What's Your Status?

Once again, I’m going to tell you how I had a blog post almost done, outlining my overly opinionated thoughts on, what I view to be, ignorant parenting.  I mean that in the nicest way – however I should probably quit frequenting the Wal-Mart so much and I might be able to bring my blood pressure down to a halfway normal level. 

At any rate, I was struggling with how I wanted to present the topic. I suffer from the rare disease, Intolerantosis, and by writing down my views on practical parenting (if there even is such a thing) I was becoming rather fidgety.  So, I took a pause break and went over to Facebook to see what was going on with the world and realized I needed to express myself.  I know, it’s so completely out of character for me, but I will try to be PC about it. 

This actually has nothing to do with my mood or my ability to become irritated frequently.  This is just pure satire and boredom. 

I’ve compiled a list of ‘categories’ that I feel pertain to some of my acquaintances on my friends list.  Oh yeah…. that’s me casting the first stone.

So here goes.

The Nothing-Has-Changed, I’m-Just-That-F’king-Annoying – Updater:

Is it really necessary to update your status every 15 minutes?  I mean, if you were on a trip to Italy and wanted to update your status in regards to the breathtaking monuments that dwell there, such as the Parthenon and the Colosseum, and then I could absolutely understand the frequency of the updates.  Party on Wayne! 

There are people out there who insist on treating Facebook like a personal diary.  Again, if you are a college student away from your loved ones, it’s perfectly acceptable to see posts like, “Ramen Noodles again for dinner…” That’s funny.  And relatable. 

However, I don’t need to know that you had “Super yummy corn on the cob and baked beans for dinner” and then 30 minutes later find out you had an unnaturally loose bowel movement.  And 15 minutes prior to that, you were “Going to the store to find light bulbs” and while at the store another status update shows up letting everyone in your friends list know that “OMG I love corn! It’s on sale! And I forgot light bulbs! Lmao!!!” 

Yay. 

Did you happen to find a life while you were at the store? 

This type of Facebooker drives me nuts.  Absolutely bonkers.  Especially when I log in and see that my entire home page is covered in updates from one person.  Really?

The Boundary-Hunter: 

If you have a personal button that says, “I’m right, I’m always right, even when I’m wrong I’m right”, then this updater will inevitably rub you the wrong way.   This person will post controversial news blips, skits, quotes and/or opinions based on religion, politics, race, homosexuality or whatever just to get a rise out of people.  Because race, political parties, gender preference and all things that are drawn with a fine line are heavily debated nationally, the ‘Boundary Hunter’ will always have an opinion on all things American or Un-American and more often than not, argue just for the sake of arguing. 

The ‘Boundary Hunter’ is also a scheming little devil and sometimes posts things just to watch friends of theirs not broach the subject.  Often times you can see a major debate partake and at that moment I find myself brewing up a bag of popcorn, pulling up a seat and watching the fireworks.  Priceless! 

The Creepy-Von-Creepster-Non-Updater:

The Facebook friend that never, ever, ever, ever updates their status.  He/She knows all about you, yet you know nothing about them.  You will see them give a ‘thumbs up’ on statuses or the occasional comment on some random photo, but there is literally nothing on the their profile except a random picture of a fat man smoking a cigar.  If you go to their ‘Info’ tab, you will see that they ‘Like’ the ‘Like’ button and is a ‘fan’ of “More Cowbell”.  This Facebook stalker lurks in the background and never shows their face. 

The Negative-Nancy Updater:

I’m so guilty of this title, however I’ve had friends who take the cake with their updates.  I’m notorious for doing this about once a week – typically when I’ve run out of ‘nice’ and my poor friends and family get to endure my shortage of tolerance.  That being said, when you have a friend or acquaintance that insists on spewing their vulgarity and overall nastiness on Facebook all day, everyday, it’s time to block them.  You’ll know a “Negative Nancy” when you see one.  Not just one or two updates are full of piss and vinegar, but all of them.

Monday:  “Go Fuck Yourself Monday”           

Tuesday:  “Why can’t it be Friday, my boss is an asshole”

Wednesday: “Happy Hump Day my ass.  Some shit dick just asked me if I wanted lunch, do I look like I’m hungry?”                       

Thursday: “Thank God it’s almost Friday, FML”

Friday: “My co-worker just walked up to me and said ‘TGIF’ – WTF am I excited about? Pulling weeds? Because THAT’S WHAT I’M GOING TO DO THIS WEEKEND!”

Saturday: “What a boring day”

Sunday: “Great, tomorrow’s Monday and my weekend sucked”

This person is so incredibly negative; it starts to rub off on you!  I find myself wanting to comment on their status and say, “Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”    

The other side to the ‘Negative Nancy Updater’ is the person who has the Born Loser attitude. 

“I’m so saddened by the fact that I thought I had friends, but apparently I don’t because no one returns my calls.  **sigh** oh well, I guess I’ll have to slit my wrists.” 

Or – Get a life!  It’s FACEBOOK!  NOT THERAPY!!  You want a pity party; go pay a counselor to sort out your insecurities.  I’m not trying to be ugly, but when did Facebook become a round-table for innuendos? 

(I couldn’t think of a name for this category, so I have elected to call this type of updater – MARTHA STEWART):   

This person is the most fun.  This is the updater who can fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses!  Seriously.  I enjoy this type of updater simply because, as shitty as their life may be at the moment, they always have some sort of positive outlook on things.  Their statuses are random, yet warming.  Almost - innocent.

“Such a beautiful day, I am making fresh shortcake with strawberries and homemade ice cream if anyone would like to join me.  We could then hug and talk about how beautiful the sunset is …” 

Ok – how can you not ‘like’ their statuses?  They are so fricken positive it’s almost nauseating, yet you want more.  I particularly, want to fold them up and put them in my pocket for good luck.

The Tweeny-bopper-Drama-Queen Updater:

I completely get that being pre-pubescent and hormonal is hard.  Every adult has been through the awkward teen years and more often than not from the age of 13 to 16, teenagers feel it is their divine right to exploit their “feelings” on Facebook.

“OMG my BFF is bng such a BIOTCH! IDK, W/E. I’m SFD wit da C!”

If you’re over 25, the above translates to: “OH MY GOD, my BEST FRIEND FOREVER is being such a bitch! I don’t know, whatever. I’m so fucking done with this crap!”

I see this, and I have the urge to ask this person if I can buy a vowel.  Needless to say, these peeps are ‘hidden’ on my wall so I don’t have an aneurism trying to figure out what they are saying.

The Amateur-With-A-Digital-Camera-Who-Thinks-They-Are-A-Professional Photographer Updater:

“You’ve been tagged in a photo!”

I hate seeing these words, because undoubtedly, it’ll be something like this:

 With the description: Spanky, eating cake LOL. 

Thank you, Captain Obvious. I, however, keep a stash of photos for such an occasion and can then retort with:

“Sheila fell down.  LMAO!” 

The Look-What-I-Did-You-Should-Too! Updater:

“I just won a gazillion tokens by harvesting carrots on my farm, but you have to help me with my crops because I lost it to the Mafia in a bet - playing Texas Holdem.”  “Which Seinfeld Character are you?” “Susie just took the quiz, What Kind of Mood Are You In? With the result: Oh Dear, Someone Needs a Nap”.  “POKE!” “Here’s a drink!” “Send a smile!” “Someone loves you! Find out who!” “Johhny found a Gopher in his ass! What kind of animal will you find?” “POKE!” “Help Support My Cause.” “Do You Pick Your Nose or Blow Your Nose? Find out what that says about you!” “Nancy just started a pillow fight with you using a titanium pillow – you have 2 days to smack the shit out of her or she wins!”

Really?  I have 52 different kinds of hearts, 33 beers, lost 17 pillow fights, support 83 different causes and have been poked so many times it would make Jenna Jameson look like a virgin.  Isn’t there a cap on bullshit?  This happy clicker of causes, quizzes, games, and other mindless garble is the reason why I select “Status Updates Only” on my home page.

No! Susie, I don’t want to send you a fucking toy bear, because the last time I participated in that game my motherboard blew up trying to process all the fake cartoon stuffed animals that you sent back. 

The I-Can’t-Be-Using-Words Updater:

“:o)”, “;-)”, “. . . “, “>:-o”, “<3” – yeah, I don’t get it either.  Somehow semi-colons, apostrophes, parenthesis and arrows somehow translate to “I’m Happy”, “I’m Sad”, “I’m angry”, “I love you”, “I just saved 15% on switching to Geico.”  This type of updater cannot fathom the idea of placing consonants and vowels together and therefore punctuation says it all.  And we wonder why the up and coming generation is so lazy?

So whom am I going to piss off with this judgmental blog about Facebook updaters?  Probably everyone.

Seriously, I enjoy Facebook as much as the next person.  It is a huge trend that is increasingly becoming more and more addictive as the days pass.  Instead of asking friends via phone or in person how they are doing, you shoot them a message on their ‘wall’ for the entire world to see.  “Hey! How are you?  Whatever happened to those crawly things in your underwear?  Did you ever find out what they were?”  Or, “Have you told your boyfriend yet that you wanted to break up?  How did he take it?” 

1 'Like'

Having FUN Dammit!

My life is so completely unpredictable.  When I think my day is going to be normal, I wind up writing about a girl who messed herself at a convenient store.  When I wake up and purposefully look for something to bitch write about, absolutely nothing happens.  Unless you can come up with a brilliant way to write about me dumping cayenne pepper up my nose in an attempt to keep the pup away from my Licorice Ivy. 

I’ll wait.

…

Yeah, I wasn’t able to stretch that story either.

So here is my thing. My days are mundane, at best, and every once in a while I come across an “oh goody” moment and can hardly contain my excitement while I share my karma with you all.  When I go through a dry spell (like now), I literally second guess this whole blog thing.  I don’t have a popular blog.  I don’t do giveaways, and I don’t have a gimmick and I rarely keep up with pop-culture, news or anything that requires my full attention.  

Yes, those are violins playing in the background. 

Let’s move on shall we?

So in this process of over-analyzing my lack of ‘fun’, I came across a thought.  Don’t worry, I’m OK.  It didn’t hurt at all.

I’m an observer.  I love to people watch and I quite enjoy having fake conversations in my head if I were to ever confront the clueless peeps that I have had the pure pleasure of viewing. 

Last week I took my son and nephew to the water park with my girlfriend and her kids.  If you ever want to know what kind of parent you are, or if you simply want to evaluate your parental behavior, take your kids to a packed clusterfuck of a theme/water/amusement park and sit back and watch the different walks of life that roam the athletes foot infested pavement.   

I realized last week that I am most certainly, either a sufferer of OCD, or other parents just make me look that way.  I stress, probably more than any parent should, but funny, laid back Spanky takes a back seat when it comes to my kids safety and ‘Drill Sergeant Debbie’ appears.  All of a sudden I’m dumping sun block all over my kid, force-feeding him water, giving not one, not two, not three, but FIVE “in case of emergency” options and yet I still don’t feel like he’s safe.   As he’s anxious to get in line for the rides I yell at the top of my lungs, “Remember where to check in at and STAY TOGETHER!!!  Don’t run! Wait! Come back, I didn’t sun block your toes!!!”  At this time my girlfriend cuts the umbilical cord and tells me to chill the fuck out.  All of these thoughts rush through my mind of, “What if he slips and falls and breaks his neck?”  “What if some older kid bully’s him?”.  Ugh the torture!  I want him to be a kid and experience the park on his own without being tethered to my hip, but at the same time, I freak out thinking he’s going to injure himself if I’m not right there to warn him of the water-soaked stairs and cement.

Too much?  Ok.  My bad.  I’m really not that bad.  You’re right, I’m a horrible liar.  But compared to the lady that I’m about to introduce you to, I’m a fricken saint!

She-devil claimed a couple of chairs behind us.  Her two small children would be spending the day in the ‘Kiddie Cove’ and her oldest child, a boy, was there with his friend.  I saw the older boy take out the sunscreen and start applying it to his little brother and sister.  Mom was texting.  The boy then took the sunscreen and poured a dapple into the palm of his hand.  Mom smacked the back of his hand and the sunscreen went flying and she snapped at him, “That is for your little brother and sister!  Older kids don’t get sunburned!  You don’t fucking need it! Don’t waste my fucking money!”

I was scared.  Really scared at this point.  My filter always breaks in moments of crisis like this and my mouth regurgitates things that are completely none of my business.  Mom went back to texting and said to her son and his friend, “Go take your brother and sister to the kid pool, you can play later.”

I felt it boiling.  It was creeping up my throat like bad milk.  I knew exactly what I wanted to say.  I had it all planned out in my head.  It was going to be verbal gymnastics preceded by a drum role!  I opened my mouth and right on cue my girlfriend says, “Let’s go down a few slides with [her daughter] Katie!”  I wanted nothing more than to catch up with my son, but my adrenaline was boiling.  I wanted to give Satan’s Spawn that bore 3 innocent children a piece of my mind.  She needed to hear all about my views on her theory that “older kids don’t get sunburned”.  Please! Please let me tell this piece of shit off! Please, I’ll be the best Mom EVER if you just let me have 2 minutes alone with her.  Please!

Nope.  Karma likes me way too much.  The powers that be (my friend) snatched me away from the possible crime scene and forced me to have fun.

My intention that day was to let the boys do their thing and I was going to relax and get some sun.  So not the case.  Fat Ass Franny and her bad attitude and ridiculous theory that her kid doesn’t need sun screen totally screwed that up for me.

I caught up with my son, after taking a chill pill, and realized that I don’t want his water park experience to be associated with his crazed out Mom.  Nor, did I ever want to be that Mom that I just had the pure displeasure of seeing.  I did not act my age for the remainder of the day.  I channeled my best 10 year-old and acted completely inappropriate for 5 hours. 

Avoiding my claimed chair, I focused on trying to master the tubes that are provided for the water slides.  Total fail by the way.  Managing to face plant in one, ass-plant in another, completely by-pass the third (because I fell off of it) and ride down the slide without a raft or tube.  That’s how I roll float. 

I purchased an inconceivable amount of ice-cream for the kids and on the ride home we jammed out to teeny-bopper music at a volume that screams ‘headache’ with the windows rolled down.  

I may have my moments of craziness, I may be a bit controlling and I may have an excessive amount of worry bred into me, but after seeing Franny single-handedly take the award for “Bitch of The Year”, I opted to re-evaluate my high blood pressure and for the time being, just be a ‘Cool Mom’.

I Don't Have An Excuse. I'm THAT Bitchy.

Last year around this time, I managed to embarrass myself full tilt when I blogged about my adventures in swimsuit shopping.  I truly believe there are clothing Gods out there that sit back in their thrones or whatever they sit in and chortle down at you when you are both vertically and horizontally challenged.  “Oh, look at the chubby girl trying to look cute in a swimsuit.  Hey lady! You need boobs for that!” 

I spent my summer – when activities involved pools or public appearances – in running shorts. 

This last weekend, I went sundress shopping with Mr. Fricken Awesome.  Mind you, the last time I wore any kind of dress was at my soon-to-be sister in law’s wedding.  The image was similar to some child’s horrible vision of what a giant lime with flabby arms would look like.

When we went dress shopping for the wedding, the size I needed didn’t fit.  It was too big. Yay.  I usually have that problem with bras.  So I had to buy the next size down. Because it was so close to the wedding, I am a cheap ass and didn’t want to pay to have it altered.  The size I bought, I couldn’t zip up.  So my brilliant ass told my girlfriend “No worries, I have 3 months, it’ll zip right up!”

Fast forward to week of wedding.

In the 3 months I had, I spent every-single-day working out.  Nothing but cardio.  As hard as I could push my un-athletic body to go.  All my clothes were starting to loosen up, my waist was getting smaller, the boobs were almost completely gone and my milkshake was bringing all the boys to the yard. 

Two days before wedding. 

Dress doesn’t zip up.  Panic sets in.  I go to some sex boutique and buy the most expensive tummy sucker I can find.  So, not only can I not breathe, but I look good doing it.  Until I looked down and saw that some of my stomach had accidentally fallen out of the bottom of bustier.  Funny?  I didn’t know it could do that.

Day of wedding.

Tummy sucker is on.  Breathing is overrated.  Dress comes on.  Dress still not zipping too well. Ok. I won’t bend or breathe.  Check.  I turn to look in mirror and you know when you have a visual of what you think something should look like?  Well, with my new tummy tucker and my minor weight loss, I was absolutely convinced that despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe, I looked way better than the bride.  Totally. 

Ok, if giant limes with flabby arms and squishy flat boobs is hot, then, yeah, totally killing it. 

My boobs had totally disappeared at this point, I couldn’t put my arms down for fear that the weight of the flab would somehow dislodge the zipper and my dress would fall off.  So yes, I walked around looking like I was going to jump into some Irish dance at any given moment.  “Hi! Nice to see you! No, I quite enjoy holding my arms at a ninety degree angle…” 

THAT, was my last time in a dress.

This last weekend.  My birthday.  Mr. Fricken Awesome decides to take me sundress shopping.  I’m worried about the cinder blocks I have for legs as well as the inability to fill the top part up.  He tells me, “Honey, sundresses are just like cute ‘moo-moo’s.”  Oh! Good.  I feel better.  I’ll be a cute flat-chested fat girl. 

Moving on.

Sooooo many cute dresses!  I wanted them all.  I picked about 6 or 7 to try on and journeyed into the dressing room. 

Note:  Here are the things you should be aware of when sundress shopping; A) They are not “one size fits all” B) ‘Large’ doesn’t really mean ‘Large’, it means Large for small people and by small people we mean 10 or 12 year olds – even though you took it off of the rack in the adult section. C) Don’t try on material that clings if you are susceptible to saddlebags.

We left.  I cried.  Mr. Fricken Awesome did everything but tap dance on top of the vehicle to try to cheer me up. 

I ultimately settled on a sundress from a different, more fatty friendly store. Got it home, tried it on (again) and (in comparison to the department store dresses I tried on) somehow I went from looking like a smeared shade of pale wearing a slinky to  Spongebob Square Pants’ long lost sister. 

It all comes back to the boobs. 

Low cut dress + NFL Fullback shoulders + disappearing boobs = a major temper tantrum. 

Dress came off.  T-shirt and safety sweats came on and now I’m forced to face the fact that my diet of coffee and the occasional meal has done nothing for my girlish figure.  I’m not skinny.  I’m THIRTY FUCKING FOUR!  When you spend most of your time wearing clothes that have elastic waist-bands, you completely miss the part where your stomach and hips expand, until it’s too late.

Reality is, I don’t “do” cute.  I do comfortable.  I’ve fallen off of the healthy wagon and have now been bitten by the “Hello! You’re Not 23 Anymore” fairy.  (Who, by the way, is a real bitch.)

Sometimes I just need to release about girl stuff.  And by “girl stuff” I mean: the never-ending saga of “Does This Make Me Look Fat”?  It’s the age-old question that is automatically instilled into the female brain upon arrival into this world. 

Men have no chance of ever saying the right thing.  It’s a ‘catch-22’ question.  If they say “No” – they’re lying!  If they say, “Yes” they’re fucked. 

Don’t even sit there and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, I’m totally tuned into my body and I love every part of me.”  I’m sure you do sweetie.  That’s why you pay your therapist shit tons of money so he or she can tell you what to say when you are in denial. 

So why am I tripping?  Because I get tired of always feeling “fat”. (She says with a whiny voice and a foot stomp)  I use that term loosely.  Everyone has ‘fat days’.  Us women mostly point the finger to PMS, bloating, water retention or whatever.  Whatever we need to tell ourselves right?  Thing is, we are never happy.  I can admit that.  I can remember being a size 2 when my son was three and STILL convinced I could stand to lose a few pounds.  Now I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to fit my big toe into the leg of the size 2’s that I once wore. 

So here we are.  Eight years later, totally comfortable with Mr. Fricken Awesome.  Fully aware of my son’s love for me regardless if I’m a 2 or a 20, and I’ve just recently come to the realization that being in your thirties is so not the party I envisioned. 

What brought all this on?  Where is this ‘Negative Nancy’ attitude coming from?  It’s largely due to the fact that I truly think department stores should make mannequins less offensive.  I would be way less disgusted at the clothing (and of their man-made figure) if I saw the plastic model with a muffin top and some juicy thighs going on.  I would be more inclined to believe that the cute little purple halter top thingy that looks so fricken adorable on ‘Plastic Patty’ would somehow bare some resemblance on me.  However Patty is size negative 3 and I’m not, so I find it a bit ridiculous that I could even remotely pull it off and when I attempt to; and have to call in reinforcements to help me get the damn garment off – I tend to get a bit creepy about the whole situation.  Fuck you Patty! And your plastic boobs! 

Just sayin’.

Where was I?  Sundress…doesn’t fit … giant lime … Patty’s a bitch … – oh yes I remember, Happy 4^th Everyone! 

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