I was determined that after the last two weddings I was in, I was not going to do everyone’s makeup. It always stressed me out and had me rushing into my dress at the last minute, feeling not as put together as the others. But unfortunately, one of my faults is that I have a hard time saying no to something that’s going to make me look good...like turning some busted bitch into the belle of the ball.
“Oh my god, you did such a good job on her makeup! She looks so much better!”
“I know.”
Own it, I say. False modesty is just silly.
This was, of course, how I found myself standing in a corner, applying foundation to the bride’s face, wondering why no one had had the balls to suggest she wax her mustache before her wedding day. I’d never been that close to her before and had I known how bad it really was, I most certainly would have said something. But there was no point stressing her out about it at that point – what was done was done.
Papa has always had a case of “keeping up with the Joneses”, so what was once, over 25 years ago, a one room fishing cabin is now a three story monstrosity surrounded by random porches and more brick columns than are strictly necessary. On the side of the house that faces the lake, the majority of which is his bedroom, there are huge side by side windows all the way around. The view is spectacular, but I can tell you from personal experience that it loses a bit of its luster after you’ve had to clean those suckers. Still, his room is my favorite part of the house and the one that’s always designated for bridal preparations.
So while Tess sat on a stool facing the two corner windows, the black hairs of her mustache shining in the afternoon sunlight, I applied makeup as quickly as possible. And all around us there was chaos. The bed and chairs were covered in plastic dress bags, bottles of hair spray and various undergarments that would have looked more at home in a torture chamber. The counters were littered with makeup and shoes were scattered at random across the hardwood floor. Bridesmaids and other female family members were running in and out of the room in various states of undress. One hair stylist had set up camp in the bathroom while the other, who happened to be a new neighbor, was stationed just behind me.
John, the new hair stylist, was an interesting character – tall, round in all the wrong places and in complete denial about his sexual orientation. Even I knew he wasn’t batting for the home team, and my gaydar is nonexistent. Ever seen Will and Grace? I’m Grace, with breasts...and hips. If there’s a hot gay guy in the vicinity that isn’t making out with another guy, I’ll probably hit on him.
He was teasing my cousin’s wife’s long blonde hair into a half up 80’s video nightmare. While he walked around her, swinging his hips and flicking his wrists, I saw her eyes dart from person to person, desperately trying to get someone to say something, anything, to stop him. But she was the “MOH” (read: maid of honor / supreme bossy douche bag) and guilty of choosing those horrendous dresses for us, so I just smiled and kept my mouth shut.
One of the girls walked into the bathroom carrying her dress and he stopped teasing long enough to confirm everyone’s suspicions. “Honey, make sure you shut that door! Just because I’m a male hairdresser doesn’t mean I’m gay! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, mmmk! I’m marrrrrrriED”, he shouted, waving his ring finger in the air.
I caught Marie’s eye from across the room and grinned.
“I did my wife’s hair and makeup on our wedding day”, he continued. “I wasn’t letting anyone mess it up, no ma’am!”
By the time I’d finished Tess’s and the MOH’s makeup, the whole room was ready to kill him. Everyone looked great, with the exception of the MOH, but I thought to myself that I’d made a good decision in asking my godmom to do my hair instead of going with the crowd. At the very least I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of his shrieking. I figured I had just enough time to finish Tess’s mom’s makeup (which she asked me to do completely last minute) and run up to my house for my godmom to just throw the lot of it atop my head.
Unfortunately it took me a little longer than anticipated. Tess’s mom doesn’t speak any English, other than the names of Papa’s seven dogs, the name of that stupid goose (Larry) and “hello”, so every time I turned my back to grab something, she’d slide off the chair and try to totter out of the room. I’d have to lead her back and mime sitting down and closing my eyes, showing her what to do. But at least I didn’t break up my words into a dozen syllables and shout at her like my Grandma does when someone speaks a different language. Those poor Burmese children down the street are still suffering from post traumatic hearing loss.
When I finally made it home, Leigha had claimed my hair appointment and I was left waiting. Angry about being pushed aside, I grabbed my things and stomped back down the hill, cursing and threatening to walk down the aisle with a frizzy ponytail. That’s when John offered to do it and, feeling defeated, I agreed.
I relaxed into the chair and sighed.
“How do you want it done”, he asked.
“I want the front pulled back, soft curls”, I said, thinking that maybe it would be alright. He walked around my chair, lifting a piece of hair here and there, studying me like a bug under a microscope.
“No big 80’s shit either”, I added, just in case.
“No problem”, he said.
But less than five minutes later, after blow drying it and curling it under with a round brush, he sent someone for his straightener. “I think I’m going to do something different with you”, he said.
At first I panicked, my eyes flicking to the MOH’s unmistakable frizz tower, but after glancing at my phone and realizing that pictures were less than half an hour away, I gave in and thought, “Fuck it. There’s no time.”
“Will you let me do whatever I want to it?”, he asked.
In my experience nothing good has ever followed that sentence, but I glared at him and said, “As long as it’s not big 80’s hair, I don’t care. Just do it.”
And do it he did, throwing out the Adam and Steve line at least two more times in the process.
After spaying me with the bright red can labeled “BIG SEXY HAIR” and something to make it “shine”, he let me stand up. As I walked to the mirror he said, “You could be a model for the makeup store! This hairstyle really opens up your face.”
My eyes opened wide and an involuntary “Oh!” slipped from my mouth. I looked like a lion. I was surprised my reflection wasn't roaring and licking its wrist. He’d styled the front to stand up in an arch and the sides were flipped out and styled the same. I could hear the other hair stylist sniggering in the background, but I waited until he left the room to comment.
“I look like there’s a fan pointed at my head! I’m going to have to run down the aisle so it looks like the wind is actually blowing it back!”
I tried to use a pick to soften the bridge across my forehead, but it was too stiff. “BIG SEXY HAIR” apparently does its job. And there was no time to redo it; we were being called outside for pictures.
“It looks fine”, Marie said.
“You look like a lion”, Cory laughed.
“Ah! What scared you”, Ben asked.
And after an hour and a half of pictures, I walked down the aisle that way. I decided to pretend like it wasn’t happening – like I wasn’t dodging goose shit on a brick pathway in a booger green dress that as soon as I’d pushed my shoulders back had popped the new seams the altering lady had put in to keep the twins from jumping out and yelling “surprise”, with a lion’s mane framing my face.
But, little did I know, I’d soon have more than a hairstyle and escaping breasts to worry about.
Showing posts with label southern women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label southern women. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Matriarch
“Well I declare!”
My mother reads aloud from a book she just purchased, a sort of comedic take on the customs, sayings, and mannerisms of Southern women. At least I hope it was a comedic effort. The title boasts of being a “guide”, but silly lessons in manners and a few catch phrases are a paltry substitute for the real deal in front of me.
The Grandmother stands at the stove, knotty fingers deftly dredging pieces of chicken in a flour concoction and transferring them to a popping frying pan. I lean against the door frame, as fascinated as ever by her ease in the kitchen. She laughs as my mother reads, hands flying from plate to pan and back again.
I remember being a girl in this same kitchen, white 50’s style table covered with baking paraphernalia. Those same hands, albeit less spotted with age, placed over mine, kneaded a ball of dough the size of my fat little head. Sunlight poured through flowered curtains and touched the ruffled yellow apron around my waist. Kneeling on a low wooden stool with my grandmother’s bare, capable arms on either side of me, gently guiding me through my first batch of homemade biscuits, I was happy.
I’m happy now too, but there’s a tinge of urgency that wasn’t here all those years ago. I feel time’s increasing pressure on this scene.
The Grandmother’s old sheepdog, Duchess, wanders in and nudges her leg. They are the perfect pair, a vaudeville act in the early afternoon, dancing around each other on arthritic limbs. Duchess is almost completely deaf, yet TG chatters at her incessantly. “Oh Duchess, you poor old girl! Mama loves that girl! Go on now, stop pawing at me, old thing!”
The dog’s facial expression is nothing short of exasperated. I can’t say I blame her. She can’t hear, she’s always tripping over things, and to top it off she’s just received her warm weather shave. Her white fluffy coat, spotted sporadically with reddish brown, is gone, leaving her bare from neck to tail. The hair on top of her head has been trimmed haphazardly and stands up in a way that makes her look like a canine Rod Stewart.
Bored with tangling herself between TG’s legs, she ambles slowly back down the hall where she spends the next 10 minutes lowering herself to the floor, still managing to look haughty in the process. Duchess indeed.
As we eat lunch The Grandmother flutters around the dining room table. Even at holiday dinners it’s impossible to get her to sit down for more than a few minutes. Its part Southern hostess and part OCD. I wonder if there’s a chapter in my mother’s book on that.
“You need to get out in the sunshine, get some good vitamin D in your system.” TG says this to no one in particular as she picks up plates and cups. Any offers to help clear the dishes are always rebuffed.
I’m not an outdoorsy person, much to her chagrin, so she takes my daughter out instead. I watch them from the window, wandering around the well kept backyard, stopping often to examine a new bloom. I can’t hear them, but I know she’s saying the same things she used to say to me at that age in her over enunciated southern drawl. “Look at this beautiful flower! I planted this with my own two hands and my little trowel. Wouldn’t you like to help Grandmother plant more flowers?”
Back when I didn’t abhor dirt she taught me how to loosen the roots on a plant before placing it gently in a hole. We wore brightly colored gardening gloves and carried our small tools about in an old strawberry bucket. Her third husband, Hubert, made me a swing out of a wide board and two thick pieces of rope. It hung from the huge pecan tree, the main focal point of the yard, and I would swing on it for hours. In the summer time, with the flowers and tress in full bloom, you couldn’t tell that it was a tiny backyard in the middle of our buzzing capitol. I would wear my great grandmother’s dress up beads and a flowy skirt and pretend I was Alice in Wonderland, swinging out over my make believe wilderness while my grandmother, in her wide brim gardening hat, was the mad hatter.
When they troop back inside I ask TG if she has any curtains she could spare for my bedroom. I want something long and thick to keep out the light and she has quite the obsession with curtains. She’s always buying them, ripping them apart, and sewing them together to fit her current style.
“Of course I do. Check the back room, there should be a zip bag full of them.”
I find them straight away and take them to the front bedroom. She begins pulling them out and making suggestions. In the end we decide to sew two sets together – pale pink cotton for the liner and a light green lace over top. She’s surprised that I want to start on them immediately.
I dig her sewing machine out and we settle at the dining room table. While the kid watches TV and mom gently snores in the rocker, we set to work. I rip out the old seams and baste a few gathers to make the two pieces fit and she runs each one through her sewing machine, making a place for the rod to go through.
While we work, we chat about the same old things. She lectures me on being more patient and soft spoken. Rather than rile her up, I just smile and nod in agreement.
She knows anyway, even as she’s lecturing, that I’ll never be patient or soft spoken. I’ll never be able to breeze around a kitchen quite the way she does, nor will I ever be able to keep any plant other than a cactus alive for very long. I’ll likely never sew anything more than a hole in a sleeve or a button that’s in danger of falling off. She knows I have a foul mouth and a temper that doesn’t become a lady.
And still she’ll keep telling me, and I’ll keep promising, to be the Southern woman she raised me to be, even though we both know the truth: The most Southern things about me are my accent and my ability to charm the pants off anything that wears them… “When you want to” she always adds.
We don’t quite finish all four curtains before it’s time for us to leave. As I gather my things she promises to have them hemmed and ready for me to pick up after work the next day.
At the door I kiss and hug her goodbye. Sometimes I’m relieved to get away from her lectures and her attention, but not today. Today I’m sorry to go so soon. Today a silly guide for Southern women made me appreciate learning from the real deal, even if I’m not terribly adept at the execution of those lessons.
She cups my face in her hand and gives me a look, one I recognize as mine alone. It’s a touch of amusement, a touch exasperation, a touch pride, and, of course, love. Patting my cheek she says, “Behave yourself, you hear? Be good.”
“I will Grandma”, I say with a smile. She chuckles and moves on to my daughter. I watch them hug and TG smoothes the hair back from her face.
I’m not the praying kind, not even sure if I believe in God at all, but I find myself pleading with something or someone: Please let this woman be around long enough to teach my daughter all the things I can’t.
My mother reads aloud from a book she just purchased, a sort of comedic take on the customs, sayings, and mannerisms of Southern women. At least I hope it was a comedic effort. The title boasts of being a “guide”, but silly lessons in manners and a few catch phrases are a paltry substitute for the real deal in front of me.
The Grandmother stands at the stove, knotty fingers deftly dredging pieces of chicken in a flour concoction and transferring them to a popping frying pan. I lean against the door frame, as fascinated as ever by her ease in the kitchen. She laughs as my mother reads, hands flying from plate to pan and back again.
I remember being a girl in this same kitchen, white 50’s style table covered with baking paraphernalia. Those same hands, albeit less spotted with age, placed over mine, kneaded a ball of dough the size of my fat little head. Sunlight poured through flowered curtains and touched the ruffled yellow apron around my waist. Kneeling on a low wooden stool with my grandmother’s bare, capable arms on either side of me, gently guiding me through my first batch of homemade biscuits, I was happy.
I’m happy now too, but there’s a tinge of urgency that wasn’t here all those years ago. I feel time’s increasing pressure on this scene.
The Grandmother’s old sheepdog, Duchess, wanders in and nudges her leg. They are the perfect pair, a vaudeville act in the early afternoon, dancing around each other on arthritic limbs. Duchess is almost completely deaf, yet TG chatters at her incessantly. “Oh Duchess, you poor old girl! Mama loves that girl! Go on now, stop pawing at me, old thing!”
The dog’s facial expression is nothing short of exasperated. I can’t say I blame her. She can’t hear, she’s always tripping over things, and to top it off she’s just received her warm weather shave. Her white fluffy coat, spotted sporadically with reddish brown, is gone, leaving her bare from neck to tail. The hair on top of her head has been trimmed haphazardly and stands up in a way that makes her look like a canine Rod Stewart.
Bored with tangling herself between TG’s legs, she ambles slowly back down the hall where she spends the next 10 minutes lowering herself to the floor, still managing to look haughty in the process. Duchess indeed.
As we eat lunch The Grandmother flutters around the dining room table. Even at holiday dinners it’s impossible to get her to sit down for more than a few minutes. Its part Southern hostess and part OCD. I wonder if there’s a chapter in my mother’s book on that.
“You need to get out in the sunshine, get some good vitamin D in your system.” TG says this to no one in particular as she picks up plates and cups. Any offers to help clear the dishes are always rebuffed.
I’m not an outdoorsy person, much to her chagrin, so she takes my daughter out instead. I watch them from the window, wandering around the well kept backyard, stopping often to examine a new bloom. I can’t hear them, but I know she’s saying the same things she used to say to me at that age in her over enunciated southern drawl. “Look at this beautiful flower! I planted this with my own two hands and my little trowel. Wouldn’t you like to help Grandmother plant more flowers?”
Back when I didn’t abhor dirt she taught me how to loosen the roots on a plant before placing it gently in a hole. We wore brightly colored gardening gloves and carried our small tools about in an old strawberry bucket. Her third husband, Hubert, made me a swing out of a wide board and two thick pieces of rope. It hung from the huge pecan tree, the main focal point of the yard, and I would swing on it for hours. In the summer time, with the flowers and tress in full bloom, you couldn’t tell that it was a tiny backyard in the middle of our buzzing capitol. I would wear my great grandmother’s dress up beads and a flowy skirt and pretend I was Alice in Wonderland, swinging out over my make believe wilderness while my grandmother, in her wide brim gardening hat, was the mad hatter.
When they troop back inside I ask TG if she has any curtains she could spare for my bedroom. I want something long and thick to keep out the light and she has quite the obsession with curtains. She’s always buying them, ripping them apart, and sewing them together to fit her current style.
“Of course I do. Check the back room, there should be a zip bag full of them.”
I find them straight away and take them to the front bedroom. She begins pulling them out and making suggestions. In the end we decide to sew two sets together – pale pink cotton for the liner and a light green lace over top. She’s surprised that I want to start on them immediately.
I dig her sewing machine out and we settle at the dining room table. While the kid watches TV and mom gently snores in the rocker, we set to work. I rip out the old seams and baste a few gathers to make the two pieces fit and she runs each one through her sewing machine, making a place for the rod to go through.
While we work, we chat about the same old things. She lectures me on being more patient and soft spoken. Rather than rile her up, I just smile and nod in agreement.
She knows anyway, even as she’s lecturing, that I’ll never be patient or soft spoken. I’ll never be able to breeze around a kitchen quite the way she does, nor will I ever be able to keep any plant other than a cactus alive for very long. I’ll likely never sew anything more than a hole in a sleeve or a button that’s in danger of falling off. She knows I have a foul mouth and a temper that doesn’t become a lady.
And still she’ll keep telling me, and I’ll keep promising, to be the Southern woman she raised me to be, even though we both know the truth: The most Southern things about me are my accent and my ability to charm the pants off anything that wears them… “When you want to” she always adds.
We don’t quite finish all four curtains before it’s time for us to leave. As I gather my things she promises to have them hemmed and ready for me to pick up after work the next day.
At the door I kiss and hug her goodbye. Sometimes I’m relieved to get away from her lectures and her attention, but not today. Today I’m sorry to go so soon. Today a silly guide for Southern women made me appreciate learning from the real deal, even if I’m not terribly adept at the execution of those lessons.
She cups my face in her hand and gives me a look, one I recognize as mine alone. It’s a touch of amusement, a touch exasperation, a touch pride, and, of course, love. Patting my cheek she says, “Behave yourself, you hear? Be good.”
“I will Grandma”, I say with a smile. She chuckles and moves on to my daughter. I watch them hug and TG smoothes the hair back from her face.
I’m not the praying kind, not even sure if I believe in God at all, but I find myself pleading with something or someone: Please let this woman be around long enough to teach my daughter all the things I can’t.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I'm never going to live this down, am I? Part two
Here are the rest of my "10 things you don't know about me". There are not only sexual references but there are gross...well, you'll see.
6) I’m not as ladylike as I seem.
You’re shocked, I’m sure.
I have impeccable manners, of course. Most southern women do. I just rarely use them.
Not only that, but I cuss like a sailor, have horrible posture and I hate the fact that women aren’t supposed to sit like men, even when they wear pants. It’s a constant aggravation to me to always have to cross my legs or keep my ankles together. I’d rather sit in a chair gangsta style. It’s much more comfortable.
Despite my unwillingness to keep my legs closed and stop dropping the F bomb, there is one ladylike mannerism I observe at all times. I do not fart in front of anyone. Ever. Unfortunately this may lower my life expectancy by several years. The number one killer of southern women isn’t cancer or domestic violence, it’s holding in flatulence. Scout’s honor.
The only thing more embarrassing than slipping up and letting one loose in public is this:
I was at the fireman’s house one night (for you new comers, the fireman was my five year booty call that just ended this past fall) and we were, of course, getting busy. Everything was going great. He was staring into my eyes, his signature half angry, half arrogant “yeah I’m screwing you good” look on his face. I was staring back, my signature half amused, half defiant “you couldn’t screw a...ooh, wow...do that again” look on my face. Things were getting intense. Until...
There wasn’t even a warning feeling of built up pressure, no rumble in my stomach, nothing. It just came out: short, loud, and to the point. Like one expelled breath through a bugle horn.
My face was on fire. I couldn’t even laugh it off like I would anything else. He didn’t comment at all. There was just the briefest pause, before he soldiered on through my humiliation, doggedly pursuing his release. I almost would have preferred it if he’d stopped and laughingly acknowledged it. Being a fireman though, he’s trained to plow through smoke and falling, flaming debris. No way could he be deterred by a fart.
I kept my eyes shut tight and attempted to rejoin him in the fight for the finish, but I just couldn’t concentrate. There wasn’t a smell, thank gawd, but the noise was reverberating in my ears. It was way worse than the first time I made that squidgy, wet air pocket in the vagina noise during sex. (I refuse to use the actual term because I hate it.)
After it was over we just lay there next to each other. And even though we were close, it felt like there was a ghostly, gaseous body wedged between us, curling up and making itself comfortable. I ignored it and willed myself to relax into sleep.
When I woke several hours later I found it was gone, vanished into the abyss, and the fireman was in pursuit of round two.
Gone, but not forgotten...goddamnit. If Martha Stewart found out about this I’d be shipped north, stripped of my accent, and banned from the Deep Fried Everything-That-Isn’t-Red-Hot-or-Nailed-Down Club.
7) I’m secretly a 13 year old girl...on the inside. (That is not a virgin reference.)
I like the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and lots of other fantasy books and movies it’s not popular for an adult woman to like.
While I’m driving the nail in my blogging social coffin, I might as well tell you that not only do I like them...I like them a lot. I happen to have two Harry Potter Scene It games and this Christmas I received the New Moon board game. I was rather disappointed since I would have preferred the Twilight Scene It to the board game, but you can’t have everything can you?
While I refused to go see any of the movies for either series on opening night due to psychos in costume, I didn’t wait long. And while I didn’t scream and carry on when Robert Pattinson came on the screen, I do happen to think he’s delicious. And while I dislike Kristin Stewart, it’s only because of her lack luster performances in everything but that stoner movie Adventureland, in which her constantly slack jawed appearance and confused demeanor seems to fit.
I haven’t exactly kept any of this secret, but I haven’t been advertising it either. Go ahead and laugh. I’m ok with it. Just like I was ok when they made fun of me for reading Tolkien (which is admittedly better reading than the aforementioned, but not to a group of judgmental kids) and carrying around books the size of an Encyclopedia. I’m not a cutter. I can take it.
Got any chips?
8) My parenting tactics are bit eccentric.
I don’t usually hang out with other parents. This isn’t because I don’t like them, it’s because...well, yeah, usually I don’t like them. We have little more than a used uterus in common.
I refused to breast feed because it made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t see boobs as a source of nutrients and life support. Boobs are fun – you dress them up, you play with them, you show them off – the end. When the kid was just a baby and I would hold her and rock her, I would remove her hand from my boob if it ended up there. No touchy.
I guess the boob thing would also fall under the shower thing. I don’t shower with the kid unless it’s absolutely necessary. Kids are weird about nakedness. Seriously. They stare at you with those big, bug eyes all wide and innocent and ask you creepy questions. And when you give a vague answer, their response is always “Why?”
“Why are yours bigger than mine?”
“Because I’m a grown up.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“What are those?”
“Nipples.”
“Why?”
“Because. Turn around and be quiet, kid.”
I’m pretty sure other parents don’t tell their kids that McDonalds burned to the ground as a result of boy cooties, which are highly flammable. “No, no one died. They picked them up in a helicopter. No, there weren’t any fries left.”
I’m pretty sure other parents don’t taunt their kids through a glass door when they’re being particularly unmanageable and irritating. “HAHA! You can’t open it. Scream all you want ‘cause I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” And throw in a little dancing.
And I’m pretty sure that other parents, if caught doing something less than admirable, don’t shrug and say, “How often do you put yours in the closet?”
When the kid is grown up and sucker punching people in the genitals, it’ll all be worth it.
9) I was a child prodigy.
My uncle is a musician and he thought it would be a great idea for me to learn to play an instrument. (Actually, I bugged the shit out of him until he agreed to teach me.) I started with the piano, but decided that it was too hard.
I then spent an entire summer learning how to play the drums to The Lion King soundtrack. I could play them for the song ‘In the Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins too. I was awesome at the dramatic part at 3:15 on the video. As it turns out though, it’s not cool for fat kids to jam out to Phil Collins...with head banging.
According to my Papa, I also tried my hand at being an artist when I was little. By finger painting his bathroom walls with my own excrement. He still occasionally tells random people that I’m “the artist of the family”.
Good times.
10) I used to eat everything.
Now of course you’re thinking, “You were a fat kid, of course you ate everything.” But I don’t think you really understand what I’m saying.
I was usually hungry, but even if I wasn’t I would still find a reason to eat.
If my mom pissed me off, I’d eat. If my dad yelled at me, I’d eat. If I was afraid someone else would get to it first, I’d eat. If there was a blackout and I had no flashlight and only one match, I would use that one match to find the food supply and, I’d eat. All of it. Just in case I wasn’t able to find it again.
I once ate a piece of raw bacon just because it was there and I was “hungry” and impatient.
And on that disgusting note, I think I’ll end this embarrassing tell all and get to the next part of my assignment: naming seven Bloggers to watch for 2010.
Some of these are well known. A few are newcomers. Either way, I love every single one you and would touch you inappropriately if asked. Maybe.
In no particular order:
1) The Japing Ape - Gorilla Bananas
"The world's leading anthropological ape" has been blogging for a long time and never steps out of character. (Except maybe occasionally on a comment.) His blog is not only amusing, it's unique. He adds a naughty spin to current events and always has an interesting opinion or photo to check out. I'll likely never know who is actually behind The Japing Ape, but that's a tad intriguing. Don't you think?
2) The Yellow Factor - Jerrod
You know how people at work say they have a "work spouse"? Someone they talk to a lot and who's company they really enjoy? Well, if there were "blog spouses", Jerrod would be mine. We've had loads of conversations about blogging and everything in between and I greatly value his opinion. His blog is one I look forward to checking every day and when he posts, it always puts a smile on my face.
3) Brightened Boy - BB
BB is a young, gay, college student blogging about his experiences. No matter what he's writing about, his sincerity and talent are always apparent. He reminds me a bit of myself. Though our family situations aren't the same, they are a bit similar and I can relate to a lot of the emotions he's been dealing with over the years. He draws you in with his words and you become quickly involved, rooting for this person you've never met, but would very much like to.
4) Mr. London Street - MLS
Though he chose me for his shortlist, that's not even on the long list of reasons I chose him for mine. I'm addicted to his blog like a drug. Reading him has allowed me to become a better writer myself. That might sound trite, but it's true. There have been times when I've read one, just one, and felt just about every emotion one can feel. I think that's what makes a good writer: if I can want to laugh, cry, throw up, and punch you in the face all in one sitting. He pushes boundaries and I like that. I have no doubt that blogging is just a stepping stone to bigger things for him.
5) Steam Me Up Kid - Becky
I came across this blog randomly one day and I'd never read anything like it. I was openmouthed at the gall this woman had. Becky is absolutely hilarious. Vulgar, random, creative, completely insane - there aren't enough words to describe her blog. She's also got a talent for photoshopping pictures and adding unique catch phrases. And she's cute. Go see.
6) Contributions to Society - obviouslyapseudonym
She left a comment here and of course I went to check her out. This girl is young, but she's got something. She's just getting started here so you should be hospitable. This post made me laugh and man, does it ever sound familiar. Cheers to you, newbie.
7) Miss.Chief's Blog - miss.chief
You never know what to expect with this one. One day it's bus stop stories, then it's pictures of new tattoos and drawings, then it's a hilarious tale about Mexico and their...toilets. Whatever she's writing about, I'm always enthralled. And she knows Spanish. Real Spanish, not that stuff where you just add and O on the end.
There's one more place I'd like to draw to your attention. Here. He's a buddy of mine and he's just started with this whole blog thing. Check him out and give him some encouragement.
Don't feel pressured to do this meme, but if you'd like to have my name written on your ass, that would be ok.
Fin.
6) I’m not as ladylike as I seem.
You’re shocked, I’m sure.
I have impeccable manners, of course. Most southern women do. I just rarely use them.
Not only that, but I cuss like a sailor, have horrible posture and I hate the fact that women aren’t supposed to sit like men, even when they wear pants. It’s a constant aggravation to me to always have to cross my legs or keep my ankles together. I’d rather sit in a chair gangsta style. It’s much more comfortable.
Despite my unwillingness to keep my legs closed and stop dropping the F bomb, there is one ladylike mannerism I observe at all times. I do not fart in front of anyone. Ever. Unfortunately this may lower my life expectancy by several years. The number one killer of southern women isn’t cancer or domestic violence, it’s holding in flatulence. Scout’s honor.
The only thing more embarrassing than slipping up and letting one loose in public is this:
I was at the fireman’s house one night (for you new comers, the fireman was my five year booty call that just ended this past fall) and we were, of course, getting busy. Everything was going great. He was staring into my eyes, his signature half angry, half arrogant “yeah I’m screwing you good” look on his face. I was staring back, my signature half amused, half defiant “you couldn’t screw a...ooh, wow...do that again” look on my face. Things were getting intense. Until...
There wasn’t even a warning feeling of built up pressure, no rumble in my stomach, nothing. It just came out: short, loud, and to the point. Like one expelled breath through a bugle horn.
My face was on fire. I couldn’t even laugh it off like I would anything else. He didn’t comment at all. There was just the briefest pause, before he soldiered on through my humiliation, doggedly pursuing his release. I almost would have preferred it if he’d stopped and laughingly acknowledged it. Being a fireman though, he’s trained to plow through smoke and falling, flaming debris. No way could he be deterred by a fart.
I kept my eyes shut tight and attempted to rejoin him in the fight for the finish, but I just couldn’t concentrate. There wasn’t a smell, thank gawd, but the noise was reverberating in my ears. It was way worse than the first time I made that squidgy, wet air pocket in the vagina noise during sex. (I refuse to use the actual term because I hate it.)
After it was over we just lay there next to each other. And even though we were close, it felt like there was a ghostly, gaseous body wedged between us, curling up and making itself comfortable. I ignored it and willed myself to relax into sleep.
When I woke several hours later I found it was gone, vanished into the abyss, and the fireman was in pursuit of round two.
Gone, but not forgotten...goddamnit. If Martha Stewart found out about this I’d be shipped north, stripped of my accent, and banned from the Deep Fried Everything-That-Isn’t-Red-Hot-or-Nailed-Down Club.
7) I’m secretly a 13 year old girl...on the inside. (That is not a virgin reference.)
I like the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and lots of other fantasy books and movies it’s not popular for an adult woman to like.
While I’m driving the nail in my blogging social coffin, I might as well tell you that not only do I like them...I like them a lot. I happen to have two Harry Potter Scene It games and this Christmas I received the New Moon board game. I was rather disappointed since I would have preferred the Twilight Scene It to the board game, but you can’t have everything can you?
While I refused to go see any of the movies for either series on opening night due to psychos in costume, I didn’t wait long. And while I didn’t scream and carry on when Robert Pattinson came on the screen, I do happen to think he’s delicious. And while I dislike Kristin Stewart, it’s only because of her lack luster performances in everything but that stoner movie Adventureland, in which her constantly slack jawed appearance and confused demeanor seems to fit.
I haven’t exactly kept any of this secret, but I haven’t been advertising it either. Go ahead and laugh. I’m ok with it. Just like I was ok when they made fun of me for reading Tolkien (which is admittedly better reading than the aforementioned, but not to a group of judgmental kids) and carrying around books the size of an Encyclopedia. I’m not a cutter. I can take it.
Got any chips?
8) My parenting tactics are bit eccentric.
I don’t usually hang out with other parents. This isn’t because I don’t like them, it’s because...well, yeah, usually I don’t like them. We have little more than a used uterus in common.
I refused to breast feed because it made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t see boobs as a source of nutrients and life support. Boobs are fun – you dress them up, you play with them, you show them off – the end. When the kid was just a baby and I would hold her and rock her, I would remove her hand from my boob if it ended up there. No touchy.
I guess the boob thing would also fall under the shower thing. I don’t shower with the kid unless it’s absolutely necessary. Kids are weird about nakedness. Seriously. They stare at you with those big, bug eyes all wide and innocent and ask you creepy questions. And when you give a vague answer, their response is always “Why?”
“Why are yours bigger than mine?”
“Because I’m a grown up.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“What are those?”
“Nipples.”
“Why?”
“Because. Turn around and be quiet, kid.”
I’m pretty sure other parents don’t tell their kids that McDonalds burned to the ground as a result of boy cooties, which are highly flammable. “No, no one died. They picked them up in a helicopter. No, there weren’t any fries left.”
I’m pretty sure other parents don’t taunt their kids through a glass door when they’re being particularly unmanageable and irritating. “HAHA! You can’t open it. Scream all you want ‘cause I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” And throw in a little dancing.
And I’m pretty sure that other parents, if caught doing something less than admirable, don’t shrug and say, “How often do you put yours in the closet?”
When the kid is grown up and sucker punching people in the genitals, it’ll all be worth it.
9) I was a child prodigy.
My uncle is a musician and he thought it would be a great idea for me to learn to play an instrument. (Actually, I bugged the shit out of him until he agreed to teach me.) I started with the piano, but decided that it was too hard.
I then spent an entire summer learning how to play the drums to The Lion King soundtrack. I could play them for the song ‘In the Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins too. I was awesome at the dramatic part at 3:15 on the video. As it turns out though, it’s not cool for fat kids to jam out to Phil Collins...with head banging.
According to my Papa, I also tried my hand at being an artist when I was little. By finger painting his bathroom walls with my own excrement. He still occasionally tells random people that I’m “the artist of the family”.
Good times.
10) I used to eat everything.
Now of course you’re thinking, “You were a fat kid, of course you ate everything.” But I don’t think you really understand what I’m saying.
I was usually hungry, but even if I wasn’t I would still find a reason to eat.
If my mom pissed me off, I’d eat. If my dad yelled at me, I’d eat. If I was afraid someone else would get to it first, I’d eat. If there was a blackout and I had no flashlight and only one match, I would use that one match to find the food supply and, I’d eat. All of it. Just in case I wasn’t able to find it again.
I once ate a piece of raw bacon just because it was there and I was “hungry” and impatient.
And on that disgusting note, I think I’ll end this embarrassing tell all and get to the next part of my assignment: naming seven Bloggers to watch for 2010.
Some of these are well known. A few are newcomers. Either way, I love every single one you and would touch you inappropriately if asked. Maybe.
In no particular order:
1) The Japing Ape - Gorilla Bananas
"The world's leading anthropological ape" has been blogging for a long time and never steps out of character. (Except maybe occasionally on a comment.) His blog is not only amusing, it's unique. He adds a naughty spin to current events and always has an interesting opinion or photo to check out. I'll likely never know who is actually behind The Japing Ape, but that's a tad intriguing. Don't you think?
2) The Yellow Factor - Jerrod
You know how people at work say they have a "work spouse"? Someone they talk to a lot and who's company they really enjoy? Well, if there were "blog spouses", Jerrod would be mine. We've had loads of conversations about blogging and everything in between and I greatly value his opinion. His blog is one I look forward to checking every day and when he posts, it always puts a smile on my face.
3) Brightened Boy - BB
BB is a young, gay, college student blogging about his experiences. No matter what he's writing about, his sincerity and talent are always apparent. He reminds me a bit of myself. Though our family situations aren't the same, they are a bit similar and I can relate to a lot of the emotions he's been dealing with over the years. He draws you in with his words and you become quickly involved, rooting for this person you've never met, but would very much like to.
4) Mr. London Street - MLS
Though he chose me for his shortlist, that's not even on the long list of reasons I chose him for mine. I'm addicted to his blog like a drug. Reading him has allowed me to become a better writer myself. That might sound trite, but it's true. There have been times when I've read one, just one, and felt just about every emotion one can feel. I think that's what makes a good writer: if I can want to laugh, cry, throw up, and punch you in the face all in one sitting. He pushes boundaries and I like that. I have no doubt that blogging is just a stepping stone to bigger things for him.
5) Steam Me Up Kid - Becky
I came across this blog randomly one day and I'd never read anything like it. I was openmouthed at the gall this woman had. Becky is absolutely hilarious. Vulgar, random, creative, completely insane - there aren't enough words to describe her blog. She's also got a talent for photoshopping pictures and adding unique catch phrases. And she's cute. Go see.
6) Contributions to Society - obviouslyapseudonym
She left a comment here and of course I went to check her out. This girl is young, but she's got something. She's just getting started here so you should be hospitable. This post made me laugh and man, does it ever sound familiar. Cheers to you, newbie.
7) Miss.Chief's Blog - miss.chief
You never know what to expect with this one. One day it's bus stop stories, then it's pictures of new tattoos and drawings, then it's a hilarious tale about Mexico and their...toilets. Whatever she's writing about, I'm always enthralled. And she knows Spanish. Real Spanish, not that stuff where you just add and O on the end.
There's one more place I'd like to draw to your attention. Here. He's a buddy of mine and he's just started with this whole blog thing. Check him out and give him some encouragement.
Don't feel pressured to do this meme, but if you'd like to have my name written on your ass, that would be ok.
Fin.
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