I’m tired. No, really. Like, I just want to lay down on the floor at all times and sleep…or die. Whichever will do the job. I’m not picky.
I’m thirty-five and I honestly don’t blame my age. Anyone that comments with, “oh it’s your age” will get their face smacked off their head, I swear.
My husband did buy me an old people bed when I came home from the hospital, but that was a medical thing. I NEEDED a bed that vibrated and changed head and foot position. It was imperative to my healing process. What, are we just going to throw it away because I’m all better now? Not a chance, trick.
At first it reminded me of one of those beds you see in those old 80s movies. You know the ones they put the quarters in and it vibrates them right off the bed in hilarious ways, or glitches and catches fire. Those old 80s movies had me certain that beds that vibrated were pervert beds. That beds like that only existed in porn or in a hidden room in some creepy dude’s kidnap shack. Not, in my regular house in my normal bedroom.
I still have a hard time not seeing myself like Beverly D’Angelo in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Gawd, how I wish I had that sexy hair. Of course, we never end up on the floor and I have french fry grease hair most days. But it’s always there, in the back of my mind…what if the bed turns evil and tries to vibrate us to death? It would be the most relaxing death, but the worst news report.
“Couple sleeping on a vibrating 80s pervert bed got what they deserved when their sinning asses burnt up in a whacky vibrating bed fire yesterday. Authorities say that all of their neighbors hated them, and that the woman’s greasy french fry hair was the cause of the fire. No one misses them and Twitter is blowing up on the #pervertbedcouple tag”.
It’s one of the drawbacks of my awesome bed. I don’t try to explain away the pervert vibe my bed gives off to people. When it comes up I just start playing R. Kelly’s Ignition on my phone, and bounce my way out of the room.
Since it rarely comes up, I don’t get to show off my sweet bounce skills while walking to a door, but when it does I bounce myself into a pulled groin. I’m not old. I’m just woefully out of shape. That doesn’t stop me from me from celebrating the spirit of the freakin’ weekend all week long. My whole life really. It’s the freakin’ weekend in my heart all year long.
This morning when I walked out into the brisk weather to take my dog to go pee, I felt a sense of deja vue when the back door slammed behind me.
BALLS, BALLS, BALLS.
My brained panicked, and anyone who knows me really well, knows I am not the best when I panic. I tried the door first. It was locked. WHY THE HELL WAS IT LOCKED?! I blame the cat. The dog looked at me. I looked at the dog. One of us was going to have to be smarter than this situation, and I was kind of hoping the dog was going to step up. She walked away and immediately dropped a deuce by a tree. Thanks, dog. I love you too.
I was starting to get really cold. My pajama dress wasn’t cutting it. Of course I wasn’t wearing a bra. My boobs were just flailing in the bitter cold like a couple of angry house shoes. Just sad and tattered. Seen better days and would have liked to have been rolled back up into the safety of a bra, but no, I was supposed to be in the shower. NOT stuck outside with a dog taking dump. I was frantic for half a second. I did what I normally do when I get nervous and panicky.
I giggled and bounced in place.
It didn’t help my situation, but it did fix the me being cold. I started sweating. Great. I was about to get in the shower when the dog wanted to go out, so I was gross. My hair was so greasy you could have fried a thousand orders of fries in it. God, why would I look presentable when I knew I was going to have to walk somewhere and talk to people in my hour of humiliation. With no cellphone, no keys, an empty dog, and a cat who was probably plotting on us both I started walking to my landlord’s house.
Yes, it took me that long to decide to go there. I was kind of hoping I could save myself without anyone seeing me, but I had no other options. Me and my house slipper titties were going to on an adventure. Oh, and the dog too.
Thankfully, my landlord’s wife had a key. She gave me a shawl to cover up with because she mistakenly thought I was hugging my chest because I was cold. Nope. I was hugging my chest to hide my no bra shame. I already looked like a grease ball mess. I didn’t want to add no bra to the list. I was just glad I was wearing shoes.
Oh, did I mention my pajamas were inside out? They were. Why? Because I do not care. They are pajamas for crying out loud. You sleep in them. What does it matter if it’s right side out or not? Unfortunately, it matters when other people are going to see me in said pajamas, greasy french fry hair, and house slipper titties. Thank God for the shoes. All of my dignity was in those shoes. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
I’ve learned some things about myself today.
- I don’t wear bras at important moments when bras are critical.
- My hair produces an insane amount of grease in a short amount of time. If I’m not careful it’s going to start a grease fire one day.
- The cat is an asshole. I cannot trust him.
- The dog isn’t any help “in the clutch”. Also, she doesn’t understand when you scream ” You aren’t any help IN THE CLUTCH”!
- My husband isn’t as surprised as he should be when I tell him “I got locked outside and my titties were swinging freely again”. Like, didn’t even bat an eyelash. That reflects poorly on us both, I think.
- I really, really, really need to get one of those fake rocks to hide a key under because this isn’t the first time this has happened. Last time I was barefoot without a bra. The shame leaked out at an alarming rate since there were no shoes to catch, and hold my dignity.
I have been flipped off several times this week…not counting my husband. He doesn’t count because it’s usually me flipping him off first. Those are love flip-offs. No, I’m talking about serious flip-offs from complete strangers. My reaction is always the same. I laugh nervously, and then try to figure out if we’re gonna tussle.
That is basically what that gesture is, an invitation to the fist party. Of course, the only fist parties I can remember with clarity involved an elementary school me, and a giant girl named Breezie. Yes, my name is Wendy and my elementary school bully’s name was Breezie. We had several chuckles over it while she was sitting on my back shoveling dirt into my mouth. I should thank her.
I hear dirt is good for you.
While I may not have enjoyed ingesting handfuls of dirt from a playground that I’m sure countless stray dogs and cats used as a toilet, I can respect her creativity. I bring her up because she’s the first person I can remember flipping me off. Invariably fists would start to fly after I said something sarcastic or made a face that said, “bitch is you talking to me”?
Of course, they were her fists and my tiny body, but it taught me an important lesson:
you don’t flip someone off unless you’re prepared to eat dirt.
I ate enough dirt from grades first until third to last a lifetime, so I’m not about the dirt eating. It took me quite a few punches and dirt before I realized that my reactions were part of the problem. Yes, we could argue all day about how her actions were the problem, but I’m not her. I could not control her actions. I could only control my own. A bland face and NO sarcastic or pithy remarks kept me bruise and dirt free. I kept them to myself, and while it would have been more fun to share them, I preferred the scenarios where she didn’t step on me and try to make me eat grass.
So, I can’t help but wonder about all of these people letting their fingers fly to a complete stranger. I mean, she’s out there somewhere. You flip- off a grown up Breezie, and I imagine you’re getting a whole lot more than a mouthful of dirt or grass. Why aren’t more people afraid of that possiblity? I’m sure statistically there are a lot of people like Breezie running around all balls-crazy. A lot of you finger flippers are playing Russian roulette with a mouthful of dirt. WHY? Don’t you know how bad it tastes? Full of minerals, yes, but it’s also full of animal pee. ANIMAL PEE.
When I met Breezie, I was very polite and mentioned how hilarious it was that we both had wind related names. Stating that hers being a slightly stupid version was probably my first mistake. I would like to blame this social faux-pas on the fact that I was in the first grade, but that would be a lie. I’ve never been very good at keeping what is in my mind to myself. So, we’ll just say our whole dichotomy was a joint effort. Partially my fault for my mouth and facial expressions that said “you’re stupid” and her for being a giant with a bad attitude. We never recovered from that first mistake.
I try much harder as an adult to mind what I say and do. It’s one of my mottos.
“You don’t flip someone off unless you’re prepared to eat dirt”.
There are a few times when I’ve forgotten, and said the wrong thing to someone that was balls-crazy, but thankfully I never ended up with a mouthful of dirt. Though, I did come close a few times.
I’ve come up with a few simple ways to diffuse a flip-off invitation to a fist party.
- Smile without sarcasm. This is harder for me than you can imagine. My face just doesn’t really work that way.
- Don’t give a thumbs up like they’re the dumbest person on earth. This will land you in fist city faster than a thousand sarcastic smiles. Add in a sarcastic smile and you just might get murdered.
- Don’t throw both hands up in the air. I was unaware this was the universal sign for: “eat shit, and then come get some”.
- The only real way to avoid fist city is to ignore the offending finger. I know, a flip-off seems to need some kind of reaction, but I learned the hard way that it doesn’t end well for anyone whose name isn’t Breezie.
For all those people running around flipping strangers off like maniacs. You should probably stop. I’m serious. Breezie is huge, and there is no telling where she is right now, and I’m sure she’s got a handful of dirt with your name all over it.
As a kid, I used to make fun of my aunts and mom for wearing what they called “their girdles”. I would put them on and run around in them. Such a free, innocent child. Not realizing that two kids and a lifetime of pizza would catch up to me. I’m sure my mom and aunts were smug in their understanding of the retribution I had coming, and that’s why they could silently smile as I acted like a little shit.
If you see me in public you might think, “oh there’s a normal looking human being”. I thank you for smooth compliment. So flattering. What you’re not aware of, is that under my normal, shitty clothes I’ve got this very elaborate system of pulleys and succession of girdles, either sucking in or pulling things back into places they used to live…or should have been living. I may give off the impression of a normal female human when I’m actually a giant wad of gum and cellulite.
Basically anything hidden from sight is inside this intricate web of deception. It’s pretty convenient, albeit uncomfortable, but walking and sitting are totally overrated. I mean, sometimes I can just mold myself a whole new shape entirely. I still haven’t quite figured out attractive yet, but when I do, man that’s gonna be something.
It’s probably because they haven’t managed to make cankle girdles. I’d wear that so hard. I don’t have cankles yet, but I can just feel them just waiting under the surface, wanting to pop out. I’ll probably wake up one morning not worrying about cankles, and POOF!
Cankles as far as the eye can see.
Can you even exercise your ankles to make them skinnier? Is that a thing? It’s probably not. I’ll have to start wearing those sensible shoes that only come in three colors: brown, white, or black and house shoes everywhere since my cankles will be too big to fit in regular shoes. Some of the cankle mass always seems to go down to your foot and make it super fat. There’ll I’ll be with giant cankles and obese feet. God, knowing my luck I’ll be the one woman with cankles that can’t wear actual shoes anymore. I’ll have to make my own out of cardboard, rubber, duct tape, and sadness. I could open an Etsy shop, and cater exclusively to cankle clientele. I’d call them cankle clogs.
I’d be so rich, and also sad because of my cankles,
but the money would make it better.
If I’m lucky my husband’s eyesight will get really bad by that time, and he won’t realize his wife is wearing a duct tape mess on her feet. I can only hope.
This past weekend was Halloween. I bought a crap ton of candy and treats for the trick-or-treaters.
And decorated my house like an expert….
It’s almost too scary.
And then we opened our doors to the masses. My family has this tradition every year. We buy a ton of candy to hand out to all the trick-or-treaters, watch kid Halloween movies, dress up, decorate our house, and eat as much of the Halloween candy out of the bucket as we can while we wait. We were jazzed.
Then people started flooding in our door. They weren’t just coming for candy and leaving. They were sticking around. Which we loved, but we ran into a very big problem when everyone went home. Someone done fucked up. That’s honestly the only to explain what my husband found in the hallway on his way to the bathroom.
In a very puzzled voice he called out to me, “Wendy, did the kids flood the bath-…..” that’s where the words stopped and the loud gagging started. I got up from my seat in the kitchen, and peeked my head into the hallway to find him bent over attempting to hold in all the candy he had consumed earlier in the evening. Tears in his eyes, he looked up at me and whispered,
“Someone pissed an ocean in here, and out into the hallway”.
Frightened, I realized I was standing in pee, and screamed. “NOOOOOOOOO, OH GAWD EVERYTHING’S COVERED IN URINE”! We then began a ridiculous conversation that was sprinkled with gagging and swear words. Bless my husband’s heart. When we walked into the living room to hold our conversation in a neutral, pee free zone, he caught a whiff of pee, and followed it all the way to our couches.
The piss bandit had struck my living room furniture.
I would like to say that I remained the voice of reason, but all I could smell was pee, and we had already discussed burning the house down and starting over somewhere else. Somewhere free of pee. My husband had made his mind up, and he looked at me with more determination than I’ve seen in a while from his normally laid back face. “You can sit on these if you want, but I’m never sitting on them ever again. You’ll have to kill me first if you want me to sit on one”. I said I agreed, and said, “no, we sit on the floor now. The piss bandit got us good”.
My husband nodded his head, and then started moving the couches out of the house. They are outside right now.
I went back inside and started cleaning the bathroom. I want to say that it was a modest amount of pee, but that would be a lie. I would love to say I behaved like a lady, and cleaned without resorting to swear words or gagging and vowing revenge, but that would also be a lie. I cleaned pee of the walls, bathtub, cabinet, and of course, the floor in the bathroom and the hallway.
Oddly enough I did NOT have to clean the toilet. It was completely clean. HOW? Part of me wants to know how this terrible deed was done, and the rest of me wants to remain blessedly ignorant. Now, a few words to the piss bandit who exploded in my bathroom without so much as a “hey, I blew your bathroom up with pee pee and then got it all over your couches”.
Dear Piss Bandit,
You don’t have to explain or apologize. I already know. One day, maybe so far into the future that you think you’ve gotten away with it, but mark my words, Piss Bandit. I will get you back. You will come home and smell a very familiar smell, and wonder where you know it from. You will take your shoes off, and start to walk across the floor in your house and notice that your socks are wet. Hmm, that’s weird. It’s been a long day hasn’t it, Piss Bandit? You just wanna get a snack and sit on your couch. You’ll go into your kitchen and a eerie sight will fill your vision. All of your glasses from your cabinets are out, and on your table full of…what is that? Apple juice? You don’t remember buying apple juice, do you? Oh, well no reason to let it go to waste.
You’ll grab a glass, and head back into your living room. Man, those socks sure are wet aren’t they? Plopping down onto your couch, you realize it’s wet too, and there’s that familiar smell again. What is that? You put the glass to your lips, and just as tilt the glass to take a drink, it hits you. With a deep knot of dread, you know what that smell is. You realize that I’ve peed on every single surface in your house. From the doorknob, to the every square inch of your floor, your couch, and all those glasses on your table. Why do you have that many glasses anyway?
I bet you’re wondering how I managed it? Never you mind. Aren’t I dehydrated? Maybe a little, but that’s what they make Gatorade for. I buy the red kind and call it Revengerade.
Rest in pieces Piss bandit,
My husband has been on a business trip since Monday, and the adult in me would like to point out that I’ve been responsible. The other 90% of me needs that 10% to sit down and remember how often we listened to that Meghan Trainor song while eating candy.
I’ve cleaned, I’ve read a ton of Jane Austen, stared at old photos of my husband, and even written a little bit of husband fanfiction.
It’s gotten pitiful, but he threw me a bone. Of course, I made it weird. I always make it weird.
I’m starting to wonder why he likes coming home at all. I basically stalk, harass, and otherwise act like a fan. I don’t think it’s normal wife behavior to wish you could draw better so you could draw illustrations of your husband dressed up as different Jane Austen heroes, but there it is. That’s how I love. In the creepiest, grossest way possible. Apparently he likes it.
He’s probably just REALLY gratefully I’m not a talented artist of any kind because if I was, there would be many portraits of him in full regency swagger, complete with cravat and smolder.
You see this picture?
I forced my husband to take it for me today while we were on our way to the airport. I spotted this dump truck with these hilarious words on the back, and started laughing. I threw my phone at him and started screaming, “TAKE A PICTURE! MAKE SURE IT’S CLEAR”! Then I told him it was for our safety that he was taking the picture. Since I was driving I would probably crash us into another car, and we would all die in a fiery explosion. It was better this way. Better for him if he just did what I said.
He didn’t ask why I wanted the photo. He just started snapping pictures like crazy. He did not ask a single question. That says a lot about our marriage. Probably that he knew I was going to do something stupid with the picture, and couldn’t wait to laugh at my stupidity.
And I’m okay with that scenario.
OR, that I was going to do something GENIUS with it. It was the first thing. I made a stupid post to Facebook so all of my friends could laugh. I was practically dancing in my seat the whole time. Here’s the super awesome hilarious joke that I posted on Facebook for my friends and family:
This literally made me laugh for an hour with tears streaming down my face. I do not care if anyone else finds it funny. I do not! I’m putting it on my fridge.
I watched an inspirational exercise video. You know, hoping it would give me inspiration to do more with my gooey body yesterday than just sit on this couch eating Domino’s pizza. I kind of wish I hadn’t watched it.
The woman in the video did some kind of super human feat that I can only say would literally break my vagina. It was dangerous, and should have had a disclaimer at the beginning that no mere mortal should try it as she was super human. I watched it several times. Every time, mesmerized by how effortlessly she sprang into the air from a push up position, crossed her arms midair while doing a spread eagle, and then gracefully catching herself before she fell to the floor. If I did that, and managed to get my chubby little body more than the regular arm’s length away from the floor, and into the air, my descent would not be graceful.
It would be vagina shattering.
It would be what a wrestler would call a vagina mangler, or a cush crusher. I could see it now, it would the death blow to all other lady wrestlers. “The Dominatrix has Candace the Candy Striper in a choke hold”.
“Yes, I think she is going for her patented cush crusher….OOOOOH! Candace is going to feel that one tomorrow”. “Heh, heh, I’d like to be the doctor making that cast”.
Honestly, I love watching the inspirational exercise videos, preferably with food, because I love seeing what the human body is capable of. Not exactly MY body, but the human body in general. It’s nice to see. It makes me smile while I’m struggling to do squats.
I have a life goal. My life goal is to be able to do one pull up. Whether or not I’ll ever be able to do that is anybody’s guess, but watching the inspirational exercise videos where people are doing crazy super human things makes me feel like it’s possible even when I can’t lift the empty bar from the bench press.
*Holla, Candace! Thank you for posting that video and giving me the inspiration for this post.
Opening my email, all I can see are coupons from Domino’s. Just temptation as far as the eye can see.
Gah, not again Domino’s. For the past few months Domino’s has been pitching some mad woo at me through my email. Now, I’m not going to lie. This is the best form of flirting, if someone was going to flirt with me, but Domino’s, I’m a happily married woman!
I can’t just ditch that for a hot and fresh fling with you, Domino’s. I mean, it’s not like I’ve already written a carefully worded dear John letter to my husband or anything….
We both knew this was coming. Well, maybe not you, but all those pizza coupons for great deals couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Didn’t you question where I was getting them? Your lady was getting courted by a dangerous lover with promises of pizza. I know you’ll never understand my reasons for leaving you for Domino’s since you don’t like pizza.
Are you even a person?
Who doesn’t like pizza? Maybe we’re just too different. Domino’s gets me. Don’t look for me. Pizza has me now.
Your Runaway Wife Who is probably neck deep in pizza,