The Pretty and the Pretty Ugly of Being a GIRL

Yesterday at the gym there was a news segment on TV discussing a survey that found men say it’s harder to be a man today than it was in the 50’s.  Blurred gender roles were decided (by a man, I’m sure) to be the culprit.  Wah.  Wah.

Try being a female.

Not gonna lie, some days I LOVE being a girl.  The female body is incredible.  It’s beautiful and powerful.  The only way a man can be created is from a woman’s body.

So, who’s the weaker sex now?

On the other hand, there are some days I loathe my female form.  It can be restrictive and unpredictable.  After thirty-something years with the same body moments exist when I still can’t seem to understand it.

Bleeding profusely for four straight days, emotional outbursts for seemingly no reason, my boobs getting in my way when I try to put my arms by my side … ugh.

I realize I can’t have it both ways (that’s what she said).  Gotta take the good with the bad.

It’s been said (often by my husband) that women are a contradiction.

And with the following list, I’m aboutta prove it.

Sometimes I feel like showin off my cray-cray.  And I know that if I ever do, I can always blame it on my “time of the month”.

Me: “Judge, I’m really sorry I punched that stupid person in the baby maker for cutting me off in the checkout lane in Target.  I had PMS that day.”

Judge: “OH!  Well, in that case I find you not guilty by reason of insanity.  You may go.”

But I also know that there could come a day I’m walking through the gym likka boss to get to the locker room, (which is always in the back of the gym), finally make it to the locker room, take off my light-colored pants to put on my workout clothes only to realize my tampon has failed me.  And I can again blame my “time of the month”.  Only this time, not in a good way.

I’m short.  I am fully aware of my height (or lack thereof) but for some reason people seem to want to remind me of it.  “Wow!  You’re short!”  Oh!  Thank you!  I had no idea!  It’s not like I have a piece of food on my face that I’m unaware of.

But it’s much better to be short and a girl than short and a guy.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say, “Oh, I can’t date her.  She’s shorter than me.”  However, I’ve heard plenty of women (especially tall women) who are very selective about the height of the men they date.  Female advantage is on my side in this situation.

HOWEVER!  In my kitchen, the tall cabinets are where, I’m convinced, my husband hides things he knows I’ll never find.  (Maybe a very expensive brand of protein powder or chocolate he doesn’t want to share).  If all of my “everyday” plates (you know, the ones Ikea sells for $.50 apiece) are in the dishwasher and I have to get the special “Made in Italy” plates, I’m in trouble.  Actually, I’ll hand wash the dirty plates to keep from having to climb on the counter.

No, that’s not true.  I’m a climber if it means I don’t have to hand wash.  Although, I know that one day my husband will find me wandering around with a concussion from the fall.

I love wearing makeup and lookin pretty.  I love that I can wear dresses, bikinis, stilettos, crop tops, daisy dukes, and anything lace.  Being a girl is great for that.

If I’m having a bad skin day, I can apply some makeup to that biatch of a zit and it’s like it was never there.

Unless I’m having one of those days where my son wants me to hold him until his 40th birthday, my dog shats in the floor six times AFTER I’VE TAKEN HER OUT (you know, just because), my daughter decides at THAT MOMENT she needs to show me all of the art work she’s created for the past seven years, and it’s time to leave so we can make it to karate on time but I realize I haven’t peed all morning.  Those are the mornings the “Lookin Pretty” advantage goes to the Y chromosome.

Although, I swear, my hubs could roll out of bed, put on a tux and look better than me if I spent 4 hours getting all dolled up.

As a woman, my body can do this amazing, miraculous thing where it GROWS A HUMAN!  This is fascinating.  Knowing that you are carrying around a little person is an indescribable experience.  It made me want to wear a sign that said, “I’M A WOMAN AND I GROW PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And then the little human is ripped from your body like a horror scene from the movie Alien.  You’re left with a stretched out, tired, abused body that now has to feed and care for a little boss who doesn’t give a rats arse that you haven’t slept in a month or that you keep peeing on yourself because your bladder is still in shock.  Advantage to the man.

Until it’s quiet and everyone’s asleep and it’s just you holding your beautiful, sleeping little alien.  Definite momvantage.

See?  Pros and cons.  Ammirite?

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Squirrel

thebertshow.com

My husband’s nickname for me is “Squirrel”. He calls me “Squirrel” to insinuate that I have a short attention span, am easily distracted, and frequently drift into tangents. The term “Squirrel” became popular when the movie “Up” came out because the dog, “Dug”, was easily distracted by squirrels. So is my husband calling me a dog???  Because my dog, Georgia, has an attention span of an honor student studying for the SAT when she gets a hold of a tennis ball or her favorite chew toy. Or if I have food she wants. I had cannoli tonight for dessert. Well, actually just one so that would be a cannolo. When I moved to Italy and ordered cannoli for the first time I asked for “cannoli” and the guy asked how many. Then I realized I’d said the plural form of the word. So, to save face, I asked for 2. I had 2 cannoli for breakfast. And I ate both. But, anyway, I’m not a dog.

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Tiphi’s Back

Hi Everyone.  I’m reluctantly trying something new here.   My trainwreck neighbor Tiphi has started a “parenting blog”.  She heard from her drug dealer pharmacist that I have a blog so she asked if she could write a guest post in an effort to get her blog off the ground.  As payment to me for her space on my website I’ve made her promise to stop touching my husband inappropriately at neighborhood functions.  Honey, you’re welcome.

So, without further ado, I present to you Tiphi’s guest post:

Haaaaay y’all.  Ok, sew, liiiiike.  My maid’s personal assistant just announced she’s preggers. While she pukes her way through my house, cleaning with a garbage can by her face, I thought I’d share some lessons I’ve learned since becoming a surrogate mommy. I don’t pay her enough to afford the internet so I force share my wisdom with her when my maid is around to translate for me I can.

Aaaand I’m super awesome at it. I know cuz she always smiles when I tell her stuff. Here are a few pieces of wisdom from me, Tiphi (short for Tiffany, but with a “ph” and an “i”. Do NOT call me “Tiffy” or “Tiffi”. That’s just gross).

Parenting Tips from Tiphi

  1. Education

Being smart is seeeew important.  Make sure to sleep with whoever lets kids in to those schools that the rif raf can’t go to.  Private schools.

  1. Always say, “I love you”.

To your pharmacist.  These are the people who give you little candies that make it tolerable when your kids come home from wherever it is they go all day.  Be nice to your pharmacist because you need them.  I have 5 pharmacists in 5 different neighborhoods because there seems to be some sort of limit on how many Percocet they can give out in a 5 day period.

  1. It takes a village.

Hire help.  Lots of it.  I have a personal assistant, a nanny, a cook, a maid, my maid’s assistant, and my personal assistant has an assistant.  And they are ALL ILLEGAL.  That’s key because they’ll keep your secrets.  Believe me, all it takes is one threat and they’ll zip those lips real tight.

  1. Put your best foot forward.

I show my Buphi that I take pride in the way I look.  I get botox, lip injections, and body wrapped.  I also eat 200 calories a day and take Healthy Trim.  #imabarbie And I never, never shop at those places that the common people go to.  I can’t remember what they’re called but those big places with a lot of cheap stores… you know what I’m talking about.  Anyway, if the shirts are less than $200, don’t shop there.  If you do, it means you don’t care about yourself.

  1. Emotional Support is Key.

Always show your kids that you care.  When Buphi has a tough day at school I show her I care by giving her nanny the credit card so she can take Buphi to spend as much money as she needs to feel better.

  1. Have hobbies.

Don’t forget to take time for yourself!  Every day my friends and I have a pill swap wine party little get together.  It’s usually pretty low key, maybe a cookie exchange or Bunko… you know, just normal stuff.

  1. Build self-esteem.

Let your kids know how perfect they are!  Once my Buphi got her nose done, lips plumped a little, some collagen in those cheeks, and had the fat sucked out of her muffin top, she was PUR-FEKT.  Calm down!  She was eight!

  1. Always have dinner together.

My personal assistant’s assistant goes to fetch our dinner at the Club every night.  Then I make her lay it all out really nicely so the kids can all eat with her while she eats the spam sandwich I allow her to bring.

Seeeew, that’s it. That’s the end y’all. Share it with all the people you know so I’ll be super fame.  I always saw myself being like a skinnier, more famous Kelly Ripa and I’m pretty sure I’m well on my way. Thanks for loving me almost as much as I love me.

 

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Words of Confusion

If a server at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant second-guesses your entrée choice, pick again. Maybe this time choose Sesame Chicken or Beef and Broccoli. Something safe. #myalmondchickenisblue

I love tattoos. If not for my job I’d have a full sleeve. But I must say, this:

ksfm.cbslocal.com

ksfm.cbslocal.com

is a bad life decision. And you will forever be judged. By me. For being stupid. Vurry. Vurry. Stupid.

Shark cages confuse me. The opening is too large! What if a shark swims through it????

www.daytrips.co.za

www.daytrips.co.za

Every time I see a shark cage, my mind sends me this message:

animals.nationalgeographic.com

animals.nationalgeographic.com

Bullet-proof vests confuse me, too. Uh, what if they shoot you in the face?

www.quickmeme.com

www.quickmeme.com

Just some food for thought. You know, no big deal.

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Misguided Guidance

In my very first post I made a promise to lay it all out there.

{Which I’ve apparently done if all of the comments regarding my lack of sanity are any indication}.

My motivation for sharing my fugly isn’t because I think my life is extraordinarily different than anyone else’s. I know I’ve experienced situations that are extreme, but the feelings I’ve had as a result of those situations are universal. That’s what drives me.

Everyone reading this, even including the ONE person who hasn’t yet discovered my blog {seriously, if someone could help her out that’d be great. Like, just send her the link? Her name is Mary. You know, I can’t really recall the last name… starts with an “s” though. Maybe Swimmy? Swammy, Slippy, Slappy… that’s it. Mary Slappy. Please send the link to her immediately so she’s not left out. Thanks.} has experienced situations that aren’t ideal.

And because most of us (myself NOT included) don’t really talk about them, going through shat first-hand can be a very lonely experience. We are expected to put on a happy face and pretend like everything is ok. We’re told, “don’t share your business”.

The next time you are having a hard day and someone in passing asks, “Hey! How are you?” answer honestly and see how awkward it is.

And that’s why I’m here.

You aren’t alone! You aren’t the only person wondering why the Hell someone Jerry-Springered your life. {Yes, you let it happen, but that’s a different post altogether}.

Feeling alone when you’ve just become a single parent is the last thing anyone should feel. Feeling alienated because your family member is a public embarrassment isn’t right! Every politician in America has had to clean up that type of mess.

{Right, Hillary?}

As a result of all the poo we step in, counselors and therapists will always have job security.

I recently read an article about a celebrity couple defending their trips to couple’s counseling. For all the judgy-judgy people out there judging them for going to therapy, you’ve probably been there, too, and you’re just trying to pretend you’re perfect. Stop. You aren’t fooling anyone. If you haven’t been to therapy and you’re judging them for going, you mos def need it.

Reading the article immediately brought me back to last year.

When my ex-husband {I feel like he needs a code name. Continuously writing “ex-husband” is getting cumbersome. Let’s call him “Tim”. No, that’s not it. “Gene”. He’s much more equipped in the coolness department to carry off “Gene” (I mean “pull it off”, not like he’s carrying off Gene’s body, although that wouldn’t surprise me). “Gene” it is.}

When Gene started suggesting my daughter at age five get on an airplane alone to fly 3,000 miles across the country to spend time with a man she’d at the time only seen 6 or 7 times since she was 10 weeks old, I did everything in my power to make sure it didn’t happen.

He is the king of ulterior motives. I was convinced that something else was driving him but since I couldn’t figure out what that was at the time, I worked with my attorney to put parameters in place to safeguard my daughter and, at the same time, have him prove himself. If he were willing to make sacrifices and jump through hoops I’d soften my opinion.

Once a month he was to fly on his own dime to visit for the weekend. On Saturday morning he was to attend reunification counseling with a therapist of my choosing with Bella and me to ease the transition to a more frequent visits and make sure that there was an impartial third party to provide guidance when needed. After counseling he could visit with her until 5pm, then again on Sunday from 8am to 5pm.

If he could keep this monthly visitation for at least six out of eight consecutive months, he could have a version of his way.

{I’m pretty sure I can now successfully negotiate with Vladamir Putin. Or at least whoever is in charge of Canada.}

He agreed to the arrangement in mediation and we all signed the handwritten mediation terms on a sheet of paper. My attorney was to type it up and make it official.

{Yes, I went to “family” counseling with the cheating, lying, manipulative Gene.}

September was the first visit.

My vision of the counseling sessions had me in the background. I’d just be there to help Bella feel more comfortable but really I expected it would be centered on her and ways to help her bond with Gene in a healthy way that wouldn’t cause her any more trauma than she’ll experience when I bust her first unauthorized high school party in a robe with rollers in my hair.

{Yes, I’ve rehearsed it in my head. Again, with the judging!}

In our first session Gene stated that he felt he and I should hash out our differences first and that would allow everyone to move forward. The therapist indulged him.

He showed no interest in anyone but me during the sessions. He tried everything he could to discredit me, make me seem bitter and emotionally weak.

{But, come on!  We all know I’m waaay too pretty for anyone to believe that bidnaz.}

Each of the three sessions we completed together had Bella in an adjacent playroom at some point or another to avoid her hearing the shat that flowed from his facially situated asshole.

When he realized that I wasn’t weak and that I chose an intelligent therapist who challenged his inconsistencies he got frustrated and lashed out, becoming defensive and would dance around questions he knew he couldn’t answer in a way that would make him look favorable.

In addition, he accused my attorney of changing the terms of the agreement when she typed it up.

His attorney fired him as a client.

He sat on the typed agreement for four months refusing to sign it even after my attorney told him to simply circle the items he disagreed with. So, my attorney found him in breach of contract and nullified the agreement.

He discovered this information in our November session and instead of getting upset or requesting we figure it out, (the normal response from someone who genuinely wants to see his child), he simply said, “Oh. Well, we can just go back to the way it was before”. And that was the last time Bella has seen him.

Some might consider this to be a failure. I don’t. Either way, my plan would have worked.

As soon as the “what’s in it for him” factor disappeared, as soon as he realized he couldn’t do what he wanted as it was convenient for him, he bailed. It simultaneously broke my heart and made me cry tears of joy.

Although not the intended purpose, I discovered a lot about myself that hopefully has made me a better mom, wife, and friend.

I’m co-dependent. I tend to hold on to abusive, toxic relationships as a way to control my environment. My therapist helped me see my patterns so that I can learn to alter that behavior.

I don’t want my kids growing up with the same hang-ups I have. I want them to go find their own.

Don’t feel alone if you’ve got shat on your shoe. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. You just might learn something about yourself in the process.

Cuz we already know you’re pretty!

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Prison Shank Shakedown

Contrary to the name, “prison shanks” have uses that are applicable to other environments as well, not just prisons.  While they are rarely accepted as appropriate uses of force, one could argue that they are highly effective.

For example:

Someone cuts in front of you in line.  If you shank them, I’m pretty sure they will never do that again.

Someone cuts you off in traffic.  If you shank them, I’m pretty sure they will never do that again.

Someone disagrees with you when you are 100% correct.  If you shank them, I’m pretty sure they will never do that again.

You get the picture.  Is it excessive force?  I guess we’ll never know.  Unless a jury of your peers determines it so.  And that could very well happen.

Not sure how I got on the topic of “prison shanks”.  But I am at work…

On a lighter note, it’s Friday so I’m pretty stoked about that.

pinterest.com

pinterest.com

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Determined Destiny

I just read a post about how to determine what you should be doing with your life.  It said to write down what you like to do.  Well, I like to do a lot of things. Maybe if I eliminate what I DON’T like to do, it’ll help. 

Here’s my first attempt.  I think I nailed it.

Traffic sucks.  I don’t like doing anything that requires traffic.  So driving to work is out.

www.ign.com

www.ign.com

Mean people suck.  I don’t like doing anything that requires mean people.  So driving to work is out.

Stupid sucks.  I don’t like doing anything that requires me to interact with stupid.  So driving to work is out.

My family doesn’t suck.

I don’t suck.

Funny doesn’t suck.

Most of my friends don’t suck.

Don’t question whether or not you suck.  That was a joke.

Starbucks doesn’t suck.

Alcohol doesn’t suck.

Too much alcohol definitely sucks.

The beach could never suck.

Unless there’s a hurricane.

Hurricanes suck.

The word “moist” sucks.

The word “suck” kind of sucks.  Really, it’s just weird.

Puppies don’t suck.

Puppy poo sucks.  Especially when it’s on the carpeted stairs.

Movies don’t suck.

Not true.  Some definitely suck.  Ever seen Satiricon?

Drugs suck.

Bad drivers suck. Slight tangent alert on my tangent: this point could be related to the first point above but not necessarily.

Flying rocks on the interstate that hit my new windshield suck.

Wait… I totally forgot why I’m doing this.  Something about finding my destiny… oh well.

Happy Tuesday!

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God is Laughing

Some people are destined for greatness.

Some people are destined for turribleness.  Some people are just dumbasses here for our entertainment, serving as proof that God has the best sense of humor.

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Guilt Share

The name “Geoff” confuses me. I get that it’s pronounced “Jeff” but I still internally say “Gee-Off” every time I see it.

I hate the guilt-share Facebook posts. “Like if you love Jesus”, “Share if you love your kids”… Stupid. Don’t guilt me into doing what you want. According to my inactions on Facebook I’m a wretched person who hates puppies…

daylandoes.com

daylandoes.com

I love taking quizzes on Buzzfeed but I don’t understand “Pick a Disney Villain” or “Pick a pet” or “Pick a favorite flower”. Why am I picking? Do I pick what I don’t like, what I do like, what I wish I were? Ugh…

Having almost black hair means that any time I use dry shampoo it has to be tinted so that it doesn’t look like I have cocaine in my hair. It also means I leave a trail of brown everywhere.

Why do my kids act like they’re being water boarded every time I wash their hair in the tub but happily dunk their heads in the water when I ask them not to get their hair wet???

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