The Bitch Face

Original Article Here

I am a victim of Bitchy Resting Face. YES. And to be fair, these girls actually don’t have BRF in my opinion. I think they had to work pretty hard to look mean. I, on the other hand, just look pissed off normally.

I have tried different looks over the years to make me seem more approachable. One was growing out my hair.  Apparently short hair makes me look even meaner.  This may have worked if I hadn’t constantly pulled it back into a tight ponytail because I hate the feeling of hair on my neck. This caused my giant forehead and huge Dumbo-like ears to become my defining feature. Not a good look. Just ask my stylist who, when I begged to cut my hair short again, made me promise on my first-born that I will wear earrings and wear makeup EVERY DAY. For the most part, I’ve held up my end of the bargain, but on the days I don’t, you can bet I’ll see the most popular girl in high school at Costco, which doesn’t really bother me, as she didn’t know who I was anyways. These are also the days I get my picture taken. Constantly. For no reason.

Anyways, this is a big issue to have when desperately trying to fit in in high school. I remember wondering why for the life of me I could not make friends in my catholic high school after spending the first 9 years in public school.   Take a fish out of water, combine with BRF, my introversion and the acute inability to open my mouth to make initial conversation with another human being, and I was out of luck.  High school was a character building experience to say the least.

I was the most lonely my freshman year during my Intro to Typing class, which, unbeknownst to me, was an elective only seniors chose. I was seated behind what must have been the senior plastics of their day and desperately wanted to be included in their conversations on a daily basis. One day, one of the cool guys (who is totally probably fat and sad now, I wish I could remember his name) turned around to ask me a question. I looked up from my typewriter (yes, you heard me) to listen and he backed away with his hands in the air saying, “Okaaay, nevermind, sorry didn’t mean to bother you,” and then proceeded to snicker at the girl next to him about “what pissed her off?”    That’s just my face dillhole. I was LISTENING.

One of my biggest pet peeves that happens from having BRF is people are constantly telling you to smile. Life’s not so bad! Cheer up! Whaaa? I wasn’t unhappy, nor was I looking at you, so please be on your merry way. OK, maybe I am a bit of a bitch.

One of our building maintenance guys thinks it’s funny to call me “Smiley.” He doesn’t know me, nor has he had more than a 5 minute conversation with me, but this doesn’t stop him from judging my unhappy appearance and feeling free to comment on the state of my face. I don’t look at him and out of the blue go, “Paunch!” No, cause that would be rude. Smiley, however, is apparently funny.

My question is, what do these people want from me? A shit grin on my face at all points in the day in the off chance someone is looking at me? Not gonna happen. For me, apparently my smiling is so rare that when I do smile, people make a big deal about it and insist on me telling them “what I’m so happy about,” to which I oftentimes cannot explain without sounding like an idiot.

To sum up, bitch face + introvert = not very likeable 1st impression.  Sorry, it’s just the way I look.

Bitch

Bitch

No bitch...but maybe a tad crazy.  I can never get it right.

No bitch…but maybe a tad crazy. I can never get it right.

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Bee Movie

Who killed a bee tonight LIKE A BOSS?  This girl!  Because, my “Edward” isn’t home until Saturday and this bee was all, “Oh I live here now.  Honeybee don’t give a fuck!”  And I was like “Will get my shoe and my cone sweeper!  Grace, get the door!”

Killing is dramatic, I may have showed him the way out via a cone sweeper.  All left happy.  I swear this bee was stoned.  He really didn’t seem to give a fuck where he was.

Let’s just say there was A LOT of screaming and yelling for a while, and the neighbor walking her dog got quite an eyeful as a 33 year old in a “He’s my Edward” T-shirt and yoga pants falls out the front door, screeching while holding a running cone sweeper.  (Because if you turn off the suck, the bee will come out…duh.), with 2 kids screaming behind her like the bee’s family is after them and about to put a horse’s head on their beds.

What an evening.

How sexy am I?

How sexy am I?

Blerg…I mean Blog.

I am unmotivated lately.  Must be PMSing or pouting that my husband is gone for 2 weeks and G gets sick the second he leaves town.

How about I give a shout out to all the people who fill up my Facebook page and make me mostly unproductive during work hours.  These bloggers help me daily and I love them dearly.

Angie Lynch @ http://awholelotofnothing.net/ who writes about awesome smut and gives me a cheat sheet on what to read next on … http://smutbookclub.com/.  I hope to one day visit this Floridian and kiss her feet for making books awesome again.

http://jasongood.net/ – My hero of funny. I hope to one day be 1/4 this funny. I will die happy.  This is the best.  46 Reasons My 3 Year Old Might be Freaking Out. 

Moms Who Drink and Swear – Nicole Knepper makes me feel NORMAL and comfortable with the fact that I think my kid using sarcasm correctly at age 6 is a personal achievement in parenting.

Jen @ http://www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com/, because really, her blog name says it all.  She cracks me up.  She wrote a book with other awesome bloggers and maybe one day I can hornswaggle my way into one of her next bestselling anthologies.  Cause right now, my publishing attempts are 0-2.    This girl brings the funny.

And lastly but not leastly… my local girls

Jayme @ http://www.randomblogette.com/, who is awesome and one of only 3 ladies who will remember our senior trip to Cancun together, and who will most likely agree that our parents were the dumbest ever and our kids will NEVER get that opportunity of drunken debauchery in HIGH SCHOOL.  Good Lord, some of the stories from that week we will take to our graves.  Let’s just say only ONE of us did NOT get a tattoo in a walk up Mexican tattoo parlor, where they did not turn the autoclave on, only pretended to take things out of there.  This was only because said person was STARVING and just wanted to eat food that would ultimately give her diarrhea.  Food always trumps peer pressure, in SOME people’s eyes.  🙂

And Brittany @ http://brittanyherself.com/, who in the 4 years I’ve been following her (religiously and maybe a bit single white femalishly) has gone from laugh out loud pee your pants funny anecdotes to totally hot, inspirational blogger with ever-increasing fame and success – and she still has time to write ridiculously entertaining, hilarious stuff.  See The Brazilian.

OK – that should give you something to do while I take a brief hiatus from writing.  Check these girls (and guy) out.   They are hilarious and will probably make you unproductive at work too.  Try explaining why you are laughing at the Brazilian video to your cubicle mate.  Not easy.

 

We Have a Reader

0978081099313_300X300Hey all! I have been tired and off my game lately, sorry I haven’t been posting often. My goal is twice a week, but I have been lucky lately to get one done. Plus, I am a little bummed in that with all my talk about Toledo Area Parent, it’s been almost a month and not one word in response to what I sent them. So, sorry if I got anyone’s hopes up. It’s my first rejection as a writer, but I am hopeful I will get more chances elsewhere.  I am just proud I put myself out there.  The rejection will help me when I finally finish that Great American Novel I am intending to write.  😉

Anyways, I think I can officially state that my 6 year old is a full fledged reader. The best part is, I think he’s going to be just like his mother and read voraciously. He got his first Kindle book (because Dad left his home. I do not share! Hey, I need something to do while How’s It’s Made is on, please don’t make me actually learn about how erasers are made again ). I bought him Diary of a Wimpy Kid and he’s almost done. I asked if he had told his teacher about it, and he told me, no he hadn’t because he was afraid she’d be upset because there were swear words in it. What??? I thought this was safe reading??? Well, apparently the word “stupid” is used a lot. OK – I can deal with stupid, as long as he realizes only the not nice characters use mean words like that.  It helps build character I say.  As long as he isn’t learning the fine essence of the F-bomb, I can deal.

So anyways, when this came up, I asked him what it was really about. He was telling me the gist of it, and I asked if there is a love story in it, because he knows that if there isn’t a love story, Mom ain’t reading it. He grimaced and said, No Mom! I said there’s got to be a love story, what’s the point? He rolled his eyes and said, “Why do you only read books where they suck each others….” at which point I slapped my hand over his mouth, terrified of what he knew about what the people in my books sucked. I really try to keep these things under lock and key, but he reads EVERYTHING (including nutrition labels), so maybe he found an extremely juicy part when he was using my Kindle for Where’s My Water?

He took my hand off his mouth, and finished (with me cringing in anticipation)…”blood.” Sucking blood. OHH, much better. See – he knows I am obsessed with Twilight, Vampire Diaries, Chicagoland Vampires books, and basically anything vampires. He thinks all I read about is bloodthirsty boyfriends, which is not entirely wrong. It’s just that I have some other books where the people suck, umm, other things.

And with that, I will now be locking my Kindle up, or at least making sure my smut novels are closed before I hand it over. No need to explain to my kids the birds and the bees this early.  That, and why birds and bees can be so very very dirty.

Next up…Food Issues.  Not having so much luck with this whole losing weight adventure.  Am I the only person who LIVES (read:  exists) to eat?

Thank God I’m a Country Girl

When I get a spare moment in life, at work, out and about, at home, I usually hop on Pinterest.  I love this site, it has so many great ideas, tips, recipes, and funny sayings you could browse for days.  One of my favorite things to do during the day is to copy pictures of ideas that I love and email them to my husband so he can do them.  Some of my favorites have been under stairs bathrooms, which we are planning to complete in our basement, cool storage kitchen tips, and best of all, various adorable chicken coops.  Now, I live dead center of a neighborhood in a suburb of Toledo, but God I want me some adorable chickens to live in their own adorable home in my backyard.  What could go wrong?  Plus, my husband and I have an ongoing argument that I could totally be a farmer.  I say yes, totally, and he says, not in a million years.  Here’s my reasoning.

Oh my God Mark you HAVE to build this!

Oh my God Mark you HAVE to build this!

I first got the idea my freshman year of college when I took my first environmental studies class, which ultimately led to my completely USELESS Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Policy degree.  During this class, I had a professor, who let’s just say kept it REAL.   This man practiced what he preached, such as refusing to wear a watch because of the non-recyclable battery and not owning a refrigerator (because they are mass suckers of energy), but instead dug cisterns in his backyard where he kept his perishables.  WEIRD.  But to my 19-year-old brain, this man was LIVING what he was preaching.  For God’s sake, the man made me feel bad about wearing a watch.  That is a gift.   In this class, he had a whole segment on sustainable farming, crop rotation, fallow fields, and so on.  For some ungodly reason, to my young idealistic mind this was fascinating to me.  I kept thinking, how great would life be to not have to leave your own land ever and be able to completely sustain yourself?  It was an introverts dream come true.  I pictured myself waking up to “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” every morning, going out and feeding the chickens with my apron on like Cinderella does, petting the horse and feeding the dog (OK fine, my idea of farm living IS the first 5 minutes of Cinderella, complete with singing birds in cute vests).  Then I would come back in and bake apple pie after apple pie to naturally cool on the windowsill.  Then at supper, I would ring-a-ling my triangle and tell the workers to come in and enjoy some good ole fashioned stew, dumplings, corn pudding, and of course, my ever present apple pie.

Apparently, Mark thinks there is more to farming than the above described, to which I always reply WHATEVER.  Apparently all the above mentioned animals poop a copious amount and someone has to clean it up.  Apparently, someone needs to do something after the crops are planted or else we don’t eat or make any money.  And apparently, eating apple pie every day is somewhat bad for your cholesterol.  So, he continuously reminds me that, of all my dreams, this one he can guarantee I would last approximately five minutes doing and he, as usual, would end up finishing what I started while I found a good book and a glass of wine and read on the couch.  Or maybe the porch swing, because naturally our farmhouse would have a big wraparound porch complete with porch swing and rockers.  Did I mention it never gets cold at our farm?  Awesome I know.  Anyways, do you see how little faith my husband has in me?  Even after 17 years he apparently has no idea who I am.  (Note the sarcasm here, I’m laying it on pretty thick.)  And when he brings up my current garden, I will tell you I have no idea what he’s talking about.  You know, the one I plant all excitedly in May, and then when it gets too hot out, I completely ignore it?  Yeah, that one.

So – now you know why occasionally you will hear my husband yell, “YOU COULD NOT BE A FARMER” at random times.  This is mostly because I have just given him a look after a John Denver song or a Bob Evans commercial plays that says, I could totally do that.  So, I’m guessing Son-In-Law is not an accurate representation of farming?  Cause, I always pictured myself in the Pauly Shore role, as the cool city-girl who awesomes up the farm folks.  (Crap, I’m dating myself.  I just looked it up on IMDB and that movie is 20 years old.)

Yep, Paul Harvey was talking to me.  I hear ya Paul, I’m on it.

But really, this is more what I pictured. Cakes on the griddle, rosining up the bow of my fiddle, whittling some wood.

Big Week

Big week ahead people, big week.  Or maybe not.  Who knows what’s in store for our family?  God does apparently, but he’s not giving us any clues.  Jerk.

I kid.  I kid. God knows I’m joking, he totally gets my sense of humor, after all, he made it, but sometimes, just once I’d like a little heads up on what he has in store.  To explain why my husband is only employable on the east coast.

That’s right, big job interview this week in Philly.  That’s right, Philadelphia.  500 milez away.  They seem interested and he’s a super great fit for the job.  Figures.

Before you all freak out on him for not trying hard enough here, I assure you, he did, and he is, doing everything in his power to get a job that doesn’t take him away on a weekly basis.  We both want it more than you’ll ever know.  It just doesn’t seem to be in the cards for us.

And before you wonder if I will be curling up in the fetal position because I will then be back “doing it alone,” I promise you, I won’t.  Mainly because I learned the hard way that asking for help is not a sign of weakness.   I have a SUPER support system.  In-laws that will drop everything to help us out.  (Yes, Lisa, you too, but come on, you have TWINS for cryin out loud.  You get the year off.)   I have a husband that’s more present 500 miles away than a lot are right at home.  I have a wonderfully tolerant workplace, who understands Sunday night fevers and daycare phone calls at 10:30 a.m.  I have more than most people can dream of, so I count myself lucky, even though I do succumb to the occasional pity party in my mom mobile.  Where I turn on Adele and The Fray and act like I’m in a sad movie and sing and ugly cry.  But then, I put on my big girl pants and move on.  Cause that’s what I do.  It’s what I have to do.

IF this happens, which it hasn’t yet.  This is the man who has had at least 3 job offers made and accepted, only to have the employer all of a sudden not return his calls and act like they’ve never met.  So really, until he sets foot on another job site and 2 weeks later a pay stub is deposited, I won’t get excited or worried.  It’s like he has job VD or something.

Is this circulating Monster and Career Builder?

Is this circulating Monster and Career Builder?

Tentatively, this seems to be a really good company, not the usual 2-man, unorganized, hot mess that he’s used to.  Somewhere where he can grow.  Hopefully, home every weekend.  Make a decent wage.  Not work himself into a heart attack at 36.

Wish him luck.  Either way, it’s good news.  I can say the job market is active, which is more than we could say the last time around.  If this doesn’t pan out, there are always options.  I have a really good connection at McDonald’s if all else fails.  He would bring it to that fry station.  LIKE A BOSS.
And now, a funny video.  I will miss you SNL Shorts. Not for everyone, especially if you don’t like swear words…NSFW. I just thought this might work in Mark’s interview.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bathroom

I keep trying to think of an intro that eases you into this story.  Some gentle Family Circus humor before I get all gross.  But…I got nothing.  Subtlety is not really my forte in writing.  So here goes nothing… an Honest -To-God True Story about why sometimes it sucks to be a woman. 

 

Having a period in an office environment can be a bit challenging.  Every 30 days, I get a visit from Aunt Flo that’s not so much fun for about 48 hours, and I need to quietly excuse myself every 3 hours or so to stop the epic dam that’s about to burst and bleed out in front of my co-workers.  Gross.  I told you, but hey babies don’t come from storks, magic pixie dust and fairy wings.  It’s nature people.    

 

No matter our age, women have to figure out a way in public to get hygiene products into a bathroom for a quick spruce up and to stop the dam from breaking.  In high school, that meant suddenly carrying your purse to the bathroom for one week a month.  In college, you had to plan for long class days and pack your bag accordingly, and not get stuck in a 3-hour class and feel gravity take over halfway through.  Eww I know, but hey ladies, you all know what I’m sayin…you’ve all been there, and it sucks. 

 

So then you get to be an adult with a job with a nice clean bathroom and more leniency on when you can get up and pee.  (Unless, you work in a call center like I did once for 8 tortuous months, then it’s like breaking out of prison to go to the bathroom.)  If you carry your purse, everyone wonders where the hell you’re going, and in my office, they ask.  So instead of coming up with a lie every four hours, “Uh, I just have to get something out of my car,” which some in my office would totally keep track of, and soon I’d be hearing, “You know, you go down to your car a lot, maybe you should plan ahead and bring it all up at once.”  Thanks.  I’d never thought of that. 

 

See, our bathrooms are not in our suite.  They are at the end of a LONG hallway and shared with other offices on our floor, which is awesome for total anonymity when you need to go drop a bomb after some KILLER Lebanese food or you know you will be making some sweet noise after a round of refried bean Mexican dip.  This is not so great when you have to RUN to them after some really good milkshakes, which really, all they do to me is make my boys run FROM the yard.  Lactose intolerance sucks and milkshakes are SOOO good – it’s such a double edge sword.    And yes, every time I hear that song, I think of diarrhea.  Not quite what Kelis had in mind I think.   

 

Anyways, God, I could talk about poop all day, but that’s not what I’m telling you today.  So, I had my monthly friend visiting and it was time to do some necessary business.  Now, I have created my own little secret stashing place for my unmentionables, ok, let’s just get this out of the way, TAMPONS.  There, now I can stop thinking of delicate words for it.  Hell, I’ve already confessed to running diarrhea so I am not quite sure what I am so embarrassed about.  This secret place doesn’t require an obvious purse or pockets, which I’ve discovered my work pants usually never have, or if they do, they are decoys and uselessly shallow and only there to showcase the fact that your hips are making them stick out at wierd angles.  My genius spot?  The waistband of my slacks.  I just need 2 uninterrupted seconds to place said tampon and pull my shirt over it and VIOLA!  I can discretely go to the bathroom with no one the wiser. 

 

Now when I say 2 uninterrupted seconds, really, that’s all I need.  But, in my office, much like my home, I have very little privacy.  2 uninterrupted seconds is damn near impossible.  Over the years, I have summed up the difference between home and work is that I don’t wipe butts at the office.  That’s the ONLY difference.  And don’t tell my sales associates I am a fairly good ass wiper because then that will be the next request from them.  So as I was saying, I was in the process of discretely placing said tampon in secret traveling location when unbeknownst to me, behind me magically appears a partner asking for something to be done.  I jump like an idiot and try to quickly stash said tampon into the waistband and then try to casually act like I totally wasn’t doing anything just then.  Standing there for no reason. 

 

He gives me a weird look, pauses, then proceeds to give me the task at hand.  He walks away and I breathe a sigh of relief and hope he didn’t see what I had in my hand.  Then I look down.  And see that the tampon has not slid into the waistband as hoped, but instead did this.    

Recreated just for you...

Recreated just for you…

So, while one of our partners was trying to nonchalantly ask me to do my job, I was not so casually sporting a tiny thin PENIS from the top of my shirt.  Awesome.  I am the COOLEST person ever. 

 

 I will probably never know if he saw it.  I’m too embarrassed to ask.  And he won’t mention it.  Ever.  Trust me. 

 

 AND ….SCENE. 

 

PS – HEY!!  I just learned to embed something.  Baby steps.  Maybe one day, I’ll figure out how to make this blog somewhat readable.  In the meantime, enjoy some Milkshake…