fucking good! The sad part is that I could tell that this WAS their moment, the moment they lived for every fucking Friday and Saturday! How sad for them...
The weekend was topped with more trailer park moments... the kind that make you rethink ordering another drink at the fear of becoming what you're surrounded by. Example: 50+ year old woman, shit faced drunk, fighting against gravity will all she had. She began her evening with one man and ended it with another. Neither gentleman was eye candy... in fact, more like eye composte. Her dirty jean jacket and stained denim jeans (wedged firmly between her ass cheeks... the pants, not the jacket) were only the tip of the iceberg. She danced, and then fell down. She stood up and then fell down. She walked over to our table as we took bets on how long it would be before she fell down again... looked at us and slurred "eeny, meeny, miney, mo".
"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around," I replied. She fell down. I guess that's what it's all about.
I've done the kareoke thing. I won't be doing it again any time soon. I mean, really, there's not a stage that's ready for another rendition of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time". Instead, I think I'll just keep on being a dancing queen.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Hibernate or penetrate?
So, I recently started a new job... I'm one week in and I hae to say that I was shocked on the first day of training. You see, there we are going through pages and pages of corporate policy and procedure when all of a sudden I turn a page and in big bold letters is a section titled BLOGGING POLICY. YIKES! Can you believe that they actually have a blogging policy?! Well they do, so, I won't tell you who it is that I work for because well, I need the job dammit. If you happen to know me, and you happen to know who I work for, please do NOT place any comments on my page that reference the said employer. I will further refer only to the employer by calling them Giant Corp, or GC for short, in this and all future posts.
This week has been trying as I have had to examine my own personality and avoid things like cussing and being openly mean. I've also been trying to control my facial expressions as I sit at the back of the training room listening to hours and hours of instruction, some interesting, some not. There is one particular person that seems to make a comment about EVERYTHING. You know the type, the "one-upper" who has to always trump a story, example or question from other people in the training class. His commentary is generally a waste of time, having only 1 out of every 5 comments or questions referencing anything useful. I haven't been openly mean... YET! But I can guarantee you that as soon as I lose all cognitive control, this guy is getting a huge fucking piece of my mind and maybe my fist! I might just have to hit a bitch!!
In addition to the one-upper, we have THAT GUY. In fact, he was refered to as THAT GUY today... you know the type: the guy that brags about everything including, according to him, the $900 watch that he was wearing today. REALLY? You are sitting in a fucking office and you feel the need to tell us tha tyou have a $900 watch on?! WHY?! Overcompensating much? I think so buddy, I think so. Poor little guy... pun intended! I forsee me putting him in his place sometime in the near future and it will be EPIC!
The beginning of this work week caused me some personal confusion. As I walked into the training room full of individuals that I have never seen before, with the exception of my interviewer, I caught myself immediately looking for wedding rings on all of the men. I hadn't even looked at their faces yet! Shocked at my own behavior, I took my seat and decided that I would simply focus on the task at hand...
4 hours in and it's time for lunch. I take my place at a table next to two gentleman who are younger than my baby brother! UGH! They are fresh out of college... I mean, you can still smell the sorority whores and cheap beer on them! They are nice guys, naive, uber excited for this employment opportunity. Another veteran decides to sit at our same table and is filling us in on all of the perks of working for Giant Corp. He casually looked at my left hand and said, "Oh, you're single? There's lots of single people who work here so it tends to be a good place to date out of as well." Since when do corporate slogans include things like "Work here. Breed here." SERIOUSLY? And why did he assume that just because my 29 year old finger wasn't covered in platinum and diamonds that I was SINGLE?! And why is it considered a dirty word?! UGH!
Only a few posts ago, it was raining men.... so, it's raining outside but in my bedroom it's a total dry spell. Granted maybe it has something to do with throwing D. to the curb (see a previous post if you don't know what I'm referring to). Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I haven't been out socially since New Year's Eve... at least not in the city anyway. Am I raising my standards or just hibernating for the winter!?? I haven't even been on a date with BOB lately and that was once a daily ritual. Maybe it's just because I've been working so much... tired, worn down, and cold.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow which will officially leave me the last single person in my family that is of legal marrying age. The next youngest is 10. I'm sure that I'll be scoping for rings at the reception and everywhere else I go, as it's become kind of an involuntary reflex. I'm really contemplating this online dating thing...
Can't a girl just get a little penetration?
This week has been trying as I have had to examine my own personality and avoid things like cussing and being openly mean. I've also been trying to control my facial expressions as I sit at the back of the training room listening to hours and hours of instruction, some interesting, some not. There is one particular person that seems to make a comment about EVERYTHING. You know the type, the "one-upper" who has to always trump a story, example or question from other people in the training class. His commentary is generally a waste of time, having only 1 out of every 5 comments or questions referencing anything useful. I haven't been openly mean... YET! But I can guarantee you that as soon as I lose all cognitive control, this guy is getting a huge fucking piece of my mind and maybe my fist! I might just have to hit a bitch!!
In addition to the one-upper, we have THAT GUY. In fact, he was refered to as THAT GUY today... you know the type: the guy that brags about everything including, according to him, the $900 watch that he was wearing today. REALLY? You are sitting in a fucking office and you feel the need to tell us tha tyou have a $900 watch on?! WHY?! Overcompensating much? I think so buddy, I think so. Poor little guy... pun intended! I forsee me putting him in his place sometime in the near future and it will be EPIC!
The beginning of this work week caused me some personal confusion. As I walked into the training room full of individuals that I have never seen before, with the exception of my interviewer, I caught myself immediately looking for wedding rings on all of the men. I hadn't even looked at their faces yet! Shocked at my own behavior, I took my seat and decided that I would simply focus on the task at hand...
4 hours in and it's time for lunch. I take my place at a table next to two gentleman who are younger than my baby brother! UGH! They are fresh out of college... I mean, you can still smell the sorority whores and cheap beer on them! They are nice guys, naive, uber excited for this employment opportunity. Another veteran decides to sit at our same table and is filling us in on all of the perks of working for Giant Corp. He casually looked at my left hand and said, "Oh, you're single? There's lots of single people who work here so it tends to be a good place to date out of as well." Since when do corporate slogans include things like "Work here. Breed here." SERIOUSLY? And why did he assume that just because my 29 year old finger wasn't covered in platinum and diamonds that I was SINGLE?! And why is it considered a dirty word?! UGH!
Only a few posts ago, it was raining men.... so, it's raining outside but in my bedroom it's a total dry spell. Granted maybe it has something to do with throwing D. to the curb (see a previous post if you don't know what I'm referring to). Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I haven't been out socially since New Year's Eve... at least not in the city anyway. Am I raising my standards or just hibernating for the winter!?? I haven't even been on a date with BOB lately and that was once a daily ritual. Maybe it's just because I've been working so much... tired, worn down, and cold.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow which will officially leave me the last single person in my family that is of legal marrying age. The next youngest is 10. I'm sure that I'll be scoping for rings at the reception and everywhere else I go, as it's become kind of an involuntary reflex. I'm really contemplating this online dating thing...
Can't a girl just get a little penetration?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I'm not gonna write you a love song
As another Valentine's Day has come and gone, I thought that I'd write a few "love" letters. You see, I spent my Valentine's Day single and working... just like every year before. I can't remember that I've ever been in a relationship, dating someone or even casually sleeping with someone on a Valentine's Day. Never have I received the stereotypical flower, chocolates and greeting card expression of another's feelings for me. Did I feel lonely? Upset? No more than usual.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.