Two New Years Resolutions I Will Be Making This Year (Even Though I Don’t Believe In New Years Resolutions)

I don’t believe in New Years Resolutions. Never have.

The crux of my argument is simple: if I want to be a better person in X area, I should just do it.

The new year is no more a new start than the morning is. It’s just time and my philosophy degree tells me that time is nothing more than an illusion. That may be too philosophical and pithy for most of you, though; and the truth is that I just don’t give a fuck about resolutions. Either I accept who I am or make better things when I realize I want to – not have to have some special day or social convention to con me into doing it.

I find New Years Resolutions to be so vain and self-aggrandizing sometimes too. They’re always about looks (I resolve to lose weight, take better care of my skin, wear skirts more often…); or narcissistic goals. I don’t mean that all goals are narcissistic or bad, I just mean that so many people I hear making goals for New Years Resolutions seem so self-centered and exalted about it. I read one on Facebook the other day that was the absolute worst: I resolve to have the most gorgeous children on the planet. Really? Because you and your husband aren’t exactly lookers – if you know what I mean – so maybe you should tone it down and just resolve to be good people.

I don’t know. That’s just me.

Off my soap box, I’m making not only ONE but TWO New Years Resolutions this year. Because I like hypocrisy and sounding like an idiot when I just lectured for paragraphs about why I don’t make resolutions.

I promise none of these will make me a better person, though. Or hot and sexy. They also won’t make me the best at anything, except for possibly make me even more of a misanthropic asshole than I already am.

Okay, here goes:

Hang Out With Fewer Assholes

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I posted about this on my Facebook page the other day and I will be damned if I’m going to fail at this one.

I am just so sick and tired of hanging around assholes. Toxic waste of human beings that just drag me and my family down with drama and unpaid bills and bullshit absolutely no one on this planet has time for.

This resolution came about after my husband and I got stiffed for a whopping $200 at my kid’s birthday dinner with ice skating the week before her birthday. We made it very clear to everyone we invited: everyone pays their fair share of the bill, the tax, the tip. If you don’t want to do that, then you can come over to our house for a little BBQ on us on her actual birthday – the idea was to have a kid’s activity with pomp and circumstance with out having to shell out all the dough for the activities and the entertainment and the treat bags and such.

And yet somehow, we got stiffed by a few of the people that were there. Stiffed big – so big we had to cancel some of our out of town plans in January.

So after that, just one incident in a long line of incidences that we have absolutely had enough of, I am resolving to hang out with fewer assholes. Life is too short to spend it with a bag of dicks.

Eat More Cupcakes

I joke a lot about emotionally eating, but in reality I rarely eat anything. I pick all day and then only sometimes get enough calories to sustain the busy life of being a mom with a husband who works ALL. THE. TIME.

The problem is simple: I live in California and feel an enormous amount of guilt every time I put fork to mouth.

I hear people say something seemingly nice like “you look like you’ve lost weight!!” and hear “finally chucked some fat off that huge ass of yours, eh Heather?!”

I know what you are thinking: I’m clearly suffering from major body issues. Get over it, who isn’t?

I’m so tired of being hungry, though.

I’m even more tired of making food that I don’t eat. Constantly, I am cooking and baking for family parties or friend things; or just making food at home for my husband – who on some days consumes upwards of five, large meal servings. And I never eat the desserts I make. Ever. Like ever-ever.

Well that shit’s about to come to an end. Either I’m going to stop cooking for others, and since that won’t happen because I’m bored and also have a major guilt complex – I’ll be eating more.

Dressbarn, here I come. I’m eating more cupcakes.

Are you making New Years Resolutions this year? Like really bullshit and vague ones, like you do every year; or something really serious like “get a job and move out of my parents’ basement?” Chances are if you are, I think you’re a tool; but then you have permission to thing I’m a tool for making my two resolutions too.

lJOtm3antidepressants-2014-optimism-new-years-ecards-someecardsIn any event: Happy New Years Bitchees… after the clock strikes 12, I’ll have a really big surprise for you. I mean, not really 12… you know, I’ll probably be out by then, my New Years kiss will be my husband groping me in his sleep; I’ll roll out of bed like I usually do somewhere around 9 or 10. The surprise will be then. Can’t wait!

STFU Fridays: Stop Judging Yourself

If I had a second middle name, it would be self-loathing. I hate myself probably more than I hate other people.

If you know anything about me, you know that’s a lot of hate.

I am constantly self-depricating to other people too, which I think is a defense mechanism because I know that secretly, in the annals of other people’s minds, I am being judged. At least where I live – in the trendiest and hipsterest community in all of Southern California – that’s just what we do. And it’s better that I be the one to highlight my malfunctions than someone else do it.

But in my heart there is the person that also doesn’t give a flying fuck. Not a singular fuck that flies. Because in that heart I know that it isn’t all about appearances and looks and set ups, so much as it is what’s inside.

So for this most glorious of Shut the Fuck Up Fridays, I would like to talk about no longer judging yourself (myself).

The Way You Look

Seriously. Shut the fuck up worrying about how big your butt looks already. And while you are at it, shut the fuck up about your hair too.

Every woman loves a compliment. You look pretty. Your hair is gorgeous today. You are more beautiful than the day I met you. And so on. Those things are vital to a healthy relationship – I am not by any means contending that they are anything other than necessary. Coming from the woman that never hears these things (and I mean that my husband has said the word “beautiful” once and “pretty” never in the entire time I have known him), really and truly we should all resolve to shut the fuck up and love ourselves. In spite of how other people think. And/or neglect to communicate.

It isn’t just about the feelings we have about the way we look, either; it’s about being comfortable. Recently I came to realize that all this happy horse shit about looking cute every day is for the birds.

For. The. Birds.

Since then, I’ve embraced my Stay At Home Mommedness and worn pajama pants and/or yoga pants and/or a bra tank top with a sweater, pretty much everywhere. I wore yoga pants out to breakfast with my husband’s grandparents. We went on vacation and 3/4 of what I took were lounge pants and comfy t-shirts. I’m thinking about wearing yogas to my daughter’s birthday party tomorrow. It’s just that life is way too short to spend the majority of it in front of the mirror. And if people don’t love you for your sloppy ponytail that you had to go with so you had time to – oh I don’t know – spend quality time with others, then they are probably not worth having in your life.

Shut the fuck up and stop worrying about looking like that perfect mom you see every time you go to the mall. You know her: she has cute jeans, sparkly TOMS, and the most amazing hair ever. That bitch has like two nannies and a professional cook at home to allow her to look so cute, and she cannot remember her children’s full names – so fuck her and be yourself.

The Things You Say

This is a fine line. A fine, motherfucking line we are walking here, people.

Sometimes the things that you say can and will alienate you from the entire universe. Or get you arrested. Or at the very least get you added onto the NSA’s top wire-tapping list.

But other times, you worry way too goddamned much about not hurting people’s feelings, or saying the right thing, or sounding eloquent, or whatever it is that you worry about – so instead you say NOTHING. Or you LIE.

Shut the fuck up with that bullshit, people. I say a lot of really raucous and blunt things. And I just don’t give a fuck anymore what people think about it.

My husband doesn’t ever come home and/or communicate with me? Of course I’m going to say that to my mother in law when we are chatting about the fact that he didn’t call me back for like four hours when we needed to ask him something while out Christmas shopping. Am I supposed to patsy around that for fear that she may think I’m a nasty person for “bad mouthing” my man?

I’m going to say something right now that you all are going to think is absolutely insane. This bitch is off her fucking rocker. Are you ready?

It isn’t bad mouthing if it’s true.

Stop judging yourself people for saying what you think, feeling what you want, and communicating what is on your mind. People will have way more respect for you in the end than they do for people that stay silent or walk on egg shells out of the big F (fear). Of course there is a way to communicate (for example, if your wife is looking rather portly lately, you should perhaps tread lightly), but I think you all get that we are talking about something much bigger here.

The Way Your Stuff Looks

Yeah, fuck you too Pinterest.

Since Pinterest and Instagram and the Internet, and a general sense of feeling like our lives have to be bigger, better, and more perfect than the next guy, it seems like the presentation of things has become more important than the things themselves.

For example, I wish I had a refund for every wedding I have attended where the food and the cake looked AMAZING, but tasted like utter dog shit. Dog shit rolled in bacon. Rotten bacon.

And kid’s parties are the worst. Maybe not the absolute worst, because baby showers, Thanksgiving, and Christmas seem to be following up at a close second. Or a dinner at home on your average Friday night. More and more, we are finding ourselves judging ourselves publicly viz a viz the Internets. By posting photos, or not posting photos just as we saw someone else post photos we think are way better than ours we have become the most judging, self-loathing people that compare our lives to others in ways that make even a sort-of Buddhist cringe.

Jus stop it already, people. All of your fucking gift baskets and cupcakes look awesome. I have a really hard time believing that you garnish your dinners with parsley on a typical Tuesday night – so quit uploading photos of you doing it, because we know it was just for show and because you judged yourself into doing it. And if the stuff you have doesn’t look amazing… if they are – GASP – just cupcakes with frosting slopped on, or bare walls without a gallery-style set of paintings… oh fucking well.

It’s time we all shut the fuck up and stop judging ourselves. I think we’ll all be much happier doing so. I know I will.

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If I Did Everything The Internet Told Me To Do This Week

Is it just me, or is shit getting real up on Facebook these days? Maybe it’s because I’ve been “liking” more pages lately, so more of their garbage is showing up in my newsfeed. But then again, some of my friends have been putting some crazy things out there lately as well.

I think the world has gone even more insane. Funny, I didn’t know that was possible. But when I start reading articles like “Woman Has Placenta Turned Into Sunday Night Dinner,” I start to raise my eyebrow and wonder just what in the hell is going on.

Sheep

 

I’m Serving Placenta For Thanksgiving…

So that’s the big one. Well, sort of. Apparently it’s becoming a real trend now to eat your own placenta after you give birth.

Now I can do fad diets. I don’t mean that I will actually do them; I mean I can tolerate the existence of them. I can dig paleo. I kind of get the whole gluten free thing (at least for some people). I think those whole body cleanse things are dumb, but to each his own.

But eating your own placenta? I certainly didn’t see that one coming.

I guess some lady had hers turned into capsules and she took one every day for a month too. And now there are cookbooks out there for turning your placenta into a tasty meal.

Let that digest for a moment (no pun intended). …for turning your placenta into a tasty meal…

How would you even bill that to someone? Oh yeah, come over for Thanksgiving! We’re having turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, placenta, muffins. What? Did I say something strange?

And how many different recipes could there possibly be that would warrant an entire cookbook? Is it that special preparation is needed? I assumed at first that a – I don’t know – professional may have to do it, since you are eating a part of the human body and all (cough…cannibalism…cough).

In any case, I shudder to think of how many placenta varietals there are. With bleu cheese, covered in sage butter, sautéed or baked…

Vomit.

… and I’m Not Shaving My Crotch For Movember

Okay, first off: are we all familiar with Movember? It’s a movement to get people to grow out their moustaches and raise money and awareness for prostate and ball cancer. My own personal opinions about awareness campaigns aside, it does raise funding that is much needed for men’s health.

Where I draw the line is when friends start posting things about how ladies are participating by not shaving their cooters.

1. I’m pretty sure that having the vagina of a 10 year old in adulthood (i.e. completely hairless) is just a relic of the porn industry in Los Angeles. In other words, I’m saying it may be a West Coast thing.

I don’t know. This is already making me uncomfortable.

The one time my husband asked me about whether or not all women do it, I had actually never heard (before then) that women did such a thing. I mean that I had never heard before that women shave or wax all the hair off their lady bits. To this day I still cannot grapple with just why a woman over the age of – I don’t know, 12 – would even want to look like that.

But I digress.

That being said, I understand keeping the hedges under control, if you know what I mean. To that end, I get this not shaving the crotcheral area for Movember.

BUT…

2. How exactly would a woman approach her family and friends to donate money based on how much crotch hair she grows?

If it starts to dreadlock, you will donate $100 to the Movember cause.

If it grows onto the side of my legs, it’s $200…

Are you as horrified by all of this as I am?

AND FURTHER…

3. How would this raise awareness?

The whole point of Movember is that all these men are walking around with visible moustaches. Now I’m no vagina scientist, but I’m pretty sure women everywhere will not all of a sudden start flashing their cooters to show off their “Muffvember” cause. (That, by the way, is what these bitches are calling it.)

Will they wear t-shirts?

Participate in vagina walks? What does that even mean?

PLUS…

4. This is vaguely reminiscent of breast cancer awareness on Facebook. Every year, I get an email sometime in October that goes something like this:

Okay ladies! We are REALLY going to fool the guys this time!!!!!! To raise awareness of breast cancer, we are all going to post on our Facebook statuses where we throw our purses down when we get home!!! Nothing more than that though, so mine would be – On the table! The guys will have no idea what is going on!!!! So cute and really supports a good cause.

What in the actual fuck is right, if that’s what you were thinking.

And really, what in the actual fuck to just about anything I’ve seen on the Internet this week. It isn’t just the placenta eaters and the crotch trimmers that are making things online just a little bit wacky. And uncomfortable. It’s the people that post conspiracy theories. It’s the horrible beaten dogs – donate to this cause – prayer request for this animal or kid with cancer posts. It’s the full page privacy notice that went around a few days ago, as if posting some bullshit on your Facebook status will actually secure your privacy.

It’s the influx of selfies.

People of the Internet! Cut this shit out already. I just want to log onto Facebook in between classes to get my online vaginal scientist degree, while the dog eats my placenta and I trim my vaginal hairs in peace. Is that too much to ask?

To All You Jerks Looking For Something To Be Thankful For…

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In the previous two years, I’ve made it sort of a tradition to talk crap about people that do that daily thankful post on Facebook.

See post one here…

See post two here…

It always goes the same (the posts on Facebook):

Day 1

Day1

Then by a week in, Day 7

Day2

Somewhere around Thanksgiving, they’ve run out of ideas, Day 20

Day3

And finally, of course, after all this gratuitous thankfulness, December returns everything to normal

Dec1

To quote my 90s self: gag me with a spoon.

Here’s the thing about these thankful posts: if you are thankful every day of the year, that’s awesome. You don’t have to post about it on Facebook to prove it; you can if you want to. Doing it just in November for the occasion of Thanksgiving, when you can’t even come up with things that you are sincerely and unselfishly thankful for, only to turn right around and return to being a blazing, ungrateful asshole every other day of the year … well, it stinks.

What stinks even more than that is how frequently people come to my blog looking for things to be thankful for, during the month of November.

As I said before, I’ve made it sort of a tradition to talk shit about those thankful posts over the last two years on this blog. That means that over the years, the more people have read and searched out the keywords used in those posts, the higher they’ve been indexed on Google.

Translation: a lot of friggin’ people are Googling “things to post thankful on Facebook” and landing on my blog as a result.

To All You Jerks Looking For Something To Be Thankful For …

Just. Fucking. Stop. It. NOW.

If you have to Google things to be thankful for, chances are you AREN’T ACTUALLY THANKFUL FOR THOSE THINGS.

If you cannot come up with shit that is original, real, unselfish, immaterial, and sincere, chances are you SHOULDN’T BE THANKFUL FOR THOSE THINGS.

If you need a month and a holiday, and a holiday that celebrates gluttony and the slaughtering and genocide of entire nations of innocent people at that, to remind yourself that you should be even the slightest bit grateful for the things you have in your life, chances are YOU’S A DICK.

Here’s the moral: we should all be grateful for what we have, every day of the year. Even if it isn’t much. Even if it’s a lot. It could all be gone in an instant, and it is usually the self-aggrandizing November Facebook thankful posters that don’t seem to realize that. If you want to do your little tradition of posting crap on Facebook you are thankful for, fine – by all means, it is your page. But be sincere about it. Don’t post thankfulness for things like your cellphones and your unmistakable talents in whatever you seem to think you are so talented at.

And for God’s sakes, jerks of the Internet: if you have to Google it, you have some major reevaluating of your lives to do that goes well beyond just finding things to post on Facebook.

This Whole Cat Thing Is Getting a Bit Tiring…

So when I first started blogging, I posted a blog called “Hello, Mr. Biglesworth…” It was a long time ago when I wrote it, and still one of my proudest pieces. In a nutshell, I was outlining – in a really silly open letter to cats – why I hate them.

I guess I just didn’t have many blog fans then. Not many people responded to the post negatively. Some agreed to disagree. We all walked away chuckling.

983697_579422125435615_1137414111_nFlash forward to now and this huge controversy started with a picture I posted on Facebook, originally found on Epicfail.com. Again, I found it on the Internet and just thought it was funny. I did not take the photograph myself. The cat didn’t look particularly bothered by the makeup. It definitely looked healthy and unabused. I ended up having to follow that up with a blog post, though, after someone wished me to be “mauled by a herd of cats” for posting the photograph.

That was two weeks ago.

Things have not been going so well since then. I have received death threats – yes, “I’m going to send my cat to kill you” threats. I have been given the lesser form of a death threat, the death wish: “I hope you die in a tragic accident involving cats and you burn in hell.” People have suggested I need mental help. They have offered me online mental health counseling. I have been told that my statement “I hate cats” is aggressive, hostile, abusive, psychotic, and illogical. I have lost multiple Facebook fans, and even one Facebook friend.

To say that this whole cat thing is getting a bit tiring is probably an understatement. It’s getting pretty goddamned old, people. I think it’s time we clear a few things up here, once and for all. See if you can pry yourselves away from your daily task of pampering your forty felines for a few minutes to hear me out.

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It Is A Fact That Not All People Like Cats

… and those people that do not like cats are actually – in some cases – clinically sane. Or clinically insane for reasons other than their dislike of cats.

There are a lot of reasons that people don’t like cats. It could be because they had a bad experience with one. Or maybe they are allergic: my reasoning for disliking them. There are all sorts of reasons why people don’t like cats, just like there are all sorts of reasons why others do. And why people like or dislike dogs. Like or dislike bubblegum ice cream or red furniture or high heels or the Chicago Blackhawks.

Having an emotional attachment to an animal does not make it wrong for others to not feel the same way you do. It’s called an opinion based on feelings and personal preferences. We are all entitled to them.

It Is A Fact That All Cats Are Gross

I’m going to go out on a limb here and offer a piece of universal criteria for gross. By “universal” I mean that it applies to all things, and is the case for everyone and everything. It doesn’t matter if you are a cat, a dog, a mouse, a person, a plant, a ghost… if you meet the criteria, you are gross.

Anything that shits in a box and licks its own asshole clean is gross.

So cats are definitely gross, because I have never seen a cat shit in a toilet, and I further have seen every cat I have ever seen – in my entire life – lick its own asshole clean. It’s natural! Of course it does it. Still gross.

This isn’t to say that cat owners are gross. This isn’t to say that cat owners shit in a box and lick their own assholes clean (although, you never know…). It just means that cats are gross, and that is a fact by the criteria I outlined above.

It Is A Case In Point Fact That Cats Are Not Humans

I know that a lot of people consider their cats to be family. And human. I myself consider our fish and guinea pig to be a part of our household unit.

But the fact remains that a pet is a pet. Not a human being. An animal. Not all people like them, and more over: not all people can be around them. A lot of people out there have very serious allergies to animals. I am one of them – when I get around cats I wheeze, my throat gets tight, and I even have had asthma attacks from being too close.

The problem with a lot of the cat owners I have encountered, though, is that they actually believe their cats are human beings, and members of their families whose lives are worth more than actual human beings. A lot of them refuse – under all circumstances – to be sensitive to their guests. Now I would never go into another person’s home and demand that they remove their animal, or start bitching and griping about how much a really despise those balls of allergens. But if someone invites me over, it tells me they care about and respect me enough to not let their little box-shitter climb all over me and my things, causing me to have an asthma attack. I mean, if I say nicely that I’m very seriously allergic… would it kill them to put the cat into the other room?

Many cat owners I have encountered don’t give a fuck, though. They just cannot seem to grasp the fact that people are all different. They have different experiences. They have different situations. I have been in a cat owner’s home before, using my inhaler because I cannot breath, and the owner has actually set the cat down on my lap and said “ohhhhh… Pickles wants you to hold her!!!” I don’t dare eat dinner at a cat owner’s home anymore, because I’m allergic to shellfish too and know that even though I nicely say I’m allergic they will likely feed me shrimp.

It is a case in point fact that cats are not humans. If you want to have a relationship with actual people, then you may want to consider putting the pets away for a while. Or else you’ll wind up one of those crazy cat people that has no friends and fifty felines.

Please stop with the angry comments and the death threats and the Facebook fighting and the deletions, people. This whole cat thing is getting a bit tiring. A girl’s allowed to her opinions, just like you’re all allowed to ignore them and walk away.

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Conversation Stoppers

I’m not a big fan of talking to a lot of people in my everyday life. There aren’t many – mostly my mom (sometimes), my dad (too much), my husband (when his job lets him) – but that doesn’t change the fact that many of their conversations with me turn into requests. Or discussion about shit I just don’t want to hear about. It’s hard to have a meaningful conversation when you’re a mom anyway – I usually avoid phone calls simply because they’ll be interrupted constantly with some bullshit that could have waited.

And there are certain things I just don’t want to discuss, namely: medical problems, work, and my mom’s obsession with doing it. To deal with those “certain things,” I’ve come up with some surefire conversation stoppers. We all have them – some just walk away; others say something as simple as “this conversation is over.”

Mine are a little more attuned to the situation.

When My Husband Talks About His Job

My conversation stopper for my husband’s shop talk is to accuse him of scratching his balls or beating off in my presence. Nothing changes the subject from inane conversation about the film industry and all its subtle, bullshitty nuances like suggesting he has some sort of penile problem.

When I first moved here (and I think I’ve told this story before), I went on something of a date with a guy at the department store I had just started working at. It wasn’t supposed to be a date, and I said it wasn’t a date; nonetheless, the guy still put his arm around me and paid for my movie ticket. About half way through the film, I noticed him scratching himself. A lot. I mean it just didn’t stop; and I was only 18 and naive, so I had no clue that this guy was really jerking off as we sat there on this non-date-pseudo-date, until someone told me that’s what he was doing later on.

Since then, I’ve been a little sensitive when a man puts his hand near his crotch. Even my husband. Granted, my husband does scratch his balls a lot. And then sometimes he just rests his hand on his inner thigh – which is fucking weird of its own right. But usually I’m just making the accusation to get him to stop talking.

Last night was the best incidence of this. We were in bed, watching the new Manchurian Candidate. I was writing my blog, my husband was laying there watching and he mentioned something about the movie or the industry – or something that triggered my conversation stopper instinct – and he was doing that weird thing where he rests his hand on his inner thigh.

Poor Nick: “You know this film is interesting because —”

Me: “Are you scratching your balls?”

Poor Nick: “No.”

Me: “You’re jerking off, aren’t you?”

Poor Nick: “NO. I’m resting my hand on my thigh. See?”

And Poor Nick pulled back the covers to show that he was, in fact, resting his hand on his inner thigh. But as I said, it’s a little weird. Why the inner thigh? Why not the outer leg? Or the stomach? Or why not somewhere else – like on the bed, or hold my hand? Why the inner thigh? So I pressed on.

Me: “Do you ever think it’s weird that you rest your hand on your inner thigh?”

Poor Nick: “What?”

Me: “You know … if I were to rest my hand on my inner thigh, wouldn’t you think it was weird?”

Poor Nick: “No.”

Me: “Oh really?”

And then I slid down my pillow so my legs were spread and proceeded to rest both of my hands on the inner part of both of my thighs to prove my point. I looked fucking weird. Psychotic, in fact.

Not another word was spoken for the rest of the evening. Conversation stopper.

When My Dad Talks About His Medical Issues

It isn’t that I want my dad to stop keeping me up to date on his health. Being the only reliable person he has here (and vice versa for me besides my husband), it’s important I know what’s going on.

But lately it’s gotten to be too much. He’s having hip replacement surgery next Friday, so every day these last few weeks have been about getting ready, attending doctor’s appointments, getting our things over to stay at his house for a month, helping him make decisions, and so on. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about it all into the ground, though – especially at the most inopportune times. In fact, it happened just today where it got to a point that I just couldn’t take it anymore.

484306_665623967623_1261580074_nWe were running errands with my dad, and had a pretty tumultuous time doing it. We couldn’t find a stepping stool we needed to help him get in and out of my Jeep post-op. The doctor called in the wrong pain medication, that he has a sensitivity to. And then a bee flew into the car and we had to pull over and run out, while my dad tried to get rid of it so that I wouldn’t get stung and die (I’m allergic). By the time we stopped to get some dinner, I was so not in the mood to hear about medical shit. I just wanted to eat, get a little wasted, find some frozen yogurt, and go home.

The medical talk was almost avoided this time, too, but then on the way home, we were eating our frozen yogurt and my dad started up with his medical talk. He started telling me about some bleeding drug they were going to give him in the hospital, or some shit; and rather than listen, my conversation stopper instinct kicked in.

With my dad, it’s to sing. The only song I could think of at that very moment was – of course – the “my bologna has a first name…” jingle. Before I knew it, the whole car was singing along, and the medical talk had been averted. Conversation stopper.

When My Mom Divulges Details Of Her Sex Life

So I’ve only met my mother’s husband once. It was for about 15 minutes and he made a total of 5 inappropriate comments about my mother’s vagina to me during that time. Since then, he’s cracked numerous jokes on the phone about doing it with her. The worst was when he basically called her a slut in high school.

Hillbilly Husband: “Yeah, you know your mom and I probably even went to the same drive in movies when we were in high school.”

Me: “Oh really?”

Hillbilly Husband: “Yep. The difference is that I actually saw the movies!!! HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!”

Indeed.

To make matters worse, my mom makes these horrifying innuendos to me all the time. When they are separated (as in she’s here, in California, and he’s there, in New Mexico), they have these marathon phone conversations that sometimes last upwards of eight hours. What in the fuck do they do for eight hours on the phone? They can’t possibly have that much to talk about, right?

Right. They don’t. The answer is in two words: phone sex.

Just the other day, my mother told me that she was “too spent” from talking to her hillbilly husband to go over Easter plans with me. She started talking about vibrators and the demands of a woman separated from love, and all that other hypersexual bullshit, and I just couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t want to deal with it; I mean, if you’re too exhausted to talk about something important, shut the fuck up about your little phone sex crap.

So I pulled out my conversation stopper for when my mom starts up this TMI nonsense: “mom, no one wants to hear about your jerky flavored edible panties…” She said ‘OK’ and hung up the phone. Conversation stopper.

Do you have conversation stoppers, faithful blog followers? Do you say something rude? Do you make implications that are just blatantly false? Do you sing, like me? Or do you just listen to people blather on and on and on, until your mind is numb and your soul is destroyed?

Waltz of the Big Booty Bitches

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So on Saturday evening we were celebrating my birthday, a little early. I turn 31 on April 15th, but my dad is having hip replacement surgery next Friday and I’ll be spending most of April taking care of him. All we have is each other here, so we celebrated with a little Game Night with cake this past weekend. There were maybe 15 people there, including my mom.

I was walking into the kitchen to get myself a drink and my mom walked over to me.

Trailer Trash Mom:

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“So how much weight have you lost?”

Me:

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“I don’t know, mom … I don’t believe in using scales.”

Trailer Trash Mom:

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“Oh, well aren’t you just better than the rest of us big girls…”

First, thank you mom for implying that I am one of you “big girls.” And, to further imply that you think I used to be grossly overweight. To be fair, I weigh considerably less than my mother does. I may not be model-stick-thin, but I’m certainly no candidate for an obesity weight study either. My mom is a big booty bitch, and not in the way I’d use it as a term of endearment like with most girls deserved of the title. A Big Booty Bitch could be someone heavier; someone with just a big booty; or someone stick thin with a big heart. By contrast, my mom is overweight, like most mothers. She’s had periods where she was a lot heavier; and periods where she was a lot thinner. Like most women. She’s never been into dieting or exercising, though, so I’m not too sure why she gives so much of a shit about scales and weight tracking. Unless, of course, it’s just a facade to put people down and make herself feel better about her own physical appearance. I assume this is the case.

I didn’t give it too much of a thought until I read this article an HuffPost’s Facebook page today. It was about a poll they had done, inquiring whether or not weight gain was a justifiable excuse to divorce or commit adultery. I won’t go into the details of the article – you can gladly read it yourself if you are interested; I will not even respond to the opinion of the author (who I largely agreed with, actually).

I want to talk about the fact that we – as a culture – are even doing polls and having conversations about this.

Big Booty Bitches Respect the Sanctity of Marriage

(Not Physical Appearance)

One thing the article discussed was the double standard. If a man packs on pounds – for whatever reason – a woman should understand, and try to inspire him to get healthier. If a woman becomes a Big Booty Bitch from a weight perspective, we start discussing whether or not a man should feel justified to cheat on her, or divorce her big booty butt.

Perhaps the reason why we don’t even suggest this when a man’s previously firm areas begin to jiggle is because the Big Booty Bitches respect the sanctity of marriage, rather than a person’s physical appearance. I mean, I would never consider cheating on my husband because he packed on a few pounds. I further would probably only talk to him about it if it became a health concern; and even then, I would try to influence him with the meals I cook and the actions I, myself, take, rather than inflict the emotional harm that a conversation beginning with “hey, you’re kind of becoming a fat fuck…” can cause.

Because of the sanctity of marriage, it doesn’t even enter my mind to consider that it might be justifiable to even discuss options like divorce or cheating. Your vows say “…for better, or for worse…” for a reason.

Big Booty Bitches Are Faithful

(In Ways Other Than Staying Faithful)

Faithful is more than just not cheating. It’s not considering leaving or straying when the going gets tough.

To suggest that we should consider the acceptability (or lack thereof) for divorce or cheating because a person gains weight implies a lot. One is that all people who rapidly gain weight are doing so because they are lazy shits that do nothing but watch TV. This is just not the case – there can be many, many health reasons (physical, medicinal, and mental) why people put on weight. Two is that if a person’s physical appearance changes in any way, that now we should talk about whether or not it’s OK to abandon ship. This would be to say that if a man gets ball cancer, and a woman thinks a man with only one ball is unattractive sexually, she would be justified in divorcing him. Big Booty Bitches would never consider this, though, because sexuality and physical appearance is about a microcosm of what makes up a marriage and a happy life together.

As was the case with the “…for better, or for worse…” there was also a vow “…in sickness, and in health…”

Big Booty Bitches Do Not Find Divorce or Infidelity an Option

(On Most Matters)

When I walked down the aisle, I didn’t think to myself “well, I can always get divorced.” When my husband started acting like a jerk to me because he wanted me to give up my Ph.D. program, and stay in California, I didn’t say to myself “I’ll just go fuck someone else.” That isn’t the way marriage works.

If every time something didn’t go our way, we ran out and screwed our milk man or filed for divorce, we’d have a high divorce rate in this country. Oh wait, we do. Is it because things genuinely don’t work out? Or is it because people consider divorce and infidelity an option from the get go? While there are many instances in which a couple truly tries and tries, or one person has issues that make trying an impossibility, and it doesn’t work; there are also so many people in this country right now who will abandon ship for any old reason. I know a lot of them.

For myself, I don’t believe that divorce is an option, nor infidelity. Maybe it’s the Catholic in me, that has some backwards religious views engrained into my soul. Or maybe it’s because I take a commitment seriously, and don’t just bail when the going gets tough.

I took my vows seriously, and the fact that our culture has become so superficial and material so as to even enter into this discussion about weight gain sickens me to my very core. It makes me want to spew vomit everywhere, and on everyone. Marriage and relationships are about so much more than sex and being perfect for each other. In fact, I always thought they were about the ability to be imperfect and still be loved. What a crazy world we live in where this no longer seems to be the case.