My Internal Dialogue While Being Tortured

WARNING!

If you don’t care for terrifically prolific cussing, walk away from your computer right now. This one is going to be a doozie! ;)

So, you guys know I love me a good massage. I live for them really. I’d marry a massage if I could. And I have an amazing therapist, Grayson, who rules the school. But before I met Grayson, I’d bought a Groupon for a 90-minute massage somewhere else and I got it today.

Upon arrival and meeting him, I told him that normally I’m pretty tough but that I was super sore from having to dump about 150 buckets of water away from my house’s foundation earlier in the week due to all the insane flooding. (Almost 6 inches of rain in less than 24 hours!) As such, I asked him to go super easy on me because everything hurt. He said to just let him know if the pressure was too much or too little and he’d adjust. So far, so good.

I strip, get up on the table, he comes in and the very first thing he does is push on my back SO FUCKING HARD that my poor boobies smash into the table (ummm…sir, the table is fucking hard and my DD boobs ain’t got nowhere to go). And that’s how the internal dialog began. Prepare yourself.

Action: Boob smashing

Internal Dialogue: WHAT THE SHIT! OUCH! Only a man who has no boobs would smash a woman who obviously has tremendous ta-tas into a table with the force of 3 gorillas. Dip shit.

 

Action: Digging his bony-ass fingers (similar in appearance and pain-dealing to the Grim Reaper’s) into what I’m pretty sure was bone and not muscle in my shoulder blade.

Internal Dialogue: FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK THAT HURTS!

External Dialogue: Can you please reduce the pressure you’re using. I’m quite sore from earlier this week and that hurts. I’d really appreciate it.

Result: Applied more pressure because I’m sure his internal dialogue was, “Fuck you lady, I do what I want.” (In the voice of Cartman from South Park, of course.)

 

Interim Action: 10 more minutes of excruciating pain from which there is no salvation.

 

Action: More digging of his pain-inflicting finger knives into the small of my back and around to my sides.

Internal Dialogue: YOU ARE FUCKING MASSAGING MY KIDNEYS! WHY? WHY GOD? WHY? OUCH. DIE YOU MOTHER FUCKER! DIE.

External Dialogue: Would you mind going lighter, please? Like I said, I’m really sore so I’m a bit more delicate than I’d usually be.

Result: Not only did he continue to massage my fucking kidneys through bone, muscle or whatever the fuck is between a kidney and your skin, I’m pretty sure he used a dull, rusty pocket knife to actually remove one. Possibly for sale on the black market.

 

Interim Action: 15 more minutes of, honest to God, abject misery. Shouldn’t a massage therapist inherently know that when their client is making a fist over and over again and making squeaky “I’m clearly dying” noises AND has asked him multiple times to use less pressure, that they should STOP FUCKING KILLING THEIR CLIENT????

 

Action: Uncovers the back of my thigh (which I specifically mentioned before we started was incredibly sore) and takes those daggers he calls fingers and starts strumming my hamstring like he’s playing the fiddle in The Devil Went Down to Georgia. Seriously, like the freedom of his soul depended on tearing out my hamstring and tying a bow with it.

Internal Dialog: THAT FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKING HURTS!!!! You Hitler mother fucker. Did you get your license JUST TO TORTURE people? Did you wake up this morning, throw a dart at your schedule and decide, “Yep, it’s Jodi Ambrose today. I’m going to make her wish she died in a violent car accident on her way here. Heh heh heh (insert creepy, evil laugh).”

External Dialog: Seriously, you gotta lighten up on me. Just pretend I’m an arthritic 90-year-old with osteoporosis and a low threshold for pain.

Result: NOT ONE MOTHER FUCKING OUNCE OF LESSENING UP ON THE HORROR!!!! Not even a little. NONE. WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUCK?

 

Interim Action: More abject misery. Me trying to figure how to get the fuck outta there without jumping off the table and having my ta-tas flying all over the place and my ass shining up in the air. Me wishing his balls would rot off in a leprosy kind of way. Me wondering why in the hell I haven’t freaked out more on this fuckhead. Me thinking that somehow all this “deep tissue” fuckin’ nightmare will, in the end, be good for my aching muscles. Me praying for a meteor to fly down from Heaven and kill both him and I immediately (preferably just him, but I figure a meteor would be too big to target just him–I’d be collateral damage and I’d be okay with that).

 

Action: Asks me to flip over onto my back. Then asks me if I want my pectorals massaged.

Internal Dialog: If you even think of touching my tits I’m gonna fucking brain you with a hammer. You got that, old man? YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME??? I’LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!

External Dialog: No, thank you.

Result: I did not have to kill the mother fucker because he did not touch boobies. Hence, I am not covered in blood and being processed by the police. I think of that as a win/win.

 

So, finally, this God-forsaken nightmare comes to a close. I asked him no less than 8 times to ease up. He literally NEVER did until the last 5 minutes–I’m guessing because that’s when he’s starting to think about what kind of tip I’m going to give him and he wants to go out on a high note. Well, here’s a tip, you fuck-headed fuck fuck: Don’t ever let me see you crossing the street when I’m driving.

There’s my saga du jour. I was soooooo looking forward to getting all of my sore muscles rubbed out. Now I need a Vicodin and another massage to survive the one I just PAID GOOD MONEY to endure.

I’m going to go with pain being a character builder in order to find a silver lining. But in my deepest, darkest and not-so-private thoughts, all I can think is, “You are very fucking lucky that real life isn’t like that movie The Purge where murder is legal for a day. You’d be at the top of my list fuck face.”

With that, I’m off to fry up a bagel and watch me some Project Runway!!

Have a great weekend everyone! :) XOXOXO

Why Was I Talking About Dipping Your Wick Into Places It Doesn’t Belong? Ah ha! The Answer At Last!

Hello, all my lovelies!

About a month ago I posted a poll on whether or not you guys thought it was a betrayal to seek sexual satisfaction from real, live people outside of your relationship via phone or computer.

A big thanks to all of you for your thoughtful responses and poll answering.

It was so hard for me not to spew my opinion all over the place when I wrote that post, but I didn’t want to sway anyone’s thoughts on the matter before they had a chance to comment or vote. Of course now, I’m nothin’ but sass mouth on the topic!! ;)

In case you’re wondering, I used the info from that poll to write my latest article for The Acquiring Man magazine.

If you voted or just wanna see the article, click HERE or on the pic below (dang, that chick is hot!).

acquiring man is it cheating

PS: there is one typo in the article that is repeated 4 times that is making my brain itch! But the editor is going to fix them. He added the line because it’s a great summary of the article–I should have included it myself, so I’m glad he added it in. But as you guys know, I can be a grammar nazi, so forgive the missing apostrophe for now. :)

Sucky Customer Service Reps Can KISS MY ASS!

So, I try to never leave the house.couch potato kitty I find staying at home keeps me happy and healthy and less stressed. Plus, if I go out then I have to put on makeup and brush my hair…it’s just so much to worry about. Okay, half-kidding here, but seriously, I’ve spent the majority of my life ripping and running about so it’s nice to be able to stay home a fair amount of the time. And today is a perfect example of why I like to remain on my sofa.

dye job

I got my hair dyed on Monday. While it looks pretty, it’s not what I wanted it to look like. So I got in my car and drove to Sally Beauty supply. It’s about a 15-20 minute drive, but I figured it was worth the extra time in the car during rush hour to get help from the experts.

Well…I coulda asked my cat Moopy and gotten more help.Moopy

I walked into the store and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. I could have robbed the place blind were I so inclined. I said, “Hello,” in a very nice voice and I got a, “Hey,” said back to me. And that was it. I still didn’t see a human anywhere.

So I said, “Can you please help me with some hair color?” She finally comes out of the back room and I explain what I’m looking for (which was a black hair dye with a blue undertone). She said, “I’ve never heard of that. Here use this.” And she hands me bright blue hair dye. I mean solid electric blue hair dye. So I explained I meant blue/black. (Every fuckin’ manufacturer in the world makes it.) She said, “Look, I’ve really got to get back to what I was doing,” and she walks away.

Moments later I hear her say into the phone, “Yeah baby. I’m back (insert grunt here). So, (insert gum smacking noise) what do you want for dinner?”

My head about popped the fuck off. Grumpy CatREALLY? REALLY? That’s what kept you from being even slightly friendly or helpful? You are seriously getting paid to essentially tell me to go fuck myself while you sit in the back room, smacking gum and chatting with your boyfriend about dinner? I wanted to go in there and rip her head off and then shove it up her ass. Alas, I just stuffed my pockets full of expensive make-up and left.

KIDDING!!!!! I’m the kind of person who gives money back to the store if they give me a dime too much in change. But I’m telling you, she wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass if I had. What a hideous employee.

Then, on to my next stop: TJMaxx.

I had to return 2 rings. So I get in the return line, wait for almost 10 minutes, get to the front and the very polite girl says, “Oh, you have to go to jewelry to return it.”

Okay, fine. Not her fault and she was nice, so I was polite, thanked her for the help and went to the jewelry department.

Where I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally after about 8-9 minutes a girl comes up and asks if she can help. She was very nice and smiley, returned my rings with no problem. And when we were done returning she asked if I wanted to see something else. I told her I’d scoped out a few necklaces and rings I wanted to see and was ready to try them on.

About that time a girl walks up to the counter and the chick who’s helping me turns around and talks to her for about 5 minutes about her shoes. Happy feetNOT KIDDING at all. For fuck’s sake. Really? I’m sorry your feet aren’t happy. You poor thing. Mine aren’t very happy either standing here waiting on your rude ass.

Then she finished up her very important, “My feet are sore” conversation and I say, “Hi again, can I please try on a few of these rings?” At which point she turns around, walks to the other side of the counter and starts helping people who had just walked up that moment.

Yet again, WHAT THE FUCK????

Now, for those of you who don’t know me well, or only know me via my sass-mouthed blog, you may not know this, but I am polite to a fault. I mean ridiculously polite. I say excuse me when someone rams into me. I’m a please, thank you, you are welcome kind of person. I always say hi. I usually find a way to compliment someone when doing business because it’s nice to see a smile cross their face. So if you are thinking, “Well, maybe you should adjust your attitude, missy!” just know that I never have one in a store. I really am stupid friendly.

As such, I have no clue why people suck so much!!!! When I’ve worked with the public in the past I’ve done my very best to take care of their every need and make them feel respected and appreciated in the process. Is such an attitude unheard of anymore in customer service?

I’m constantly stunned by the lack of giving a shit so many people have about their jobs and the way the treat people while at them.

I don’t know about you, but I’m thankful every day that I have a job. And so I do my damnedest to do it to the very best of my ability, and 90% of the time with a smile on my face. (Trust me, sometimes it is SOOOO hard to keep my sass mouth at bay, but I do because I’m at work and it’s the professional thing to do.)

Might I make a plea to all customer service reps out there (and I’ve been one before, so don’t think I’m being all accusatory and talking out of my ass without understanding how hard of a job it can be): If you don’t like people or can’t fake that you like people–GET ANOTHER FUCKING JOB! There are plenty of jobs where you can sit in a cubicle and not deal with the public. Do that instead.

There is never any reason to be an asshat to someone, especially if they are being nice to you. I understand if someone is treating you like shit that it can be difficult to maintain your cool, but for the rest of us out there that are kind and treat customer service reps with the respect they deserve, can you please at least pretend to do your job?

For those of you who do that grinding job of dealing with the public and still manage to maintain your kindness…THANK YOU! I know it isn’t always easy, but people like me sure appreciate it. :)

That’s my rant o’the day!heat

Whew! That was exhausting!

Oh, and on top of everything my air conditioner died last night and it’s only 95 degrees this week. Ugh. Kill me! :)

I hope you guys have a good week.

Just Say No to dickheaded people. :)  Hugs!  :)

Mouthy Broad Alert!

Howdy!

Thank GOD it’s Fuckin’ Friday!!! I swear, my poor little noggin has processed more information this week than it knows what to do with. My brain sponge is full and leaking everywhere. I think I’ve lost memories all the way up to 6th grade.

Yes, that means I’ve forgotten the days when this was my outfit of choice:

Nothing But Trouble

 

So, since I’m now worthless and plan on doing nothing but staring at the TV while drooling (and possibly treating myself to chocolate chip pancakes) for the rest of the day, I thought I’d share that you can check out (read, LIVE BY, obey) my new article at Acquiring Man Magazine. (In case it’s not clear, click either “new article” or HERE to go read it. Yeah, I’m a smart ass…no two ways about it!)  ;)

Love you guys! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend full of chocolate, nookie, furry animals and more chocolate.

Wait…that’s what my weekend is going to look like.

May yours look equally awesome!

AND HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!!

Mom’s kick ass!!

XOXOXOXOXO

Redundant Redundancy is Repetitively Vexing

Okay, if you yourself use this expression then may I say two things:

  1. I’m terribly sorry if I offend you. You know that I while I live to horrify, I don’t live to make anyone feel bad.  I love me my peeps!
  2. STOP FUCKING SAYING IT! (Okay, that was harsh…but please stop. Please?)  :)

The expression “multiple different” makes me wanna shave my head, grab my gun and go a wee bit postal.

This is how I feel every time I hear it used:

Otter

Let’s see what dictionary.com has to say about these two words.

Multiple: consisting of, having, or involving several or many individuals, parts, elements, relations.

Different: various; several (Yeah, it’s the 3rd definition, but you get my point!) :)

So, if I’m understanding these words correctly, from both a denotative and connotative perspective, “different” implies things that are not alike. Things. Plural. As in multiple–more than one. You can’t be different from something if there isn’t something to be compared to–to be different from (yep, preposition at the end of my sentence. Suck it!). Therefore, something that is different from something else indicates a plural.

Along comes “multiple”. Ummmm…multiple doesn’t just imply more than one. That’s actually what it means.

Now, I’m fully aware you can have multiples of the same thing. For example, I have 3 Daisy Cow teddy bears. There’s Daisy Pockets, Doppel Daisy and Counterfeit Daisy. They are all multiples of the same thing. But I would say, “I have multiple Daisies.” I also have a bunch of what we call Doppel teddies that are all the same kind of teddy, but are different colors. (Think doppelganger.) So those are all different Doppels.  As in, “I have many different Doppel teddies.”

But let’s pull this apart as it may be used in a business sense.

Let’s say you have a product. Let’s go with an mp3. You may have multiple copies of the same mp3. You may have multiple versions of the same mp3 (think remixes, most of which usually suck). Is there really a need to throw the word different into any of that? Was I not clear? Isn’t saying “multiple versions” communicating the exact same thing as saying “multiple different versions” only in a much more intelligent way? Doesn’t the idea of “versions” imply variants?

So, someone please tell me how “multiple different” makes any sense?

I hear it all the time and it makes me bonkers!

Can we agree to ban that expression from Planet Earth? I’ll give you a dollar. :)

PS: Just so you know, I’m fully aware I say annoying things and have annoying habits of writing. I make up words and use prepositions improperly. I’m not too hideous a hypocrite. I’m just sayin’…multiple different is a pet peeve! ;)

Have a great weekend in a multiple different variety of ways! XO

Oh, and one of these days I’ll visually introduce you to the Daisies. They are truly awesome in their awesomeness! :)

What the Shit is This?

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Dear Cracker Jack people,

You can suck it!

What kind of rip off, jacked up “prize” is this?

Cracker Jack 1Cracker Jack 2

I’ll tell ya, it’s a shit prize. No. It’s not a prize. It’s a turd in a box of cheap popcorn with nuts so hard if you bite on them you’ll break your teeth.

Are you seriously telling me that your gift to me is an explanation I can get on Wikipedia? WHERE’S MY DIAMOND RING OR ACTION FIGURE OR TATTOO!?

I want my money back. I want my childhood dreams of finding a diamond ring in the box back. I want the Cracker Jacks makers to be shamed for their cheapness.

Cracker Jacks Ring

Back in the day there were few things more exciting then when Mom would surprise you with a box of Cracker Jacks and you couldn’t wait to get to the bottom for that awesome prize that you’d cherish until your sister stole it or you lost it or Mom sucked it up in the vacuum.

Now? I wouldn’t wipe my hamster’s butt with your “prize.”

Shame! Cracker Jack makers. Shame! Have some pride in your product please.

Yours truly,

Jodi

(Now a full and complete Poppycock lover! (Heh heh…she said cock.))  :)

YOUR PORN is getting on MY NERVES! ;)

Okay, fellow business travellers…I know you are away from home. You miss the wifey (or the hubby). You are lonely , bored at the hotel, and in need of some serious girl-on-girl action, but your porn watching makes my enjoyment of Rookie Blue, Season 4 on Amazon Streaming Video next to impossible!! ;)

I can be watching my shows with great HD quality, little-to-no buffering and be having a dandy ole time until PORN HOUR hits! Then it all goes to hell in a handbag. I guess it’s that sweet spot between dinner and going to bed when every man (and I guess some chicks) in the hotel logs onto their favorite skin site and now I can’t watch my dang show.

Can you please just download some good spankbank material to your local drive so that you don’t have to view it streaming? Pretty please? I simply cannot watch TV with commercials in it anymore so the TV hanging on the wall is essentially useless and I have to depend on Netflix or Amazon for commercial-free bliss. Help a sister out here? ;)

Yeah, yeah, I’m horrible and selfish!!! I know you need your porn. BufferingBut can you maybe do it in the morning (you KNOW your morning wood demands it!) instead of at night so the rest of us can watch a TV show online without staring at a buffering indicator for 20 minutes? ;)

(In all seriousness, I’m kidding. :) I just crack up when all of a sudden the Wi-fi takes a huge hit at about the same time each night. I picture every other room in the hotel being filled with wildly whacking wankers and it makes me giggle.)

HUGS!

duck

10 Things I Hate About PMS! ;)

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Yeah, yeah, TMI I know. But dammit, sometimes a girl just has to share.

10 reasons PMS sucks donkey balls:

  1. Men don’t have it. NOT FAIR!
  2. I’m hungry all the time.
  3. Did I mention that I’M HUNGRY ALL THE TIME!?
  4. All I want to eat is pizza, chocolate, McDonald’s french fries, more pizza, more chocolate, spaghetti with homemade sauce, Snickers and funnel cake.
  5. After eating all that, all I want to do is sleep and then wake up and then sleep some more.
  6. I gain like 3 pounds of water weight for about 6 days.
  7. I wake up 5 times a night to a bursting bladder. Then I can’t fall back asleep and lay there cursing anyone and everyone that is asleep at that precise moment.
  8. It’s the precursor to even more fun the next week. Yay!
  9. Did I mention that I can’t stop stuffing my gullet?
  10. MEN DON’T HAVE IT! STILL NOT FAIR!!!

I guess I should be thankful that I don’t get bitchy or whiny or weepy. I know the hubby is thankful for that! But dammit, the absence of one misery doesn’t negate the presence of others.

I saw on a TV show a man saying that women should just shut up about it because men, after all, have to get prostate exams. Needless to say I went over to the TV and smashed it with a bat. Then I found where the guy lived and burned his house to the ground with him and his prostate in it.

PMS

PMS 1

PMS 2

I like big words and I cannot lie! (But NOT if they make no sense, dammit!!!!)

.Big Bootie!

I’m shakin’ my ass all over the place now that the Big Butts song is stuck in my head!! ;)

Alas, I digress. Let’s get down to it!

Good grief. People drive me bonkers.

All of you guys know that I like to rant and fume about grammar, punctuation, word choice, etc… I find it fun (if not horribly hypocritical since I make mistakes all the time!) to throw fits over the ways that people speak and write. I’m a hideous person. I know.  ;)

I  also know that I like to occasionally use words that are longer than 6 letters. Not because they are longer than 6 letters, but because they fit with what I’m trying to say. I’m an old (stress the word old) English major, so I’ve read a bunch and know a fair amount of words.

BUT!!!! What I do NOT do is throw in 25 cent words to try and make myself sound smart because guess what? It doesn’t make anyone sound smart to use big words for the sole purpose of using big words and confusing people. It only makes the person speaking (or writing) look like an insecure asshat when they use words, especially buzz words, to sound all fancy.

This drives me insane: “I’m smarter than you because I said, ‘wheelhouse, out of the box and quorum’ all in one sentence! Don’t you feel dumb that you didn’t understand my sentence at all? You should, because I’m smart and use words in a way that no one gets because I’m brilliant and you are stupid.”

I swear, people who speak like that make me want to pull my hair out for several reasons. 1) Stop being a pompus ass! 2) You aren’t communicating effectively, you retarded moron 3) You are clearly incredibly insecure because you are trying to sound smart by confusing everyone with your idiotic words.

If no one understands you, then maybe you shouldn’t speak? What’cha think about that? I personally like that idea.

If you say this sentence, “I think we should meet on Friday to discuss the project,” like this, “I am in favor of uniting a quorum of individuals to address which artifacts should be discussed in our iterative meeting  based on the developmental progress of our deliverable on the last day of the work week,” I immediately want to kill you. And not just kill you, but KILL YOU kill you. Painfully. With malice. Some kind of medieval or Shakespearean kind of death.

Why oh why does anyone think they sound smart by speaking like that? Why? Help me understand. I don’t get it. It’s so annoying and frustrating and makes me feel sorry for you. I think to myself, “Awwww…that poor fucking idiot must feel so small and stupid that they think speaking like a research paper being graded on a per-word basis makes them sound smart.”

Sorry, I know that my filter removal is at an all-time high (especially the death threats) but I’m constantly surrounded by people who do that and it makes me want to jam pencils into my ears while screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

ScreamingOtter

Communication, effective communication, is all about speaking or writing in a way in which people are able to, wait for it… understand what you are saying. If you aren’t effectively communicating, then why bother speaking?

My heart goes out to people who are so insecure. I want to both shake the shit out of them and pat their little insecure heads and tell them it’ll all be okay.

Alrighty, I’m done. All these words have worn me out. I’m going mono-syllabic for the rest of the day. (Right!!) ;)

Horrible, inexcuable language here. Don’t read this rant. It’ll shorten your life by at least a year. I greatly dislike fu*kheads.

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So, the other day I ran into the rudest fucker ever at the Starbucks. And I do mean EVER.

When they called his drink they should have called it like this: “Venti double mocha, salted caramel douche bag for Fuck Face. Fuck Face, your drink is ready. Fuck face?”

You guys know me pretty well, right? I take most things with a grain of salt. Not very much actually makes me mad (except road rage, horrible grammar, snatch monsters and sadistic pedicurists–but really, even those things don’t make me mad, they usually make me laugh). So, for me to be livid is, in all sincerity, pretty rare. But this guy…THIS guy…ugh. I wanted to set him on fire and toast marshmallows in the flame.

What, you may be wondering, has me so annoyed? Well, here it is.

I’m behind this guy in line at Starbucks and after he places his order the Starbucks chick (who is super sweet) looks over to me and asks, “Venti caramel frappuccino light with sugar free caramel, two Sweet&Lows, no whip, no drizzle?” I congratulated her on her awesome memory and told her how nice it was that she remembered (I get between 1-2 Starbucks a week, so it was especially nice that she remembered). The guy, who’s about 65, wearing a running suit, missing a fair amount of hair (though the rest was dyed) and not missing about 30 extra pounds, says to me while looking down his gin blossomed nose, “Wow, that sounds like an awful lot of calories for you to drink. And you probably have one a day, don’t you?”

OH. MY. GOD.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, YOU JUDGMENTAL, SHALLOW, STUPID, ASSHOLE MORON PRICK FUCK FACED ASS HAT!!???

DID YOU JUST REALLY SAY THAT AND ASK ME THAT????

DO YOU WANT TODAY TO BE YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH?

IF I LET YOU LIVE, DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HAVE TO DRINK THROUGH A STRAW FOR THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE DAYS!?

Yeah, I was irate. But, instead of saying what I just so delicately wrote above in all caps, I said, “Actually no. It’s about 100 calories and no fat. The fat-free milk accounts for about 60 calories. The mix counts for about 40. Then the sugar-free caramel has 0 calories, as does the ice and Sweet&Low. It’s a great way to have a treat without ingesting 500 calories and 30 grams of fat, and it’s delicious.”

The reason I didn’t let this complete asshat HAVE it was that he wasn’t worth it. Here’s what I saw when I looked at him (and it made me sad because he clearly wanted to be something other that what he was):

  1. His attire screamed: “I want to be 30 years old again!” Not that men over 30 can’t wear running suits, I think they should! :) You’d have to have seen him to understand. Think of older women who dress like 15 year old hoochies and you’ll understand how this guy looked.
  2. His hair screamed: “I want to be 30 years old again!” as it was clearly dyed. I’m all about dyeing hair–I dyed mine yesterday. But I think he needs to reevaluate his color choice.
  3. His attitude screamed: All women should be perfect looking all the time, be 5’8″ and weigh 120 pounds and anything less than that is unacceptable–so I should try and make this frappuccino-ordering woman feel bad for wanting a treat.
  4. His demeanor screamed: I wouldn’t date a woman over 22 because anyone over that age is ugly, fat and used up. I’m a man, spelled M. A. N., and I only date super models and porn stars because I’m THAT good.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have given any thought to how he looked. People have the right to look however they want to without being judged. But since he was the complete fucktard that he was and clearly casting aspersions at my not-rail-thin-self, I thought his “clamoring to look younger appearance” was relevant.

So, let me explain something to him and to anyone else that expects perfection.

  1. No one is perfect.
  2. No one should be perfect. It’s our imperfections that make us special and unique.
  3. 42 year old women are not supposed to look like they are 17. Everyone ages. Aging is okay. Aging is natural. Aging gracefully is a beautiful thing. Being happy with aging will help keep you sane as NO ONE can stop the aging process.
  4. Our bodies change as we age for a reason. From a strictly “keep the species from becoming extinct” point of view, women in their late teens through their mid-thirties look the way they do to attract the male of the species for the purpose of baby-making. That’s when we are typically the healthiest, our eggs are still young and plentiful, and childbearing should not kill us. As we get older our bodies start to change (so do male bodies, Mr. Starbucks Asshole). The shape of our bodies change due to the loss of estrogen after menopause and how the body reacts to that loss. Gravity starts to get the better of us. Our hair starts turning gray. These changes indicate to the male of the species (at the most primal level) that we are moving from child bearing age to another era of our lives. AND THAT IS OKAY!!! Why would a body that has been on the planet for 50 years be expected to look the same as a body that’s been on the planet for 20? Do most 30 year old cars look the same as they did the day they came off the showroom floor? Likely not. SO GET OVER THE DELUSION THAT WOMEN SHOULD LOOK YOUNG AND SLENDER FOREVER, EAT ONLY SALAD WITH JUST A SPRITZ OF LEMON AS DRESSING, AND AREN’T GOOD ENOUGH IF THEY DON’T!

We all have things about ourselves that we’d like to change. Everyone who reads my blog knows I gained about 10 pounds making (and EATING–yum!) all the food for the cookbook. And while I’m watching what I eat in order to lose those 10 pounds, I’m not sitting around measuring my ass and crying over it. I like how I look, curves and all. I’ve always had curves. Even when it wasn’t cool to have them (think the 80s), I still liked having curves. From any angle, I definitely look like a woman.

Here’s me at 16 and 17 going to my junior and senior proms (good grief–that make-up and hair!!!):

I've never been that tan again!

I’ve never been that tan again!

Yep, I gots me a tush!

Yep, I gots me a tush!

Curves everywhere in the mirror reflection

Curves everywhere in the mirror reflection

Here’s me now:

Baby still got back! ;)

Baby still got back! ;)

HA! Look at that furry cowie!!! I had no idea cowies could be that furry!!!

Anyway, my point by putting in cutie cowie is that I don’t have anything to prove to anyone, especially some ass face at the Starbucks. You guys all know what I look like–you can’t escape my silly self on the Internet. And even if I had rounded out to the point of becoming bovine, so what? Why should anyone care? As long as I like who I am and as long as you like who you are, who else should judge?

So please, let’s all let ourselves and others off the Perfection Hook a bit. Okay? When we die will people at our funeral say, “Wow, I would be sadder if only she’d been 10 pounds thinner…” NO! Ultimately what do we want said at our funeral. “She was so thin her whole life–she held up well, even if she was a bitch because she was hungry all the time.” Or, “I will miss her so much. She was sweet and funny and showed love to others every day of her life.” I don’t know about you, but I’d pick the second option any day. ;)

Unless your weight is making you unhealthy, don’t sweat the pounds so much. Who said everyone had to be skinny? And certainly don’t sweat the pounds of others. First off, it’s nun-ya as my hubby would say (as in none of your business). Second, who is anyone to judge anyone else’s weight? Third, you never know why a person is big (or thin). It could be a love of cupcakes or it could be emotional trauma or it could be a physical issue. But regardless of any of that, who cares? There are so many other things to consider about a person–their ass being one size larger than they may like shouldn’t be at the top of that list.

Good grief, I’m exhausted!!! So to end all of this let me throw some cliches at you, since I’m flat out of creative things to say.

  1. Shut your fucking piehole if ya ain’t got nothin’ nice to say.
  2. Those without sin, cast the first stone. Then choke to death on a pig’s foot, please.
  3. Quit being a fucking prick or Jodi will end you with a hammer and a potato peeler.

Okay, I’m done! :) Have a good night and love your muffin top! ;)